Elliott, Kate - Crown of Stars 1 (3 page)

But to Alain's eyes, there in the midnight church, other more shadowy forms lay as if hidden beneath the

bright murals, their outlines embellished with fine gold, their eyes like jewels, their presence like fire on his soul.

The fall of the ancient city ofDariya to savage horsemen, its last defenders clothed in gleaming bronze armor, spears and shields raised as they fought a hopeless fight but with the honor of men who will not bow down before an honorless enemy.

Not images from the church at all, but the stories of brilliant lives of old warriors. They haunted him.

The fateful Battle ofAuxelles, where Taillefer 's nephew and his men lost their lives but saved Taillefer's fledgling empire from invasion by heathens.

"For healthful seasons, for the abundance of the fruits of the earth, and for peaceful times, let us pray."

The glorious victory of the first King Henry of Wendar against Quman invaders along the River Eldar, where his bastard grandson Conrad the Dragon charged his troop of cavalry straight into the midst of the terrible host of Quman riders, breaking their line and sending them scattering back to their own lands, hunting them down like animals as they fled.

"Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall speak with the Holy Word upon their tongues."

The last ride of King Louis ofVarre, just fifteen years old but undaunted by the approach of raider ships on the northern coast of his kingdom, killed at the Battle of the Nysa though no man knew whose hand had struck the final blow. Had it been that of a raider prince, or that of a traitor serving the schemes of the new king of Wendar who would, because of Louis' death, become king ofVarre as well?

Instead of the voice of the deacon, reading the lesson, Alain heard the ring of harness, the clash of swords, the snap of banners in the wind, the sweet strength of the gathered warriors singing a Kyrie eleison as they rode into battle.

"For Thou art our sanctification, and unto Thee we

ascribe glory, to the Mother, to the Father, and to the Holy Word spoken in the heavens, now, and ever, and unto ages of ages."

"Amen," he said, stumbling into the response as the congregation raised its voice as one in the final exclamation. "Let us depart in peace, in the Name of Our Lord and Lady. Have mercy upon us."

"Have mercy upon us," echoed his father, his voice as soft as the whisper of leaves on the roof.

He put an arm around Alain as they left the church and made their way by torchlight back to the longhouse. "It is as it must be," he said, and Alain sensed that this was the last word Henri would ever speak on the matter. The choice had been made long ago, one to the sea, one to the heart of God.

"What was my mother like?" Alain asked suddenly. "She was beautiful," said Henri. Alain heard the raw scrape of grief in his father's voice. He dared not ask more, for fear of breaking the wound wide open.

So they went inside and drank a last cup of warmed mulled wine. At dawn, Alain went down to the strand and saw them off, rolling the boat down the logs and onto the beach, shoving it into the waves. They loaded it with the cargo. Cousin Julien was white with excitement; he had gone once before but only to a nearby Varren port. He had never gone south for an entire season.

"Do honor to your kin," said Henri to Alain. He kissed Aunt Bel and then got in the boat last of all. The oarsmen began to row, and Julien fussed with the square sail.

Alain stood on the beach long after the others had gone back up the road to the village. He stood until he could no longer see any trace of sail on the gray-blue waters. At last he turned away from the sea, knowing Aunt Bel had work for him to do. With a heavy heart, he walked back to the village.

IN the distant haze where the sky met the sea, the islands that dotted Osna Sound rose as dark peaks of earth marking the horizon. When Alain stood, shading his eyes with a hand, and stared out across the bay toward the islands, the water gleamed like metal. It lay still and smooth, and from the height of the Dragonback Ridge the swells were lost under the glare of the sun. Up here, he could not feel a breath of wind. Out beyond the islands he saw a veil of low clouds pushing in toward land. Rain was coming.

For an instant, caught by a trick of the light, a white sheet of sail stood out, the merest speck that vanished into the horizon of cloud and iron-gray water as he watched. Perhaps it was his father, making his way out through the islands.

Alain sighed and turned away from the sea. He tugged on the rope, pulling the donkey away from a tuft of grass. It moved reluctantly, but it did move. Together they walked on, kicking sand up from the path that ran along the spine of the ridge, leading from the town to the monastery. The surf muttered far below.

The path began to slope down toward the Dragon's. Tail, where the monastery lay. Soon Alain caught a glimpse of buildings spaced out around the church with its single tower. He lost sight of them again as the path cut down through tumbled boulders along the landward side of the ridge and, farther down still, turning to loam, wound through quiet forest.

He came out of the forest into cleared fields and soon enough trudged through the open gates and into the monastery that, on St. Eusebe's Day, would be his home for the rest of his life. Ai, Lord and Lady! Surely his guilt stained him red for all to see: The boy who loved the Father and Mother of Life and who yet rebelled in his heart against entering Their service. Ashamed, he stared at his feet as he skirted the outbuildings and arrived, finally, at the scriptorium.

Brother Gilles was waiting for him, patient as always, leaning on a walking stick.

"You have brought the tithe of candles from the village," the old monk said approvingly. "Ah, and I see a jar of oil as well."

Alain carefully unloaded the baskets slung by a rope harness on either side of the donkey. He set the bundle of candles, rolled up in heavy cloth, down on the tile floor of the scriptorium. Brother Gilles propped the door open. The few small windows were open as well, shutters tied back against the wall, but even so at the central lecterns it was dim work for the monks copying missals and lectionaries.

"The catch was poor last week," Alain said as he lifted out the jar of oil. "Aunt Bel promises that she will send two more jars after Ladysday."

"She is truly generous. The Lord and Lady will reward her for her service to Them. You may take the oil to the sacristy." "Yes, Brother." "I will go with you."

They walked outside, circling the church, passing the walled enclosure of the novitiate where Alain would soon be spending his days and nights.

"You are troubled, child," said Brother Gilles gently as he hobbled along beside Alain.

Alain flushed, fearing to tell him the truth, fearing to dishonor the covenant already agreed upon between the monastery and his father and aunt.

Brother Gilles grunted softly. "You are destined for I the church, child, whether you wish it or not. I suppose you have heard too many stories of the great deeds of the Emperor Taillefer's warriors?"

Alain flushed more deeply but did not reply. He could | not bear to lie to Brother Gilles, who had always treated him as kindly as if they were kin. Was it too much to ask to go only one time to Medemelacha or to ports farther south, even into the kingdom of Salia? To see with his own eyes the strange and wonderful things told of by the merchants who sailed out of Osna Sound each season? Such stories were told by all the merchants, except his father, of course, who was as talkative as a rock.

Imagine! He might pass men-at-arms bearing the standard of the Salian king. He might watch Hessi merchants, men from a foreign land so distant that none of the Osna merchants had ever visited their towns, men who had unusually dark skin and hair, who wore round pointed caps on their heads even when they were indoors, and who were said to pray to a god different than the Lord and Lady of Unities. He might speak with traders from the island of Alba, where, it was said, the Lost Ones still walked abroad in the deep forests, hidden to the sight of men. He might even hear the adventures of the fraters, wandering priests ready to venture out again to barbarous lands to bring the word of the blessed Daisan and the Church of Unities to people who lived outside the Light of the Holy Circle of Unity.

Once a year, during the summer, there was a great fair at Medemelacha where any possible thing known to men might be bought or sold. Slaves from lands far to the south, where the sun, as fierce as a blacksmith's furnace (or so said the merchants), burned their skin black, and others from the ice lands who were so pale you could see right through them. Infant basilisks chained in shrouded cages. Goblin children from the Harenz Mountains, trained as rat-catchers. Bolts of silk from Arethousa. Cloisonne clasps in the shape of wolf heads, gold and green and blue, to ornament the belts and fasten the cloaks of noblemen. Finely wrought swords. Pitchers molded of white clay, painted with roundels and chevrons. Amber. Angel tears like beads of glass. Slivers of dragon's fire ossified into obsidian.

"You have left me, Alain."

He started back to himself, aware that he was standing like a lackwit ten paces from the door that led into the vestibule and thence to the sacristy, where the sacred vessels and vestments for the church were kept.

Smiling, Brother Gilles patted him on the arm. "You must accept what Our Lord and Lady have chosen for you, my child. For They
have
chosen. It remains only for you to understand what They ask of you, and to obey Them."

Alain hung his head. "I will, Brother."

He took the jar of oil inside and left it with one of sacrist brother's mute assistants. Coming back outside to an afternoon dimmed by the approach of clouds, he heard horses and the cheerful noise of riders unfettered by the vows of silence that most monks took.

Circling to the front of the church, he saw Father Richander, Brother Gilles, and the cellarer speaking with a group of visitors. The strangers were brightly dressed in tunics and capes trimmed with borders of red leaves and blue diamonds. There was a deacon and her attendant frater in drab brown robes, a woman with a fur-trimmed cloak, two well-dressed men, and a half dozen foot soldiers in boiled leather tunics. Imagine what it would be like to ride free of here, of the monastery, of the village, to ride outside the great Dragonback Ridge that bounded his world and venture into the world beyond!

He edged closer to listen.

"The usual tithe includes the service for a year of five young persons of sound body, does it not, Mistress Dhuoda?" Father Richander asked of the woman in the fur-trimmed cloak. "If you ask for more, then the townspeople may be forced to send some of the young persons we employ as servants here, and that would create hardship for us, especially now, in the planting season."

She had a haughty face, tempered by a grave expression. "That is true, Father, but there have been more raids along the coast this year, and Count Lavastine must increase his levy."

Count Lavastine! Mistress Dhuoda was his chatelaine.

Alain recognized her now, as she turned toward him to gesture to the soldiers accompanying her. If he could not sail with his father then he had hoped that at least he might be called to service in Count Lavastine's levy, even if only for one year. But it was not to be. Alain knew why. Everyone knew why. The church was the suitable place for the child Merchant Henri, had acknowledged and raised as his own but whom everyone knew was really the bastard child of a whore.

"God speed you on your journey, Mistress," said Father Richander as chatelaine and deacon mounted their horses. The soldiers readied themselves to walk.

Brother Gilles limped over to Alain. "If you wish for company on your path, you could walk with them," he said. "You will return to us soon enough."

"I will."

He fell in behind the foot soldiers. Chatelaine Dhuoda, leaning to talk with the deacon, did not even appear to know he was there, trailing along after the others. No one paid him any mind.

They passed out through the monastery gates and began the long climb up the hill. From behind, rising out of the church, Alain heard the cantors begin the chant for the office of Nones. The voices of the choir drifted after him as they inarched up into the trees. Then they were engulfed by forest.

He was used to the walk, but Count Lavastine's soldiers grumbled among themselves.

"King's
monastery, that's what they are," said the youngest of the men.

"King of Wendar, you mean. No king of ours, even if he claims the throne."

"Ha! Selfish bastards, too, fearin' count's levy will take their servants away. Don't want to sully their hands with commoner's work, do they?"

"Hush, Heric. Don't speak ill of the holy brothers."

Young Heric grunted irritably. "Do you think the abbot wonders, though, if the levy is being raised to fight raiders or to join Lady Sabella's revolt?"

"Quiet, you idiot," snapped the older man, glancing back.

Alain tucked his chin down, trying to look harmless. Of course they had noticed him. They just didn't think he was worth acknowledging. But no man, even in Varre, would talk rebellion against King Henry in front of a man whose loyalties he did not know.