“It’s said Prince Ekkehard survived many things, including battles, captivity, and his own treasonous actions. I think your account must be confused, Brother Baldwin.”
“It is not!”
“Baldwin.” Ivar had a bad feeling that he was missing something very important. “Father Ortulfus, you must forgive us if we seemed confused. It seems to me that only a few nights have passed since I saw both Margrave Judith and Prince Bayan alive. It seems an ill omen when I hear you speak as if they’re dead.”
“Ivar!” Sigfrid’s whisper was like the murmuring of ghosts on the wind. Sigfrid had thought of something that the rest had not.
“What is it?”
“The year,” said Sigfrid diffidently.
“The year?”
“What year is it?”
“Any fool knows that it’s—um—what year is it, Sigfrid?” The prior made to speak, but Father Ortulfus silenced him simply by lifting a hand. “Go on, Brother Sigfrid,” said the abbot more kindly than before, although his sudden gentleness made Ivar unaccountably nervous. “What year is it?”
“The year of our Lord and Lady, seven hundred and thirty,” answered Sigfrid quietly, but he had a sad little frown on his delicate face.
The door set into the wall behind the abbot’s seat opened. “My lord abbot,” said a brother, leaning his head in. “The brothers have assembled and are waiting for you.”
It was time for prayer.
“It was a miracle,” said Sigfrid stubbornly. Despite his small size and unprepossessing appearance, he had both the intelligence and strength of faith to speak with an authority that made others listen. “Ask if you will at Quedlinhame, for they will remember clearly enough when they cut out my tongue: How, then, can I speak now, if not by a miracle?”
“A difficult question to answer,” agreed Ortulfus, rising from his chair. His officials stood as well, leaving only Baldwin, Sigfrid, and Ermanrich on their benches. “Be sure I will write to Mother Scholastica for her account. But it will take many weeks or even months to get a reply, and I must decide what to do with you in the meantime. In truth, like any pestilence, heresy spreads quickly unless it is burned out.”
The monks blocked the doors, and while the chief of scribes hadn’t the ready stance of a fighter, the others looked able to hold their own in a scrap.
They were trapped.
“You are three years too late,” added Father Ortulfus. “This is the autumn of the year seven hundred and thirty-three since the Proclamation of the Holy Word by the blessed Daisan.”
Three years.
Sigfrid swayed, and Ermanrich made a squeak, nothing more, as his eyes widened in shock and his mouth dropped open with an of surprise and disbelief. No one knew better than Ivar how well Sigfrid attended to his studies. Sigfrid hadn’t been wrong.
“What three years?” demanded Baldwin.
Ivar felt the grasp of that ancient queen who had appeared to him in the barrow, clutching him by the throat, squeezing the life from him, her hands cold as the grave. Magic had caught them in its grip, and now they were paying the price. They had escaped the Quman, but not at the cost of two nights. Not even at the cost of a month.
“Three years,” he whispered.
“Maybe we were asleep,” said Ermanrich, who for once had no joke to make, “like that Lord Berthold we saw under the barrow.” Monks murmured in surprise and alarm, and a startled servant, hearing that name, scurried out the door.
“It’s a lie!” cried the prior, a bluff, soldierly looking man. “They’re liars as well as heretics! I was here the day Margrave Villam’s son disappeared up in the stone crown among the barrows. He hasn’t been seen since, and those tunnels were searched for any trace of the young lord.”
“We did see them!” protested Baldwin. “I don’t know why none of you believe anything we say!”
“I’ll have silence,” said Father Ortulfus, his voice like the crack of a whip.
Cold air eddied in through the open door, disturbing the warm currents off the braziers. A misting rain darkened the flagstone pathways in the courtyard, seen beyond the brother waiting patiently in the doorway. In the center of the courtyard stood an elaborate fountain depicting four stone unicorns rearing back on their hind legs. A hedge of cypress hid the colonnade on the opposite side of the courtyard, but several stout monks loitered there. The abbot had left no escape route unguarded.
“My lord abbot,” said the servant again. “The brothers are waiting for you to lead Vespers.”
