Crown of Stars (Page 137)

“Sapientia?” the abbess asked wickedly as she turned to look out the open door into the summer garden. The walkers had vanished, but their step could still be heard, crunching softly and accompanied by the singsong of Petra’s constant soothing chatter. “Henry named Sapientia as heir.”

“He changed his mind. You have seen her and spoken to her. You can see as well as I can that she is not fit to rule.”

“Perhaps. She may yet recover, if given time to rest. The story you have told me, about her ordeal, suggests that her brother left her in the wilderness to die. How does that make him fit to rule? We Wendish do not murder our kinfolk. We have enough trouble here without civil war.”

“That being so, why did you then anoint and robe and crown Prince Sanglant and name him king?”

“I had no choice, at that time. ‘Laws are silent in the presence of arms.’ Witnesses claimed that Henry favored Sanglant—that he named him heir in Aosta. But it appears that Henry believed Sapientia to be dead, at that time. As did I. As did we all, until you brought her here, Sister Rosvita.”

“Henry knew that Theophanu lived. He might have named her as his heir, but it appears he did not.”

Mother Scholastica was a formidable woman, and her glare was that of an eagle ready to strike. Rosvita stood her ground; she did not fear her, although it might be more prudent to do so.

“I will not have this conversation again. I have taken steps to do what is best for the realm. You are well advised to choose carefully, at this time. Do not follow Sanglant, Sister Rosvita.”

“I crave your pardon, Mother Scholastica. My road is set.”

Like opposing armies battling to a standstill on a bridge, they had reached an impasse. Outside, the gardener began raking.

“So be it,” said Scholastica in a cold voice. “Let the nuns from St. Valeria and their treasure of books remain here.”

Rosvita wished fleetingly for a pen or a book, something to shift with her hands to bleed off the disquiet that made her fingers twitch and her ears burn. “What will become of the books?”

Scholastica’s gaze flickered toward a letter folded and sealed with—strangely—the skopos’ gold stamp, signifying the crown of holy stewardship. Underneath the letter rested a single book, wrapped in cloth, which Rosvita recognized as one taken from the chests brought from St. Valeria’s. That yellowed cover with a torn corner had belonged to The Zephyr and the Tempest, a book recording the proscribed arts of the tempestari, the weather workers.

The abbess shook her head, offering no answer. This was to be an armed truce. Outside, the raking ceased, and water splashed.

“The nuns and their treasure will remain here,” the abbess repeated, “and the old abbess. You can’t expect her to continue traveling. She is so frail.”

“It’s true it would be better for Mother Obligatia to rest, but she will insist on accompanying me. You may speak to her yourself.”

“I will do so. You have forced my hand, Sister Rosvita. I am displeased and angered. Because you insist on continuing on this road, I must travel with you to escort Princess Sapientia. To see that she is not put at risk.”

“What risk do you fear? That we intend to murder her?” These impolitic words slipped out of her mouth before she realized she intended to say them. She flushed.

“Is this my answer?” Scholastica asked, with cold irony.

“I am made weary by the long road we have traveled, Mother Scholastica. Forgive my harsh words. She has survived much, these past months. So have we all. Had we wished to see her come to harm, we could have disposed of her at any place along our journey. We could have left her to die in Dalmiaka. But we did not. We have cared for her as well as we could. Many good servants have died on this road—some of my own personal attendants among them—seeing her brought to safety.”

“We shall see.” Scholastica touched the letter and flicked one corner, as if making ready to open it, before pointedly looking at Rosvita. “If you will leave me now, Sister.”

Rosvita had suffered too much to go quietly. Her voice still trembled, and she was still angry. “I pray you, Mother Scholastica, let us be honest together. Do you escort Sapientia because you do not trust me?”

“You will deliver her to Sanglant.”

“You cannot possibly believe that Sanglant would harm her?”

Scholastica gestured toward the garden where, propitiously, the slack-faced Sapientia had come back into view as Petra coaxed her along. “He already has.”

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