“They’re from St. Euseb?’s church history,” exclaimed Ruoda, “and maybe just a story told to reassure the faithful. What do they have to do with this map?”

“Hush,” whispered Heriburg. “She’s thinking.”

“She lied to me,” said Rosvita, letting her words lead her thoughts. “Lavrentia isn’t dead. Or wasn’t dead last year. Lavrentia became Obligatia. Obligatia, when she was Lavrentia, had two children, one a girl born to Taillefer’s only legitimate son, and the other a boy. What was it she said?” She placed a palm over the central stone crown marked on the map, concealing it. “She came to an estate called Bodfeld. There she met the nephew of the ruling lady, and in time they married and she gave birth to a child. Whom they named Bernard!”

This triumph of memory gave her energy, despite the lingering heat. She left the map and walked to the embrasure, leaning out where the breeze could touch her face. The city lay hidden beyond except for occasional torches bobbing along a dark street and the beacon fires ringing the outer wall. Could it be? Yet Bernard was not an uncommon name. She had to dig, and dig, recalling the few meetings she’d had with Liath. The time she had followed her outside at the hunting lodge, wondering how a common Eagle was so learned that she could read Dariyan fluently. Where did she come from? Following that path of memory, she found it. Liath herself had spoken the damning words.

Rosvita turned to survey Ruoda and Heriburg, who were regarding her with wide eyes and startled expressions. Lamplight played over their youthful features. “’I have been told I had cousins at Bodfeld!’ How could I have forgotten? Bodfeld.”

“Have you cousins at Bodfeld, Sister?” asked Ruoda. “I thought you came from the North Mark. I didn’t know the Counts of the North Mark had kin in eastern Saony.”

“Nay, they don’t, child.”

“Shhh!” hissed Heriburg to Ruoda. “She’s still thinking.”

“After the death of her husband, the child was taken from her and given to a monastery to raise. And the girl called Lavrentia was sent south—found by Wolfhere and sent south!—and so came by accident, or by God’s design, to St. Ekatarina’s. Maybe the only place she could have remained safe.”

“Safe from what?” asked Ruoda. Heriburg kicked her in the shin.

“That is the one terrible secret that would destroy her position. That would force the council of presbyters to revoke the ring.”

“Oh, my God,” said Heriburg, as though the words had been forced out of her. “You’re talking about the Holy Mother.”

She realized, then, that they were staring at her, aghast. “Daughters, you must speak of this to no one. Truly, you can see how ugly and destructive rumor can be. I have no proof. I have only suspicions. I may be wrong.”

“Wrong about what?” demanded Ruoda. “What is the terrible secret?”

“Ai, Lady,” Rosvita murmured. “Sin laid upon sin. Tomorrow, my children, I must ask you to do a horrible thing, to soil your hands with binding and working—”

“Sorcery?” asked Ruoda eagerly.

“We must all have amulets of protection, of concealment.”

A sharp rap on the door caused them all to start, as though God in Their guise as Eternal Judge had come calling on account of their sinful thoughts. Heriburg actually shrieked, so startled that she let go of the map, which rolled up with a snap. But it was only Fortunatus, wiping sweat from his brow, winded and distraught. He hurried in, stopped dead, and looked at each of them in turn. “What’s happened?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

Having come so far, even knowing that it might be possible for Anne or any other adept to be watching her right now, she had to speak.

“Sister Clothilde is dead, and so is Fidelis, and the hapless nephew from Bodfeld. All the other principals. Only Anne and Lavrentia—and Wolfhere—remain. That is why they are looking for her. To make sure no one discovers that Liath’s father was Anne’s half brother.”

“Incest!” whispered Ruoda in the tones of a gardener gratified to find all his roses in glorious bloom.

“May God have mercy,” murmured Fortunatus.

“Terrible enough,” continued Rosvita, “horrible, indeed. But there’s still a piece missing. Why did Sister Clothilde remove an unimportant girl from a convent near the seat of the Counts of Lavas? Why does that nag at me? It might only be coincidence.”

Fortunatus grabbed the map off the table and slid it up his sleeve, as if he expected guards to tromp in the next instant and arrest them all for treason. “The hounds. That hound the skopos keeps by her. Doesn’t it look like Count Lavastine’s hounds? Aren’t the Lavas hounds very like the ones described in the poems about Emperor Taillefer?”