A rumble of thunder sounded closer now. Rain brushed the cleric’s cheeks and struck her hands like thoughts falling from the heavens to disturb what little peace of mind she had ever managed to secure. So many thoughts distracted her, like the drops of rain increasing in frequency now: old Brother Fidelis and his legacy, the Vita of St. Radegundis, which he had given to her; his last whispered mention of Seven Sleepers, daimones or humans or some other creatures whose power he feared; the terrible and mysterious disappearance of Villam’s son, Berthold, and his six companions, in the stone circle in the hills above Hersford; her History, which she really must continue working on so that it might be finished before the old queen died; the book that this vulnerable girl clutched to herself so tightly.
The book. Rosvita knew at that instant, as if the sound of thunder divined it, that she would somehow, in some way, get a look inside that book.
Suddenly, as lightning flashed and a fresh peal of thunder cracked and roared in response, the girl spoke. “Do you know how to read Arethousan?”
Rosvita arched one eyebrow. “Yes, I do. I learned from Queen Sophia herself.” The girl remained silent, quite unlike the unrolling turmoil in the sky. Seeing an opening, Rosvita continued. “Would you like to learn Arethousan? You read Dariyan very well.”
She bit her lip. She was tempted.
Tempted. This Rosvita understood. This fault she knew how to nurture, although surely it was a sin to do so. “I can teach you Arethousan. I saw you reading in the library, a Jinna work, I believe, one of the astronomers. That was just before Ivar—”
“Ivar,” whispered the girl, looking embarrassed.
“My brother Ivar,” agreed Rosvita, and saw at once the wedge through which she could penetrate this girl’s defenses. “Did he ever speak of me? You knew him in Heart’s Rest, I believe, before he entered the church.”
“He always spoke of you with respect,” she admitted, “though he never wanted to emulate your vocation!”
“So he gave me reason to understand.”
The Eagle flushed and looked away, embarrassed either to replay that scene in the library in her own mind or to remember that another had witnessed the whole. “He trusts you.”
Rosvita took in a careful breath, measuring her words. This moment was the crucial one. Here might all be won, or lost.
“Sister!”
She almost cursed out loud, managed not to. She glanced toward the sound of the voice and grimaced. A middle-aged man with dark hair and undistinguished features—a King’s Eagle—led his horse through the gate into the courtyard.
“I beg you, Sister, I bring an important message.” He led the horse forward—it was limping—and halted before her. “Sister,” he repeated respectfully.
Lady’s Blood! Granted this distraction, the girl escaped, slinking away like a hunted creature escaping the hounds. It was too late to call her back, and in any case, Rosvita knew her duty: The man looked worn, weary, and as if his feet hurt him.
“Where have you come from?” she asked politely. It was not, after all, his fault, not precisely, anyway. By such means did God remind her of her duty.
“I am the herald for Princess Sapientia.”
“Sapientia!”
“I was meant to ride in half a day before her, to make sure her lodgings were properly prepared, but my horse came up lame, so I am—” He halted, silenced by the ring of harness and by the laughter and animated cheer of voices carried on the wind in a sudden lull. Lightning brightened the darkening sky; thunder, almost on top of them, cracked and rolled, shaking the shutters. It began to rain.
The riders appeared in the gate, laughing, untroubled by storm and rain. It was a small retinue, not above twenty riders together with several wagons and a number of servants walking beside, but clearly a noblewoman’s party. A banner sodden with rain fluttered limply in the wind. The horses wore rich caparisons, and the soldiers were outfitted in good armor.
The princess rode at the front. Rosvita judged she could scarcely be more than four months gone, given that she had only ridden out on her heir’s progress some six months ago, but the princess was of such a slight build that even through her heavy wool traveling tunic Rosvita could see the telltale swelling of her belly.
But the cleric’s gaze skipped almost immediately away from the princess to the man riding with easy grace beside her.
Rosvita’s mouth dropped open. Without any words being spoken, she knew this man was the father of Sapientia’s as yet unborn child. Knew it, as she was meant to know, as all were meant to know, by the little gestures of intimacy he and the princess exchanged. Truth to tell, she was scandalized, although after so many years in the king’s progress she had thought herself inured to scandal.
