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“Even if you will be damned for it?”
“The church may damn me, if they must. I do not believe God will.”
Rosvita stood and pressed a hand to the shoulder of Acella to stop her from leaping to her feet.
The anger in Acella’s face, however, could not be kept still. Her words were clipped and furious. “That was ill spoken, Eagle. Do you claim to know God’s mind?”
Liath raised a hand, then swept it back down to her side. “Do you?” She was too angry to speak further.
“I pray you, Sister Acella,” said Rosvita placatingly. “Let us see the diploma this Eagle has brought from King Henry. She carries the regnant’s seal and the regnant’s authority.”
“Henry is dead,” said Liath. “Did you not know?”
“Dead?”
The cleric staggered. She paled. She swayed. Brother Fortunatus, who had stood all this time by the door watching them without trying to overhear, ran to help her sit down on the bench.
“Is this true?” The look on her face broke Liath’s heart.
“It’s true. He died in Aosta.”
Rosvita hid her face in her hands.
Fortunatus looked at Liath. He was pale but not as shaken as Rosvita. “In Aosta? If this is true, then …” Strangely, he glanced toward the shadowed end of the hall where those two watchful nuns stood as straight and alert as soldiers on guard. “Can it be that after all… ?”
Rosvita lowered her hands. Through tears, she looked at Liath. “Who stands as regnant? Who granted you the power to ride to St. Valeria? Who rules these Lions? Who rules Wendar?”
“Sanglant.”
She might have said “the Enemy” and seen them less shocked.
Sister Acella got to her feet. “Enough! I cannot allow her in the library, Sister Rosvita. We have no way of knowing if her tale is true. How can a bastard rule in Wendar? Not by right, but by the sword.”
“Wait, Honored Mother,” said Fortunatus placatingly. “Surely there is an explanation that comes with this news. Lady Bertha and her soldiers were sent into Dalmiaka as an escort to this one, Liathano. To battle against King Henry’s enemies.”
“To battle the skopos, so you say,” hissed Sister Acella. “How can we know this tale is true? How do we know that Prince Sanglant did not march into Aosta and kill his own father to gain the throne?”
Liath could barely force civil words out, but she knew she had to. She felt like slapping the bitch, with her smug expression and stony words. “Ask the other Eagles, then, or the Lions.”
Except the Lions had not witnessed the events in Aosta. Stupidly, she had not asked for anyone to march with her who had actually been with Sanglant on the field that night last Octumbre. She had no one with her who had witnessed Henry passing the crown of Wendar into the hands of his beloved son. She had not brought anyone with her who would be believed.
“If only Hathui had come!” She turned to leave, sick of them and of this turmoil in her heart.
“Hathui?” Fortunatus reached to catch her sleeve, but withdrew his hand before touching her.
“Hathui lives?” Rosvita asked. Grief hoarsened her voice.
“She is with Sanglant. She serves Sanglant.”
“You may say anything you wish,” retorted Sister Acella.
“So I may. In this case, it happens to be true.”
“I pray you.” Fortunatus placed a hand on Acella’s elbow. “I pray you, Honored Mother. Sit down. Calm down.” He was staring at Liath. They all were.
“God Above,” whispered Acella, in the tone a woman might use when a minion of the Enemy has appeared on her doorstep. “She shines.”
Liath took a step back, as if struck. She saw how they looked at her with fear and with doubt. It was the same expression she had seen when they spoke of Sorgatani, who was to them a kind of horror that might rise in the night to devour them. She had no words, no argument, to convince them. She retreated, wanting to flee.
