“I thought daimones were called down from the spheres above the moon.”
“They can be. Each sphere is home to unique kinds of daimones. Those in the lowest sphere are weakest while in each ascending sphere, they grow in power and aspect. Yet, in addition, there are other bridges, other lands that exist close by ours, even other ways of existing in the universe that we do not fully understand.”
“You know so much.” The easy way Anne spoke of the matters seized her twofold: awe at her knowledge, and violent curiosity because she wanted to understand the natural world herself, from the rocks and stones all the way to the highest sphere.
“Much knowledge has been lost. It is like this land we travel through now. We make our way on roads paved long ago by the ancient Dariyans, whose merchants and soldiers and administrators traveled widely and swiftly. How far we have fallen!”
“But they were heathens.”
“That is why they fell. However, we are all tainted. It cannot be otherwise as long as we live on this earth, here where the hand of the Enemy lies most heavily. Nevertheless, they had great knowledge that is now lost to us, just as we have let their great works and buildings and roadways fall into disrepair and ruin.”
From the mosaic floor, a partridge’s eye gleamed up at Liath, a brightly-polished agate. Its beak was missing, although the rest of the bird lay intact surrounded by a depiction of grass and sedge. The realism of the scene enchanted her. She could practically hear the birds rustling through the thicket, seeking seeds and insects. Wind sighed over the roof, and she glanced up to examine the two beams that still spanned the chamber.
That after hundreds of years such a humble structure still stood was astounding, of course, but the ancient Dariyans were said to have used magic in their architecture. These days, the roads had little enough traffic, and she knew from experience that on a rainy night the best a traveler could hope for was to find a village with room in the stable or, with luck, a humble monastic guesthouse. The prouder monasteries and convents were hesitant to admit common travelers, and Da had always hated to attract notice to himself.
“My tongue is the pen of a swift writer,” continued Anne. “Let me tell you a story. Long ago, soon after King Taille of Salia—he who would become the Emperor Taillefer through the grace of God—came into his crown and his power, his blessed mother Bertrada brought to him a woman of noble family and told him that she had seen in a dream that these two should wed. The woman’s name was Desideria, the daughter of King Desiderius and Queen Desideria of the Lobardian people, who had a custom of naming their royal family all of the same name so that the power of the name would not pass out of the family. It was also said of them that they married sister to brother, but the chroniclers of Taillefer’s court may have desired to slander that tribe because of the great trouble they caused the emperor. However, what matters to my story is that this noble woman, Desideria, was known as a haruspex, which craft is anathema to humankind. She foretold the future by means of sacrifices and mirrors, and she had used certain of her arts to bewitch the dowager Queen Bertrada into pleading her cause because Desideria had seen through her forbidden auguries that King Taille would become Emperor Taillefer, the greatest regnant known to humankind.
“Now in those days in Salia where old customs still flourished, women could not rule the great houses. Despite these ancient pagan practices, men still understood the reverence and respect due to a mother, so Taille bowed to his mother’s wishes and wed the woman, and in this way she became queen, as was her desire. But within the year King Taille had seen what manner of foul sorceries she used to get her way. He dismissed he and sent her back to her kin. As soon as she was gone, he married a princess of Varingia.”
“Was that St. Radegundis?”
“No. This was his second wife, who was called Hiltrude, and who was in all ways a most noble woman. Now Desideria was furious at her humiliation, and she plotted her revenge in this way. When Hiltrude’s first child was born, it died soon after of a fever, and the second child suffered in this terrible way as well, afflicted by the minions of the Enemy who made it turn bright red and howl for five days straight before God had mercy on it in its agony and took its soul up to the Chamber of Light. These were the only two legitimate male children born to Hiltrude. Afterward, in revenge for his lost heirs, the king invaded the Lobardian realm and defeated them utterly.”
“But Queen Hiltrude bore him legitimate daughters, did she not?” objected Liath. “Any one of them surely could have ruled after Taillefer had the Salians recognized queen regnants as every other civilized people do.”
“Did I say that those were the only legitimate male children born to Taillefer? Nay, listen to my tale and you shall see how far Desideria’s fury carried her. Later Hiltrude did indeed give birth to three daughters, Tallia, Gundara, and Berthilde. Of these Tallia was the jewel of her father’s house. Because he was unwilling to part from her, he named her as biscop of Autun, the city he most often visited and where he built the great chapel that still stands today. At the fall of the fortress of King Desiderius, Desideria escaped the conflagration by dressing as a humble deacon. Then the malignant woman came to court to avenge her family’s disgrace and destruction. But Tallia was so cunning and so blessed that she recognized Desideria although she had never before seen her. Desideria fled to a convent and there took refuge, and after this a report came to the king that she had taken ill and died. Soon after this event Queen Hiltrude died of a wasting sickness, and the king married a woman of good family called Madalgard. However, she was barren, and although the king felt affection for her, she begged him to put her into a convent since God had clearly meant for her to live as a monacha, as they called nuns in those times. After this he took a concubine whose name was not recorded, who bore him the illegitimate son who later claimed the throne and was killed for his daring, and after this he married the Svalabian princess Farrada.” Anne broke off to take a sip of cider. She looked no worse for the wear after twelve days on the road, every bit as much the regal noblewoman here as in the fine chamber at Werlida where Liath had first seen her.
“But let us skip this part of his life, when he became emperor, because it has no bearing on what I mean to tell you for your instruction.” She cleared her throat, considered, and began again. “The emperor summoned certain wise churchwomen and men to his court, so that they could undertake to educate him and his children. Of his children, Tallia was the most precious of his possessions. She excelled at all her studies, and in particular she applied herself to the study of mathematics. With this knowledge she traced the course of the stars with utmost care until at an early age she knew as much as her teachers. At this time, a certain deacon arrived at court who claimed to understand the most veiled of the arts of sorcery. Princess Tallia was eager to study with her, but not a year had passed before the young princess fell gravely ill. At that time she was attended by a young bondswoman named Clothilde, who was as clever as the princess although of low estate. Clothilde came before the emperor and pleaded with him to dismiss the holy deacon from his service, since a miasma of evil clung like the stench of the pit to the woman. She was sent away, and in this way Tallia’s life was saved, and she went on, as I have previously related, to become biscop of Autun. There she continued to study the arts of the mathematici and there, with her companions, she revealed manifold secrets of the heavens.
“But her skill made her enemies among some of the churchfolk. Later, a deacon came to the skopos’ palace in Aosta and laid charges against Biscop Tallia, saying that the biscop had indulged herself in base sorcery. This deacon claimed to have taught the young Tallia, and testified that she had been forced to flee when she discovered the terrible practices of murder, augury, and blood sacrifice that Tallia and her companions used to work their will upon others, even upon the emperor. By this time Taillefer had put aside his later concubines and married the young Radegundis as his fifth wife. Although he was still hale and hearty, he was quite old. The
young queen pleaded with him to let their marriage be like that of the angels, fulfilled in mind only, but in time she became pregnant and her body was irretrievably stained by the touch of the Enemy, which is mortality.”
“But how do we know that angels feel no desire—!”
“I have not yet done.” Anne did not need to raise her voice. Liath bent her head obediently, but anger burned inside her. Of all the things she had done in the two years since Da’s death, marrying Sanglant was the only one that rang utterly right in her heart.
“You are young,” added Anne, “and Bernard’s influence still weighs heavily on you, as do the temptations of the world and the flesh. Let me continue, and if you will be patient, you will see that I am almost done.” She had to pause to recall her place. “At this time the skopos, under the influence of the deacon, was alarmed at these tidings of sorcery and malifici at the court of the powerful Taillefer. She went herself with an embassy to inquire into the truth of these accusations, and soon after they arrived in the company of the aforesaid deacon, the great emperor fell ill. Everyone feared for his life, and Biscop Tallia hurried from Autun to be at his side. There, in the sight of all, she unveiled the deacon who had brought the charges against her as the very same Desideria whose plots and contrivances had long plagued the emperor and his family. She had gone unrecognized because of the peculiar youth which still resided in her face. Some said she had used magic to keep herself young, but when she was brought before Biscop Tallia she claimed only that hate had kept her young. In this way, she came into Tallia’s keeping as a prisoner.
“However, at that time the skopos, the third Leah to take the title, had no love for the family of Taillefer and in particular little love was lost between Mother Leah and Biscop Tallia, who was not overly proud of her learning and her blood but might seem so to those who envied her all that God had given her. Taillefer died, and the vultures flocked round to despoil his empire. His young queen feared for her life and fled the palace with her handmaiden Clothilde, the same one who was once bondswoman to Tallia. The skopos took Desideria away and not two years later this same Desideria testified at the Council of Narvone about the practices of Biscop Tallia. At that Council, under the influence of Mother Leah, the assembled biscops outlawed the practice of certain sorceries, including that of the mathematici, and Tallia herself was placed under a ban and no longer allowed a seat in the church council. After that testimony, Desideria vanished, and no one knew what happened to her. Although no one could prove it, there was no doubt that by poisoning Taillefer, Desideria had in the end revenged herself upon Taillefer for the insult given her when he set her aside in favor of another woman. In this way her spiteful rage, wielded so unremittingly, brought an end to the reign of Taillefer and his descendants in the kingdom of Salia.”
She smiled slightly, but only as a gesture to show she had finished. “Both Desideria, who wanted dominion over the world, and the skopos Leah, who wanted dominion over the arcane knowledge of sorcery but could not master it herself, envied those who had what they most desired. Desideria poisoned Taillefer in the body, and Mother Leah poisoned Tallia in the church. That is why desire is a sin, because it allows the Enemy to hook claws into our skin and drag us down. We cannot ascend to the Chamber of Light as long as we are burdened with desire. Do you understand what I am saying, child?”
Irritated, Liath said nothing, but started up, surprised, when a new voice answered.
“You say that Desideria ended the reign of Taillefer and his descendants. But there’s one question you yourself asked that your story didn’t answer.”
Liath grinned sheepishly and sat back down. She had been listening so intently that she hadn’t noticed Sanglant lounging at the door at the borderland between cool magelight and the black of night.
Anne responded coolly. “What question is that, Prince Sanglant?”
“‘Did I say that those were the only legitimate male children born to Taillefer?’” He ducked his head under the lintel and came inside, but was careful not to sit next to Liath, although he could not have distracted her any more than he did whether he sat a hand’s breadth or a chamber’s breadth from her. She was so painfully aware of him, his physical body, his presence, the way he flinched at unexpected noises and tried to cover his reaction, his habit of scenting, like a dog, as he scouted out the lay of the room. He found the half-warm bowl of stew, settled down cross-legged, and set the bowl on his knee.
“I’ve heard the tale of Desideria. I’ve heard the glorious Life of Taillefer sung in court. In all those stories the poets lament the terrible fate of Hiltrude’s two sons. But never have I heard them speak of other legitimate male children. His third wife had no children, so the poets say, and the fourth had only one daughter. But I’ve always wondered about St. Radegundis.”
“What is it you wonder?”
He took a long look at the congealing stew, as if trying to decide whether to bolt it down right now or to be polite. After a moment, manners won out over hunger, and he merely toyed with the spoon’s handle as he answered. “All the stories agree that Queen Radegundis was great with child when she knelt for hours beside Taillefer’s sickbed and prayed for his release. But no story that I’ve ever heard relates what happened to the child she carried. She enters the convent, and there she lives her saintly life. Surely someone would have remarked on the fate of the last child born to Taillefer.”
Anne regarded him with maddening tranquillity. “I do not speak aloud of everything I have learned or that I suspect. That would be foolish, and especially here, on the road, where all manner of creatures might overhear us.”
Abruptly, Sanglant laughed and began to eat his stew.
“Pray excuse me.” Liath went outside. She paced along the side of the old hut down to the sagging double doors that marked the entrance to the lean-to. They had used it as a stable, and she heard from inside the snuffling of the Eika dog and the soft noise of the horses at rest. She leaned there, shut her eyes, and breathed.
Ai, Lady! She did not regret coming with her mother. They’d had no alternative in any case. But it was so hard to understand her. Understanding was like a gulf of air she had to leap, but she didn’t know how—and she wasn’t sure she liked the lay of the land she glimpsed on the other side, where she was meant to go.
A thread brushed her cheek, and she started up to see one of the servants hovering in front of her, exploring her face with its translucent fingers. It skittered away like a leaf and came to rest in the shadow of the trees, a thread of light with a vaguely male shape, nothing she could pinpoint to distinguish it from the other servants except that the other two seemed vaguely female.
“Liath.” Sanglant approached out of the night, and she hugged him, hard. This, she understood: that he was solid, and present. Her shield.
“It makes you wonder, though, doesn’t it?” he said into her hair.
“What makes you wonder?” She could have stood here forever and remained content, but he was restless. He was always restless, could never quite be still, even in sleep, like a dog aware of a threatening scent in the air.
He touched his neck, the old habit. Both scars—the chafing left by Bloodheart’s iron slave collar and the cut left by Hugh’s knife—had healed to leave a band of lighter skin and a thread of white, a neck ring of scar tissue. But then, strangely, he curved a palm around her neck, the pressure of his thumb at her throat.
“Why does your mother wear a gold torque?”
VII
INSTANTIA
1
THE rats came out at night to gnaw at the bones. He heard their claws skittering on stone, heard the dogs growling as they crept close enough to clamp their jaws down over his throat, and he bolted up—
Awake.
He was sitting, arms raised to strike, as out of breath as if he’d been fighting. The bed of leaves he’d laid down yesterday at twilight shifted under him. Stars glittered above. The Eika dog whined softly. Liath stirred, murmuring his name. br />
“Hush,” he said softly. “Go back to sleep.”
She tugged the blanket over her hips, pillowed her cheek on an arm, and was out, that quickly. He knew he would not sleep again.
“Ai, God,” he whispered. “Lord protect me from my dreams.”
He eased away so as not to wake her. He did not bother to pull on his tunic, but he grabbed his sword belt. A hazy night stillness lay over everything except for the faint rustling of wind in leaves, not enough to dispel the weight of summer’s heat. Nearby he heard the chuckling stream at which they’d watered their horses that evening. This night they had camped in woodland just off the old Dariyan road they followed southeast into lands more wilderness than cultivated. This night no intact Dariyan way house had appeared at the expected mile marker, only a ruin torn apart long ago by scavengers. The servants had lashed branches together to make a small shelter for Sister Anne, but Sanglant was used to harsher conditions than these from campaigns. He was happy to collect leaves and, with the dragon sigil quilt thrown over all and a blanket atop, make a bed of them on the ground by the fallen way-house wall.
He was happy … or at least content. The day-to-day rhythms of the journey kept him moving, and when he moved, he didn’t think. If he stayed still for too long, the old nightmare clawed up, as it had this night—and most nights—in his dreams.
He touched his throat, realized he had done so, and shook his hand violently as if to shed the chains that had once shackled him. He was free. But the memories still weighed as heavily as the chains ever had. He had been Bloodheart’s prisoner for a long time.
Something rustled in the trees, and he spun and growled, caught himself. Froze.
A wolf padded out into the clearing. Its amber eyes gleamed softly as it stared at him. A second wolf, lighter, emerged from undergrowth beside the first. He drew his sword. Its ring, coming free of the scabbard, drew an answering bark, crisp, short, and clear, from the lead wolf. A third ghosted into the clearing a short way from the first two, and halted.