“I pray you, King Henry, do not mock what you do not understand.” As they had spoken, it had grown dark and the chamber dim. Wind rustled through the cypresses outside. Adelheid’s banner, hung from the wall behind the couches, stirred, the cloth sighing up and settling down as though an invisible daimone’s hand toyed with it. No one had lit lamps; even the servants watched in anticipatory silence as king faced cleric.
Even the servants understood that something monumental was at stake. Servants could smell the heady brew of a silent struggle for power sooner than anyone else.
“Very well,” agreed Henry softly. “It’s true I understand practical matters better than sorcerous ones. I know that a woman may not rule as queen regnant in Salia. But if you are indeed Taillefer’s granddaughter, then you might well gain adherents enough to drag Aosta into a long struggle over the crowns, which none of us desire. Your aspiration seems reasonable enough, Sister Anne, but of what use can you be to me if I support your election as Holy Mother, skopos over all the church?”
Anne lifted cupped hands. A silvery sphere of light spun into being just above her palms. Villam muttered a prayer under his breath. Adelheid sighed sharply, like a woman in the throes of pleasure. Henry remained silent, watching.
Anne raised her arms and, as a woman tosses rose petals to the wind, flung up her hands. The silvery globe dissolved into sparks of shimmering white light, each one a butterfly swooping and fluttering throughout the chamber. The winged light threw the scenes carved onto ivory into relief: a lady with her falcon; the entombment of St. Asella; fair Helen on the walls of Ilios, calling the troops to battle; the tortures of St. John of Hamby, each one depicted in exquisite detail.
Anne stood. Each white butterfly spark bloomed with color—ruby, sapphire, emerald, carnelian, aquamarine, amethyst and rose quartz, banded chalcedony, iridescent opal—each one as lustrous as a gem. Their dance swirled around the chamber, making Rosvita’s head ache at the same time as her heart exulted. Henry rose slowly, staring as butterflies swarmed around his head to form a crown of luminescent stars at his brow.
For an instant he gleamed there, crowned in splendor.
The sparks vanished, leaving them with a steady gleam of magelight and a cool, pale woman of vast power and middling height. Whispering, half frightened and half in awe, the servants hurried to light lamps as the magelight spun itself into delicate threads and, at last, into nothing, simply fading until it disappeared.
“Illusion,” muttered Villam.
Hugh of Austra’s gaze glittered just as brightly as had those dancing sparks. In his expression gleamed an unsettling hunger.