In the Ruins (Crown of Stars 6)

“Who can know what was in their hearts? What if the blessed Daisan allowed himself to be martyred in expiation for the sins of humankind? What if the account bound into Bernard’s book is true, the very words of St. Thecla the Witnesser herself? I have studied. The text your father hid in his book is an account of the redemption of the blessed Daisan, son of God. It is the witness of St. Thecla herself, and glossed by an unknown hand in Arethousan—because the original text is written in the tongue of Saïs, as was spoken in ancient days. As was spoken by the blessed Daisan. It was his mother’s tongue.”

“It can’t be.”

“Perhaps not. Where did Bernard find this book and why did he bind it with the others?”

“I don’t know. He never spoke of it. He must have found it in the east. It could be a forgery. Arethousa is rotten with heresy.”

“So the Dariyan church says. But it could also be the truth. Here.” He stepped back from the table. “Judge for yourself.”

It was impossible to stop herself from picking up the candle and approaching him, to see that in truth and indeed a book lay on the table. Was it Da’s old, familiar, beloved book? That book was the last thing she had that linked her to Da except his love and his teaching, except his blood and his crime against the creature that had become her mother, whom he had killed all unwittingly and out of love.

Da’s book.

She halted before she got into sword range. “What do you mean to do?”

“It’s yours. I’m giving it back to you.”

She tried to speak, but only a hoarse “ah” “ah” got out of her throat. She struggled against tears, against anger, against grief, against such a cascade of emotions that he moved before she understood he meant to and glided away through one of the archways and vanished into the shadows, just like that.

She bolted forward, sure that the book would vanish, too, become like mist and evaporate as under the glare of the sun, but when she reached to touch it, it was solid and so very very dear to her. She could still smell Da’s scent on it, even though she knew that fragrance was only a memory in her mind. She grasped it, the heft of it, its weight. Metal clasps held the book together. The leather binding was grayed with age, but it had been oiled and lovingly cared for, and the brass roses adorning the metal clasps had been polished to a fine gleam. She ran her fingers down the spine, reading with her touch the embossed letters: The Book of Secrets.

A masking name, Da had often said, to hide the true name of the book within.

She crushed the book against her chest, and wept.

3

VERY late in the night Ekkehard appeared in the church, looking tousled and sleepy with only a simple linen tunic thrown on over his shift. Yawning, he knelt to Sanglant’s left. A pair of Austran guardsmen loitered a moment at the back, as if checking to make sure he didn’t bolt out a side door, before retreating onto the church porch to pass the time chatting with Sanglant’s soldiers.

“Where did you come from?” asked Theophanu. “Your wife’s bed?”

Ekkehard had a way of hunching his shoulders to express discomfort that had always annoyed Sanglant. He was the kind of rash personality who either leaped before looking or looked away in order to pretend trouble wasn’t there.

“I pray you, Theo,” Sanglant said, “do not tease him. Let us honor our father’s memory in peace.”

“If only Sapientia were here,” added Theophanu, “we might be in harmony again, just as Father always wished.”

The tart comment surprised a laugh out of Sanglant. “I am not accustomed to this much bitterness from you, Theo.”

“Forgive me, Brother. I forget myself.”

“You sold me to the Austrans,” said Ekkehard suddenly. “Like you’d sell a horse.”

“For stud,” commented Theophanu. “About all you’re worth at this point. You betrayed Wendar by aiding the Quman and showed disrespect to our father’s memory by leaving Gent when you were meant to watch over it as a holy steward. Sanglant was merciful. Toward you, at least. Perhaps not so merciful toward Sapientia.”

“Sapientia sent me to my death,” muttered Ekkehard. “I don’t care if she’s dead. Anyway, Gerberga’s not so bad. She’s not like her mother. Better married to her than trapped as abbot in Gent.”

“I am glad you approve of your marriage,” said Sanglant wryly, “since you had no choice in it. Will Gerberga support me?”

“Yes.” Ekkehard scratched the light beard covering his chin, and yawned again. “That’s what she sent me to tell you.”

“At what price?” asked Theophanu.

“Didn’t she tell you already?” Sanglant asked. “You rode with her from Osterburg, did you not?”

“She is closemouthed, like her mother was, but a better companion. I like her well enough. She is a good steward for Austra and Olsatia.”

“Why do neither of you ever listen to me?” said Ekkehard. “I have something to say.”