Crown of Stars (Crown of Stars 7)

“It may be,” agreed Rosvita mildly. “That is why I support the recommendations of Biscop Constance. Send a party to Darre, to discover the state of the holy city. We know that Holy Mother Anne is dead. If there are no presbyters living to elect a new skopos, then it is not acceptable that one ambitious woman merely appoint herself. We cannot accept edicts passed by Antonia of Mainni, who has condemned herself twice over by her own malefic actions.”

There came a long and grudging silence, while clerics slurped at cups and Alain smelled spilled wine and a finer, more delicate scent of rose water. The hounds did not move; they seemed turned to stone, heads turned toward the bier half hidden by shadows.

“I agree.” Scholastica’s tone could not have been tighter. “A company must travel south to Aosta to bring our dispute and pleas to the palace of the skopos, and indeed to determine if it—and the presbyter’s council—still exists. But as for a council to consider the heresy of the phoenix—I will countenance no such discussion as long as I stand as abbess of Quedlinhame!”

That cowed them.

Or so it seemed, until Sister Rosvita spoke in the most temperate of voices. “What do you fear, Mother Scholastica? It cannot be that you fear the truth.”

“These lies are the work of the Enemy.”

“Maybe so. None of us are without sin in this matter, I think. You yourself, Mother Scholastica—”

“I?”

“You crowned and anointed Sanglant, but at the same time it appears you were already in league with Duke Conrad and Lady Sabella. Theophanu knows by now that you were ready and willing to pass her over, although hers was the highest claim. Who will trust you, knowing you have shown two faces to those who sought your support?”

The abbess’ lips pulled back in a flash of teeth almost like a snarl. “I have remained loyal to Wendar and Varre. That has been my sole concern. Do you believe otherwise, Sister Rosvita? Of what do you accuse me?”

“Of what do you accuse yourself?” Rosvita asked mildly. Every gaze fixed on the abbess—every gaze, that is, but that of Rosvita. The cleric looked toward the lonely bier. In that moment, the light indoors changed markedly, from a pale filtered glow to a strong yellow glare, as the sun cleared the low-lying clouds. For the first time, Alain saw that the dead man was not, after all, alone and abandoned. The body was flanked by attendants: two nuns and a third figure so bent, doubled over by the head of the corpse, that he could not quite discern what it was. Sorrow whimpered. Rage turned tail and tried to slink away toward the door, but he snapped his fingers and she crawled back.

“Let us see it done quickly, then,” said Scholastica hoarsely. “We will hold a council immediately, to begin on the first day of summer, next year. I suppose presbyters, biscops, holy abbesses, and clerics can be called and make their way to Autun in so short a span of time.”

Rosvita nodded. “That is acceptable to me.”

“Autun?” Constance’s hands were trembling and her face was very pale. “Do you still hope for Conrad’s backing, Aunt? He remains duke of Wayland. It is Tallia who by right of birth is now duke of Arconia, and you will find her peculiarly sympathetic to the tale of the phoenix.”

o;Yes,” said Mother Scholastica with an ominous frown. “What do you advise, Sister Rosvita? Be careful what you say, because the words you speak now will always be remembered.”

Rosvita had seen Alain and the hounds in the murky shadows under the eaves by the side door, but she drew no attention to him. She waited to speak while Hathumod held the cup to Constance’s lips, helped her sip, and patted her lips dry with a cloth. Mother Scholastica glared, an owl impatient for its prey to expose itself.

“We are commanded by God to speak truth,” said Rosvita. “I am God’s obedient servant, and after that, the regnant’s.”

“Go on!”

“Belief in the phoenix has spread widely, and into strange nests. I hold in my possession—” her arms tightened over the books,“—a book containing an ancient text written in a forgotten language, but glossed in Arethousan. The words I read there trouble me deeply. They lend credence to those who wish to support the doctrine of the Redemption.”

“A forgery! A lie!”

“That is always possible. The Enemy may cast swords among us in the hope that we will grasp their tempting hilts and set to on all sides. But it is also possible that this is the truth.”

“Impossible! That battle was fought and won three hundred years ago!”

“By women and men not unlike ourselves. We are imperfect vessels, Mother Scholastica. At times, we can be mistaken.”

“No! I will admit no heresy to pollute Wendar. It may be this poison is the cause of all our suffering in these days of tempest and trouble.”

“It may be,” agreed Rosvita mildly. “That is why I support the recommendations of Biscop Constance. Send a party to Darre, to discover the state of the holy city. We know that Holy Mother Anne is dead. If there are no presbyters living to elect a new skopos, then it is not acceptable that one ambitious woman merely appoint herself. We cannot accept edicts passed by Antonia of Mainni, who has condemned herself twice over by her own malefic actions.”

There came a long and grudging silence, while clerics slurped at cups and Alain smelled spilled wine and a finer, more delicate scent of rose water. The hounds did not move; they seemed turned to stone, heads turned toward the bier half hidden by shadows.

“I agree.” Scholastica’s tone could not have been tighter. “A company must travel south to Aosta to bring our dispute and pleas to the palace of the skopos, and indeed to determine if it—and the presbyter’s council—still exists. But as for a council to consider the heresy of the phoenix—I will countenance no such discussion as long as I stand as abbess of Quedlinhame!”

That cowed them.

Or so it seemed, until Sister Rosvita spoke in the most temperate of voices. “What do you fear, Mother Scholastica? It cannot be that you fear the truth.”

“These lies are the work of the Enemy.”