The Burning Stone (Crown of Stars #3)

The Burning Stone (Crown of Stars #3) Page 139

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“Hai!” cried Kansi-a-lari, leaping back and clapping her hands once, twice, as if the sound could shield her.

The fire whoofed in and collapsed upon itself. The night birds had fallen silent. The moon shivered on the waters of the stream.

She stood. Even in the pale moonlight he saw that her expression was more than usually grim. “He has vanished from my sight.” Then, eyeing him as a hunter eyes the deer that will provide her supper, she took a step back, touched her knife as she balanced for speed and striking—then seemed to change her mind.

“Tomorrow we travel west. To churendo.”

“What is churendo?”

“The palace of coils.” She spun and walked out into the night.

The quiet lay like death around him. Of all the usual night noises, he heard only the stream’s babble. Finally he knelt and reached forward to stir the fire with a stick, but turned up no burning sticks, no red embers. Puzzled, he put his fingers into the pale remains, rubbed substance between his fingers.

It was dead ash, as if it had ceased burning days ago.

5

IVAR had never seen so many biscops and presbyters in one place. King Henry had convened the council on Matthiasmass, but it had taken two days of fractious arguments over precedent and rank—who would enter first, who would sit where—before the council could even be seated. Now they entered the hall on the fourth day of the proceedings, led by Biscop Constance of Autun, the king’s younger sister. After her walked a haughty presbyter whose arrogance was legendary; he was said never to speak to any person whose mother was not at least a count. Then came several biscops and presbyters whose cities and names Ivar couldn’t keep straight, followed at the end by an elderly presbyter named Hatto who had not minded praying beside Ivar at the service of Lauds three days ago and, finally, by young Biscop Odila of Mainni, who had only recently taken up miter and crosier.

The assembled biscops and presbyters took their seats in a semicircle at the head of the hall, facing the king’s throne. Once they had settled into their cushioned and gilded chairs, horns blew to announce the king. Every soul in the church knelt—except for the seated churchmen and women, whose dignity was too great to bow before mere worldly power. King Henry came in, robed and crowned in splendor.

But what did earthly splendor matter when the only person you had ever truly loved walked away from you without a backward glance? And into the arms of another man! Even Hanna had left him. And Lady Tallia had been taken away. Ai, God. What did earthly splendor matter when their eyes remained closed to the truth? He clutched that thought to him as the king called his Eagle forward and had her recite the charges: an accusation of sorcery against Hugh, abbot of Firsebarg, countered by an accusation of sorcery against one former Eagle, called Liathano. Usually the regnant left such matters solely in the hands of the church. But everyone knew that King Henry had cause to hate the woman who had stolen away his favorite child.

Biscop Constance rose, lifted a hand in the sign of peace, and the restless audience quieted expectantly. Ivar supposed sourly that some few people cared that justice be served and malevolent sorcery banished from the king’s progress. The rest just wanted the lurid details.

The young biscop’s strong alto carried easily over the throng. ‘In the three hundred and twenty-seventh year after the Proclamation of the Holy Word by the blessed Daisan, the matter of sorcery was brought before the assembled biscops and presbyters at the Council of Kellai. In their wisdom, these elders proclaimed that the Lord and Lady do not prohibit what is needful, and that therefore benevolent magic may be practiced under the supervision of the church. But the council also proclaimed this: that it goes against nature for humankind to attempt to look into the future, and all such practices are condemned.”

“Is it true you leave for Gent tomorrow, my lord prince?”

The whisper distracted him. Annoyed, he glanced back to see Baldwin and Prince Ekkehard as thick as thieves and quite disinterested in the council.

“It is true. I’m to ride out with twelve novices who’ll enter the monastery with me, and with that awful old Lord Atto to watch over us, as if we can’t command ourselves! Alas that we should part so soon, Baldwin, for I much prefer your company to any of the others.”

“You honor me, my lord.” Baldwin had a habit of smiling prettily when he wanted something. “Court will seem a dreary place without you. What shall we do for singing? None of the court poets have your lovely voice, and perfect ear.” He brushed a finger along the lobe of Ekkehard’s ear, and the prince’s eyes widened. Baldwin leaned closer, whispered something, and Ekkehard looked even more startled. Baldwin caught Ekkehard’s hand in his and drew him away toward the entrance. He beckoned to Ivar, but Ivar shrugged angrily, turned his back on him, and tried to wriggle forward into the crowd. How could Baldwin also desert him, just when Liath’s fate was at stake?