In a warren of rock she finds six nuns cowering in a chamber carved into the stone. Seven windows admit a gleam of afternoon light, obscured by the terrible creature advancing down the length of the refectory. The table, laden with platters, cups, and a stern meal of porridge and bread, has been overturned. Cooling pease porridge lies in spatters on the floor. One of the women is screaming convulsively, utterly panicked. Back by the door lies a jumble of disarticulated bones, steaming slightly, as though the soul of the person who just inhabited that body is trying to form itself into a ghostly specter. The old mother abbess, golden Circle of Unity held high, limps forward, past her nuns, making the sign of exorcism to drive the creature away.
But a Circle of Unity and honest faith will not turn back a galla bound by blood. Liath fits arrow to string, draws—
And hesitates. Who bound the galla? Who has sent it on this deadly errand?
She has only one breath to decide. The galla is here, and before she draws her next breath it will consume the old abbess just as it consumed the poor woman who had been standing in the doorway.
She looses the arrow. The gold fletching gleams, and sparks, as the arrow explodes in the slender tower of darkness that is the galla’s insubstantial body. With a shriek of agony, and of joy, it vanishes, released from the bonds of magic that dragged it here to this world. Its unfulfilled purpose kicks back along the pale link that ties it to the sorcerer who called it. Briefly, Liath sees an elderly, apple-cheeked woman seated in a chamber with a bloody body nearby. The woman jerks as the rebound hits her, then faints.
“Go now!” cries Liath, trying to catch the attention of the six women. “Bind the sorcerer who has done this.”
Perhaps they hear her, even above the hysterical sobs of one of their number, who cannot be consoled.
The old abbess gestures. “Hilaria! Diocletia! Go at once to the guest hall to see if Sister Venia is safe. But take rope, and a sleeping potion.” Leaning heavily on a cane, she takes four steps forward and bends, picking up a gold feather. There is no sign of the arrow.
She glances up. All at once, staring, she seems to see Liath hovering in the air before her. Her eyes widen. “Who is there, in the shadows?” Despite her infirmities and great age, her voice remains strong.
“Fear not,” says Liath, but she thinks the old woman cannot see her, for she is no more substantial on Earth right now than the galla was.
Some eyes are keener than others. The old woman squints, looking surprised, puzzled, hopeful. “Bernard?” she asks, voice gone hoarse all at once, as though she might weep. “Is this my sweet son Bernard, who was torn from me? Your face— Nay, you’re a woman. Who are you?”
Who am I? And who are you, who sees in me the image of a lost son named Bernard?
Liath takes a step forward
and found herself back on the marble stairs of Aturna, almost at the top. Bow and arrow were gone. She was naked, alone; she had nothing, except herself.
The realm of the fixed stars blazed before her, white hot, as terrible as a firestorm.
But they were waiting for her, clustered at the lower limit of the border: spirits with wings of flame and eyes as brilliant as knives. Their gaze fell like the strike of lightning. Their bodies were not bodies like those known on Earth but rather the conjoining of fire and wind, the breath of incandescent stars coalesced into mind and will. The sound of their wings unfurling in pitiless splendor boomed and echoed off the curving gleam of Aturna’s sphere. Far below, the golden wheels spun madly, powered by that fiery wind that is the soul’s breath of the stars.
She recognized their voice.
“Child,” they said as she climbed the last step and without hesitation walked into their joyous embrace. “You have come home.”
3
THE Quman resisted the heavy charge at first, holding firm under the leadership of their prince, who rode with them. But the sheer weight of the Wendish cavalry at either flank and the Ungrian mass in the center broke them at last.
Zacharias watched, exulting, as first the left flank and then portions of the center sagged and gave way, as the infamous Quman soldiers, hardened and grim, began to turn their horses and flee. If Zacharias had believed in God, he would have offered up a prayer at that moment. He mopped his brow instead. Thunder pealed behind them. He smelled rain, although it was impossible to hear much of anything over the cacophony of battle that raged on the river plain before him. He waited at the rear with Bayan’s command group and the prince’s adviser, Brother Breschius. Prince Bayan had ridden forward with the charge, but he disengaged from the line and rode back to them, calling for a messenger.
