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“If in the month of Novarian you ring the bell for Vigils when you see Arktos rise, then thirty psalms may be sung without difficulty….
“Do not shave when the Moon is in the sign of the Falcon. …
“In this manner, when Aturna and Erekes are in opposition, the daimones of the seventh sphere may be drawn down through the second sphere and if the Moon is full her influence will pull them into the bonds of your invocation. …”
The third book was written in the infidel way—on paper—and in the infidel’s language, its curling loops and swirls like fanciful bird tracks. This was the great Jinna astronomical tract, On the Configuration of the World, written by the infidel scholar al-Hasan ibn al-Haithan al-Tulaytilah. This copy came from the great scholar’s own scribes, for they had met him when they resided for over two years at the court of the Kalif of Qurtubah in the infidel kingdom of Andalla.
The oldest and most frail of the books, written on yellowed and brittle papyrus, was bound into the middle. The hand that had painstakingly written out each word and page had done so in an alphabet she did not know, but the ancient text was glossed with notes in Arethousan. Its contents remained a mystery, for Da could not read the old text either, and though he knew Arethousan, there was simply no time to teach her a new and difficult language. What time they did have for learning he used to hone the skills she had: her memory city, her knowledge of the stars, her understanding of Wendish and Dariyan and Jinna. According to Da, she had spoken Salian and Aostan as a child, but she had long since forgotten them.
“Better to know three languages well than half a dozen badly,” he would say to her.
The bird whistled again. Nothing moved except wind through the branches. She took in a breath for courage and walked across the clearing to kneel beside the old oak. Low, among roots bursting up through the ground, a little den lay, half filled in with leaves and debris. She worked quickly with the trowel, digging it out.
A branch snapped behind her. Birds shrieked, wings beating as they lifted out of the trees toward the safety of the sky. Silence fell. She started up, but it was too late.
Fool, and a greater fool yet. There stood Hugh at the clearing’s edge, smiling. He walked forward slowly, savoring his victory. Liath planted her feet on either side of the gaping hole, even raised the trowel in useless protection. But what good would a garden trowel do against a man trained at arms and carrying a sword?
“Dig it out,” he said, halting before her. He was too fine a man to get his hands dirty or to sully the hem of his fine azure tunic—where had his frater’s robe gone?—by kneeling in the dirt.
She threw the trowel down. “No. Do it yourself.”
He hit her so hard backhanded that she fell stunned to the ground. She could not make her hands move, or her legs, but she heard the soft noise the trowel made, stabbing into the dirt and debris and spilling it to one side, a shower of earth, like water.
Hugh gave a satisfied grunt. “There,” he murmured.
She pulled in a deep breath, sucking in a cloud of fine dirt, and choked, coughing. But she could move again. She could not let him get the book. It was all that was left to her. She shoved herself up, trembling, only to see Hugh shake out an empty roll of cloth.
He stared. Streaked with dirt and damp from earth and leaves, the cloth stirred sluggishly in the breeze. Horrified, she scrambled forward on her hands and knees and dug frantically into the den. But the den was empty.
“It’s gone!” She slumped forward and leaned her head against the oak. Gone. Some animal had rooted it out and torn it to bits. A child, digging for eggs, had found it and taken it home for fuel for the fire. Ai, Lady and Lord! Such a precious thing, to be lost so stupidly. If she had only thought of a better place to hide it, but she had only had one brief chance, begging Hanna before she was dragged off by Marshal Liudolf to her jail; the old oak was their favorite meeting place. What if Hanna had not hidden the book at all, but had only said she had? What if Hanna had taken it for herself—?
But this was Hugh’s influence. If she could not trust Hanna, then nothing and no one, ever again.
“Damn you,” said Hugh. “A pretty charade. But I’ll have the book, Liath. I am more patient than you can imagine.”
She ducked her head, waiting for the blow, but it never came. She heard his footsteps and turned to see him walking away. He vanished into the forest. A moment later she caught a glimpse of his mare; the sound of their passage through the undergrowth receded into the afternoon.
She began to cry, then squeezed her eyes shut. She would not give in to despair. All summer she had held out. If she gave in now, she might as well give herself entirely to Hugh.
“Never that,” she said in a low voice. She wiped hard at her eyes to let the pain still the tears and, finally, went back to the chapel. First, she must talk to Hanna. As Da always said: “Take one step at a time so you may know where to place the next one.”
This time, wise to Hugh, she waited an entire day before she went to the inn. Master Hansal stood outside, daubing chinks in the timber walls. He laid off working when he saw her. “Greetings, child,” he said in his slow, gruff voice. He looked to see her. “Frater Hugh came by yesterday to say he’s off to Freelas for these twelve days to visit the biscop. You’re to eat with us. Very generous, to my mind.”
Very generous. Liath touched a hand to her left temple, where Hugh had hit her. It still hurt. “Good day, Master Hansal. Is Hanna in?”
“Yes. She’s inside, helping the Mistress. I’m sure she can visit a moment, if you’ve time.”
“Thank you.” She hurried inside, relieved to get away from him.
Mistress Birta leaned over the great hearth, placing scrubbed turnips one by one into a bank of coals set off from the blazing fire. Finishing, she straightened. “Liath! It gladdens my heart to see you, child. Frater Hugh was by.”
Liath stopped short. Where was Hanna? “Mistress Birta. I give you greetings in return.”
Birta shook out her apron. She smelled of scallions. “I am well, truly, by the blessing of Our Lady and Lord. And you, lass? I was sore worried, I confess, after your father died. But the frater has been generous, more than generous, that I can say. There’s many a freeholder works harder ’an you and lives not so well nor eats meat four times a week. I don’t say you don’t deserve it, mind. He’s not a bad man, is Frater Hugh. A bastard he might be, and proud, but he’s of noble blood, so we must expect that. I’ve never heard it said that he’s stinted in his duties. Never afraid of the sick or too high to visit the humblest. Why, old Martha by River’s Bank, dying of the pox, asked him to lay hands on her for his blessing and he was not afraid to do so.”
“Martha died.”
“Now, lass. It may not be to your liking, and I have no doubt that Hugh may ask of you what you may not wish to give him.” Here Birta hesitated. “He’s noble, and we can’t argue with his kind. When old Count Harl, as was younger then, brought little Ivar down and told me to suckle the boy with my Hanna, I might have worried there wasn’t milk enough for both, but I did as I was told. You must do the same. There’s far worse you could be doing.”
