“I’ll do so, gladly, if you’ll tell me what became of Mother Rothgard and how she died.”
The tale was quickly told. Autumn’s tempest had torn part of the roof off the long hall. Mother Rothgard had died after falling from a ladder while repairing the thatch. Floods had uprooted the wall, and wolves, growing bold, had killed four nuns over the course of the winter. Weaker souls would have abandoned the site, but few chose the isolated, difficult life at St. Valeria’s in any event and those left had voted to bide in the hall and rebuild rather than flee the onslaught of so many troubles.
“Otherwise we would have to burn the books,” said Sister Acella in her dour voice. She seemed a kind of cheerful cynic.
“Burn the books!”
“So it commands us in our charter. Such books as have been collected here must never leave this library or be copied and taken away. Otherwise they might fall into the wrong hands.”
“Not even if the regnant commands it?”
Acella had a cordial laugh. Like all of her sister nuns, she was as thin as a reed but with real muscle in those arms, a woman who labored as hard as she prayed. “Especially if the regnant commands it. Our charter comes from the skopos, not the regnant. Many years ago, of course. We were founded in the last year of the reign of the Emperor Taillefer, back when this was wilderness for ten days’ walk in every direction, beyond the frontier.”
“A strange place to collect such dangerous and rare texts,” said Liath, “when any raider might sweep down and carry them off.”
“We are well hidden. And better guarded than you might think.” She indicated the door, left open to admit a hazy midday light that did not, quite, penetrate to the rafters or under the eaves. “The labor of those Lions would be a great aid to us, if you can spare the time.”
“A bargain, perhaps,” said Liath, “as I come at the regnant’s urging to seek knowledge. These clouds must be lifted so that crops can grow, else many will starve in the months to come.”
Acella looked at Sister Rosvita, then back at Liath. She had a feather-light mustache, barely noticeable, the mark of a strong woman who has survived into middle age. “What knowledge is it that you seek? We have heard of you, the Eagle called Liathano. Princess Theophanu was healed here, some years ago. She said that you saved her life. We’ve heard you were excommunicated at a council in Autun. Has that been lifted?”
“I am here,” said Liath, wishing that she did not have to dance this merry round again. “I pray you, if you mean to refuse me, do so at once. I do not have the courtier’s gift of persuasion. I seek the secrets of the tempestari in the hope that sorcery can ease the cloud-ridden weather.” She laughed, looked at her companions, realizing she had seen no sign of the Kerayit wagon, and sobered quickly. “Where is Sorgatani? She is a weather worker. She learned from the eldest of all, the ancient one.”
“This is holy ground,” said Sister Acella, smiling easily. “No heathen is allowed to set foot within the walls.”
“You said yourself you’ve been attacked by wolves at least four times over the winter and spring.” Liath stared at them indignantly. “What if there is another Ashioi raiding party? You can’t have left her alone out in the forest!”
They did not answer, although her voice rose passionately. Their silence dismayed her.
“Do you know what she is?” Sister Rosvita asked at last. “No one may look on her and live, only except those who are her slaves and her servants.”
“Hanna is not her slave! Nor am I!”
“You? What are you saying?”
“That I have ‘looked on her and lived.’”
It was the wrong thing to say. Sister Acella said nothing but Rosvita exhaled sharply, and then looked sorry she had done so.
Liath rose. “I pray you, show me, or tell me, where her wagon lies, and I’ll go to her myself. As for the rest, let the Lions labor as long as I may consult your library.”
“It seems we have no choice,” said Acella dryly. “If we deny you?”
“If crops will not grow, folk will starve.”
“Waters unleashed may irrigate one field while flooding the rest.”
“Are these riddles, Sister Acella, that I am meant to answer?”
“They are cautions. Sorcery lies under ban, for good reasons. I have labored in these ‘fields’ all my life. We here in St. Valeria know that knowledge can be more dangerous than arms, that magic can do more harm than steel.”
“The storm that swept us last autumn was no natural storm, but one raised long ago by sorcery. How else to combat it except with sorcery of our own?”
“That path is a treacherous one.”
“I prefer not to see folk starve when I might have done something to prevent it.”
“Even if you will be damned for it?”