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Hugh did not return to the skopos’ private chambers. He wandered by a roundabout and rather complicated way that led him, in the end, out along the parapet set on the cliff’s edge, the high point of the Amurrine Hill on which stood the two palaces, symbols of the endless tension between spiritual and secular rule in Darre.
ssed out of her sight, into the anteroom. She heard low voices outside. Brother Ismundus entered to take his place in Hugh’s chair as the snoring presbyter startled awake, smiling as if from sweet dreams.
Antonia slipped out unnoticed. Hugh had already left the anteroom, but she had a good idea where he might be going.
She found him deep in prayer in St. Thecla’s Chapel. This time, she made sure to examine closely the thresholds of the two adjacent doors that led up into the galleries. He had gone far beyond the crude bindings of cloth and dried herbs that common folk used to protect their henhouses from the depredations of foxes or to lure an unsuspecting sweetheart into falling in love. Like every threshold in the skopos’ palace, meant to glorify God by the beauty of its ornamentation, these lintels had been carved by master artisans. As befit the chapel dedicated to St. Thecla, the vivid carvings represented cups and robes, her sigils. But when Antonia reached up to brush a finger over the shape of one of those cups, she felt the sting of magic on her skin. Hugh had glossed over the bright colors with a glaze. It stank of lavender and narcissus, harbingers of sleep and inattention. He had ground them into a paste and used a coating of them to disturb the disposition of any person who might climb to the gallery and thereby observe him.
But Antonia’s mind remained clear. She took the narrow steps slowly, careful to miss the eleventh step, which creaked. The gallery was empty; everyone else was asleep, or at the feast.
But she was not entirely alone. Below, illuminated by a single lamp, knelt Hugh, golden head bowed in prayer.
Maybe she was getting a little obsessed with him. She would have to be careful. In part, she missed Heribert. She had always had someone to manage before, but of course she must never make the mistake of believing Hugh to be as manageable as Heribert. Not that Heribert had proved manageable in the end—damn Prince Sanglant.
Below, Hugh whispered words too softly for her to understand. The ribbon twisted and wound around and through his fingers in a sensuous dance, one that, briefly, reminded her of that one dalliance, three months of carnal pleasure as luxurious as silk—
All at once, the ribbon went slack. The daimone had escaped him. But he did not cry out. For a long, long time he knelt in intense concentration and with his eyes shut.
Now and again she caught scraps of words, whispers spoken as though to an unseen accomplice. “Change does not come easily. …Let me not speak of torment, who sinned so grievously…. Fate guides her movements.”
All at once, he threw back his head. By the light of that simple lamp she saw such a look of bliss transform his face that she might as well have caught him in the act of lovemaking.
Ai, God, if only she knew how to bind such emotion in, gather it all to herself. People were so weak, and so transparent. Even as cunning a man as Hugh in the end wasted his substance in the throes of ecstasy. Yet his yearning was as rich as cream, and she could not help but drink it down as his lips parted and he sighed as does a man who has at last achieved his heart’s desire and the fulfillment of his most pressing physical need.
“Ai, Liath,” he murmured, like a caress. Like rapture.
Antonia licked her lips.
He jerked back, eyes snapping open. He looked surprised, almost bewildered, but the moment passed quickly and with a grimace he gripped the ribbon tightly and shut his eyes again, mastering himself. The ribbon twisted weakly in his hands. A pale thread of aetherical light stabbed down, as though from the heavens, winding down along his arm and weaving itself back into the substance of the ribbon. The lamp flared hotly, and he winced in pain.
“Damn!” he swore as the ribbon came alive, contorting and thrashing like a snake trying to escape its captor, but he had too tight a hold on it as he murmured words of binding. For an instant she could actually see the bound daimone writhing within the confines of the silk ribbon before he tucked it away into his sleeve.
Standing, he was shaking, shaken by his unseen encounter, too distressed to take any notice of his surroundings as he tucked his book under his arm and hurried out of the chapel as though to escape an inferno.
He had learned to conceal from others the emotion that blazed in his heart. But Antonia knew how to watch and to listen, how to find out just those secrets that would serve her best when the time came, finally, for her to act. Anne’s scope, for all her power, was too narrow. Anne thought only of the coming cataclysm, not of what could be built out of its ashes.
Antonia did not intend to make that mistake, but she knew she would have to have allies, whether willing or not.
Hugh did not return to the skopos’ private chambers. He wandered by a roundabout and rather complicated way that led him, in the end, out along the parapet set on the cliff’s edge, the high point of the Amurrine Hill on which stood the two palaces, symbols of the endless tension between spiritual and secular rule in Darre.
Here, in the waning days of the dying year, the night air had a fresh taste to it, the scent of change. In Aosta, the rains were drawing to a close. With the turn of the year, the rainy season would give way to the long drought that marked summer and early autumn. Meanwhile, in pots set at intervals along the wide parapet walkway, lilies and violets and roses had already begun to bloom. Some hopeful soul had hung myrtle wreaths from the tripods where lamps stood, their flames marking the path for anyone who walked abroad so close to dawn.
He made his way to one corner of the walkway, leaning far out over the waist-high wooden railing as though ready to test if he could fly. Wind whipped his robes around him, bringing them to life, or perhaps they, too, were being visited by a daimone coerced down from the spheres above.
The bell rang for Vigils, but here on the wall its call seemed unimportant compared to God’s glorious creation laid out before them. The clouds had blown off to reveal the heavens in all their brightness.
She paused in a pool of darkness to look down toward the river running far below at the base of the hill. From this height, the shadowy ribbon of the river was glazed a silvery gray by the moon’s last light. Almost full, the moon was setting now, Somorhas’ bright beacon following behind. She studied the stars, pleased to find it easier to identify the constellations. Somorhas stood at the cusp of the Healer and the Penitent, in her bright aspect as the morning star. Red Jedu shone malevolently above, caught in the Sisters, who plot mischief, but steady Aturna shone within their house as well, with the promise of wisdom brought to their scheming.
He spoke unexpectedly, still staring out into the gulf of air. “Nay, do not step out into the light. I know you come from Sister Anne. The king is coming, and it is better if he does not see you.”
At once, so easily, her mastery was overset. Her heart pounded erratically, and for an instant she felt as might a hen, come face-to-face with the fox himself. Was it possible he’d known all along that she was following and observing him? She touched the amulets hanging against her breast, hidden by her cleric’s robes, and breathed herself back into calm. Nay, he did not call her by name. Perhaps he had heard her, but he hadn’t seen her face. He wasn’t sure exactly who she was. Her scheming was still safe as long as Anne didn’t suspect her.
Silent, she stayed hidden from his sight.
“Tell Sister Anne, if you please, that I have considered what she had to say. But she must understand that I am loyal to my king.”
The heavy tread of agitated footsteps echoed up to her. Someone was climbing the outside stairs. She shrank farther back into the shadows. The bell began to toll again, ringing out seven strokes, the call of death. Another bell, in a distant chapel, took up the stroke, and then a third, an echo ringing through the city below, leaden and somber.
Ironhead strode onto the parapet, breathing heavily.
