by Kate Elliott
SHE dreamed.
Seven jewels on the seven points of the crown worn by Emperor Taillefer, all gleaming, yet they recede before her, or she falls away and upward, and their light spreads out until a band of darkness lies between each discrete point, like a thousand leagues of land between them, a vast crown of stars straddling the land itself. But where the brilliant light winks, it turns over in the manner of a restless beast as she walks into a cavern heaped with treasure. Young Berthold, Villam’s missing son, sleeps peacefully, gold and silver his bed. Six attendants lie in slumber around him. Their respiration breathes a soft mist into the air, churning and twisting, and through that mist she sees into another landscape where a woman with wings of flame wanders through a cold and barren land. The winged woman’s face is turned away, but surely she knows her; surely she has only to speak to touch her.
“Sister, I pray you. Wake up.”
She woke suddenly, into the darkness. A lamp hovered overhead, held by the nervous hand of her servant Aurea.
“Sister.”
“What is it, Brother Fortunatus?”
He sat on the edge of the bed, holding her hand. She could feel how cold her hand was in contrast to the warmth of his fingers. “Are you well enough to rise today?” he asked, glancing anxiously toward the door, still hidden in the early morning shadows.
Aurea set down the lamp and frowned at the cleric, although her heart wasn’t in it. Rosvita had long suspected that Aurea had taken a liking to Fortunatus, but he had vowed his life to the church and, unlike certain of his brethren, kept steadfastly to his pledge of chastity and devotion to God. “I told you not to be bothering my lady,” she said, “even if it’s true she’s much better.”
“You were ill, too, Fortunatus,” said Rosvita.
“The summer fever afflicted many of us, Sister,” he agreed, “but I am well enough now.”
“You’re too thin. I can see that you’re still tired.”
“This would not wait, Sister.”
She sat up. She was light-headed but otherwise felt hearty enough, even hungry. “If you will, Brother.”
He retreated hastily to stand in the hall outside. Three young clerics hurried in to fuss over her as Aurea helped her with her morning business and dressing.
“Sister Rosvita! You look so well today!” That was young Sister Heriburg, short, stout, with a bland, amiable face and the hands of an angel when it came to writing.
“Sister Infirmarian says not one soul died last night.” Sister Ruoda marched over to the window and threw open the shutters while timid Sister Gerwita shrieked in protest. “Nay, for if the contagion is dying, then the air isn’t contaminated anymore, and I must say, begging your pardon, Sister Rosvita, but it smells in here.”
Rosvita laughed while Aurea, eyes wide, tucked her mouth down into tight-lipped disapproval. But the young women were themselves a breath of fresh air, as the ancients would say. She watched them bustle around, setting the place to rights: straightening the blankets, closing the two books Rosvita had been reading, wiping sand off the table, cleaning the pen that Rosvita had forgotten last night when she had worked at her History until fatigue drove her to her bed. They were so young, so clever. So energetic. She remembered being that enthusiastic once, overwhelmed by the glory of the regnant’s schola.
“Now that you are better,” said Sister Heriburg, who wasn’t as bland as she looked, “I’ll have the servants bring our pallets back here. You ought not to have to sleep alone.”
“Even in the kitchens they’re saying no one died last night,” Aurea commented as she helped Rosvita with her robes. “The local folk say that when a dawn comes with no dead, then the fever is spent and autumn will follow soon.”
“That would truly be a blessing.” Rosvita sat patiently while Aurea brushed out her tangled hair, braided it, and pinned it up at her neck, a cloth cap sewn with a net of jewels tucked up and over her hair. Fortunatus, obviously agitated, crept back in and seated himself on the bed again, since Rosvita had taken the only chair. “What troubles you, Brother?”
“Messages. I saw an Eagle ride in. She’d come from the north, from Princess Theophanu, but instead of being taken to Queen Adelheid, she was led away to see Presbyter Hugh.”
“Perhaps the queen was asleep. She’s been up many nights with the infant.” She hesitated, seeing his distressed expression. “Surely there’s no rumor of any unseemly intimacy between queen and presbyter.”
“Nay.” His grin flashed, and a familiar spark of mischief lit his expression. “None but what you’ve just whispered yourself.”
Ruoda could not have been above eighteen years, but she had never learned to school her tongue. “They’re a handsome couple, when they hold court together as they do now, with King Henry out on campaign in the south.”
“Queen Adelheid is devoted to the king!” protested Heriburg indignantly.
“Truly, and so would I be if he’d given me back my throne, and fathered my child.”
“Hush, infant,” said Fortunatus as mildly as he ever could. Like Rosvita, he liked the bustle and hubbub now that their numbers had increased again. He turned back to Rosvita. “Not one soul in Darre has a bad word to say about Presbyter Hugh. Why should they? There’s no man with gentler manners or a more noble bearing.” Did sarcasm twitch his lips as he spoke? For once, she couldn’t tell.
“He is handsome,” said Aurea unexpectedly. She did not usually offer an opinion, nor was Rosvita accustomed to asking one of her. “But I haven’t forgotten that time at Werlida, with him and that wicked Eagle and good Prince Sanglant caught between them. Like my mother said, wolfsbane is a lovely flower to look at, but it’ll kill you the same as rotten meat.”
“A fine expression,” murmured Fortunatus with a chuckle, looking at the servant woman as if he’d never noticed her before.
She flushed. Aurea was old enough to be steady yet still young enough to think of marrying, if she found a husband who could offer her the security to make it worth her while to leave the king’s progress. So far she had not. And Brother Fortunatus certainly was not going to be the one to offer. Rosvita wondered if she would have to let the young woman down gently. Here in Darre, with such a high concentration of presbyters, she had seen mistresses aplenty, set up to live in small houses close by the Amurrine Hill. It was easier, in truth, for women to resist the whisper of temptation, since they had been granted hearts less susceptible to rash impulse. Even so, too many clerics turned their ears to the seductive voice of the Enemy.
Humankind was weak, despite what the blessed Daisan had preached. It was always a struggle.
“I pray you, Aurea, I would have bread, if there is any.”
“Of course, my lady.” Still red, and with a hand on her cheek to cover her blush, Aurea left the chamber.
“Sister Gerwita, now that I am better, I would like Brother Eudes and Brother Ingeld to attend me today as usual.” The young cleric nodded obediently and hurried out. Rosvita regarded Heriburg and Ruoda in silence, and they returned her gaze steadily. They were so young, but they had come from Korvei, chosen expressly by Mother Otta to be at Rosvita’s service. She sighed, understanding the need for allies, and returned her gaze to Fortunatus. “Go on, Brother. I trust we are alone now and cannot be overheard.”
He glanced again around the room, as if expecting to see a spy hidden in one of the corners, but, like Rosvita, he trusted the two girls. Enough light crept in that the painted walls swam into view: geometric borders framed by flowers and, within these, a series of murals depicting the deaths of the martyrs: St. Asella walled up alive in an anchorite’s cell; St. Kristine of the Knives; St. Gregory torn apart by dogs; the hundred arrows that pierced St. Sebastian.
“Do you remember the convent of St. Ekatarina?” he asked.
“How could I forget any of the things that happened there? Queen Adelheid trusts Hugh now because of the aid he gave us.”
“Sorcerous aid.”
Heriburg started, but said nothing. Ruoda le
aned forward eagerly, her scarf slipping to reveal honey-colored hair.
“True enough,” agreed Rosvita. “Now we are all stained by it. Knowing what powers he has, we cannot speak against him, since we stood aside and let him use those powers to help us escape Ironhead.”
“I beg you, do not be so hard on yourself, Sister.” He paused, like a fox about to snatch an egg, and then slipped a hand up his sleeve. She heard rustling. “Do you recall the young lay sister, Paloma?”
“The young dove? Poor child, she will soon be withered by that hard work, and in such a lonely place.”
“She is here.”
“Here! In Darre?”
“Hush, Sister.” Was that sweat on his brow? Was he really so anxious? A breeze stirred the stuffy room, enough to waft away the worst of the closed-in smell. She had been cooped up here for many days, recovering from the fever. “I did not recognize her, but she knew who I was. She contrived to meet me after chapel, after Vigils, out among the hedges where I usually go walking until Lauds. She said she’d come from the convent at the order of Mother Obligatia, with a message for you, but that she could not get near enough because of your illness.”
“She could have come to one of us!” exclaimed Ruoda.
“You were not at St. Ekatarina’s,” he retorted. “She did not know you.” He turned back to Rosvita. “She brought this to me instead.”
He drew a tightly rolled length of parchment from his sleeve and handed it to Rosvita as though it were a sleeping snake that might bite. She unrolled it on the small table beside the east-facing window. As the sun nudged up over the horizon, its light splayed across the table, illuminating the lines drawn into the parchment before her.
“A map.”
Fortunatus rose to stand beside her, leaning on the table. Ruoda and Heriburg crowded behind him. They had all seen maps, mostly drawn in the time of the Dariyan Empire, in monastic libraries and at the schola at Autun. Emperor Taillefer had commissioned mapmakers to mark the boundaries of his holy empire but those that remained from that time looked rough and unpolished compared with the efforts of the ancient scholars. The great library in the skopos’ palace also kept a number of crumbling maps from the old days, frail papyrus that flaked away at a touch. This map was crudely drawn and freshly, even hastily done; inkblots had not been scraped off; the coastline of Aosta—well mapped by the sailors and merchants of the old empire—was barely recognizable; off the western coast only a simple oval, marked “Alba,” signified that large island even though Rosvita had seen in Autun a map delineating the southern coast, made in the time of Taillefer’s grandfather, who had married his younger son to the Alban queen.
“What are these marks?” Fortunatus pointed to scratches, like chicken’s tracks, set here and there across the land, erratically spaced, each one numbered. “Some of the numbers are repeated. What can they signify?”
Even without her dream, she would have known them. She had never forgotten reading in the chronicle kept by the holy sisters of the convent of St. Ekatarina. She had never forgotten the conversation she had had that fateful day.
“Mother Obligatia said that the abbesses who came before her believed that the stone crowns were gateways.”
“So they proved to be,” said Fortunatus, “but that does not explain—”
“Nay, Brother, look what she has written here.”
He frowned. “I fear my Arethousan has never been good, Sister. You know my failings. What does it say?”
“Heriburg, would you read it?” Rosvita read Arethousan easily enough, but it was always good to let the young ones shine.
The young cleric colored, looking pleased, and read the Arethousan letters carefully. “‘We have done what we can. Is there a pattern?’”
“What does it mean?” asked Ruoda, never able to keep silent for long.
“These are the stone crowns. That number marks the number of stones reported to stand in each circle. There is Alba, with two crowns recorded, one which has seven stones and one which has nine. Here, the coast of Salia. South of Salia lie the lands where the Jinna heathens have made inroads. East of Salia, Varre, and Wendar. This is North Mark, where I came from, thrusting out into the Amber Sea.”
“What is this land, here?” Fortunatus pointed to a faint line drawn in to the north of the Amber Sea.
“That must be the Eika shore. East of Wendar lie the marchlands and farther east—I see there is nothing marked here. All wilderness.”
“The lands of darkness,” he murmured.
“Just so. The Alfar Mountains lie to the south of our homeland, and here is Aosta. There, along the coast of the Middle Sea, lies Arethousa.”
“’Beware Arethousans bearing gifts.’ I see no stone crowns in the heretics’ lands.”
“Neither do I. Yet it is hard to say whether that is because there are none, or only because the good sisters of St. Ekatarina had not heard of any. They could mark only those they knew of, and surely they do not believe they know everything.”
“So few of us do.”
She smiled, hearing his old, wickedly sweet humor. “Is there a pattern here, that you can see?”
His sharp smile quirked. “No circle that has only one stone.”
“Or even two. That would be a fine philosophical question for the skopos’ schola, would it not?”
“No doubt St. Peter the Geometer would have something to say on the question of how many points make up a circle,” said Ruoda.
“I will let you lead the discussion, Sister,” said Rosvita with another smile. Ruoda had the grace to blush, yet Rosvita did not like to scold the young clerics under her supervision for loving their learning a little too much. Age humbled one soon enough, as she knew from her aching back and the headache still afflicting her, a last vestige of the summer fever. Both Heriburg and Ruoda had gotten sick, but they had recovered so very quickly; let them believe that youth and rude good health would protect them a little longer. The world would teach them otherwise soon enough.
Fortunatus crossed abruptly to the window, leaning out as if to make sure no birds had come to perch on the sill to listen. At last, he turned back. “The little dove had a spoken message for you as well, Sister. I am to meet her tomorrow after Vigils to bring her your answer.”
“Can she not come to me?”
“She said she feared she had already drawn attention to herself by asking after you. I know not what she is afraid of, but I swore to honor her request. She seemed to find me trustworthy.”
Rosvita smiled. “Do not look so downcast, Brother Fortunatus. Good behavior has quite ruined your reputation as a reprobate, but I am sure you will recover in time.” Ruoda giggled. When Fortunatus had chuckled, even if weakly, she went on. “Pray tell me what message Mother Obligatia has sent.”
“A puzzling one, to be sure. A woman seeking refuge has come to the convent, where she remains for now in the guesthouse. She wishes to be admitted into the convent as a nun. She calls herself Sister Venia and says she took part of her education at the schola in Mainni and part of it at St. Hillary’s in Karrone. By her accent and bearing, the good mother believes she is a woman of noble background, either from southern Varre or from the kingdom of Karrone. She seems well educated and familiar with the skopos’ palace. The good mother wishes to know if you know aught of her. She is an old woman, kindly, unaccustomed to physical labor but very learned.”
“I know of no such woman.” She glanced at the two girls, who merely shrugged. They had come south with Rosvita and the king and knew even less than she did. “Was there anything more?”
“That is all the girl told me. Truly, Sister Rosvita, I wonder that Mother Obligatia would not welcome more dedicated nuns. Her convent was dwindling. It must not be easy to lure novices to such an inhospitable place.”
“Alas, that we must all be suspicious in troubled times. I tell you truly, I am hesitant even to ask here in the palace, among the clerics, for fear that I should, like Paloma, draw attention to myself.
”
“We could ask,” said Ruoda. “All the elegant Aostan clerics think we are hopeless Wendish barbarians anyway. If we’re careful, no one will think anything of our questions.”
“Especially if a question about the existence of Sister Venia is only one among many,” murmured Heriburg. For such a tidy, quiet soul, she manifested a startlingly roguish gleam in her eyes now and again.
Rosvita’s father, Count Harl, had trained his most spirited hounds that way: by giving them a little more freedom with each lesson rather than beating them into submission. “Very well, but do not—”
The door opened without warning. Rosvita slapped her hands down over the parchment, although truly it was vain to attempt to hide it. Aurea entered carrying a tray of bread and wine. Her face was flushed, as though she had been running.
“My lady! There’s a presbyter here from Lord Hugh. You’re to go at once to attend the queen.” She began to set the tray down on the table but pulled up short, seeing the parchment.
Rosvita rolled it up. “No word of this to anyone, Aurea. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, my lady.” She asked no questions where they were not wanted. That was one reason Rosvita had kept her in her service for so many months.
“Fortunatus, I must ask you to keep this with you for a little longer.” She handed him the rolled-up parchment. After a pause, he tucked it up his sleeve. “Go and see what is keeping Ingeld and Eudes.” As he left, she seated herself again while Aurea poured wine into her silver cup and sliced off a hank of bread. Her stomach growled for the first time in days. “Let him in, Ruoda.”
Lord Hugh’s messenger was a stout, diffident presbyter, older than Rosvita, with a placid manner and neat hands. “Sister Rosvita, the queen requests your presence.” He waited a moment, then went on in his slow way, which made it easy to understand him. “It gladdens my heart to see you eating, Sister. Everyone knew how ill the summer fever took you. It’s always northerners who take it hardest, it seems.”
“I thank you, Brother—Petrus, is it not?”
“You are kind to remember me, my lady.”
