Crown of Stars

by Kate Elliott

  She repeated the story. Hanna’s testimony was well observed and, as far as it was in her power given her place within the night’s events, related without too much emotion clouding her comments.

  “Ashioi, then,” Liath agreed. “They have attacked in other places as well. How can they have come so far north?”

  “On their own two feet, I suppose.”

  “Well, then. Why?”

  “To kill Wendish folk, I must guess. Or to kill Prince Sanglant. They called his name.”

  “Some think they are allied with him, now that he is regnant. That he means to conquer Wendar and Varre and hand the kingdom over to his mother’s people.”

  “You do not think so.”

  Liath gave her a sidelong look and wondered if Hanna distrusted Sanglant. If Hanna distrusted her because of Sanglant. “I don’t believe it.”

  When Hanna frowned, she looked years older. “I don’t know what to think. I fear those warriors with their poisoned darts more than I ever feared Bulkezu and his Quman.”

  “Maybe so, but that doesn’t make Sanglant their ally. He would never betray his father’s memory.”

  A stream had changed course in the last months and cut a gully across the path. They had to dismount. The Lions scrambled down and cut enough of a ramp into the sides with shovels that the horses could negotiate the obstacle. Pine whispered above. The forest cover made the path dim as they moved forward along higher ground.

  Hanna lengthened her stride. Hurrying to catch up to her, Liath found they were walking out in front of the others, beyond earshot.

  “What troubles you, Hanna? I see it in your face.”

  Hanna looked back, looked ahead, even looked up at the canopy of green above them. The heady aroma of pitch caught in Liath’s throat; for such a long time she had smelled only mildewed leaf litter and the icy breath of unseasonable wintry winds.

  “I admit, I’m still angry at Prince Sanglant for letting Bulkezu live when he should have executed him. I’m sorry to say so. It’s the truth. Whether it speaks good or ill of me, I don’t know.”

  “It’s honest of you. None of us are saints.”

  “That’s truth!” She smiled wryly, then frowned in a way that made Liath want to touch her, but she held back. “I should know better. If you trust him, so should I.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s thinking of Sorgatani just now that made me realize. The others fear her, because of what she did at Augensburg.”

  “They knew the curse laid on her by her power. She never said otherwise, did she? Was she not honest with them?”

  “Honesty is not the same as trust. It was worse than the poisoned arrows. They died only from looking at her.” She made a kind of hiccup, like a laugh or a cough. “Sorgatani told me you are like sisters, that you alone are not bound to her but’ are powerful enough to see her without dying. Did it not scare you the first time, knowing the nature of her curse?”

  “I don’t remember thinking of it at all.”

  Hanna halted and faced her, looking awful.

  “I spoke too lightly,” said Liath. “Forgive me. Of course it would terrify them. As much as it must frighten folk to be around me.”

  “Around you? Why so?”

  Liath felt how crooked the smile must look on her face. “Because I can kill people, too.”

  “So can we all, with a sword or a spear thrust. With our own hands, if we’re strong enough.”

  “I can burn them alive. People fear me, and they should.”

  “But you would never—!”

  “Sorgatani would never, would she?”

  “She cried, afterward.”

  “Yet folk will look at her and see a foreigner. A demon.”

  “Yes, truly, so they will.” With a sad smile, Hanna lifted her hand to touch Liath’s dusky cheek. “I am so glad we have found each other again, at last.”

  Liath’s throat was choked, and her voice trembled. “At last,” she agreed. It was all she could manage to say without bursting into tears.

  2

  THE convent hid in a ravine whose entrance was so cleverly concealed that Liath would have walked right past it and kept moving southeast on the trail, on into the wilderness. Hanna turned aside where honeysuckle concealed a path. They made their way down a rocky track between high cliff walls of streaked stone. Two men could not walk abreast; it was barely wide enough for the packhorses to squeeze through. A bird whistled, and Hanna responded with a shout to identify herself. The clop of hooves and stamp of feet threw weird echoes into the air. These ceased when the ravine opened into a neat jewel of a valley. A stream crossed their path, straining its banks. Beyond, a substantial stone wall blocked the valley’s mouth, but it had crumbled in three places where floodwaters had eaten away its foundation. Fence segments woven of branches patched the gaps.

  Beyond, a low stockade surrounded a whitewashed long hall and a collection of outbuildings. Chickens clucked. Goats bawled. Fruit and nut trees stood in tidy rows. Freshly turned earth marked a substantial garden.

  Everyone turned out to greet them: lean soldiers armed with spears and swords, clerics in ragged robes, and a dozen nuns of varying ages dressed in sober wool robes and holding rakes and shovels and scythes in their hands. A party of Ashioi could have devastated their ranks in moments, had they only known where to find them.

  Hanna was so excited that she raced forward, leaving her horse behind with one of the Lions. She was still very much the girl Liath remembered from Heart’s Rest—her first true friend—and yet the years had tempered and molded her to become something different as well: the good nature, the pragmatic eye, and the true heart remained unaltered, but when she wasn’t talking, she pinched her lips together in way that made Liath want to hug her, as if hugging could erase pain. What had she suffered that she did not speak of? Those gathered here might know.

  Their joy at seeing Hanna could not be misinterpreted: they trusted and liked her.

  Liath dismounted and approached with more caution as Sister Rosvita came forward to greet her. The journey had turned the cleric’s hair to silver, and she was as lean as a scarecrow, but she had a ruddy gleam to her face and vigor in her stride.

  “Eagle! Or must I call you otherwise? We are hopelessly behind in our news. How do you fare?”

  Liath greeted her in the formal manner, clasping arms in the way of courtiers who do not quite trust each other but hope to by reason of their mutual love for the regnant. “It is a long tale. I have business here with Mother Rothgard. Is she here?”

  Rosvita shook her head. “She is gone.”

  Disappointment did jab. She felt it under her ribs. “Gone where?”

  “Dead.” Liath heard no grief in Rosvita’s voice, only weariness. “So we discover, arriving here ourselves only two days ago. Here is Sister Acella, who stands as mother to those nuns who remain.”

  It took time to sort things out. First, Liath greeted those few of Bertha’s retinue who had survived—the sergeant and a dozen or so men. She felt sick at heart seeing so few of them, and yet they greeted her respectfully and with every evidence that they were relieved to be reunited with the woman who had marched them to their doom. Each member of Rosvita’s schola made a pretty introduction; the only one she recalled from before was Brother Fortunatus, gone as lean as he once was chubby. The nuns of St. Valeria watched from afar as Sister Acella led her into the hall and sat her at a table, bringing a pitcher of ale.

  “The Lions and the other Eagles will be thirsty, too,” said Liath, noting how only Rosvita and Acella sat with her. Hanna had not come inside. A pair of nuns watched her with uncomfortably intent interest from the shadows at the far end of the hall, but they did not approach.

  “They will be taken care of,” said Acella. “Tell me what you have come for.”

  “I’ll do so, gladly, if you’ll tell me what became of Mother Rothgard and how she died.”

  The tale was quickly told. Autumn’s tempest had torn part of the
roof off the long hall. Mother Rothgard had died after falling from a ladder while repairing the thatch. Floods had uprooted the wall, and wolves, growing bold, had killed four nuns over the course of the winter. Weaker souls would have abandoned the site, but few chose the isolated, difficult life at St. Valeria’s in any event and those left had voted to bide in the hall and rebuild rather than flee the onslaught of so many troubles.

  “Otherwise we would have to burn the books,” said Sister Acella in her dour voice. She seemed a kind of cheerful cynic.

  “Burn the books!”

  “So it commands us in our charter. Such books as have been collected here must never leave this library or be copied and taken away. Otherwise they might fall into the wrong hands.”

  “Not even if the regnant commands it?”

  Acella had a cordial laugh. Like all of her sister nuns, she was as thin as a reed but with real muscle in those arms, a woman who labored as hard as she prayed. “Especially if the regnant commands it. Our charter comes from the skopos, not the regnant. Many years ago, of course. We were founded in the last year of the reign of the Emperor Taillefer, back when this was wilderness for ten days’ walk in every direction, beyond the frontier.”

  “A strange place to collect such dangerous and rare texts,” said Liath, “when any raider might sweep down and carry them off.”

  “We are well hidden. And better guarded than you might think.” She indicated the door, left open to admit a hazy midday light that did not, quite, penetrate to the rafters or under the eaves. “The labor of those Lions would be a great aid to us, if you can spare the time.”

  “A bargain, perhaps,” said Liath, “as I come at the regnant’s urging to seek knowledge. These clouds must be lifted so that crops can grow, else many will starve in the months to come.”

  Acella looked at Sister Rosvita, then back at Liath. She had a feather-light mustache, barely noticeable, the mark of a strong woman who has survived into middle age. “What knowledge is it that you seek? We have heard of you, the Eagle called Liathano. Princess Theophanu was healed here, some years ago. She said that you saved her life. We’ve heard you were excommunicated at a council in Autun. Has that been lifted?”

  “I am here,” said Liath, wishing that she did not have to dance this merry round again. “I pray you, if you mean to refuse me, do so at once. I do not have the courtier’s gift of persuasion. I seek the secrets of the tempestari in the hope that sorcery can ease the cloud-ridden weather.” She laughed, looked at her companions, realizing she had seen no sign of the Kerayit wagon, and sobered quickly. “Where is Sorgatani? She is a weather worker. She learned from the eldest of all, the ancient one.”

  “This is holy ground,” said Sister Acella, smiling easily. “No heathen is allowed to set foot within the walls.”

  “You said yourself you’ve been attacked by wolves at least four times over the winter and spring.” Liath stared at them indignantly. “What if there is another Ashioi raiding party? You can’t have left her alone out in the forest!”

  They did not answer, although her voice rose passionately. Their silence dismayed her.

  “Do you know what she is?” Sister Rosvita asked at last. “No one may look on her and live, only except those who are her slaves and her servants.”

  “Hanna is not her slave! Nor am I!”

  “You? What are you saying?”

  “That I have ‘looked on her and lived.’”

  It was the wrong thing to say. Sister Acella said nothing but Rosvita exhaled sharply, and then looked sorry she had done so.

  Liath rose. “I pray you, show me, or tell me, where her wagon lies, and I’ll go to her myself. As for the rest, let the Lions labor as long as I may consult your library.”

  “It seems we have no choice,” said Acella dryly. “If we deny you?”

  “If crops will not grow, folk will starve.”

  “Waters unleashed may irrigate one field while flooding the rest.”

  “Are these riddles, Sister Acella, that I am meant to answer?”

  “They are cautions. Sorcery lies under ban, for good reasons. I have labored in these ‘fields’ all my life. We here in St. Valeria know that knowledge can be more dangerous than arms, that magic can do more harm than steel.”

  “The storm that swept us last autumn was no natural storm, but one raised long ago by sorcery. How else to combat it except with sorcery of our own?”

  “That path is a treacherous one.”

  “I prefer not to see folk starve when I might have done something to prevent it.”

  “Even if you will be damned for it?”

  “The church may damn me, if they must. I do not believe God will.”

  Rosvita stood and pressed a hand to the shoulder of Acella to stop her from leaping to her feet.

  The anger in Acella’s face, however, could not be kept still. Her words were clipped and furious. “That was ill spoken, Eagle. Do you claim to know God’s mind?”

  Liath raised a hand, then swept it back down to her side. “Do you?” She was too angry to speak further.

  “I pray you, Sister Acella,” said Rosvita placatingly. “Let us see the diploma this Eagle has brought from King Henry. She carries the regnant’s seal and the regnant’s authority.”

  “Henry is dead,” said Liath. “Did you not know?”

  “Dead?”

  The cleric staggered. She paled. She swayed. Brother Fortunatus, who had stood all this time by the door watching them without trying to overhear, ran to help her sit down on the bench.

  “Is this true?” The look on her face broke Liath’s heart.

  “It’s true. He died in Aosta.”

  Rosvita hid her face in her hands.

  Fortunatus looked at Liath. He was pale but not as shaken as Rosvita. “In Aosta? If this is true, then …” Strangely, he glanced toward the shadowed end of the hall where those two watchful nuns stood as straight and alert as soldiers on guard. “Can it be that after all… ?”

  Rosvita lowered her hands. Through tears, she looked at Liath. “Who stands as regnant? Who granted you the power to ride to St. Valeria? Who rules these Lions? Who rules Wendar?”

  “Sanglant.”

  She might have said “the Enemy” and seen them less shocked.

  Sister Acella got to her feet. “Enough! I cannot allow her in the library, Sister Rosvita. We have no way of knowing if her tale is true. How can a bastard rule in Wendar? Not by right, but by the sword.”

  “Wait, Honored Mother,” said Fortunatus placatingly. “Surely there is an explanation that comes with this news. Lady Bertha and her soldiers were sent into Dalmiaka as an escort to this one, Liathano. To battle against King Henry’s enemies.”

  “To battle the skopos, so you say,” hissed Sister Acella. “How can we know this tale is true? How do we know that Prince Sanglant did not march into Aosta and kill his own father to gain the throne?”

  Liath could barely force civil words out, but she knew she had to. She felt like slapping the bitch, with her smug expression and stony words. “Ask the other Eagles, then, or the Lions.”

  Except the Lions had not witnessed the events in Aosta. Stupidly, she had not asked for anyone to march with her who had actually been with Sanglant on the field that night last Octumbre. She had no one with her who had witnessed Henry passing the crown of Wendar into the hands of his beloved son. She had not brought anyone with her who would be believed.

  “If only Hathui had come!” She turned to leave, sick of them and of this turmoil in her heart.

  “Hathui?” Fortunatus reached to catch her sleeve, but withdrew his hand before touching her.

  “Hathui lives?” Rosvita asked. Grief hoarsened her voice.

  “She is with Sanglant. She serves Sanglant.”

  “You may say anything you wish,” retorted Sister Acella.

  “So I may. In this case, it happens to be true.”

  “I pray you.” Fortunatus placed a hand on Acella’s elbow. “I pray
you, Honored Mother. Sit down. Calm down.” He was staring at Liath. They all were.

  “God Above,” whispered Acella, in the tone a woman might use when a minion of the Enemy has appeared on her doorstep. “She shines.”

  Liath took a step back, as if struck. She saw how they looked at her with fear and with doubt. It was the same expression she had seen when they spoke of Sorgatani, who was to them a kind of horror that might rise in the night to devour them. She had no words, no argument, to convince them. She retreated, wanting to flee.

  “I pray you, Liathano.” The voice came from the shadows, a woman’s alto beckoning her with clarity and composure. “If you will, the Holy Mother wishes to speak with you, lady.”

  “Let her be gone from this house!” cried Acella.

  It pleased Liath to flout her, so she crossed the hall into the shadows where that pair of nuns waited. They were older women, wiry, strong, determined. Their robes had worn so thin that in patches, about the knee and shoulder, they were almost translucent, just waiting to rip. This she saw because she had salamander eyes, able to spy where light failed, and that was no doubt another argument against her.

  “I thought Mother Rothgard was dead,” she said. “What means this?”

  “We serve another one,” said the elder, stepping to one side to reveal a pair of beds built in under the eaves.

  In the right-hand bed two woman sat, staring at her. With a shock, she recognized Princess Sapientia—but so changed! The princess gazed at her without reaction. The princess’ companion, a nondescript woman in nun’s robes, watched Liath with brows furrowed and lips turned down in an uneasy frown. The nun held the princess’ hand as one holds the hand of a restless child, but Sapientia did not move or speak, only stared and stared as if her stare were her weapon. Or as if she did not know who Liath was.

  No wonder Sister Rosvita was surprised to hear that Sanglant had taken the throne, when she had his legitimate sister riding with her.

  “My lady?” she said, not sure what to say or how to approach this delicate matter. Ai, God. Sapientia had vanished as a prisoner of the Pechanek Quman. She had no reason to love her brother and every reason to hate him, and here she sat. Her brooding stare was beginning to frighten Liath, who had long since lost her fear of most threats from knowing how easily she could destroy them. The desire for revenge was beyond her power, and it scared her.