eeks passed as spring flowered around them. The church rose plank by plank, and many nights Hugh took Zacharias, Deacon Adalwif, and the other clerics to the crown where they studied the stars and the mysteries hoarded by the mathematici and prepared for the spell that would soon be their part to weave.
“What of the miracle of the phoenix?” Deacon Adalwif often asked Hugh as they walked back through the earthworks by lamplight.
“Did you see it with your own eyes?”
“Nay, I did not, yet these Salavii folk and I were spared by the intercession of a saint dressed in the garb of a King’s Lion. The Quman army passed right by us while we were helpless and yet none were touched.”
“A miracle, truly. But why do you think this miracle is linked to the heresy you speak of?”
“I know it in my heart, Your Excellency. Do you not also? You do not condemn it, as you would if you did not doubt the old teachings.”
Hugh did not reply, but his arm tightened on the book he carried with him day and night. He watched over that book in the same way he watched over Zacharias, who was never left alone during the day and was by night chained to the center post of the tent.
The Feast of St. Barbara marked the first day of Avril of the year seven hundred and thirty-five. Thirteen days later the Feast of St. Sormas dawned with a shower of rain followed hard on by a balmy south wind that chased the clouds away. As the novices gathered for their schooling, two excited Salavii boys informed Hugh that the waters had receded enough with the coming of spring that he could, if he dared, creep into the burial mound.
“What does he mean?” Hugh asked Deacon Adalwif.
She shook her head. “Nothing holy, my lord presbyter. This is an old grave mound such as the ancient ones erected over the bodies of their queens. That is why I insisted we build the church. I would have built it atop the hill to hallow the site and make it holy, but I could not obstruct the crown. Nevertheless, some of the children discovered a pool last summer and a hole that leads deep into the hill. They meant to crawl in, but I put a stop to it. There’s no telling what might lie inside an old grave mound like this one.”
“Surely you are not superstitious enough to believe in evil spirits, Deacon?”
“Nay, nay, not at all, Your Excellency.”
“Best that I investigate for myself, if the way is clear,” said Hugh, although Zacharias thought his color unusually high. “In that way, Deacon, drive out any lingering evil from this spot.”
“Of course, Your Excellency,” she said, looking relieved. “It has not been easy to keep the older boys from exploring where they will. One poor lad drowned in the river last autumn.”
“Let the children show me the entrance. I’ll take Brother Zacharias to carry a lamp and Gerbert to guard the entrance behind me so none follow.”
“You’ll take no others in with you?”
“Have I anything to fear? The bones of the heathen dead have no power over me, Deacon. Nor over you either.”
“Yes, my lord. In truth, my lord, you have the right of it.” But she still looked frightened.
And why not? Zacharias had leisure to reflect as Gerbert waded into a knee-deep pool of water lying up against a precipice cut into the high face of the earthworks about halfway around the hill from the little village and their camp. A trickle of water had, over the years, eroded the face of the earth away to reveal an entryway, two stones capped by a lintel, once buried, Zacharias supposed, by the tumulus and now half concealed by a curtain of moss. If the children hadn’t explored here, none of the others might ever have noticed. Gerbert hacked away the moss with his sword.
“Come.” Hugh held a lamp aloft as he waded into the water and squeezed through the opening.
The spring sun laid a warm hand across Zacharias’ shoulders, quite in contrast to the freezing water that iced his toes and calves as soon as he followed Hugh into the narrow tunnel, which was just higher than his head and quite dark. His hand shook, causing the light from his lamp to tremble as it illuminated stone walls incised with spirals and lozenges. He was afraid of the dark, but Hugh frightened him more. The corridor widened enough that a man might slosh through the knee-high water without scraping his shoulders on either wall.
“What’s this?” murmured Hugh.
Zacharias almost ran into a queer scaffolding that, twisting out of the water, was filthy with pale worms which after a moment he recognized as the remains of rotting feathers.
He retched, struck so hard by memory that he emptied his stomach into the water before he could stop himself.
“I pray you,” said Hugh, stepping sideways to avoid the stink, “what is wrong, Zacharias?”
He couldn’t answer.
“Ah.” Hugh groped in the water and fished up a skull patched with tufts of black hair. “I take it these are the infamous wings of a Quman warrior, and this, I suppose, his head. He must have crawled in here to die after the battle. This certainly is no ancient queen laid to rest by her devout servants. Come.” If the matter now floating like scum atop the water disgusted him, he gave no sign of it, although it was difficult to interpret his expression in the shifting light and shadow that played across his face as he moved on.
Sweating and anxious, Zacharias waded obediently after. The tunnel floor sloped imperceptibly upward. The water receded and gave way to a shoreline and grainy earth as they walked cautiously into the darkness. Hugh halted to study the symbols carved into the stone: more spirals and lozenges, and long strips of hatching and even, here and there, dots and lines that looked like a calendar. What if Hugh found another daimone imprisoned here and let it capture Zacharias’ body? He whimpered.
“What was that?” Hugh asked, pausing, then went on.
The tunnel opened into a broad chamber, a black pit made eerie because of the flickering play of their lights over the floor. The walls remained in shadow, and the ceiling lofted so high above them that it, too, was hidden.