Benedict smiled. “I told you, she travels to visit her brother. Her invitation from our king will have missed her by some days. Your words imply you think her vain; I must assure you that Fiorella Maria Orsini is the essence of feminine humility. So humble is she, I fear I have no portrait to show.”
Oji Batu of Khitan darugha wrinkled his flat nose and made a snuffling sound. “Humble! Ugly is more like. We seek a mate for a king, not a prize boar. Why should he import a questionable prize when there are so many beautiful daughters of the realm close at hand?” The governor warmed quickly to his defense of Polian women. “In Tabor alone there are scores of women and girls who can outshine anything imported from Lombardy.”
“Oji.” Zelimir’s voice held more humor than censure.
Oji Batu’s fist struck the table. “It is fitting that you should marry a daughter of Polia, my lord. I beg you, do not dilute your proud blood with the waters of a foreign river!”
Zelimir smiled. “Oji, my blood is already dilute—thanks, in part, to our common ancestors and your illustrious namesake. Polia is a kingdom of mongrels. What blood is foreign to a mongrel?”
The bishop smiled, his pleasure at Zelimir’s equanimity obvious. Master Antal was determined to dampen it. “I’m certain the envoy from Byzantium will be much cheered by that sentiment, Majesty.”
Bishop Benedict sat up noticeably straighter, though his smile barely faltered. “What envoy is that?”
Lukasha, who had maintained silence during the discussion of brides, hid a slight smile as Antal raised his brows, feigning bemusement. “I’m surprised you have no intelligence of it. An imam of the faith of the Arabian travels to Tabor to see the king. A young woman accompanies him. They were at Ratibor less than two days ago.”
“An imam? What is an imam that I should mark it?”
“To his co-religionists, he is a very holy man, Your Grace. One who speaks for God. The Sultan has evidently determined that Tabor is important enough to warrant his presence here.”
The bishop subsided then, seemingly disinterested, but Lukasha had but to peek at the silver band on his wrist to know the lie of that. In the center of the bracelet, the large, ovoid cabochon glowed a hot, deep red. The public debate was over, but Lukasha knew, as Bishop Benedict lingered at the council’s close, that he intended to continue the argument with Zelimir in private.
Lukasha parted company with Antal, leaving the council hall to go to his room. There, he moved directly to the polished brass mirror that hung beside the wardrobe. Swiftly, he invoked God and called upon spirits of fire, water, air and earth. His lips and hands in motion, his voice a murmur, he drew Kassia’s Squared spell to the gleaming surface, adding to it a catalyst of his own devising. In a breath, the mirror became more than a reflector of the room in which Lukasha stood. Connected to another place, shapes appeared in it—the silhouettes of two men, one wearing a jeweled circlet, the other a tall miter. In another breath, the images took on flesh and color and their words echoed in the Mateu’s head.
“The Gherai khanate lies just beyond your southeastern borders, Majesty,” said the bishop. “The protection from such a menace that could be provided by the Holy Empire should not be underestimated.”
“I would not presume to underestimate anything about your Empire, Bishop. I am simply not convinced that yours is a protection we need.”
“You’ve heard the reports from the frontier. It’s no surprise you receive petitions from your southern neighbors. They have witnessed much activity along their borders.”
“So say the nobles. Yet, to the eyes of trained soldiers, the activity of the Mongols does not seem particularly threatening. Odd, don’t you think, that they should petition for admission into a realm they did not believe capable of dissuading the kagan of the Gherai from ‘inviting’ them into the Horde?”
“The darughachi of Odra is not so certain of your powers of dissuasion. He sees the Turks lingering not so very far away and trembles in his sleep and sends his petitions to the Frankish Church. Which of them is right and which is wrong?”
In the hall downstairs, Michal Zelimir began to pace, removing himself from the region of the mirror Lukasha had taken care to bespell early that morning. “And you would have me link myself to your ‘protection’ by marriage?”
“I merely point out that having a vital link with the Frankish Empire would most certainly afford you enough force to dissuade the Gherai and the Turks. Without that force, I don’t doubt you could protect the heart of your kingdom, but what of its out-lands? What of Khitan, eastern Sandomierz and Teschen? What of Odra? What of the two principalities whose petition you favor granting? Are they to be sacrificed?”
“You propose to sacrifice Fiorella Orsini.”
“To become a queen? That is no sacrifice. Besides which, Fiorella Orsini is a true daughter of the Church. She does what is her duty. If that includes a marriage to bind her people and yours together, she will comply with radiant acquiescence.”
“How would she feel about being married to a pagan, Your Grace?” Zelimir reappeared within the ornate frame of the mirror.
“She would not marry a pagan, Majesty.”
“Yet that is what I am, in your eyes.”
“In name only. You have told me yourself that you accept our Lord’s words as being divine in origin.”
“A far cry, Your Grace, from accepting your particular doctrines about Him.”
“I don’t understand you.” For the first time, Benedict’s voice betrayed impatience.
“No? Perhaps the imam from Constantinople will. Perhaps, if I were to marry the woman he carries in his train, I would have no need of protection from the Turks. I have no wish to discuss this further. When the time comes for me to seriously consider the individual candidates for marriage, your Lombard will be given due attention. But I will judge her by her own merits and, if I marry her, it will be on my terms. I will not deny my heritage or my God.”
“Neither will Fiorella.”
“I would not require her to.” Zelimir moved again out of the tableau. This time he did not return.
Lukasha let the spell collapse and moved to sit at the window to contemplate all he had heard. He was heartened by Michal Zelimir’s strong words, but that did not make him complacent. Men of strong words could be dissuaded if those words were not rooted in their souls. He did not doubt that the Gherai Tartars could be a real threat. At the very least, they could be made to seem like one. It was clear that Jagiello Starza, the Bishop Benedict, was a more immediate danger.
Lukasha considered the courses available to him, none of which offered certainty. He liked uncertainty less than he liked certain courses that were forbidden to him. He weighed options, balancing this against that—the supposedly good against the theoretically evil—and chose a path. It was not a path he was entirely comfortable walking, but it saved him the agony of inaction. Turning from his window, he began preparation for a spell he had never before performed.
oOo
The palace was a place of wonders for Kassia. Childlike, she wandered its halls, absorbing the beauty of form in stone, wood, metal and glass. Her wanderings were not precisely aimless, for she was hoping to find the church she had heard now existed within the royal Court.
She discovered it at the rear of the rambling palace on the opposing corner from the cesia’s hill. It sat in its own triangular courtyard, its ornate front doors facing the top corner. The building itself seemed to be L-shaped; a mass of complex facets and soaring arcs thrust upward from the stones of the court, terminating in a pair of spires that vied with the palace’s onion-shaped domes for a place on the Tabori skyline.
Kassia entered the church by the large main doors, whose hand-carved basilisks were being repurposed into something else—exactly what, she couldn’t tell in their present state. It looked as if the workman had merely stepped away for a moment; carving tools lay beside a box on the threshold and curls of shaved wood were scattered about among them. Stepping
over the tools, she found herself in a large vestibule and pushed through a second set of doors into the main sanctuary.
She was met by a confusion of angle and curve, shadow and light. The long, narrow sanctuary was breathtakingly beautiful, but different than any place of worship she had ever seen. Stained glass windows of various degrees of complexity and artfulness poured a myriad shades of light into the vaulted chamber. Some were sophisticated depictions of scenes Kassia assumed must be from Frankish legend; though one seemed to show the wedding of Mat and Itugen and another the original Festival of Names during which the God and Goddess bestowed their attributes upon all created things. Others among the colored glasses were more primitive, the areas of vivid color barely distinguishable as people or animals. Kassia assumed those must have been produced decades or even centuries ago. They were not nearly so fine as her father’s work.
She hadn’t come here to criticize the craft of the place. Curiosity had driven her—a desire to see the sanctuary in which the bishop worshiped, thereby to understand how he thought. The Frankish cesia was a forest of precise angles and minutely calculated curves. Its arches were at once soaring and restrained, its colors vivid, yet solemnly rich. It was a regimented place of neatly marching benches and, at the head of it all, a precisely placed altar over which was centered the most impressive window of all. But it was not the size of the window that caught Kassia’s eye, or its vivid colors—white, gold, red, purple, green and blue—it was the fact that the dominant design of the window was a mandorla of white and gold, just like the ones that graced her rooms and studio at home. In the heart of the mandorla sat a crowned and enthroned man in royal purple and red.
She was fascinated by the appearance of what she had thought to be a uniquely Polian symbol in a Frankish sanctuary. She dared to approach the altar, moving silently up the long central aisle toward the altar. This feature was not unlike the familiar cesia. The altar, in its cupped grotto, was similar in size and shape to the one at Lorant, and was covered with a small host of short, fat candles in multi-colored glass cups. She wondered if the colors were significant of the supplicant’s wishes, as they were in Polian worship. She had been told magic was not practiced in this faith. Perhaps the color of the candle’s cup meant nothing.
“God be with you, my son, and welcome to His House.”
The words, delivered in slightly accented Polian, nearly catapulted Kassia out of her skin. She spun, upsetting several of the candles. One toppled; she scrambled to catch it, only just grasping it as she faced the speaker. Dressed in vestments much like a Mateu’s ceremonial robes, the young man gaped at her, his face expressing every bit as much surprise as Kassia knew hers must.
“You’re . . .” The man’s voice failed. He made an up and down gesture, his eyes surveying Kassia’s clothing. A frown creased his brow. “I thought you were a boy. Daughter, why are you wearing man’s clothes?” His expression changed again, cricket-quick. Suspicion. “Are you fleeing someone?”
Amused at being called ‘daughter’ by someone so near her own age, Kassia smiled. “No, brother. I was merely curious about your cesia. Was I wrong to enter?”
The young man approached her warily, eyes still worrying her, up and down, back and forth. “No. No, you weren’t wrong. This is a house of God. All are welcome here.” He took the votive candle from her hands and set it back on the altar with its fellows. “But this is not a cesia. It is a church.”
“It’s very beautiful.” Kassia glanced around, uneasy beneath his intent gaze. She noticed the transept that dissected the long central hall. “It’s shaped like a cross, isn’t it?”
“Yes. A symbol of the sacrifice and triumph of our Lord.”
“It’s very like a cesia.”
The frown was back. “How so?”
“The altar, the candles. The serenity and quiet. A cesia has this same hush, as if God were listening to every word and thought.”
The young man favored her with a genuine smile. “Here God really does listen.”
Ignoring that, Kassia stepped away from the altar. “My father worked in stained glass. He would have loved to see these.” She nodded toward the most beautiful of the windows. “Especially the Wedding and the Festival of Names. He did the same scenes for a window in the college at Lorant.”
“The wedding? What are you talking about?”
She pointed to the window. “The Wedding of Mat and Itugen.”
The young man’s face lost all expression. “Those windows depict the creation of Adam and Eve, their naming of the animals and their eating of the fruit of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. I’m sure the artist didn’t know of any Mat or Itugen.”
Fascinated, Kassia said, “By your accent, I take you to be a Frank. Perhaps you are unfamiliar with—”
“I am familiar enough with it. I am Polian, after all. My father’s province was Silesia. But I was raised in the faith of my Frankish mother. I thank God for that, daily.”
“Then you know that Mat and Itugen are the Father and Mother of creation—the parents of all mankind. Isn’t that the place Adam and Eve hold in your faith?”
“God is the Father of creation. It has no mother. Though I would agree with you that Adam and Eve are the parents of mankind.”
Kassia found the idea of a creation with a father but no mother a peculiar one, but declined to say so. “We too have a tradition about the naming of creation. We celebrate it a month after the Wedding Festival in Maius. Do you celebrate the Naming too?”
“No, we do not. There is little about Adam and Eve to celebrate, daughter, for it was through them that man fell into sin. We celebrate the Anointed of God.” He nodded toward the altar with its great stained glass. “Do you know of Him?”
“I’ve read of His life . . . and death. Man is slow to learn and hard of heart. He often fails to recognize treasure when he finds it.”
“You know of Him, yet you do not believe? Yet you follow pagan ways?”
Kassia had no answer to that. She had never thought of her ways as being pagan. They were Polian ways, the ways of Teschen, of Dalibor, the ways of her family since time immemorial. She stifled a quick spark of anger. “I believe He was sent by God to His people. His words are words of beauty and truth.”
“But you do not believe on Him!”
“Believe on Him? I don’t understand.”
“You are unwilling to forsake all other gods—your Mat and Itugen.”
Kassia was beginning to empathize with Joti Subutai, but she quelled her frustration and looked into the young man’s face, reading his earnestness. “I have my faith,” she said simply.
“You will find it false. Let me tell you—”
Kassia raised her hand. “Please, sir. I must attend my Master. I’ve already been too long away. His consultation with the king may be over by now.” She moved toward the aisle.
The young man leapt after her. “Wait! Who are you? What is your name”
She turned back to him. “I am Kassia. Kassia Telek. From Dalibor, in Teschen province.” Uneasy under his intense regard, she fixed him with what she hoped was an equally disconcerting gaze. “And who are you? Are you a monk?”
He blinked. “I’m Pater Julian. I’m a priest.”
“I’m an Apprentice Mateu. I’m here with Master Lukasha.”
It was as if someone had turned out a light behind the priest’s eyes. They were dark; they became suddenly darker. He made the crossing gesture with one hand—the same gesture Kassia had seen Bishop Benedict make, though it possessed a certain defensiveness in Pater Julian’s hands.
“I have heard of him.” His eyes swept her again. “So, you are a sorceress then.”
She air left her lungs in a rush; he might as well have struck her. “I am an Apprentice Mateu. I perform magic through the Gift of Itugen.” She tried to read him, but found him as enigmatic as Zakarij. No, more so, for where Zakarij was opaque, this man was . . . shielded, bristling. But behind the bristles . . .
His
lips twitched into a smile. “Daughter, you may concoct potions and tell tales of misfortune, but I don’t believe you can perform miracles or magics. That kind of power can’t be dealt by the hand of a mere woman.”
Something slipped through the wall of his defense—a roiled, conflicted desire to see her perform some magical tidbit. Kassia let a demon of perversity and pride escape her control. She returned the priest’s smile.
“You are a man of strong opinions, Pater Julian. It would be useless to argue with you, so I’ll go. But before I do, I’d like to make an offering at your altar.”
Before he could either protest or agree, Kassia had called fire to her fingertips. She held up her hand in the mottled light of the sanctuary, calling tiny droplets of flame out of the air to pool in the cup of her palm. Before the fixed gaze of Pater Julian, she carried the resulting blossom of fire to the altar where she set it amid the safely contained votives. She would set it, she decided, to burn for about twenty minutes or so. That ought to give Pater Julian a healthy respect for the Gifts of Itugen.
“Kassia!”
Zakarij! Kassia tried not to leap out of her skin and turned to face the doors of the church, taking this opportunity to make her exit. “Good day, Pater Julian,” she called, hurrying down the aisle. The priest, still mesmerized by the naked flame atop his altar, crossed himself several times in succession.
Zakarij was peering past her as she reached him. “Kassia, what did you do?”
“I merely left a gift. I wanted to show my ‘pagan’ good will.”
“A gift of fire.” He was trying to look very stern, but his mouth was threatening to twitch upward at the corners and it ruined the effect.
“I didn’t have anything else to give.”
“What provoked you to do something like that? You know how wary these folk of our ways.”
Kassia grimaced. “Wary? He called me a sorceress.”
“Ah. And I suppose you’ve now proved to him that you aren’t?”
It always came to Kassia as a surprise how much Zakarij’s censure wounded. He had a superlative talent for making her feel childish. She ducked her head and let herself out through the vestibule, pride stung because she knew that she had been childish. She should not have paraded her magic before the priest. If he had thought her a sorceress before, he almost certainly would think her a demon, now.
The Spirit Gate Page 19
