King's Dragon (Crown of Stars 1)

Wolfhere continued, as calm as ever. “If I remember, there is a torch here. Think of flames, then, and call fire to it.”

“I was not taught these things!”

Air stirred behind her neck. Light! She shut her eyes, though it was hard to find the courage to do so, even when she couldn’t see. She formed a picture of light, the chamber illuminated, sunlight streaming in through the windows of her memory tower to limn the four doors of her tower that led to nowhere and to everywhere, to cover as with a gold wash the fifth door, set impossibly in the center of the room. Light.

But nothing came. In the frozen tower, the light was as cold as midwinter’s kiss and though it illuminated, its touch did not bring life. A tendril, like a spiderweb come loose from its moorings, brushed the nape of her neck. She flinched and batted it away, but there was nothing there. And yet there was something behind her, always stalking her.

She could stand it no more. “Better to go forward,” Da always said, “than to look behind at what’s creeping up on you.” She shoved past Wolfhere, stumbled on level flagstone floor, and groped along the wall. Her hand came to rest on the stem of a torch. She wrenched it free and spun, holding it out like a weapon, but it touched nothing. There was nothing, except her own fear.

And that sparked anger. What right had Hugh to plague her like this? Would she never be free of him?

His was the dark presence always at her back, and yet there was another, which she could not name, whatever had stalked her father and herself for all those years.

“Leave me be!” she cried. The stone walls of the crypt sucked her voice away, muffling it.

“Now, Liath—” Wolfhere began.

Ah, but she was furious by now, a raw anger that throbbed through her like fire. The torch in her hand caught flame and burned with a strong, uncanny light. She started back, blinking away tears. Wolfhere looked sickly pale, but then her eyes adjusted and she saw he was smiling wryly.

“That’s better,” he said.

Liath was horrified. She had called fire, by what means she did not know. Now Wolfhere thought she knew the arts of sorcery.

And yet, if she could call fire, why should she not learn the arts of sorcery? Why should she not become magus and mathematicus? Was it not her birthright?

Wolfhere made no more mention of the blazing torch, nor did he ask her how she had accomplished the deed. He crossed the crypt floor and because she did not want to be alone in this buried chamber, she followed. Under the broad stone arches that held up the crypt he paused to study the famous tomb of Biscop Mariana, predecessor of the current biscop. Nestled between her grave and the heavy stone wall of the crypt lay another tomb. Carved of less imposing granite, it nevertheless displayed a more elaborate epitaph.

Here lies Flodoard, presbyter of the Holy Church, servant of Our Lord and Lady, guide and instructor to Louis, king of Varre. Devout in practice and humble in spirit, he was the best among us. So does he rest in the light of truth above.

Liath became aware all at once of the space opening behind her, the vast womb of the cathedral, and the monuments that marked the graves of the women and men who had served within these precincts. Best among us. She felt at peace, here among the holy dead. She might not be safe with Wolfhere, or any other mortal man or woman, but surely these holy ones remained her guardians as they guarded all who kept faith.

“I have heard it said a saint’s tomb lies hidden in the crypt of Gent Cathedral.” Wolfhere surveyed the dark cavern. The hush was profound. She could hear not even the least sound from above, though several hundred refugees crowded the church and beyond the doors the city of Gent certainly lay restless in its uneasy sleep, one eye always open toward its besiegers. Tombs faded into the darkness, marking distance by their shade of gray in the torchlight. Liath could not see the far walls or even the opening that led to the stairs. Gent was an old cathedral, its foundations laid, some said, in the last years of the old empire by a half-elvish prince who had converted to the faith of the Unities as the empire collapsed around him.

Wolfhere walked farther into the crypt, into dark chambers and down a short flight of steps, and Liath followed him. The deeper they went, the fresher the air smelled, tinged with the dry sweetness of some kind of grain. She sneezed.

“But it is also said,” added Wolfhere, “that only those of great holiness, great innocence, or great need ever find that grave.”

“Whose grave is it?” Liath asked, casting about, looking for any least gleam of silver light or hidden corner of stone concealed in the shadows, but she saw nothing besides the tombs of biscops and presbyters, holy deacons and robed mayors, and one count of Gent whose effigy showed her holding a scroll in one hand and a knife in the other.

“St. Kristine of the Knives, she who endured unspeakable torments in the last days of the old empire rather than yield her place to the invaders. It is said of her that though an empire might fall from grace, she could and would not fall because of her great strength.”

But they found no saint’s tomb.

They returned to the half-flight of stairs and passed into a dim corridor and thence into a side chapel that contained two tombs so ancient their inscriptions were almost rubbed away, as well as a single slab of black stone that glinted when she brought the torch up beside it.

She knelt and ran a hand along its surface. It was smoother than glass. “This is obsidian,” she said. “Though some say that this is not stone at all but the remains of dragon bones that have been exposed to sunlight.”

Wolfhere knelt opposite. “By this means, I will view. Did Bernard teach you the art of vision?”

She shook her head. She had never seen Da “vision” anything, although she had read it was possible to look long distances through certain media: water, fire, and certain kinds of stone. “Is it—is it right to practice the forbidden arts on holy ground? In a church?”

He glanced up. His gaze was mild but direct. “It is needful, and Our Lord and Lady do not prohibit what is needful. Or so agreed the church elders at the Council of Kellai. The church did not condemn sorcery, Liath, though at the Council of Narvone it imposed a penance on those who practice it outside the supervision of the church.”

What had Hugh said to her? “I am sure there are those in the church who have made it their task to learn the forbidden arts of sorcery, but I have not found them so far.” “But they are called the forbidden arts,” she whispered.

“It is true the church looks with disfavor on those who seek the elder arts, those practiced by the ancient heathens which have come down to us in their writings. Those which can be used by the unscrupulous to gain power. But it would be more than foolish to deny that such arts and powers are within our grasp, or to attempt to condemn them as heresy is condemned. It would be impossible, as well as dangerous. So in her wisdom Skopos Mary Jehanna, who presided over the Council of Kellai, was first to pronounce some of the forbidden arts as lying within the provenance of the church, and that ruling was confirmed by the Council of Narvone a hundred years ago. Indeed, in these days the Convent of St. Valeria is known for its study of the forbidden arts.”

“But you are not in the church.”