In the Ruins

Bowing his head, Alain rested his brow against that cool cheek.

“I pray you,” he whispered, “forgive me for the lie. I gave it up in order to enter the land of the meadow flowers, but now I am come home to this Earth and I must confess it to you. I said Tallia was pregnant only to spare you heartbreak, knowing you were slipping away. I do not regret sparing you pain on your deathbed. I regret only that I failed in the one task you set me. Still, it was not to be. God made it so. They knew I was not your rightful heir. If Tallia had gotten pregnant, then the threads would have tangled even more. No good rule can be based on a lie. And, God help me, Father, had Tallia not betrayed me, I would never have met Adica. I’m sorry I could not be the son you desired, but that does not change the love I cherish for you.”

When he ceased speaking, a quiet so profound settled into the church that he thought he could hear the earth’s slow respiration, the breath of stone. Pale daylight gleamed on the altar and the golden vessel and the Book of Verses, left lying open as if the deacon had been interrupted in the midst of her prayers. Behind him lay the side chapel dedicated to St. Lavrentius, who had died before the time of the Emperor Taillefer while bringing the Circle of Unity to the Varrish tribes.

It is here, he thought, that it began. He had met the Lady of Battles on the Dragonback Ridge, but he wondered now whether that was coincidence or fate or free will? Was it in her nature to ride that path when a storm blew in off the sea? Had it only been accident that they had converged there? Or had she ridden that way on purpose, knowing she would meet him and in such an hour when he would have no choice but to save those he loved by pledging himself to her cause?

It was here, in this shadowed nave, that the answer lay. Beneath him lay the crypt where the counts of Lavas slumbered in death, although their souls had surely ascended to the Chamber of Light. Here in the aisle of the nave rested the last of the line of the elder Charles.

What had he been hiding?

Sorrow whoofed softly, and in answer Alain heard the skittering of mice near St. Lavrentius’ altar as they scattered into their hidey-holes. Once he and Lackling had knelt in that chapel at this very same time of year; Lackling had wept when one trusting little creature had crept into his hand and let him stroke its soft coat. Now, all rustling and scratching ceased.

The door opened, and a man—face shadowed by the daylight behind him—entered alone.

“You are come,” the man said, more in sadness than in anger, yet there was anger as well, throttled by the stink of fear. The door closed behind him, and he halted. “Take it! Take it! It has rotted in my hands!”

“I pray you, Lord Geoffrey. Sit, if you will. I have not come here to take anything from you that is yours by right.”

Geoffrey choked down a sob of fury, but he did not move. “You have outwitted me at every turn! Was it nothing but a dumb show that you turned up here babbling and dancing? Did you mean to tempt me to do what I did, and thus discredit myself by making me seem a cruel and bitter man? By making me seem afraid of you?”

“Are you afraid?”

“I am always afraid!” he roared. The hounds barked, first Sorrow and then Rage, and he took a step back. “They still guard you, then, those beasts.”

“Sorrow and Rage are my faithful companions.”

“What do you want? Why have you come back?”

“I came because Chatelaine Dhuoda asked me to return to Lavas Holding with her. Before that, I lived quietly over the winter by Osna Sound, recovering from the injuries that plagued me and the wound in my heart.”

“Dhuoda is a traitor!”

“Is she?”

“No! No!” He began to pace along the entryway, falling out of sight behind a square pillar only to reappear at the wall, where he spun and strode back the other way. The walls trapped him. He could only turn, and turn again. “She told me straight out she meant to go. She is my kinswoman. She has the right to question me.”

He halted, facing the aisle. His face was pale and anguished, his hands clenched.

“Was Lavastine your father?” His voice scraped out the question. He bowed his head an instant, then raised it defiantly.

Rage turned to face him but did not otherwise move. Sorrow remained seated, snuffling at Terror’s stone hindquarters as if seeking a scent.

Alain rose as well. He kept one hand on Lavastine’s quiet hand, feeling the swell and hollow of knuckles and the intricate ridge of a petrified ring caught forever on the right forefinger. The gem, too, had gone to stone. He could not recall what color it had been.