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Mother Scholastica was a formidable woman, and her glare was that of an eagle ready to strike. Rosvita stood her ground; she did not fear her, although it might be more prudent to do so.
“I will not have this conversation again. I have taken steps to do what is best for the realm. You are well advised to choose carefully, at this time. Do not follow Sanglant, Sister Rosvita.”
“I crave your pardon, Mother Scholastica. My road is set.”
Like opposing armies battling to a standstill on a bridge, they had reached an impasse. Outside, the gardener began raking.
“So be it,” said Scholastica in a cold voice. “Let the nuns from St. Valeria and their treasure of books remain here.”
Rosvita wished fleetingly for a pen or a book, something to shift with her hands to bleed off the disquiet that made her fingers twitch and her ears burn. “What will become of the books?”
Scholastica’s gaze flickered toward a letter folded and sealed with—strangely—the skopos’ gold stamp, signifying the crown of holy stewardship. Underneath the letter rested a single book, wrapped in cloth, which Rosvita recognized as one taken from the chests brought from St. Valeria’s. That yellowed cover with a torn corner had belonged to The Zephyr and the Tempest, a book recording the proscribed arts of the tempestari, the weather workers.
The abbess shook her head, offering no answer. This was to be an armed truce. Outside, the raking ceased, and water splashed.
“The nuns and their treasure will remain here,” the abbess repeated, “and the old abbess. You can’t expect her to continue traveling. She is so frail.”
“It’s true it would be better for Mother Obligatia to rest, but she will insist on accompanying me. You may speak to her yourself.”
“I will do so. You have forced my hand, Sister Rosvita. I am displeased and angered. Because you insist on continuing on this road, I must travel with you to escort Princess Sapientia. To see that she is not put at risk.”
“What risk do you fear? That we intend to murder her?” These impolitic words slipped out of her mouth before she realized she intended to say them. She flushed.
“Is this my answer?” Scholastica asked, with cold irony.
“I am made weary by the long road we have traveled, Mother Scholastica. Forgive my harsh words. She has survived much, these past months. So have we all. Had we wished to see her come to harm, we could have disposed of her at any place along our journey. We could have left her to die in Dalmiaka. But we did not. We have cared for her as well as we could. Many good servants have died on this road—some of my own personal attendants among them—seeing her brought to safety.”
“We shall see.” Scholastica touched the letter and flicked one corner, as if making ready to open it, before pointedly looking at Rosvita. “If you will leave me now, Sister.”
Rosvita had suffered too much to go quietly. Her voice still trembled, and she was still angry. “I pray you, Mother Scholastica, let us be honest together. Do you escort Sapientia because you do not trust me?”
“You will deliver her to Sanglant.”
“You cannot possibly believe that Sanglant would harm her?”
Scholastica gestured toward the garden where, propitiously, the slack-faced Sapientia had come back into view as Petra coaxed her along. “He already has.”
4
“HOLY MOTHER! I pray you! Wake up!”
The twilight had barely begun its transition toward day, so the servant held a lamp to lighten the gloom. Antonia did not scold her. Over the months she had bided in Novomo after the fall of Darre, she had purged her retinue of any servants who displeased her. Felicita would never disturb her without cause. They feared her, as all people must fear God and, thus, God’s holy representative on Earth.
“What news?” She had the knack of coming instantly alert, without confusion.
Felicita was holding the lamp close to her own face, and her startled, wide eyes and parted lips betrayed her anxiety.
“An ill wind,” added Antonia.
Felicita began to weep while struggling to speak. “I pray you, Holy Mother. I am so frightened!”
Too frightened to speak sensibly, the woman babbled of creatures with human bodies and animal heads, of a flashing wheel of gold, and of folk falling into a writhing, spitting death from the merest prick of a dart. Other servants, newly woken, brought robes and a belt and slippers and helped Antonia dress.
“Hush! Take me to the queen and her consort!”
Captain Falco appeared at the door to her suite and escorted her to Novomo’s proud gate, a legacy of ancient days when the old Dariyans had founded the city as, so the story went, an outpost along the road that led north over the mountains into barbarian country. The captain said nothing, and she asked no questions, preferring to see for herself. Felicita trailed after, coughing out sobs and heaving great sighs as she fought to control her fear.
The weak always panicked. They were chaff, fated to be cast to the winds.
