Child of Flame (Crown of Stars #4) 00

“I pray you, King Henry, do not mock what you do not understand.” As they had spoken, it had grown dark and the chamber dim. Wind rustled through the cypresses outside. Adelheid’s banner, hung from the wall behind the couches, stirred, the cloth sighing up and settling down as though an invisible daimone’s hand toyed with it. No one had lit lamps; even the servants watched in anticipatory silence as king faced cleric.

Even the servants understood that something monumental was at stake. Servants could smell the heady brew of a silent struggle for power sooner than anyone else.

“Very well,” agreed Henry softly. “It’s true I understand practical matters better than sorcerous ones. I know that a woman may not rule as queen regnant in Salia. But if you are indeed Taillefer’s granddaughter, then you might well gain adherents enough to drag Aosta into a long struggle over the crowns, which none of us desire. Your aspiration seems reasonable enough, Sister Anne, but of what use can you be to me if I support your election as Holy Mother, skopos over all the church?”

Anne lifted cupped hands. A silvery sphere of light spun into being just above her palms. Villam muttered a prayer under his breath. Adelheid sighed sharply, like a woman in the throes of pleasure. Henry remained silent, watching.

Anne raised her arms and, as a woman tosses rose petals to the wind, flung up her hands. The silvery globe dissolved into sparks of shimmering white light, each one a butterfly swooping and fluttering throughout the chamber. The winged light threw the scenes carved onto ivory into relief: a lady with her falcon; the entombment of St. Asella; fair Helen on the walls of Ilios, calling the troops to battle; the tortures of St. John of Hamby, each one depicted in exquisite detail.

Anne stood. Each white butterfly spark bloomed with color—ruby, sapphire, emerald, carnelian, aquamarine, amethyst and rose quartz, banded chalcedony, iridescent opal—each one as lustrous as a gem. Their dance swirled around the chamber, making Rosvita’s head ache at the same time as her heart exulted. Henry rose slowly, staring as butterflies swarmed around his head to form a crown of luminescent stars at his brow.

For an instant he gleamed there, crowned in splendor.

The sparks vanished, leaving them with a steady gleam of magelight and a cool, pale woman of vast power and middling height. Whispering, half frightened and half in awe, the servants hurried to light lamps as the magelight spun itself into delicate threads and, at last, into nothing, simply fading until it disappeared.

“Illusion,” muttered Villam.

Hugh of Austra’s gaze glittered just as brightly as had those dancing sparks. In his expression gleamed an unsettling hunger.

Queen Adelheid looked no different than he did, dazzled, thirsty for more.

Even Henry. God save them, even Henry.

“What do you want?” Henry asked again, his voice as hoarse as that of a famished man who has just seen a feast laid out on the table.

Villam’s hand brushed Rosvita’s fingers, a signal she could not read. Nor could she speak to ask him, not even whisper, not with the silence lying so deeply around them, a cloak thrown over the assembly.

Can we trust her?

Rosvita no longer doubted Anne’s right to wear the gold torque. Granddaughter of Taillefer and Radegundis, daughter of Fidelis and the foundling girl Lavrentia; a mathematicus of considerable power. One could not ignore such a woman.

Anne bent to pick up a shard of glass, as blue as lapis lazuli, off the parquet floor. She displayed it in her palm, blew on it gently, and a brilliantly blue butterfly opened its wings and flew away, quickly lost in darkness. She did not smile as she addressed the king. A woman with so much power does not need to smile, or to frown.

“Do not turn away from me, Henry, Lord of Wendar and Varre,” she said, untroubled by the agitated currents roiling around her. “For without my aid, you will have no empire to rule.”

7

EVERY soul tainted by the touch of mortal earth is peppered with shadows and black recesses, caught where they are least expected: hates, loves, fears, passions, envies and angers, lies and truths. Every soul born on Earth can never be free of them. No matter how fiercely the cleansing fire rages, she will never be pure fire.

She will always be trapped in her body.

She hit the ground running, half crouched, bow ready. Here in the sphere of Jedu, a light snow fell. She loped over a plain marked by hundreds of small outcrops, tumbled boulders, heaps of stone, irregular folds, every lump and swell concealed under a blanket of snow. Cold flakes dissolved on her lips, swirling around her naked body. The only place she was warm was along her spine where her quiver gave her skin some protection from wind and falling snow. Her toes had already gone numb from the cold; each step was agony, like walking on needles. It was a bad place not to have any clothes.