The faithful Eagle, Hathui, came forward to grasp her hands. “Sister Rosvita!” She was weeping.
Ai, God, she was so weary. Too weary to think. Too weary even to wonder or grieve. It was as much as she could do to allow Hathui to lead her forward, in her authority as an honored cleric in the regnant’s schola, so that she could stand at the head of the litter as it was placed across three parallel benches.
“He would want you,” said Hathui in a choked voice, “to stand guard over his body now that his soul is fled.”
“How can it be?” Rosvita asked her. “I thought—we had all come to believe—that somehow his mother’s blessing would always protect him.”
Hathui shrugged. She could no longer speak. Turning away, she hid her face.
Out of the massing crowd a young nobleman appeared carrying a chair, which he set behind her. “Sister Rosvita,” he said, smiling at her. “I pray you, you look tired. Please sit.”
She blinked. It seemed apparitions would trouble her today, because this lad looked exactly like young Berthold Villam. “You were lost years ago,” she told him, feeling foolish for speaking to a ghost, although in general ghosts could not fetch chairs.
“So I was, Sister, but I am found again. I pray you, Sister. Sit. I will tell you the tale later.”
Berthold Villam!
This was a peculiar miracle, one impossible to believe, yet as he walked away to join a pair of young men—one of them foreign and almost certainly a Quman—she saw that he walked like Berthold Villam and he looked like Berthold Villam. Such a good boy, with the charm of his famous father and the sweet vitality of youth. The vision dizzied her. Gratefully, she sank into the seat, although at this level, steadied by the support, she must look on the mangled corpse at close quarters.
His face was undamaged, but his torso and legs were torn and twisted. Without the soul animating him, he was no more than a collection of parts and pieces; the handsome man who charmed effortlessly and led his troops with determination and assurance could not be glimpsed in this empty flesh.
More, and more still, crowded into the hall. Chairs for the great princes were set to either side of the pallet on which he lay, and one by one they took their places: Princess Theophanu, Duchess Liutgard, Duke Conrad. A murmur arose when the Eika commander sat in a chair beside the others, with two human and two Eika standing behind him in close council, often bending to whisper in his ear.
More were coming in. Mother Scholastica strode in with a look of thunderous anger. Although older than Rosvita, she appeared to have no aggravating aches and pains!
“Dead!” she exclaimed, pausing to examine the corpse. “So the report is true!”
“Mother Scholastica,” said Rosvita in a low voice, gesturing to get her attention. “I pray you. What of my companions?”
“Among the living,” she said curtly. “As are the Lions who protected us. Princess Sapientia was not so fortunate.”
“What can you mean?”
“She, too, is dead. Killed by the sorcery of that witch woman you sheltered.”
This was too much to take in.
“Yet I suppose God’s mercy works in ways beyond our understanding,” continued Scholastica. “Both brother and sister were unfit to rule. Now, they are gone, and we may hope for peace with Conrad and Tallia on the throne.”
Rosvita tried to speak, to voice a thought, a prayer, an objection, but she could not. This she had wrought, and all for nothing.
Mother Scholastica was already moving away to confront the nobles seated on the dais. Her gaze swept them disdainfully. She gestured toward the Eika without looking at him.
“How comes that creature to sit among you as though he were a great prince of the realm?”
Lord Stronghand had a way of baring his teeth that mimicked a human smile without precisely being one. Jewels winked in his teeth, a barbarian’s ornament, but his words were smooth and cool. “Mother Abbess, with all the respect that is due to a WiseMother of your stature and authority, I would suggest that it is the strength of my army that buys me a seat on this council.”
Theophanu’s mouth quirked. She said, “Aunt, have you not yourself observed that laws are silent in the presence of arms?”
“Let your stewards bring me a chair,” said Scholastica, regarding Theophanu with disgust and turning her attention to Liutgard. “If there is to be a council, then I will stand at its head.”
“Yes, Mother Scholastica,” murmured Liutgard, gesturing for a steward, while Conrad sighed heavily and wiped his forehead with the back of a hand.
