Child of Flame (Page 297)

“Ai, God,” murmured Alain, sick to the depths of his heart. The hounds gazed at him patiently. Tears welled in his eyes but did not fall.

Shevros, ready, turned to look at him expectantly, waiting for his decision.

“Why is the Holy One so important?” Alain asked finally, hearing the words tumble out, feeling as might a man scrabbling for a branch to grab onto as he slides over the edge of a cliff.

“Without the shaman of the Horse people,” said Agalleos, “so I have heard, the Hallowed Ones cannot work their magic. That is all I know.” He glanced impatiently toward the ford, where half of the priest’s party had already crossed. A raft had been brought for the man wearing the feather headdress. “That is all I need to know. I am theirs to command in the war against the Cursed Ones.”

“The Holy One brought me here,” murmured Alain. “She saved my life.”

There wasn’t really any choice. He had a debt to pay. Honor obliged him. And anyway, he could never abandon the hounds.

“I’ll stay with you.”

4

SHE dreamed.

Seven jewels on the seven points of the crown worn by Emperor Taillefer, all gleaming, yet they recede before her, or she falls away and upward, and their light spreads out until a band of darkness lies between each discrete point, like a thousand leagues of land between them, a vast crown of stars straddling the land itself. But where the brilliant light winks, it turns over in the manner of a restless beast as she walks into a cavern heaped with treasure. Young Berthold, Villam’s missing son, sleeps peacefully, gold and silver his bed. Six attendants lie in slumber around him. Their respiration breathes a soft mist into the air, churning and twisting, and through that mist she sees into another landscape where a woman with wings of flame wanders through a cold and barren land. The winged woman’s face is turned away, but surely she knows her; surely she has only to speak to touch her.

“Sister, I pray you. Wake up.”

She woke suddenly, into the darkness. A lamp hovered overhead, held by the nervous hand of her servant Aurea.

“Sister.”

“What is it, Brother Fortunatus?”

He sat on the edge of the bed, holding her hand. She could feel how cold her hand was in contrast to the warmth of his fingers. “Are you well enough to rise today?” he asked, glancing anxiously toward the door, still hidden in the early morning shadows.

Aurea set down the lamp and frowned at the cleric, although her heart wasn’t in it. Rosvita had long suspected that Aurea had taken a liking to Fortunatus, but he had vowed his life to the church and, unlike certain of his brethren, kept steadfastly to his pledge of chastity and devotion to God. “I told you not to be bothering my lady,” she said, “even if it’s true she’s much better.”

“You were ill, too, Fortunatus,” said Rosvita.

“The summer fever afflicted many of us, Sister,” he agreed, “but I am well enough now.”

“You’re too thin. I can see that you’re still tired.”

“This would not wait, Sister.”

She sat up. She was light-headed but otherwise felt hearty enough, even hungry. “If you will, Brother.”

He retreated hastily to stand in the hall outside. Three young clerics hurried in to fuss over her as Aurea helped her with her morning business and dressing.

“Sister Rosvita! You look so well today!” That was young Sister Heriburg, short, stout, with a bland, amiable face and the hands of an angel when it came to writing.

“Sister Infirmarian says not one soul died last night.” Sister Ruoda marched over to the window and threw open the shutters while timid Sister Gerwita shrieked in protest. “Nay, for if the contagion is dying, then the air isn’t contaminated anymore, and I must say, begging your pardon, Sister Rosvita, but it smells in here.”

Rosvita laughed while Aurea, eyes wide, tucked her mouth down into tight-lipped disapproval. But the young women were themselves a breath of fresh air, as the ancients would say. She watched them bustle around, setting the place to rights: straightening the blankets, closing the two books Rosvita had been reading, wiping sand off the table, cleaning the pen that Rosvita had forgotten last night when she had worked at her History until fatigue drove her to her bed. They were so young, so clever. So energetic. She remembered being that enthusiastic once, overwhelmed by the glory of the regnant’s schola.

“Now that you are better,” said Sister Heriburg, who wasn’t as bland as she looked, “I’ll have the servants bring our pallets back here. You ought not to have to sleep alone.”