Crown of Stars (Crown of Stars 7)
“I have not!”
“Ah! She had a wicked eye and a wickeder tongue, that one, rather like our dear Brother Fortunatus. I cannot believe it is better that even her heretical writings be thrown out. Best they be remembered, so we remember how to argue against them. They are chronicles in their own way. Like Euseb?’s History.”
“Like the Chronicle of Vitalia,” agreed Rosvita, recalling the books she and her novices had read in Darre, “and the Annals of Autun.”
“Just so. Memory is our armor, and our weapon, Rosvita. Otherwise we are vulnerable again and again.”
“So we are.” Rosvita squeezed Obligatia’s cold hands as gently as she would handle a newborn pup. “We must soldier on and do the best we can.”
“Where do we go?”
“To the regnant.”
“Ah. Then I shall meet my grandson-in-law.” She smiled. “I look forward to it. A fine, brawny, handsome man, so they say.”
“So he is. More than what he seems.”
“Cleverer than he looks?” the old abbess chuckled.
“So it appears from the news we have heard of the battle in Dalmiaka and these new tidings from Wendar, if it is all true.”
“tru lo tru lye tru la tru lee
where the river flows, did the deer flee”
“What will happen,” Obligatia asked in a low voice, “when we are come with Sapientia?”
“I don’t know. She does not seem capable of ruling.”
“Our chronicles tell us that fitness was no barrier to the kings of Salia and Aosta. There are here and there stories of feebleminded children raised up to the throne, and ruled by those who held their leading strings.”
“It is not true of the Wendish, for we Wendish have always demanded that our regnants be worthy of the name.”
“Is Prince Sanglant that one? Worthy of the name?”
“Laws are silent in the presence of arms, so it is said. Sanglant possesses the loyalty of the army. And, if the story is true, Henry’s blessing, and the luck of the king, without which no regnant can prosper. The rest of his claim is not as strong. According to the Lions, there is debate and dissension on the matter of his queen, who was excommunicated and is known to be a sorcerer. That cannot help him.”
Mother Obligatia considered these words, and at length touched the book Rosvita held on her lap. “Will we see her again? Do you think her lost?”
“Like the books?” Rosvita had forgotten The Book of Secrets, clutched against her. She was afraid to let it go, as if it would vanish once no part of her body grounded it to the Earth. “She is lost to us. We must leave, quickly, before we are attacked again. We must pray we reach Quedlinhame and the king’s progress safely. As for the rest, I cannot know. It is taught that the daimones of the upper air can see into both past and future. But we are mortal, you and I, bound to the present.”
“Mere clay,” agreed Obligatia, and the thought made her smile as she patted Rosvita on the hands in the same manner she would pat a child’s head to comfort it. Her gaze strayed toward the nuns busy at their packing and came to rest on Sister Diocletia, who was peering into a chest and counting something on her fingers: eleven. At the far end of the hall, a young nun hung shutters and locked them into place against the coming departure. It was a sturdy hall, meant to weather storms and years. When all this trouble passed, it would still be standing.
“I would be at peace, having met her at long last,” said Mother Obligatia, “but I have a few questions I must still ask her. Therefore, I am selfishly sure that she must still be alive and that she will return to us.”
Rosvita nodded sadly. “That is hope enough for me, then. Let us pray you are right.”
5
“LI-AT-DANO.”
She woke disoriented and still blind. She hadn’t meant to doze off, knowing that something moved in the darkness with her, but the lingering effect of the poison had swallowed her.
“Li-at-dano.”
The voice was female, caustic, and familiar. It came from out of the darkness but from no particular direction.
“Why am I here?” she asked. It was difficult to speak. She was desperately thirsty.