The Gathering Storm
Page 272

A spider’s thread spun down from the heavens to latch to one of the stones, followed by a second. His heart sped as he realized they were engaged in the art of the mathematici, who could read the movements of the heavens and discern their secrets. Years ago Kansi-a-lari had woven a spell into the stones while he cowered and prayed, but she had woven it with the intent to keep them in one place while time moved forward around them. Marcus wove a gateway into the stones through which Meriam and Elene and their retinue might travel to a distant land.
The stone circles were gateways, each one a gate that could lead to any one of the others, but he did not know how to weave the spell. He wanted to know how to weave the spell. He tried to lift his head, to look, to learn, but none of his limbs moved and that waxing torpor dragged him down, and down, and down into the pit. A shadow bent over him; hands pinned parchment to his robes; the cloth on which he lay strained and tugged around his body and he moved into the web of light. Blind, he floated while all around blue fire burned with a cold breath that soaked him to the bone.
It is so cold that it burns. He sees branching corridors and down each one a vision, whether false or true he cannot say.
A man, grimy, thin, half naked, walks and walks as a rumbling wheel rolls around and around him, never ending.
Wizened creatures whisper and skulk in the depths of the earth, listening.
A merman glides through smoky waters, pulled by the wake of a slender ship.
A small party of robed figures strides hastily through the blue-white fog. Is there a familiar face among them? Isn’t that the Eagle called Hanna, who was freed from slavery to Bulkezu? She turns as if hearing his thoughts and calls aloud.
“Who are you?”
Light flared, and died, and he hit hard ground, his back and head and hips jarred by the force of the impact. That flare of the light washed away until no light remained. Was it night? Or was he blind?
He could no longer move his lips. But he could still hear.
“Who is this?”
“See, there is a message pinned to his robes with a fine brooch. Ai, God! He stinks!”
“Feh! So he does!”
“This is signed with the name of Brother Marcus. Here is the man who dragged the filthy one. He has the look of a servant.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“I don’t know. He looks as if he’s been knocked cold, but otherwise healthy. We must take these two to the Holy Mother.”
“That’s a long road.”
A warm hand touched his lips, then his throat, and last his eyes. “God Above! He’s like ice! I think he’s dying. Hurry! Send for Presbyter Hugh!”
Their voices faded into a hiss, but that, too, fell away as he sank into the silence of the pit.
XXIV
HIS VOICE
1
IT was raining again, a downpour that threatened to drown the newly planted seeds and sow the dreaded murrain among their precious sheep, for they’d heard rumors that the disease had blighted lands south of here. Ivar stood on the porch of the infirmary and listened to the gallop of rain on the sloping roof, accompanied by the coughs of the afflicted resting under the care of Sister Nanthild. Ermanrich, Hathumod, and Sigfrid were all sick with a pleurisy that had felled three quarters of their little congregation. One elderly nun had died, but the rest seemed doomed only to be miserable and weak for many weeks.
“There you are, Brother Ivar.” Sister Nanthild could barely walk with the assistance of two canes, and she never went farther than the porch of her infirmary, but she was nevertheless a fierce and wise ruler of her tiny domain. “Still healthy, I see. Are you chewing licorice root?”
“More than I ever wished to, Sister.” The taste had ruined his appetite, since every food now stank of aniseed.
She chuckled. “An obedient boy, even if you are a heretic. Is there aught Her Grace wishes from me? I can’t let you in to speak with your comrades. We rely on your health, Brother Ivar. We must take no chance that you catch the contagion.”
“I know.”
“You don’t like it.”
“Am I so easy to understand, Sister?”
Her smile was a well-worn crease in a wrinkled face. He had never seen her lose her temper, even with her most crotchety patients—and many tested her with their whining and complaints. “I have seen every condition of humankind in the course of my years, Brother. You are no mystery to me!”
The comment frightened him, although he knew it ought not to. He had worked hard to quiet the demons that pricked him, but she saw into his innermost heart.
“There, now, child. I do not know all your secrets, nor do I wish to know them. I have secrets of my own.”