The Burning Stone (Crown of Stars 3)

But as Aunt Bel would say: No use for the child to cry over what’s been spilled; she’s better off cleaning it up and getting on with it. Lavastine would have agreed with her. Alain shook himself, kissed the granite brow, and left.

Aunt Bel was much on his mind as he walked to Lavas Church with three clerics and two stewards in attendance, to oversee the work going on there. In the spring he and Tallia must go on progress through their lands, to show themselves, to receive oaths and give oaths in return. How would he be received at Aunt Bel’s steading? With surprise? With the respect due his position? Or with scorn and anger? He could not bear to think of Henri; it still hurt too badly, even after all this time. It infuriated him that Henri, of all people, would believe that he could lie and cheat to gain advantage in his life. Maybe it would be better simply to ride on by and not see them, not now. He could wait. There was always another year.

But that was the coward’s way.

The stone workers sat outside the church in the sun eating bread and cheese. Strangely, Tallia’s attendants also waited outside the church, clustered like a flock of lost doves on the entry porch.

lanced up to see him watching her, then smiled brilliantly and indicated her bow, which he now held. “Do you want to try?” she asked brightly.

It was at moments like this that he thought he would probably never understand her.

X

IN PLAIN SIGHT

1

SORROW, Rage, and Fear woke him this morning as they did every morning, with dog kisses, sloppy tongues licking his face. They didn’t cease pestering him until he rolled out of bed, washed his face and relieved himself, and let a servant bring him tunic and hose. He led them down the stairs and outside, where they ran, tucking their tails and tearing around like wild things, barking with pleasure, snapping at garlands of ice on low-hanging branches. It hadn’t snowed yet, although Candlemass, the first day of winter, was only a week away, but every morning the ground sparkled with a coldly beautiful frost.

When the hounds had run off their high spirits, he whistled them back, and they followed him meekly to the hall. He seated himself in the count’s chair, and his people came forward as they did every day, wary of the hounds who lolled at his feet out otherwise respectful: this week so many apples had been pressed and laid aside into barrels for cider; goats had gotten into winter wheat at the Ravnholt manor, and the man who worked the field wanted the woman who owned the goats to pay him a fine for the damage they had caused; a laborer up by Teilas wished for the count’s permission to marry at the new year, the shepherds had cut out fifty head of cattle for the Novarian slaughter, those animals deemed unworthy to be wintered over; his clerics wished to know which grain stores should be opened next for the distribution of bread to the poor. Duchess Yolande had sent a messenger to say she would arrive to celebrate the Feast of St. Herodia with her beloved cousin. They had, therefore, about six weeks to make preparations to house and feed her entourage. The falcons and merlins must be flown There was hunting to do, both as sport and for meat to smoke against the lean months of late winter and early spring.

He took something to eat at midday and then, as always, he climbed the stairs to the chamber where Lavastine’s corpse lay as cool as stone, without any taint of decay. Terror lay on one side of the bed, Steadfast on the other, two faithful attendants seemingly carved out of granite. Here beside the draped bed Alain prayed every day, sometimes for an hour or more as the fit took him, but today he merely laid a hand on Lavastine’s cold brow, feeling for the spirit buried deep within. It was difficult to believe his spirit was flown when he lay here so perfectly hewn as by a master sculptor, in death as in life. Alair wept a little, as he always did, out of shame for the lie.

Ai, God. Tallia had not been visited by her monthly courses since the death of Lavastine over two months ago. Everyone said she was pregnant, and Tallia herself had begun to murmur about holy conception and a shower of golden light visiting her while she was at her prayers, which these days took up most of her waking hours. Alain could not help but hope against hope even though he knew what Aunt Bel would say: “No cow will calve without that a bull covers her first.” It was one of her ways of saying that work wouldn’t get done unless someone did it, and he was bitterly aware that he hadn’t done his work.

But he was simply too tired to fight past Tallia’s resistance It was hard enough to get her to eat more than a crust of bread each day. It was hard enough to get up each morning himself and sit in the count’s chair and ride the count’s horse and speak with the count’s voice; he kept expecting Lavastine to walk into the room, but Lavastine never did.

But as Aunt Bel would say: No use for the child to cry over what’s been spilled; she’s better off cleaning it up and getting on with it. Lavastine would have agreed with her. Alain shook himself, kissed the granite brow, and left.

Aunt Bel was much on his mind as he walked to Lavas Church with three clerics and two stewards in attendance, to oversee the work going on there. In the spring he and Tallia must go on progress through their lands, to show themselves, to receive oaths and give oaths in return. How would he be received at Aunt Bel’s steading? With surprise? With the respect due his position? Or with scorn and anger? He could not bear to think of Henri; it still hurt too badly, even after all this time. It infuriated him that Henri, of all people, would believe that he could lie and cheat to gain advantage in his life. Maybe it would be better simply to ride on by and not see them, not now. He could wait. There was always another year.

But that was the coward’s way.

The stone workers sat outside the church in the sun eating bread and cheese. Strangely, Tallia’s attendants also waited outside the church, clustered like a flock of lost doves on the entry porch.

“My lord count.” Lady Hathumod came forward hesitantly. She looked troubled. “Lady Tallia asked to be left in solitude to commune with God.”

“So she shall be. I’ll go in alone.” He signaled his own attendants to wait outside, and the hounds flopped down at the threshold.

He hadn’t seen her since yesterday and, pausing in the nave of the shadowy church, he didn’t see her at first as his eyes adjusted. Light from the east-facing windows fell on the altar. Midway along the nave, the stone bier was rising slowly, dressed stone by dressed stone, to make a fitting resting place for Lavastine’s corpse.

Her slight figure knelt on the steps before the altar, shoulders hunched and shaking. He walked forward so quietly that she didn’t hear him, and as he came up beside her, he heard her grunting softly with pain.

“Tallia?” He gently touched her on the shoulder.

She cried out and jerked back from him. In that moment, he law what she had been doing: scraping at the wounds on her palms and wrists with an old nail. Blood oozed from the jagged cuts. Pus inflamed the gash on the palm of her right hand. Seeing his horrified expression, she began to weep helplessly.

He did not know what to do, except to take the nail away from her.

Finally, he coaxed her back to their chamber. He settled her on their bed and chased away her servingwomen, even Hathumod. She only stopped weeping because she was too weak to cry for long. Her face was sunken, almost skeletal, her skin so translucent that the veins showed blue. She hadn’t washed in a long time: he found dirt behind her ears and a collar of grime at her neck. Her feet were filthy, and her knees scabbed and scaly from all those hours of kneeling. Her wrists felt so thin he thought he might have been able to snap them in two were he angry enough.

But, strangely, he wasn’t angry. He was just very tired.

“Tallia,” he said finally in the tone Aunt Bel might have used after she’d sat up three nights running with a deathly ill child who, past the point of danger, had now begun to whine that she didn’t like her gruel, “you are not well. You will remain in bed and you will eat gruel and bread pudding every day, and greens and meat, until you are strong enough that you don’t forget yourself in this way again.”

She began to whimper. “But God must love me. God will only love me if I suffer as did Her beloved Son. It is through our suffering that we become close to God. Then I can become close to God, too. I wish you would let me build a chapel. Then God would love me more because I was so obedient.”

“I love you, Tallia,” he said, without passion. He felt astoundingly tired. The nail weighed in his hand as heavily as a grievous sin, and maybe it was. He did not wave it in her face or accuse her. Maybe the first time had been a miracle.