She saw no sign of Aurea. Had she misunderstood the woman? The whitewashed walls of the small church whispered no answers; it did not even have painted windows, only slits to let in air, although the thick stone kept the interior cool. She was no longer sweating. Two clerics ascended to ward the choir along the nave, lighting vesper lamps set on tripods at the end of each row of benches. At the front, a deacon entered the rounded choir from the sanctuary and approached the altar, where she raised her hands in the blessing as she began to sing the liturgy.
“Blessed is the Country of the Mother and Father of Life, and of the Holy Word revealed within the Circle of Unity, now and ever and unto ages of ages.”
“Amen,” Hanna murmured, the service sliding smoothly into her thoughts and her lips moving in the responses without a need for her to think.
“In peace let us pray to our Lord and Lady.”
“Lord have mercy. Lady have mercy.” Yet how did Ivar pray, if he were even still alive? How did heretics pray? Her gaze was caught by the flame burning beside her, a flickering golden glow, restless but strong, that hissed as if whispering secrets. Were those tiny wings in the heart of the flame? Were those shadows moving within the curtain of flame that danced before her? Beyond the veil of fire, she saw onto another place.
Six men and a woman make their way along a deserted track through broken woodland as afternoon creeps toward evening. Briefly the sun shines, but then a shower passes over their party, driven northward by a strong southerly wind. The wind blows back the hood of one of the men. She recognizes his red hair first before anything, and after that the lineaments of his face.
It is Ivar. Joy chokes her. Is it possible he still lives? Heat burns her face as she leans closer, trying to get his attention.
“Hanna? You’ll burn yourself!”
She broke free of the vision to find herself in the church, blinking dry eyes, tears wicked away by the flame. The lamp hissed and flickered, but it was an ordinary flame, just like all the others that lit the nave.
“For healthful seasons, for the abundance of the fruits of the earth in a time of want, and for peace in this country, let us pray.”
“Hanna?” Rufus had hold of her arm in a painfully tight grasp. “Are you feeling faint? I thought you would fall into the lamp.”
“Nay.” Her tongue felt swollen, and she was dizzy, both heartsick and elated. “Eagle’s Sight.”
He flushed, easy to see with that complexion, and dipped his head shamefacedly. “I know what they say, and what some of the others claim, but I’ve never seen any vision in fire or water.” He hesitated, realized he still clutched her arm, and let go as though she were poison. His expression had a dark stain on it, and his lips were twisted down. “What about you?”
She shook her head too quickly. “Just shadows in the flames. Like now. Just shadows.”
“Blessed are the humble and patient, for the grace of God shall descend upon them at the end of days. Blessed are the pure in heart, for their glory will shine forever.”
“Amen,” she and Rufus said in unison with the rest of the congregation.
Believing Ivar might yet be alive was almost worse than resigning herself to his death.
A cleric came forward to deliver the Hefensday lesson. The man looked vaguely familiar, but probably that was only because of his beardless face and the cut of his hair, trimmed and shaven in the manner of a male cleric who has put aside the duties of a man of the world, husbanding and warring and sowing, for the cares of the Hearth. He waited a moment for folk to shift on the hard benches, for silence to open a space for listening. The stone walls muted all sound; she could not hear a single thing from outside, as though they were no longer in Darre but translated to holy space, sundered from the world.
“I pray you, sisters and brothers, take heed of the lesson that God utters on this day, the feast day dedicated to St. Dominica.”
The words of the liturgy were familiar to her; she knew what the prayers meant even when she did not recognize every single word. But the startling change—that he was speaking in Wendish—struck her so hard after so many months in Aosta hearing a foreign language day in and day out, that it took her a moment to follow what he was saying.
“So it happened that one day after the rains the beloved child walked out among the hills. As she walked along the stream’s edge below the overhanging cliff, the rocks came loose and fell down upon her, burying her.
“Her powerful companions howled and cried out in vain! The lion roared and the bull bellowed and the great eagle screamed, but they could not find the child beneath the vast expanse of rubble.
