Elliott, Kate - Crown of Stars 1 (59 page)

Wolfhere, ahead of her, stopped, and she steadied herself, one hand on his shoulder. It was utterly black. The crypt smelled of clay and lime. It was damp. At the edge of her hearing came the sound of the slow drip of water.

It nagged at her, that uneven sound, a droplet of water shattering to pieces on stone, then, finally, another. It reminded her of the water in the crypt of the church where Marshal Liudolf had locked her up after Da's murder. It had been dark there, as well, and she had been imprisoned. Until Hugh came.

Her chest was tight with fear and she clutched convulsively at Wolfhere's shoulder, suddenly terrified.
What if Hugh lurked in these shadows ?
"Call light, Liath," said Wolfhere. "I can't."

"Seek in your mind for the memory of light, and call it forth."

She shook her head. She was sweating now, although it was cool in the vaults. Strange noises caught in the air. She knew Hugh was far away and yet felt him as if he was just about to touch her.

Wolfhere continued, as calm as ever. "If I remember, there is a torch here. Think of flames, then, and call fire to it."

"I was not taught these things!" Air stirred behind her neck. Light! She shut her eyes, though it was hard to find the courage to do so, even when she couldn't see. She formed a picture of light, the chamber illuminated, sunlight streaming in through the windows of her memory tower to limn the four doors of her tower that led to nowhere and to everywhere, to cover as with a gold wash the fifth door, set impossibly in the center of the room.
Light.

But nothing came. In the frozen tower, the light was as cold as midwinter's kiss and though it illuminated, its touch did not bring life. A tendril, like a spiderweb come loose from its moorings, brushed the nape of her neck. She flinched and batted it away, but there was nothing there. And yet there was something behind her, always stalking her.

She could stand it no more.
"Better to go forward,"
Da always said,
"than to look behind at what's creeping up on you."
She shoved past W
^r
olfhere, stumbled on level flagstone floor, and groped along the wall. Her hand came to rest on the stem of a torch. She wrenched it free and spun, holding it out like a weapon, but it touched nothing. There was nothing, except her own fear.

And that sparked anger. What right had Hugh to plague her like this? Would she never be free of him?

His was the dark presence always at her back, and yet there was another, which she could not name, whatever had stalked her father and herself for all those years.

"Leave me be!" she cried. The stone walls of the crypt sucked her voice away, muffling it. "Now, Liath
—" Wolfhere began. Ah, but she was furious by now, a raw anger that throbbed through her like fire. The torch in her hand caught flame and burned with a strong, uncanny light. She started back, blinking away tears. Wolfhere looked sickly pale, but then her eyes adjusted and she saw he was smiling wryly. "That's better," he said.

Liath was horrified. She had called fire, by what means she did not know. Now Wolfhere thought she knew the arts of sorcery.

And yet, if she could call fire, why should she
not
learn the arts of sorcery? Why should she not become magus and mathematicus? Was it not her birthright?

Wolfhere made no more mention of the blazing torch, nor did he ask her how she had accomplished the deed. He crossed the crypt floor and because she did not want to be alone in this buried chamber, she followed. LInder the broad stone arches that held up the crypt he paused to study the famous tomb of Biscop Mariana, predecessor of the current biscop. Nestled between her grave and the heavy stone wall of the crypt lay another tomb. Carved of less imposing granite, it nevertheless displayed a more elaborate epitaph.

Here lies Flodoard, presbyter of the Holy Church, servant of Our Lord and Lady, guide and instructor to Louis, king ofVarre. Devout in practice and humble in spirit, he was the best among us. So does he rest in the light of truth above.

Liath became aware all at once of the space opening behind her, the vast womb of the cathedral, and the monuments that marked the graves of the women and men who had served within these precincts.
Best among us.
She felt at peace, here among the holy dead. She might not be safe with Wolfhere, or any other mortal man or woman, but surely these holy ones remained her guardians as they guarded all who kept faith.

"I have heard it said a saint's tomb lies hidden in the crypt of Gent Cathedral." Wolfhere surveyed the dark cavern. The hush was profound. She could hear not even the least sound from above, though several hundred refugees crowded the church and beyond the doors the city of Gent certainly lay restless in its uneasy sleep, one eye always open toward its besiegers. Tombs faded into the darkness, marking distance by their shade of gray in the torchlight. Liath could not see the far walls or even the opening that led to the stairs. Gent was an old cathedral, its foundations laid, some said, in the last years of the old empire by a half-elvish prince who had converted to the faith of the Unities as the empire collapsed around him.

Wolfhere walked farther into the crypt, into dark chambers and down a short flight of steps, and Liath followed him. The deeper they went, the fresher the air smelled, tinged with the dry sweetness of some kind of grain. She sneezed.

"But it is also said," added Wolfhere, "that only those of great holiness, great innocence, or great need ever find that grave."

"Whose grave is it?" Liath asked, casting about, looking for any least gleam of silver light or hidden corner of stone concealed in the shadows, but she saw nothing besides the tombs of biscops and presbyters, holy deacons and robed mayors, and one count of Gent whose effigy showed her holding a scroll in one hand and a knife in the other.

"St. Kristine of the Knives, she who endured unspeakable tonnents in the last days of the old empire rather than yield her place to the invaders. It is said of her that though an empire might fall from grace, she could and would not fall because of her great strength."

But they found no saint's tomb.

They returned to the half-flight of stairs and passed into a dim corridor and thence into a side chapel that contained two tombs so ancient their inscriptions were almost rubbed away, as well as a single slab of black stone that glinted when she brought the torch up beside it.

She knelt and ran a hand along its surface. It was smoother than glass. "This is obsidian," she said. "Though some say that this is not stone at all but the remains of dragon bones that have been exposed to sunlight."

Wolfhere knelt opposite. "By this means, I will view. Did Bernard teach you the art of vision?"

She shook her head. She had never seen Da "vision" anything, although she had read it was possible to look long distances through certain media: water, fire, and certain kinds of stone. "Is it
—is it
right
to practice the forbidden arts on holy ground? In a church?"

He glanced up. His gaze was mild but direct. "It is needful, and Our Lord and Lady do not prohibit what is needful. Or so agreed the church elders at the Council of Kellai. The church did not condemn sorcery, Liath, though at the Council of Narvone it imposed a penance on those who practice it outside the supervision of the church."

What had Hugh said to her? "/
am sure there are those in the church who have made it their task to lean the forbidden arts of sorcery, but I have not found them so far."
"But they are called the forbidden arts," she whispered.

"It is true the church looks with disfavor on those who j seek the elder arts, those practiced by the ancient heathens which have come down to us in their writings. Those which can be used by the unscrupulous to gain power. But it would be more than foolish to deny that such arts and powers are within our grasp, or to attempt to condemn them as heresy is condemned. It would be impossible, as well as dangerous. So in her wisdom Skopos Mary Jehanna, who presided over the Council of Kellai, was first to pronounce some of the forbidden I arts as lying within the provenance of the church, and
king's dragon
that ruling was confirmed by the Council of Navrone a hundred years ago. Indeed, in these days the Convent of St. Valeria is known for its study of the forbidden arts." "But you are not in the church." "I received some part of my training at a monastery in Aosta, at a schola there. I was never pledged to the church. Now. Attend."

He opened the leather pouch that hung from his belt and took out a flask. Then he took dagger and sword from their sheaths and laid them to one side. He unstoppered the flask and offered it to her. She shook her head, and he took a drink himself and set the flask down.

She waited. It seemed safe, now, to betray her intense curiosity. He knew what her parents were, after all. And had she not called fire?

He placed both hands, palms down and his shoulders' width apart, on the glassy black stone surface. For a long while he simply stared at the rock face. It was so quiet in the crypt she felt she heard the sound of dust settling on the tombs and the slow creak of stone shifting against the bones of the earth. The darkness beyond the flickering torchlight no longer scared her; it was merely shadow and silence and the physical remains of the dead, their spirits long since risen up through the seven spheres. "Liath."

She started up. Wolfhere glanced at her, surprised.

He had not spoken.

His look was a question. She shook her head and settled back. "I beg your pardon," she said.

"What is it?" he asked. Either he had not heard the voice or he was more subtle than she feared.

"Nothing." She settled back into place, her grip tight on the torch. It blazed with undiminished strength. "A spider crawled up my hand."

Whether he believed this excuse or not, he accepted it. He turned his left hand palm up, the back of the hand still lying on the stone, fingers curled up slightly as if he was about to cup a sphere. "Sorcery is a mental discipline, not a physical one. It is the manipulation of the unseen forces that surround us, that are always active, though they are invisible to our five senses. There are those who profess knowledge of the forbidden arts who use physical means, incantations, chants, and objects, to focus their minds and reveal knowledge beyond what is common. These we know by many names, depending on what elements they seek to manipulate. The tempestari try to control the weather; the haroli seek to call down the daimones of the upper air, who are almost as knowledgeable as the angels. The sortelegi cast lots and make predictions, and old wisemen and women who may yet remember the old gods and have not yet turned their hearts entirely to Our Lady and Lord make predictions by means of the flights and cries of birds. These we call augures. Even unlearned folk have among them those who by diverse means and complicated misunderstandings have some simple skill in magic."

He paused and seemed to be waiting for her to comment.

The marble tomb at her left hand was engraved with the likeness of a woman wearing a biscop's mitre and robes:
Caesaria, deacon and biscop.
In the carving, the biscop held a shield depicting a saint, a woman with arms outstretched holding a knife in each hand; she also wore, as the sign of her martyrdom, a knife buried hilt-deep in her breast
—St. Kristine.

"But the church condemns some magi," said Liath, "and watches with suspicion over any who are not sworn to its service."

"True enough. The church does not approve of those who seek such powers without its guidance. There will always be people who use the arts only for their own gain or to harm others. These we call malefici. The worst among them are those who consort with devils by means of blood and sacrifice. But others also remain suspect, chief among them those we know as the mathematici, for the study of the heavens is derived from the arts of
king's dragon
the Babaharshan magi and the church looks with disfavor upon arts known to be heathen in origin."

And what of those who can speak a name and have it resonate across a great distance? This was not the first time she had heard that voice, calling her name, but obviously it must be the voice either of a magus or of some creature not of human birth, an angel or a daimone. Or a devil in service to the Enemy. She shuddered.

Wolfhere lifted a hand to touch her, briefly and reassuringly, on the knee. "You are safe with me, Liath."

She said nothing. She did not believe him. He regarded her silently. Suddenly calm, she examined him: his grave expression; the stern light in his eyes which was, nevertheless, touched with kindness; the marks of age on his skin; and in his hair and beard, where only a trace of the younger man remained, a few strands of brown hair nestled among the silver.

It was not that Wolfhere might personally wish her harm; she did not believe that. But she suspected his ujtimate ends. She suspected him of wanting her for some other purpose, one which he chose not to reveal to her.
"Trust no one. "
Even if he meant well by her, how could he protect her from the fate that had stalked Da? How could he protect her against a power that could strike death onto a man without unlocking door or window and without leaving a mark on the body? How could she protect herself?

Wolfhere laid his hand back on the stone. "But if the mind is properly trained, none of these other ways are necessary or even preferable. By what means do the magi focus and train their minds?" "The ladder."