The Burning Stone
“The Aoi are not utterly vanished from the earth,” objected Liath. “There are shades in the deep forest.”
“Are these shades truly of earth, or are they only trapped somehow between the living and the dead, between substance and aether, doomed to live as shadows?”
Like the servants, doomed to live in bodies that only mimicked those of humankind. But he did not voice the thought out loud. He knew better than to challenge an opponent in an open battle when he was outnumbered and held inferior weapons. He wasn’t desperate yet.
“You have not listened carefully, Liath,” scolded Anne. “Biscop Tallia was the first scholar we know of since the days of the Dariyan Empire who gained enough knowledge to calculate the message written in the heavens. For the heavens do not lie. They only record God’s creation. She discovered that on the date that you mentioned, great forces might be unleashed. From ancient records pieced together out of the archives of the old Dariyan Empire, she discovered that we have enemies lying in wait to destroy humanity. For this service to humankind, Biscop Tallia was humbled by the church at the Council of Narvone, because they envied her.”
“The Seven Sleepers,” murmured Liath. “I’ve been so blind. Ai, God, here comes another one.”
“You should not have allowed yourself to become distracted from your true purpose,” said Anne coolly, not moving to touch Liath as the wave came and went. “It is Bernard who is to blame for this weakness in you.”
The storm was brief but tempestuous, and Anne waited it out without any response except to carefully take the old book from her and close it so that the pages wouldn’t get damp. She locked it away in the cupboard, flicked a finger toward the ceiling, and the servant fluttered down and vanished.
“Sit down, Liath. You are overwrought. The servant will bring you something to drink to restore yourself.”
Liath sat obediently, shoulders shuddering under the weight of that old grief. Sanglant did not sit. He, too, had lost a parent and never cried for that loss. “Where did my mother come from?” he asked now.
“‘There will come a moment,’” said Liath in the steady voice she used when she quoted from memory, “‘when all the power that churns through the universe, the force that moves the spheres themselves, can be touched by human hands. When it can be drawn down and manipulated for the greater good by those who have the knowledge and the will to risk themselves in such an undertaking.’ That’s the art of the mathematici. Which was learned from the Babaharshan magicians, who learned it from the Aoi long ago, so the stories say.” She grimaced, shifting awkwardly, and for an instant he thought another pain was coming, but she was only uncomfortable. If God willed, the child would come soon and without incident. That would truly be a blessing. Liath looked up at Anne accusingly. “That’s what you’ve been hiding all along. You believe the Aoi manipulated the power in the heavens to remove themselves from earth.”
The servant returned and set a tray with three cups of cider on the table, then skittered away into the eaves. Anne glanced at the tray, surprised by the cider or by the number of cups; he wasn’t sure which. He handed Liath a cup and made sure she drank before he drained his own. Anne had already begun to speak.