The Burning Stone

She gave in to it then, leaned back against him, and let him put his arms around her and the baby. They stood there for a long time, watching the stars.



3



WANDERING down the path of doubt was a slippery slope that always ended in the mire. Antonia, formerly Biscop of Mainni and now masquerading under the name Sister Venia where she lived among a nest of mathematici, had no inclination to be trapped in the mud.



They hadn’t wanted Heribert among them all along, although his manners and elegant bearing—if a little smirched by his months attending the dog-prince—were certainly the jewel of this altogether detestable place. Although she shuddered to contemplate it, the hall he had crafted with his hands and the aid of the servants and Prince Sanglant was such a vast improvement over the decrepit tower that had been the main building when they had arrived that she could not understand why they were so eager to rid themselves of him, since he alone had made of this valley a fitting residence for noble persons of their rank and accomplishment.



Or perhaps they hadn’t cared about him one way or the other. Like the savage Eika dog they’d killed to get to the baby, he had just been in the way at the wrong time.



So she had listened to the various explanations, none proffered with as much self-righteous anger as that of the prince, who truly was not able to temper his emotions. Perhaps it was true that Sister Anne’s cool recital ought to have carried more weight. Reason always triumphed over base emotion.



But Prince Sanglant had recklessly told her other things as well, and rather than doubt she had decided that perhaps she didn’t really support the goals of the Seven Sleepers. Perhaps she didn’t see any need to save earth from the disaster that, they claimed, would soon be visited upon it.



After all, why shouldn’t the world suffer in a cataclysm brought on by the Lost Ones? There were wicked in plenty, and God had never before shied away from punishment. If some innocents died together with the damned, then so be it: They would die secure in the knowledge that death was only a passageway leading to the blessed Chamber of Light, where they would reside for eternity in the peace of God’s all encompassing light.



Perhaps Heribert was better off out in the world, as long as he had the protection of someone more powerful than himself. Perhaps she had learned as much as it was worth learning, here at Verna. Perhaps it was time for her to venture back into the world and see what she could make of it, now that she had mastered so many new skills.



She knelt at the altar, a simple wooden box carved out of cherrywood and polished to a handsome sheen. Over Severus’ protests, Heribert had added various ornaments, grape leaves signifying God’s bounty at every corner and edge and elaborate roses, for purity, on each side. She liked to admire them as she prayed, because they reminded her that God didn’t condemn luxury, the little fine details that made life more elegant, but rather luxuria, the wanton desire for carnal and earthly things.



“‘Open to me the gates of victory,’” she prayed. “‘In Your service I have suffered reproach. I pray you then, redeem me, and rebuke my enemies.’”



It was the twentieth day of Aogoste, the feast day of St. Guillaime of Benne who had chastised the wicked king Tarquin the Proud of Floretia and then when King Tarquin would not institute laws according to Guillaime’s wishes—and the will of God, of course—brought down a great flood upon Floretia that washed every soul in it out to sea. Including himself—thus had he gained his martyr’s crown, and her respect, although she would have gotten out of the city before calling down God’s wrath. The city had never recovered and, according to Heribert, still lay in ruins.



She heard voices outside and, with some effort, got to her feet. It was harder to get up and down these days. She was getting old, and therefore had less time in which to improve the world. When she left the chapel, she was surprised to see Brother Marcus walking beside Sister Anne on the plank walkway, speaking so intently to her that he didn’t at first notice her or the other figure passing by: Prince Sanglant. These days, the prince normally did not walk among the lower buildings; he kept to himself, with his daughter and wife up at his hut or working in the meadows or woodland on the upper slopes. But a burst of summer storms had dislodged a wooden shingle on the roof of the hall, and he had, he had said, too much respect for Heribert’s hard work to let it go to ruin.



Brother Marcus looked up abruptly and saw the prince, and he stopped short and gaped as if he expected to see a slavering pack of wolves come howling out of the air around him. “Will he bite?” he demanded of Anne.