Beneath the impassioned voices, beneath the pattern traced by the monk’s feet, another, more shadowy form walked in the old manner, the words Ivar had grown up with, but he could no longer see those patterns clearly. He could no longer hear those old words as they were drowned in the new.
“For Thou art our sanctification, and unto Thee we ascribe glory, to the Mother, to the Son, and to the Holy Word spoken in the heavens, now, and ever, and unto ages of ages. Have mercy upon us.”
“Have mercy upon us,” he murmured, thinking his head would burst because of the pressure. The monks fell silent as they waited for leave to depart, but Ivar thought he would choke. He staggered out to the porch and there, blinking and wheezing, he found he had curled his hand into the sign of the phoenix.
Everything has changed. A cataclysm had shaken the church, and it would never be the same.
Pinwheels of light spun low along the dark horizon of hill, white and golden and hazy. He rubbed his streaming eyes.
“Look!” cried Lord Berthold, arriving beside him as if out of a hidden door. “Look, Jonas!”
“What is that?” Ivar asked. “Is that from the Eika army? Are they burning … ?”
A man ran out of the darkness and up onto the porch, where monks now crowded up behind the lord and whispered and pointed and stared.
“My lord!” The stranger had silver-white hair and humble clothing. “Someone is walking the crowns. Do you see?” He turned, revealing his profile to Ivar.
“You’re the Eagle!” Ivar said in a voice still hoarse from smoke, but the man ignored him, speaking with a frowning intensity to the equally grim Berthold.
“We can’t know who it is from this distance. Who is left who knows the secret of the crowns? Hugh of Austra, as we know. Antonia of Karrone—that traitor! Each bearing as false a heart as any body can nurture without turning to dust.”
“What do you mean?” Ivar took hold of the old man’s arm and shook him. “Don’t you know me?”
The Eagle looked first at the hand and second at Ivar’s face. “I don’t know you, my lord,” he said in a toneless voice.
“Leave off!” said Berthold, with a curse. “Let him go!”
“What does he mean?” demanded Ivar as he released the old man’s arm.
“I mean a mathematicus is coming. We must flee.”
“Without the horses?” Jonas asked.
“My lord.” The Eagle addressed Lord Berthold. “We must take with us everything that will reveal we were here lest we endanger these good and holy men. We must go at once.”
“Liath is a mathematicus,” said Ivar boldly, trying to get the man’s attention. The smoke had clouded his brain; he could not remember the old Eagle’s name.
“Very well,” said Berthold. “At once. Odei. Jonas. Get our things.” They raced off. “We need Brother Heribert, and Berda,” he added to the Eagle.
“I’ll fetch the good brother,” said the old man.
“I’ll meet you by the orchard gate, then,” said Berthold. “I’ll go at once to the lady’s garden.” The Eagle smiled, and the lord chuckled. “Yes, I beg you. One last glimpse at what is forbidden.” His brief laugh sank into a scowl. “Yet it will make me think of Elene again.” He rubbed his fingers together compulsively. “I will never be rid of her blood, Wolfhere. Never!”
“You did not kill her.”
“I should have been stronger!”
“I pray you, my lord, remember that even she, an adept, was helpless. You are not to blame.”
Berthold was younger than Ivar, with a way of shaking his head that made him appear passionate and headstrong, eager and bold; he shook himself all over, a young stallion champing at the bit, and plunged down the stairs. Wolfhere watched him stride away before walking back into the night. A monk hurried out of the chapel at the head of the procession and ran after Wolfhere. They consulted with heads bent together, although Ivar heard nothing except the rustle of robes and the shuffle of footsteps as Hersford’s monks moved past him. Then the Eagle trotted away into the dark, and the monk flowed away in the stream of his brethren.
Ivar could not decide what to do.
Baldwin clattered down the steps and grabbed him by the arm. “Did you hear? The Holy Word of truth has reached this far! Even in this monastery they speak the righteous words of the Mother and Son. Truth rises with the phoenix!” He wiped away tears. He beamed, as the poets would say, and the last worshipers, leaving the hall, stared at him as they passed.
