King's Dragon (Crown of Stars #1)

King's Dragon (Crown of Stars #1) Page 193

“It is hidden, lest the church burn it and destroy her true speaking, which is shamefully forgotten. ‘Then came the blessed Daisan before the judgment of the Empress Thaisannia, she of the mask. And when he would not bow before her but spoke the truth of the Mother of Life and the Divine Logos, the Holy Word, then she pronounced the sentence of death. This he met joyfully, for he embraced the promise of the Chamber of Light. But his disciples with him wept bitterly. So was he taken away and put to the flaying knife and his heart was cut out of his breast.’”

The hush was so deep, and Agius’ voice so low, that Alain thought he could hear the sifting of the coals, red ash burning and cooling to gray.

“‘A darkness fell over the whole land, and then the blessed Daisan gave a loud cry and died. His heart’s blood fell to the earth and it bloomed as roses. There came a light onto the land and to the ends of the Earth, and it was as bright as the garments of angels. By this light Thecla and the other disciples were blinded. And they lived seven times seven days in darkness, for they were afraid.’

“But I am not afraid, Constance. I am not afraid to proclaim the truth. Did the blessed Daisan not say: ‘Be assured I am with you always, to the end of time?’ Did the Mother of Life not give her only Son for the forgiveness of our sins?”

Constance sighed. “Ai, Agius, this is heresy indeed. How can you speak these words? It is a serious charge, to be brought before the presbyter who watches over the order of fraters. Is this what you want? To be condemned as a heretic?”

“It is better to speak the truth and die than to keep silence and live.”

“You are bitter, Agius. You were not like this before.” With an abrupt movement, he buried his head against her chest. He spoke, his voice muffled further by the cloth of her robes. “Forgive me, Constance. I did it to save the life of my niece, for the love that lived between her father and myself.”

“You have always loved too deeply, Agius.” She sighed, her breath catching in her throat. “You know I forgive you. How can I not? You are first in my heart, after my pledge to Our Lady and Lord.”

“Yet you did not protest. You did not rebel, when your brother gave you to the church.”

“I know my duty,” she said softly, stroking his hair.

Agius was, Alain realized, weeping quietly. Constance wept as well, and Alain felt that by licking his tongue into the air he could taste the amalgamation of their tears, each into the other. Perhaps Agius did love too deeply. But was it not written that the blessed Daisan loved the world and all the people on it? Was love not the chief blessing granted to human beings by the mercy and grace of Our Lady and Lord?

Alain could feel their closeness, could taste the heat of their bodies, pressed against each other—and he felt envy. What would it be like to love a woman that much? So much that, if those hints Agius gave were true, he had turned away from the world when it came about that he could not marry her and instead devoted himself to the church as a humble frater, far below his rightful station in life? Would any woman ever weep for Alain? Press herself close against him?

Ai, it was true, that old saying. Envy is the shadow of the guivre, the wings of death. Alain knew shame, for he desired what was not his to have. He had been marked twice, once by the church and once by the Lady of Battles, whose rose he bore.

But he could not help but think of nights in the longhouse when as a child he lay awake, listening, hearing the soft sounds from other beds, Stancy and her husband, Aunt Bel and Uncle Ado, before Ado died. Of all the adults Alain knew, only his father Henri and those pledged to the church did not engage in such congress. Agius and Constance engaged in nothing now more intimate than an embrace, and yet there was so much more between them that it flared like a bright light, like the heat of coals in the brazier.

There was another brazier in the tent, this one placed beside the bed where Antonia slept. Alain glanced that way reflexively, trying not to move or betray that he was awake. But he gasped, more of a grunt, then bit his lip. He did not breathe for the space of five heartbeats.

Antonia’s eyes were open. He caught the glint of dim light against them, eyes glittering in night. Constance and Agius were too caught up in themselves to notice. But he did.

She watched, silent. She appeared to him like a huge yawning maw, sucking in life and air. She watched, he felt, not because she had her own yearnings or because she wanted to spy and thus gain information, but because she was greedy, because like a cat laps up cream or a griffin suckles the blood of its mother, she wanted as much as she could take from them. As if she intended to gather to herself and hoard all that intensity of emotion.