The Gathering Storm (Crown of Stars 5)

“I do not forget how we heard her voice manifest out of a whirlpool of air,” said Fortunatus grimly. “That day when Prince Sanglant returned to the king’s progress. That day when we saw that he had allowed his daughter to be suckled by a daimone.”

“When did that happen?” Hanna demanded of Fortunatus.

“Before he rode east. Before you met up with him.”

“Yes,” she agreed thoughtfully. “That would make sense. It would fit with what you and Sister Rosvita have told me of your own history, and conclusions.”

“Liath is Anne’s daughter,” Rosvita said, as if hitting the nail hard enough would drive it into impenetrable rock. “How can she be the daughter of Anne, yet look like Bernard, if the story Prince Sanglant told us is true? If only one of her parents is human?”

“It could be true if Holy Mother Anne is the one who is lying,” said Hanna.

For a moment there was silence, except for the wheeze, and Gerwita’s sniffling, and Ruoda’s cough.

If the Holy Mother were lying.

Hanna went on, her tone like ice. “Why shouldn’t she lie? If she needed Liath, and everyone who knew her, to believe that Liath was descended from Emperor Taillefer? I knew Bernard. He loved his daughter. And they looked alike. Even though she was burned brown on her skin, any fool could see they were father and daughter, just as a puppy or foal may bear the markings of its sire.”

“My grandchild,” murmured Obligatia. “Can it be true? Bernard had a daughter? Can it be true?” How cruel the look of hope on her face. “Does he live still, my son?”

Hanna knelt beside the pallet. She was not a beautiful woman, more strong than handsome, yet her expression became so suffused with compassion that it shone from her in the manner of all true beauty, born of the inner heart and not the outer seeming. “I am sorry, Mother. He died years ago trying to save his daughter from those who pursued her. I saw his dead body.”

“My son.” The words trailed into nothing, but Obligatia did not weep. Perhaps she had no more strength for weeping.

“He was a good man, with no more frailties than any one of us suffer, and many virtues. He helped others until there was nothing left for himself. But he feared those who sought to find him and Liath. He did the best he could. He loved her.”

Schwoo schwaa schwoo schwaa.

Had they fallen under a spell? To Rosvita, it seemed they had. No one moved or spoke.

Only Mother Obligatia was strong enough to break that spell. She had survived too long to be overmastered.

“Why does my daughter wish to kill me, Sister Rosvita?”

Rosvita glanced at Fortunatus, at Hanna, but they only shook their heads. “I do not know. I can only guess. She has not given up. A presbyter of noble birth waits below the rock. Tomorrow at dawn he will send soldiers up the north face to capture us.”

“He cannot reach us here.”

“How can we sustain ourselves, trapped within the stone with no source of food or drink? How have you survived these past two years?”

“Where is Teuda?” Obligatia asked.

“She is coming, Mother,” replied Hilaria. “She has seen to the prisoner, and gathered enough bread for everyone.”

“Help me stand,” said Obligatia.

With both Rosvita and Hilaria to support her, the old abbess was able to rise. She insisted on being helped to the bench, although the effort clearly taxed her. Sister Petra, still squeezing her hands anxiously and murmuring in an undertone, fell silent when Obligatia patted her soothingly on the arm as one might a nervous hound.

“Sister Petra has not been well since that awful day,” said Obligatia without apparent irony, considering her own weakened condition. Yet her expression had such clarity and strength of will that Rosvita could not help but contrast the old woman’s energy and evident sanity with the bewildered gaze of Petra as she stared at the shadows, mouth moving but no words coming out. “Sister Carita died soon after we fled here, may her spirit rest at peace in the Chamber of Light. Hilaria, Diocletia, and Teuda have remained rocks.”

“God granted us strength,” said Diocletia, who had risen in order to give Obligatia room to sit on the bench. “We serve you as faithfully in this life as we will serve God in the next, Mother.”

Obligatia bowed her head, aware of the burden of their loyalty. Rosvita, looking up, saw her own dear companions gazing at her with that same dreadful and wonderful steadfastness. Like Lavastine’s hounds, they had chosen with their hearts and now could never be swayed.

“Pray God we are worthy of their loyalty,” she murmured to herself, but Obligatia’s hearing had not suffered.

“Amen,” the old woman whispered. She braced her hands on the table and with an effort pushed herself up to stand as Rosvita hurried to steady her with a hand under her elbow. “In this way I maintain my strength. My task on this Earth is not finished. I have a few more things left to do.”

“Here is Teuda.” Diocletia hurried to a passageway that struck into the rock opposite the tunnel through which they had entered. She met there the lay sister whom Rosvita recalled as a gardener. Teuda carried a large clay pitcher filled with water and a basket, which she set on the table. It was filled with white cakes shaped like small loafs of bread but formed of a substance Rosvita did not recognize. It had no smell. Obligatia led the blessing over drink and food, sat, and indicated that Teuda should pass the bread around. When Rosvita bit into the cake handed to her, she discovered it had no taste as well as no scent, its consistency firm but not hard, with some give when you pressed on it without being spongy.