by Kate Elliott
But she was wise, and patient. She bided her time. Her companions were also powerful, and it would not do to offend them as long as they knew more than she did about sorcery.
She bided her time, and watched, and listened, and learned.
Heribert stored his tools in a chest, ran a hand lovingly down the partially finished north wall, and with no further insolence walked away to the old stone tower where they now took their common meal.
Antonia waited until the door opened onto light and closed behind him. She lingered in the pleasant evening breeze, staring up at the sky. This knowledge did not come easily but, like all things in life, one had only to grasp and squeeze firmly enough to choke obedience out of that—human or otherwise—which was recalcitrant.
On this night high in the mountains whose breeze was that of spring, certain constellations shone high in the sky, betraying the proper season: winter.
“Name them for me, Sister Venia,” said Brother Severus, coming suddenly out of the gloom to stand beside her.
“Very well,” she said. She would not be intimidated by his solemn tone and dour expression. “At this season, the Penitent, twelfth House in the zodiac, rides high in the sky—” She pointed overhead. “—while the tenth House, the Unicorn, sets with the sun and the Sisters, the third House, rise at nightfall. The Guivre stalks the heavens and the Eagle swoops down upon its back. The Hunter begins his climb from the east as the Queen sets in the west and her Sword, her Crown, and her Staff ride low on the horizon, symbol of her waning power.”
“That is good,” said Severus, “but you have listened in your youth to too many astrologi. The Hunter, the Queen, the Eagle: These are only names we give to the stars, drawing familiar pictures on the face of the heavens. In heaven itself, they have their own designations whose names are a mystery to those of us who live here beneath the sphere of the ever-dying moon. But by naming them, even in such a primitive way, seeing our own wishes and fears among them as the young hunters saw Princess Theophanu as a running deer, we gain knowledge enough to see the lines of power that bind them together. With knowledge, we can harness the power that courses between them through that geometry which exists between all the stars. Each alignment offers new opportunities or new obstacles, each unique.”
He raised a hand, pointing. “See there, Sister. How many of the planets do you see, and where are they?”
Her eyesight was not what it had been in her youth, but she squinted up. “I see Somorhas, of course, the Evening Star, lying in the Penitent. Jedu, Angel of War, entered the Falcon ten days ago. And Mok, mistress of wisdom and plenty, must still be in the Lion, although we can’t see her now.”
Whatever pride she felt in this observation he punctured with his next words. “There also find Aturna, who moves in retrograde through the Child, his lines of influence opposite the others. There—see you?—almost invisible unless you know where to look, lies fleet Erekes, just entering the Penitent. The Moon is not yet risen this night. The Sun, of course, has set. Yet within twenty days Mok and Jedu will also move into retrograde, so that only Somorhas and Erekes move forward. Thus the planets on this night as on every night form a new alignment in relationship to the great stars of the heavens. There you see the Guivre’s Eye, and there Vulneris and Rijil, the Hunter’s shoulder and foot. There are the three jewels, sapphire, diamond, and citrine, which are the chief stars in the Cup, the Sword, and the Staff. The Child’s Torque rises toward the zenith, as does the Crown of Stars. Tomorrow we will send our companion on her way, aiding her swift travel through the halls of iron by such power as we can draw down to us through these alignments. Only with knowledge can we use the power of the heavens. Do not think it is fit knowledge for any common mortal soul who walks the earth. Only a few can truly comprehend it and act rightly.”
“That is why God through the hand of Their skopos ordained biscops and presbyters, Brother, is it not? To guide and to shepherd?”
He considered this comment in silence while he studied the stars above, looking for something, some sign, some portent, perhaps. As she waited, she became lost in contemplation of the River of Heaven, the track of sparkling dust like a great serpent circling the sky, each faint light a soul streaming toward the Chamber of Light.
At last Severus spoke, slowly now and as if to himself as much as to her. “You are accustomed to power, Sister Venia. But you must forget all you have learned in the world. You must leave it behind, cut yourself off from it, as we did. That is the only way to learn what we have to teach you.”
“How can we let go of the world when God have given us as our task the means to guide the mistaken back to the righteous way, to chastise the weak, and to punish the wicked?”
“Is that what God have asked us to do?”
“Is it not?”
“We are all tainted with the darkness which is the touch of the Enemy, Sister Venia. It is arrogance to believe we can see through the darkness that veils us and understand God’s will better than any other mortal soul. Only there—” He gestured toward the River of Heaven, streaming above them. “—will we be cleansed of that darkness and shine only as light.” He lowered his hand. “Shall we go in to dinner?”
2
“THE River of Heaven,” Da always said, “was called the Great Serpent by the heathen tribes who lived here before the Holy Word came to these lands.”
“Why is the zodiac called the world dragon, Da?” she would ask, “when it’s actually twelve constellations and not one creature at all? And if that’s a dragon, then why is the River of Heaven called a serpent?”
“We have many names for things,” he would answer. “It is the habit of humankind to name things so that we may then have power over them. The Jinna call the River of Heaven by another name: the Fire God’s Breath. In the annals of the Babaharshan magicians it was called the Ever-Bright Bridge Which Spans the Chasm. The ancient Dariyan sages called it the Road of Lady Fortune, for where She sets her foot, gems bloom.”
“What do you think it is, Da?”
“It is the souls of the dead, Liath, you know that. That is the path by which they stream onward into the Chamber of Light.”
“But then why don’t we see it moving—I mean really moving, flowing, not just moving as the stars all do, rising in the east and setting in the west? Rivers flow. Water is always moving.”
“That is not water, daughter, but the light of divine souls. And in any case, the aether does not follow the same laws as the elements bound to this earth, nor should it.”
“Then is there fire in our souls, that they should light up like that once they reach the heavens?”
But at the mention of fire, he would get upset and change the subject.
Now she wondered. “Hindsight is a marvelous thing,” Da would always say. “Every person sees perfectly with hindsight.” She had done brushing down her horse and lingered outside the door, staring up at a winter sky unblemished with clouds. It was bitter cold, this night; snow had fallen yesterday, delicate flakes like the shedding of down from angel’s wings, but there had not been enough to make more than a thin crust on the road today.
“Then is there fire in our souls?”
She built the City of Memory in her mind as she stood, arms crossed and gloved hands tucked under armpits for warmth, staring up at the sky. The city lies on an island, and the island is itself a small mountain. Seven walls ring the mountain, each one higher up on the slope, each one named by a different gate: Rose, Sword, Cup, Ring, Throne, Scepter, and Crown. Beyond the Crown gate, at the flat crown of the hill, stands a plaza, and on this plaza stand five buildings. Of the five buildings, one stands at each of the cardinal directions: north, south, east, and west. The fifth building, a tower, stands in the very center, the navel of the universe, as Da sometimes said jokingly.
But perhaps he had not meant it as a joke. Inside the topmost chamber of the tower stand four doors, one opening to each of the cardinal directions. But in the center of that chamber stands a fi
fth door, which neither opens nor closes because it is locked; because, standing impossibly in the center of the room, it leads to nothing.
Except there was something beyond it. If she, in her mind’s eye, knelt and peered through the keyhole, she saw fire.
Da had locked the door and not given her the key. He had meant to teach her—she was sure of that—but poor Da, always running, always suspicious, always afraid of what might be walking up from behind, could never decide quite when the time was right. So the time had never come.
Some things cannot be locked away.
“I miss you, Da,” she whispered to the night air, her breath a cloud of steam. Glancing up, her attention was caught by the River of Heaven, and she suddenly wondered if it, too, was a cloud of steam, warm breath on the cold celestial sphere of the fixed stars far above her. Like the zodiac, it was a circle banding the heavens, but it crossed the zodiac obliquely, cutting across at the foot of the Sisters and again, one hundred and eighty degrees round the circle, at the bow carried by the Archer.
Suddenly, with this vision of the sky bright above her, she realized that she had known all along which Eustacia Hugh had quoted from when he humilated her in front of the court. Of course she knew the Commentary on the Dream of Cornelia. But she had always skimmed over the bits about philosophy and virtue and the proper government for humankind. Those chapters didn’t interest her. She had memorized the chapters in which Eustacia commented upon the nature of the stars.
Where was it stored? She searched, in her mind’s eye, in the city, found the level, the building, the chamber, where Eustacia’s chapters resided, those she had copied out years ago at the biscop’s library in Autun.
“Concerning the River of Heaven, many writers have offered explanations for its existence, but we shall discuss only those that seem essential to its nature. Theophrastus called it the Via Lactea, the Milky Way, and said it was a seam where the two hemispheres of the celestial sphere were joined together. Democrita explained that countless small stars had been compressed by their narrow confines into a mass and that by being thus close-set, they scatter light in all directions and so give the appearance of a continuous beam of light. But Posidonos’ definition is most widely accepted: Because the sun never passes beyond the boundaries of the zodiac, the remaining portion of the heavens gets no share in its heat; therefore the purpose of the River of Heaven, lying obliquely to the zodiac as it does, is to bring a stream of stellar heat to temper the rest of the universe with its warmth.”
“Eagle! No need to stand outside. There’s a fire and supper within!”
She shook herself free of musing and went back inside. A longhouse with stables at one end and living quarters at the other, it was as warm and welcoming as its mistress.
“I admit to you, Mistress Godesti, that I have not always met with as warm a hospitality as you grant me, now that I ride on King Henry’s business here in Varre.” Her family had been at their meal at dusk when Liath had ridden in to this hamlet, but they had saved a generous portion for her.
The woman grunted and gestured to the children of her household to go back to their beds. A single lantern and the hearth lit them, all they could spare on a winter’s night. Her elder daughter hovered by the fire, pushing sparks and coals back within the brick circle; another girl ladled out stew. “Many resent the rule of King Henry, here in Varre,” she replied in a low voice.
“You do not?”
A son set down the bowl of stew and mug of warm cider before Liath as his mother spoke. “I fear war if the great lords fight among themselves. So do we all. But I fear a bad harvest more. And I fear the invisible arrows of the shades of the Lost Ones, those who lingered behind when their living cousins left this world. They plague us with illness and festering.”
“The shades of the Lost Ones?” Liath asked. This hamlet lay on the edge of forest, and everyone knew that many strange and ancient creatures preferred the shelter of trees.
“Go on, eat now. I would be a poor host if I were to make you talk instead of fill yourself up. We have nothing to complain of. This has been a good year for us, ever since our new master took control of these lands.”
“Who is your master?”
“We tithe to the abbey of Firsebarg.”
Liath choked on her cider, coughed, and set down the cup hastily. “I beg your pardon. It was hotter than I expected.”
“Nay, I beg your pardon, Eagle. Careful of the stew.”
Liath recovered her breathing and, now, blew on the stew, anything to distract herself. Would she never be free of reminders of Hugh? “Firsebarg is many days’ journey north of here, isn’t it?”
“It is, indeed. It happened in my grandmother’s time that these lands were given into the care of the monks by a grieving lady, in memory of her only daughter. For the same reason my brother gives an extra tithe in memory of his dead wife so that the monks will pray for her during Holy Week. As for the rest of us, we pay what is due twice a year, without fail, and the abbot has always been merciful when crops were bad.”
“And this year?”
“Nay, this year was no trouble at all with our new lord abbot. They say he’s a good Father, for all that he’s Wendish. He’s generous to the poor, feeds seven families every Ladysday in honor of the disciplas of the blessed Daisan, and lay hands on any who are sick. His rule is strict, but kind, they say. The harvest was very good this year, for the weather was perfect—the proper portion of sun and rain, and no bad storms though we heard hailstorms wiped out the barley crop west of here. It must be God’s favor, don’t you think?”
Or weather magic. But Liath didn’t say that aloud. Instead, she changed the subject. Just as Da always did, she thought wryly and with no little disgust. How many such little habits had she learned from Da, both for good and for ill? “Is there any resentment here, Mistress, that King Henry defeated Lady Sabella?”
“Defeated her? We heard no such tidings. When did he fight her?”
“She led a rebellion …” They listened with rapt attention as she told them the tale.
“What does the king look like?” asked the daughter from her station by the hearth. With her hair bound back and a shawl over her head, she looked modest and quiet, but her voice was bold. “Is he very grand and terrifying?”
“He is a man of good height, noble in bearing. He is merciful in his judgments, but his anger is as fierce as that fire you tend.” Then, because she saw many pairs of eyes glinting from the alcoves, child and adult alike, she went on to tell of the king’s progress and the noble lords and ladies who rode with him. She told them of the places she had passed through on her way here, places they would never see and had never heard of: Augensburg; the elaborate palace at Echstatt; Wendish villages much like this one; the Sachsen Forest; Doardas Abbey; Korvei Convent; the market towns of Gerenrode and Grona; the city of Kassel, where Duchess Liutgard herself had interviewed her about the proposed expedition to Gent to drive out the Eika.
“I’ve heard of demons called Eika.” Godesti’s brother had just come from checking on the animals. He hunkered down by the fire to listen. A small child crept from her bed and slunk into the shelter of his arms. “But I thought they was just stories.”
“Nay,” she said, “I’ve seen them with my own eyes. I saw—” Here she faltered.
“What did you see?” demanded the son, creeping up beside her, face alight with interest.
So she told them about the fall of Gent, and somehow, telling it to these simple farming folk whose farthest journey was to the market town two days’ walk from here, it became more like a tale of ancient and noble deeds told a hundred times on a winter’s night. Somehow, telling the tale drew the pain out of it.
“Ai, the prince sounds so brave and handsome,” breathed the sister by the hearth.
Her young brother snorted. “That would be a cold lover for you, Mistress Snotty Nose, too good for your suitors.”
“Now, you!” said Mistress Godesti sharply, chucking t
he boy under the chin. “Hush. Don’t speak ill of the dead. His shade might hear you.”
“But all souls ascend to the Chamber of Light,” began Liath, then stopped, hearing a whispering from the alcove and seeing a certain furtive look pass among them all.
Mistress Godesti drew the Circle at her breast. “So they do, Eagle. Will you have more cider to sooth your throat? This food is scarcely fit payment for such tales as you have told us this night.”
Liath accepted the cider and drank it down, its bite a fire in her chest. After eating a second helping of stew, she rolled herself up in her cloak near the fire on a heap of straw filthy with fleas. The house cat, as dainty a creature as ever prowled a longhouse for mice, curled up against her stomach, liking the warmth of her body. Waking on and off, restless, she saw one or another person kneeling beside the hearth, a chargirl, an old man, a woman dressed even more poorly than the others, each taking a turn tending the fire through the long winter’s night.
In the morning, in a light fall of snow so insubstantial that little seemed to touch ground, she rode on. Mistress Godesti’s brother walked with her a good hour or more beyond the hamlet into the forest, though she tried to dissuade him because he had no boots, only sandals with cloth tucked in to warm his feet. But when they reached the spot where the autumn rains had washed out the path as it twisted down a thickly wooded slope, she was grateful for his guidance. He showed her where the new cut lay, a detour that switchbacked down a ridge and back to the old road. This far out, there was deadwood aplenty and no felled trees marking where folk from the village came out to get firewood. He made polite farewells.
