Crown of Stars (Crown of Stars 7)

Jonas took a step back, shaking his head. “They’re dead, Berthold. Don’t believe otherwise.”

“Who is dead?” asked Baldwin.

A file of monks appeared. Ivar moved aside. Even the margrave’s son shifted to let them pass into the church for Vespers and Compline. In their wake, Prior Ratbold hurried up.

“I pray you, my lords,” he said. “Pray with us. It would do us honor.”

Berthold ran a hand nervously through his hair, still staring toward the half hidden swell of hill and forest rising to the west-northwest. Jonas tugged on his sleeve, and he retreated backward and through the door, looking over his shoulder at the darkening sky. The Quman sank to his haunches in the posture of a man prepared to wait all night. The prior frowned at him without specifically inviting him inside, then turned his accusing gaze on Ivar and Baldwin.

“Will you come inside, Brother Ivar? Brother Baldwin?” The question was as much challenge as request.

“Perhaps it would be better if we rode on tonight,” said Ivar.

“Of course we’ll pray!” Baldwin mounted the steps and went inside.

Ivar hesitated, glancing toward the distant smithy, where smoke poured heavenward in a steady, thin stream that faded quickly from sight as the twilight deepened.

“It would be safer for you to leave at daybreak,” said the prior. “Strange creatures walk abroad in the night, half man and half animal. You would be hard-pressed to see Eika scouts approaching you. Or their dogs.”

Ivar shuddered. Ratbold was a hard but basically decent man with a sharp temper and a carefully hidden mean streak; he didn’t mind seeing others squirm.

“Let the monks and the good folk see that you do not fear to bide here,” the prior continued. “Their hearts tremble, for they know that Father Ortulfus is lost to the Eika.”

“Not dead,” said Ivar. “He wasn’t killed, but only taken prisoner.”

“Just so! I beg you, stand and speak this word before the assembly. They will believe you, for you have seen it with your own eyes. Let us pray together to God, and plead with God to restore him to us. Is that too much to ask of you?”

Ivar could not refuse. Before the service began, he raised his voice and told the assembly of monks what he had seen. Afterward, he knelt with the others when it was appropriate to kneel, and stood when one must stand to sing. The stone floor ground into his knees. His feet hurt, and his eyes stung from the fumes seeping off torches bound from wood not yet thoroughly dry, mark of a wet winter and wetter spring. With each breath he sucked smoke in, and a slow, throbbing headache flowered into life behind his eyes as the liturgy sang around him.

“Blessed is the Country born out of the Mother of Life. Blessed is Her Son. Blessed is the Holy Word revealed, now and ever and unto ages of ages.”

One of the holy men paced out the stations of the blessed Daisan’s life and ministry, the seven miracles, and the final redemption, but it all seemed so hazy and so unfamiliar. Baldwin was happy, speaking the responses with enthusiasm.

“Kyrie eleison. Lady have mercy. For healthful seasons, for the abundance of the fruits of the earth, and for peaceful times, let us pray.”

Beneath the impassioned voices, beneath the pattern traced by the monk’s feet, another, more shadowy form walked in the old manner, the words Ivar had grown up with, but he could no longer see those patterns clearly. He could no longer hear those old words as they were drowned in the new.

“For Thou art our sanctification, and unto Thee we ascribe glory, to the Mother, to the Son, and to the Holy Word spoken in the heavens, now, and ever, and unto ages of ages. Have mercy upon us.”

“Have mercy upon us,” he murmured, thinking his head would burst because of the pressure. The monks fell silent as they waited for leave to depart, but Ivar thought he would choke. He staggered out to the porch and there, blinking and wheezing, he found he had curled his hand into the sign of the phoenix.

Everything has changed. A cataclysm had shaken the church, and it would never be the same.

Pinwheels of light spun low along the dark horizon of hill, white and golden and hazy. He rubbed his streaming eyes.

“Look!” cried Lord Berthold, arriving beside him as if out of a hidden door. “Look, Jonas!”

“What is that?” Ivar asked. “Is that from the Eika army? Are they burning … ?”

A man ran out of the darkness and up onto the porch, where monks now crowded up behind the lord and whispered and pointed and stared.

“My lord!” The stranger had silver-white hair and humble clothing. “Someone is walking the crowns. Do you see?” He turned, revealing his profile to Ivar.

“You’re the Eagle!” Ivar said in a voice still hoarse from smoke, but the man ignored him, speaking with a frowning intensity to the equally grim Berthold.

“We can’t know who it is from this distance. Who is left who knows the secret of the crowns? Hugh of Austra, as we know. Antonia of Karrone—that traitor! Each bearing as false a heart as any body can nurture without turning to dust.”

“What do you mean?” Ivar took hold of the old man’s arm and shook him. “Don’t you know me?”