The Burning Stone
“Where is Mother Obligatia?” Rosvita asked after she had paid her respects.
“She has gone ahead with Lord Hugh,” said Adelheid. “The rest of us will remain here until we hear the horn. That will mark that it is safe to proceed.”
“If it will ever be safe,” murmured Theophanu. But she stood resolutely beside her mount, as calm as ever. She had accepted Rosvita’s decision without objection, almost without reaction. The groom holding the reins of her mount looked nervous, shifting his feet as he stared up the path cut into the rock. It vanished around a curve in the rock, leading toward the summit. Was that a glimmer of light there, or only the trick of her eyes?
“I must speak with her alone,” said Rosvita. “Let me go up.”
“Nay, Sister!” said Theophanu sharply. “I will not lose you!”
“Mother Obligatia warned us not to follow her until she knew it was safe,” said Adelheid. “What if Lord Hugh cannot bind the creature? It might turn its killing gaze on you as well, Sister. And you are innocent.”
“No more innocent than that soldier who died,” said Rosvita. “Nay, Your Highness. I pray you, do not attempt to stop me. I will be cautious. But I must speak to her.”
Theophanu said nothing, neither to give permission nor withhold it, so Rosvita walked on. Wind bit at her face, and she chafed her hands together to warm them as she kept her gaze fixed on the ground, always aware of sheer cliff dropping off to her right and the distant tiny campfires of Ironhead’s encampment far below. But the path unrolled before as broad and easily negotiable as the apocryphal road that leads the unwary and the foolish and the wicked to the Abyss.
She labored up the slope and where the path cut left through a series of squat pinnacles, it gave out suddenly onto a flat summit. The standing stones blotted out the stars at even intervals. A faint tracery of white slipped between them like mist blown on the wind. Littered among the circle of stones lay putrefying bodies, a dozen at least, mangled, arms outflung, faces blackened, weapons broken and lying askew.
She staggered back from the sight, heard a warning whisper. A hand caught her elbow.
“You must go back, Sister Rosvita. It is dangerous for you to stay here.”
“Someone must witness.” Understanding had freed her: she was risking not just her body but her immortal soul, and she intended to see all there was to see.
“I have taken responsibility to witness,” whispered Mother Obligatia. Rosvita felt the old woman’s walking stick pressed against her hip, and she marveled that the abbess had strength enough to walk so far on her crippled legs. She could not leave her alone.
“I will stay with you. I must speak to you of what I have discovered—”
She saw him then, walking forward in plain sight, tall and glorious in moonlight as he crossed toward the circle of stones and halted about three paces in front of the first gaping archway of standing stones and lintel where an oval patch of sandy soil turned the ground white. A translucent figure darted forward through the stone circle, curling around the lintel sparking with the reflected glint of starlight. Hugh began to sing, hands lifted with fingers outspread. The wind died, and such an unnatural stillness settled over the height that she could hear his voice as clear and sweet as that of the angels.
“Matthias guide me, Mark protect me, Johanna free me, Lucia aid me, Marian purify me, Peter heal me, Thecla be my witness always, that the Lady shall be my shield and the Lord shall be my sword. Sanctify me, God, and destroy all that is evil and wicked. Free me from all attacks of the Enemy. Let no creature harm me. May the blessing of God be on my head. God reign forever, world without end.”
Rosvita smelled burning juniper, a sharp incense underlaid with a second, sour scent. Still singing, Hugh knelt to place nine small stones on the ground in the same layout as the greater stones that made up the stone circle and, with a polished walking stick much like that on which Mother Obligatia leaned, he traced a pattern of angles and intersections between those stones in the sandy oval. Rosvita blinked rapidly, thinking surely that her vision was distorted, because as he drew the lines on the oval patch she thought that these same angles and intersections glimmered into life among the stones, like a huge cat’s cradle of faint threads woven in and out between the monoliths.
Light flashed within the stones with the pulse of lightning, and she heard a wail. She expected Hugh to fall, stricken, and she clutched at Mother Obligatia’s arm, to drag her backward to safety if she could, but it was not Hugh who had cried out. For an instant, the creature swelled until it towered over them, and she saw it clearly: It had the delicacy of blown glass and the sharp glitter of a drawn sword. Its wings, encompassing half the sky, seemed feathered with glass. Was this how the angels appeared?