Child of Flame (Crown of Stars 4)

Two years ago, Queen Adelheid had found safety here, fleeing Ironhead. Two years ago, Father Hugh had sheltered here as well and by an act of sorcery had aided Adelheid’s escape.

In the year 730: Lord John, called Ironhead, was crowned king at Darre.

Now Ironhead was dead and Adelheid was queen. Antonia had to admire a mind that worked as subtly as Father Hugh’s, laying out a torturous path often obscured by false doors and then following it to the end.

The rest of the entry for last year did not interest her, a record of certain disasters, called omens, that had befallen various peasant communities and local districts. No doubt the people had sinned in some grievous manner and were being punished by God, as they deserved. That was the usual reason for famine, drought, plague, and the blight of leprosy.

No hand had yet recorded the most important events of the current year, 731: the death of the skopos and her replacement by Anne; Adelheid’s triumphant return and her restoration to Aosta’s throne.

Probably, now, they never would.

Teuda, the lay sister, appeared at the door. Her time was up. As Antonia tucked the volume back onto its proper shelf, straightening the corners, wiping a smidgeon of dust from the corner of the book placed next to it, she wondered if she would be able to salvage this chronicle from the chaos sure to follow. There was a great deal of valuable information here, and it was obvious to her that the abbesses of St. Ekatarina’s had known far more than they chose to let on. Why else record, in plain sight, the stone crowns scattered around the continent? In their own way, they were making a map. They knew the crowns were a key.

ickly it was lost: a shift of air in the dusty corridors, perhaps, or the singer inadvertently turning her head so that her voice didn’t reach so far. A bell tinkled softly. Antonia suspected there were secret hidey-holes from which they observed her. Of course, growing up as a noble child in a royal house, she was used to constant observation. Years of education in the church and the years she had spent presiding as biscop of Mainni, when she was never alone except for moments spent in the privies, had served to hone her skills, to teach her how to present to the world at all times the smooth mask of humility on her face.

Still Mother Obligatia suspected her.

A scrape of sandal on rock caught her attention.

“Sister Venia?” The raspy voice of the lay sister, Teuda, sounded from beyond the curtain.

“I am ready.”

For three months they had followed this ridiculous routine. Teuda led her along empty corridors hewn out of stone past the chapel to the tiny library where, in the hours between Terce and Nones, she was allowed to read. At midday, Sister Carita, with her unsightly hunchback, escorted her to the service of Sext and then back to the library. After the brief service of Nones, Teuda led her back to the guest quarters, where she languished until Vespers, the only other service she was allowed to attend with the sisters. Even her meals were delivered to her in the guest quarters, where she ate alone.

To treat a sister nun in such a fashion was a mockery of charity! They did not trust her.

Sister Petra was already at work, making a copy of the chronicle of St. Ekatarina’s Convent. She nodded to acknowledge that Antonia entered but did not greet her. In truth, except for Mother Obligatia and the lackwit, Sister Lucida, the other nuns acted around Antonia as though they were under a vow of silence. Only Teuda, as a lay sister, was allowed to speak to her, and she said as little as possible.

From Terce to Sext, Antonia studied several interesting and obscure works on theology and philosophy: the apocryphal Wisdom Book of Queen Salome; a complete copy—very difficult to come by of the Arethousan Biscop Ariana’s heretical and quite scandalous Banquet, regarding the generation of the blessed Daisan out —of the divine substance of God; the Catechetical Orations by Macrina of Nyssa. But once she had returned from the midday service, she took down the final and of course thereby unfinished volume of the convent’s chronicle. She would finish it today, and then there would be no more reason to delay her mission.

The light lancing down through the shafts carved into the rock shifted over the four writing desks as the hours wore on. The silence was broken only by the scrape of Sister Petra’s quill and the occasional crackling of vellum as Antonia turned a page. Otherwise, they might have been entombed, suffering the ecstasy of oblivion.

She caught a whiff of cooking turnips, fleeting, gone.

Strange, she mused, as she read the final entries. In the year 729: The queen took refuge in the arms of St. Ekatarina from those who hunted her, together with certain noble visitors from Wendar. A party of clerics from Wendar stayed one week in the guest hall. A blight struck the wheat crop in the vicinity of Floregia. Jinna bandits killed every member of the house of Harenna, leaving their palace and fortress in ruins and their lands without a regnant. The palace of Thersa, eight stones, and ruins.

Two years ago, Queen Adelheid had found safety here, fleeing Ironhead. Two years ago, Father Hugh had sheltered here as well and by an act of sorcery had aided Adelheid’s escape.

In the year 730: Lord John, called Ironhead, was crowned king at Darre.

Now Ironhead was dead and Adelheid was queen. Antonia had to admire a mind that worked as subtly as Father Hugh’s, laying out a torturous path often obscured by false doors and then following it to the end.

The rest of the entry for last year did not interest her, a record of certain disasters, called omens, that had befallen various peasant communities and local districts. No doubt the people had sinned in some grievous manner and were being punished by God, as they deserved. That was the usual reason for famine, drought, plague, and the blight of leprosy.

No hand had yet recorded the most important events of the current year, 731: the death of the skopos and her replacement by Anne; Adelheid’s triumphant return and her restoration to Aosta’s throne.

Probably, now, they never would.

Teuda, the lay sister, appeared at the door. Her time was up. As Antonia tucked the volume back onto its proper shelf, straightening the corners, wiping a smidgeon of dust from the corner of the book placed next to it, she wondered if she would be able to salvage this chronicle from the chaos sure to follow. There was a great deal of valuable information here, and it was obvious to her that the abbesses of St. Ekatarina’s had known far more than they chose to let on. Why else record, in plain sight, the stone crowns scattered around the continent? In their own way, they were making a map. They knew the crowns were a key.

But she couldn’t tell if they understood what those keys unlocked.

With a smile for Sister Petra, who had just set down a newly trimmed quill and now wiped ink from her fingers in preparation for services, Antonia left the library and dutifully returned to the guest hall. She tided herself up, revived herself with some wine set aside for this purpose, and went to pray at the small chamber where an altar stood. There was a cunning screen set into the altar itself, a concealed alcove so that an observer on the other side could look into the tiny chapel without being seen. She had noticed it within days of her arrival and could now tell if someone was lurking behind it, spying on her. There was no one there now; they would all be at prayer.

She spent a while making sure everything was ready. Then she knelt before the altar to pray, and to wait.

God would grant her triumph. Who else would see that God’s work was done properly on Earth, if not her? She asked, of course, for forgiveness. Sometimes the blood of innocents had to be spilled in order to bring about the greater good for humankind.