“Hugh,” muttered Liath. She moved the book, not to hide it, but to fix it more firmly against his back in case anyone tried to pull it out of her arms.
“Who has said these things?” demanded Sanglant. “Let him come forward and speak these accusations in public. The Enemy uses whispers murmured in darkness in order to cast doubt. I believe such matters must be examined in the light.”
That he could damage Hugh’s credibility he did not doubt, but he had already made his biggest mistake. He didn’t realize it until Liath stepped out from behind him and walked right up to Mother Scholastica’s desk without ceremony or any particular respect for the holy abbess’ rank and preeminence.
First, make sure every commander knows their part in the plan.
“Liath,” he said, warning her off, but she set the book on the table and opened it.
“Here,” she said in that infuriating way she had, oblivious to the well gaping open at her feet as she stared up at the heavens. “The very question I meant to ask you, Mother Scholastica. This book I inherited from my father, but I do not read Arethousan. You see how the ancient language of Saïs is glossed in Arethousan by a second hand.”
The biscops and abbots crowded forward. Alberada’s eyes narrowed; Suplicia of Gent’s eyes grew wide. Others grimaced, and one old churchman set his lips together so tightly that the pressure wrinkled his clean-shaven chin.
Scholastica unclenched her hands, which had suddenly and painfully tightened, and touched the ancient parchment as though it were crawling with vermin. “‘Krypte!”’ she said in the voice of a woman condemning souls to the Pit for disobedience. “‘Hide this!”’ She traced her finger along the path of words, translating slowly. Like all church folk of her generation, she had learned Arethousan from Queen Sophia and her foreign retinue. “‘Many around have been fulfilled among us … these miraculous signs and omens, all the things from the heavens. I write for you an orderly account, most excellent Theophilus, so you may know the truth regarding this thing in which you have been instructed by word of mouth.”’
“Who is Theophilus?” asked Liath.
“Silence!” Scholastica turned the page, searching among the letters, none of which had any meaning to Sanglant. Some she was able to read; others she skipped over. He could not tell the difference. “‘God is born in the flesh …’ This is the heresy of dual nature!” She turned from white to red as she turned another page, and another. No one spoke or moved except Biscop Alberada, who wiped her brow and shuddered. “‘Then came the blessed Daisan before the judgment of the Empress Thaissania, She of the Mask. And when he would not bow before her but spoke the truth of the Mother of Life and the Divine Logos, the Holy Word, then she announced the sentence of death. This he met joyfully, for he embraced the promise of the Chamber of Light. But his disciples with him wept bitterly. So was he taken away and put to the flaying knife and his heart was cut out of his breast …”’
Her voice, ragged and chill, grew several degrees colder on these words, and her gaze, startlingly hot, lifted to sear Sanglant where he sat rigid, not knowing what to do, entirely at a loss, routed from the field. She was incandescent with anger, but she went on in a tone like a bell tolling for the dead.
“‘And a darkness fell over the whole land …”’
She broke off and rose. Even the church folk shrank back from her righteous wrath. The great princes tensed.
“A darkness, indeed! This is the source of the storm that has afflicted us! This is the heresy of the Redemption, and that of the dual nature! Brought into this realm, we now see, by a renegade monastic who strayed from the church and forgot his vows, and passed the poison on into his daughter.”
The words dropped like iron, more damaging than a spear thrust or a sword’s cut.
Only Liath did not appear to notice. She was too busy gazing in wonder at the open page. “Do you suppose it is a forgery, or the truth? How could one tell? It looks old, but the parchment might have been scraped clean and reused. It could have been discolored to appear old. Or it might be as it seems, centuries old. Is the Arethousan gloss written contemporaneously with the original, or was it glossed later? How can we know the truth of something that happened so long ago? One would have to gather evidence from many sources …”
She looked up expectantly. Only then did she falter, and he saw her bewilderment and the slow dawn of understanding.
As he understood, too late.
Hugh knows her better than I do.
