“Have you spoken to this woman, Daughter?”
“I have. I am always happy to find those within the palace who speak my own tongue, Your Excellency, those who are my countryfolk.”
“Did she speak aught of conspiracies and treachery?”
Only of clerics hidden like rats in the dungeon. Eyes that could see through walls, and traveling Eagles. But perhaps Hanna was making a conspiracy where none existed. Perhaps the woman had hoped for nothing more with her tales than an appreciative audience. Brother Petrus could not know that Hanna had spoken to Hathui over a year ago in the southern forests of Wendar. He did not know what she knew.
Faced with her silence, he went on. “I hope you will come to me, Daughter, if there is anything you wish me to hear. You need only to ask for me at the skopos’ palace. You Wendish Eagles are said to see all kinds of things that the rest of us cannot. I know you are held to be loyal without measure to your king.”
He spoke a word in Aostan, and his servants carried him on.
She glanced around as she rose to make sure no suspicious souls approached them, but the young toughs had vanished into the crowd. His words chilled her. Hadn’t Aurea spoken almost exactly those same words: “an Eagle might see all kinds of things?” Was it a slip of the tongue or simply a chance similarity of phrase? Did he mean it as a warning?
“I don’t like it,” remarked Rufus, “when those high and mighty church folk know who I am. Where I come from, the old folks used to say that it’s better to be a pig foraging in the woods with hunger in your gut and no one to know your name than a fat-bellied rooster strutting in the farmyard and all eyes on you when feasting time comes around.”
“He saved us from a fight.”
“True enough. Never turn your back on small blessings.”
Nearby, the three clerics had paused while one among their number shook a stone out of her shoe. “Come, now, Sister Heriburg,” said one of her companions tartly in clear Wendish. “We shan’t get a place to sit in St. Asella’s chapel if you do not hurry. You know how crowded it gets when Brother Fortunatus gives his sermon.”
“I beg pardon, Sisters. We are Wendish Eagles, servants of the king, come to worship at St. Asella’s. May we accompany you there?”
“Any true servant of King Henry is welcome to keep company with those of us who are loyal clerics in his schola,” said the tall one in the same tart voice she had just used to scold her companion.
“I thank you, my lady,” replied Hanna politely. “We will keep company with you gladly. I am called Hanna, and this is Rufus.”
These were highborn girls, unaccustomed to chatting idly with commoners; the quiet one looked alarmed at the introduction of names, and the other two hesitated before hurrying on with Hanna and Rufus at their heels.
“You are clerics in King Henry’s schola, my lady?” Hanna prompted, an imp of mischief directing her tongue. She wanted to see how they would respond. “Did you march here with the king?”
“We have lived in Darre for over two years now,” said the tall one as they passed the portico of St. Mark’s and turned left down a side street. A tower marked an old church built on a more ancient foundation. Inside, a half dozen slits in the walls illuminated the interior. Two clerics lit sconces in the wall as these patches of sunlight faded.
There were benches set in the nave, most filled with sundry folk speaking Wendish. Their companions moved to the front to sit with their clerical brethren. Hanna squeezed in beside Rufus toward the back, resting her floppy hat on her knees.
She saw no sign of Aurea. Had she misunderstood the woman? The whitewashed walls of the small church whispered no answers; it did not even have painted windows, only slits to let in air, although the thick stone kept the interior cool. She was no longer sweating. Two clerics ascended to ward the choir along the nave, lighting vesper lamps set on tripods at the end of each row of benches. At the front, a deacon entered the rounded choir from the sanctuary and approached the altar, where she raised her hands in the blessing as she began to sing the liturgy.
“Blessed is the Country of the Mother and Father of Life, and of the Holy Word revealed within the Circle of Unity, now and ever and unto ages of ages.”
“Amen,” Hanna murmured, the service sliding smoothly into her thoughts and her lips moving in the responses without a need for her to think.
“In peace let us pray to our Lord and Lady.”
“Lord have mercy. Lady have mercy.” Yet how did Ivar pray, if he were even still alive? How did heretics pray? Her gaze was caught by the flame burning beside her, a flickering golden glow, restless but strong, that hissed as if whispering secrets. Were those tiny wings in the heart of the flame? Were those shadows moving within the curtain of flame that danced before her? Beyond the veil of fire, she saw onto another place.
Six men and a woman make their way along a deserted track through broken woodland as afternoon creeps toward evening. Briefly the sun shines, but then a shower passes over their party, driven northward by a strong southerly wind. The wind blows back the hood of one of the men. She recognizes his red hair first before anything, and after that the lineaments of his face.
It is Ivar. Joy chokes her. Is it possible he still lives? Heat burns her face as she leans closer, trying to get his attention.
“Hanna? You’ll burn yourself!”
She broke free of the vision to find herself in the church, blinking dry eyes, tears wicked away by the flame. The lamp hissed and flickered, but it was an ordinary flame, just like all the others that lit the nave.
“For healthful seasons, for the abundance of the fruits of the earth in a time of want, and for peace in this country, let us pray.”
“Hanna?” Rufus had hold of her arm in a painfully tight grasp. “Are you feeling faint? I thought you would fall into the lamp.”
“Nay.” Her tongue felt swollen, and she was dizzy, both heartsick and elated. “Eagle’s Sight.”