Her years in the church had gone much more smoothly.
One lapse, that was all, in forty years. One lapse, and a single mistaken assessment, when she had judged that Sabella had the means and support to overthrow King Henry. Now she had lost both her son and her position in the church. She had no more margin for error. There must be no more misjudgments, no more miscalculations. Not one false step.
Below her, Hugh bowed his fair head to rest on folded hands. She knew he wasn’t praying. He was studying that mysterious book the others called “Bernard’s book,” a book of secrets. It never left Hugh’s side except to be locked into a chest sealed with several layers of protective wards. Here in the chapel, he had arranged his presbyter’s robes to cover it where it lay open in front of his knees. His robes spread out around him in such a way that their drape and fall made a pleasing picture, framing him. An artist could not have done a better job of painting a representation of a dutiful and noble presbyter, intimate counselor to the king, confidant of the Holy Mother herself.
He looked up abruptly, as if he’d heard her breathing in the gallery, but he was only gazing toward the domed span that separated him from the heavens above. His lips moved. He spoke a word, more a sigh than a name.
“Liath.”
There was something terrible in the way he said it, like a curtain drawn aside so that one glimpsed what was better left unseen. He bowed his head again, and this time she thought he really was praying, desperately, passionately.
The ardor suggested by his tightly clasped hands, the anguished cant of his shoulders, the intensity of his entire being was itself the flame drawing her. Like the galla whom she could call at need, luring them with fresh blood, she lapped up his suffering, if suffering it was. She had killed strong emotion in herself because it hindered her, but she had never lost her taste for it, even if she had to experience it secondhand.
Poor child. How terrible for him that his brilliance was flawed by this one weakness, this obsession for the one thing he could not have.
And yet, why not? Liath herself had spoken approvingly of Hugh’s passion for knowledge. There remained a link between them, one the girl herself had acknowledged reluctantly back in Verna. In a way, Hugh did possess her, because she could never forget or forgive him. Yet in her heart, Liath probably knew that Hugh was a better match for her than Prince Sanglant.
A footstep scuffed the floor. A presbyter dressed simply but richly in robe and long scarlet cloak came forward to stand in the shadow behind Hugh. He made the Circle at his breast, a sign of respect toward the holy altar and the gold cup resting there. As Hugh shifted back and turned to look at him, the man bowed deeply and with obvious reverence before speaking in the hushed tones appropriate to the dignity of their setting.
“Your Honor, the Holy Mother has awakened and is asking for you. You know how your presence does her so much good.”
“I thank you, Brother Ismundus. You are kind to disturb your own sleep this night.”
“Say not so! I should be praying for God’s mercy to heal her, as you are, but I haven’t your strength.”
Hugh winced slightly as he turned his head to gaze at the uncarved pillar, whose smooth marbled surface represented the holy purity of the blessed Daisan. No need to carve a crude rendition of an earthly face when the blessed Daisan had been lifted bodily in a cloud of God’s glory and transported directly to the Chamber of Light.
“It isn’t strength but sin.” Was he aware how exquisitely the lamp limned his profile at this angle? “I beg you, Brother Ismundus, do not grant me virtues I do not possess. I will come at once. Just let me finish my psalms.”
“Of course, Your Honor.” Ismundus bowed again before he retreated from the chapel. Of course the old man had no obligation to honor another presbyter in this way. He had served thirty years in the skopos’ palace and had risen to become steward of the holy bedchamber. In truth, in the common way of things, a young presbyter like Hugh ought to be bowing to him, not the other way around.
But these days, as she knew well enough, nothing ran anymore in the common way of things. In recent years the world had been overset by sin and disobedience. If everything she had been taught in the last year were true, it would soon be overset catastrophically by God’s hand, or Aoi sorcery.
Out of the coming chaos a strong leader could, and must, arise. Maybe she had been wrong to believe that leadership could come from Liath and Prince Sanglant. There were leaders besides Sanglant, men with greater power and more sophisticated ambition.
“I know where you are,” said Hugh suddenly into the sanctum’s holy silence. The lamp flickered as she froze, wondering by what sorcery he had managed to detect her presence up here in the dense shadows of the gallery, spying on him. “I know what you’re doing, my treasure. I can see you now, I can call the burning stone to make a window onto your journey, and I swear to you, Liath, I will follow you there.”
