Burning Shadows (38 page)

“As you wish,” said Sanctu-Germainios, and stepped back from the church. “If you would like my observations as regional guardian—”

“I’ll send a novice for you when we’re ready,” Priam Corydon declared, and motioned the men and monks to follow him, Neves, Bernardius, and Mangueinic bringing up the rear.

Sanctu-Germainios watched them go, attended by a low grumble of thunder, then took himself back to the old chapel. He understood Priam Corydon’s preference for the company of Mangueinic, Neves, and Bernardius: those three commanded men with weapons, and he did not. Making his way down the gradual slope toward the old chapel, he could see that the refugees were still discomposed, balking at every sound from the clouds, lamenting at every bolt of lightning they could discern. As he went into the old chapel, he was startled and relieved to discover Nicoris standing at the small table near the rear wall, a sack lying open in front of her, out of which she was sorting herbs.

“Oh, Dom,” she called as she caught sight of him. “Look what I found down the hunters’ trail: monkshood.” She held up the plant for his inspection. “You can make the syrup to treat Hluthaw’s cough.”

Her pleasure had a brittle edge to it, and she continually looked about as if she expected the old chapel to be struck by lightning.

Sanctu-Germainios nodded his approval. “Excellent. But take care to wash your hands after you touch it. The virtue of the plant is very strong, and can harm those who do not need it. You shouldn’t handle it more than necessary.”

“That’s not all I found.” She laughed, her tone a bit too shrill. “There’s water-lettuce from the stream. And nettles, hawthorn, tansy, and purge-root. I saw bear tracks around a large thicket of berry- vines, so I didn’t stay to pick any.” She held out a slightly wilted plant with yellow flowers. “Primrose. You said you can make a healing salve from primrose.”

“Most impressive; I will turn it to good use,” he remarked, coming to her side to see what else she had brought. “Mountain thyme. Pennyroyal.” He sniffed the delicate leaves. “Angelica-root. Feverfew. You’ve been very diligent.”

She flushed. “Thank you for saying so.”

“There’s no reason for thanks,” he said, and saw a flash in her quicksilver eyes and a firmer set to her jaw. “You have no reason to be offended, Nicoris.”

“You remind me that I’m beneath you. I know that. I can’t forget it, Dom.” She put heavy emphasis on his title, and glanced up at the barrel-dome, then back at him.

He met her glare with kindness in his eyes. “I meant only that it is I who should be thanking you.”

It took her a short while to speak up again. “You are a perplexing man, Dom. As much as you are a man at all.”

“Accepted,” he said, knowing she wanted to wound him as she had felt herself to be wounded.

This time the percussion from the clouds rattled all the buildings of the monastery, followed by wails of dread.

Nicoris reached for him and hung on while the thunder rolled away in echoes. “I hate that sound. I
hate
it,” she whispered, her face pressed against his shoulder.

“It will pass. The rain will come and the thunder will stop,” he reassured her, his arms lightly around her. “The heat makes it worse.”

“God is displeased,” Nicoris exclaimed.

“That seems unlikely, or we must suppose that God is displeased every summer,” he told her gently. “The seasons have temperaments of their own, and I doubt that any god bothers with them very often.”

“There is only one God,” she said, pulling away from him, becoming more discomposed. “All others are false.” She looked around as if she were afraid of being overheard.

“All worshippers say that, of all gods but their own.”

Her eyes widened. “Think where you are, Dom,” she admonished him. “To speak heresy, and with the thunder treading through the heavens …”

This time the lightning and the thunder came at once, leaving a sharp odor in the air, and more lamentations. Then the skies let loose their bounty, not as rain but as hail. It rattled on the roof and walls of the old chapel, it ricocheted off the ground and buzzed on the roofs of all the buildings of the monastery; screeching and howls were quickly drowned out by the steady seething of the hail.

Nicoris yelped and flung herself once again into the haven of Sanctu-Germainios’ arms. “Lord of the Heavens, have mercy on me.” In a kind of desperation, she kissed him, her mouth hard on his while the hail bounced and thrummed.

The kiss was a long one, imbued with as much terror as desire; Sanctu-Germainios could feel her need rising, and he felt memories stir, memories that were as unwelcome as they were intense, of long days and nights enclosed in darkness, a darkness that was only alleviated by the monthly offering of a victim to his hunger. Feeding on repulsion and terrified loathing, his loneliness had grown through the decades until all traces of sympathy had drained out of him and he dreaded the burden of companionship even more than he yearned for it. Her fear recalled those years to him, and the wretched desolation that had overcome him; the memory sickened him and he strove to break their embrace without giving her more distress. Finally he ended the poignant, appalling kiss, stroking her hair as he moved a step back from her. “Not this way, Nicoris. Please. Not this way.”

She stared at him wildly, her face working. “I’m so scared,” she hissed. “The storm is—”

“I know,” he said.

Thunder banged like a closing door, and the hail got louder, and then rapidly slacked off to a murmur.

She shrieked and covered her ears. “Make it stop!”

“You know no one can do that,” he said. “If it were possible, I would.”

“It is God’s footsteps. He reminds us that He knows everything.” She made the sign of the fish. “He tells us of our sins.”

“Lightning ignites the air, and the thunder is the sound of it.” He had heard that theory seven centuries before, and over time he had come to believe it was the most accurate of all the hypotheses regarding lightning that he had encountered.

Nicoris shook her head. “God knows all; He warns us of His displeasure at our sins. The monks say so. The monks listen, and they hear the warning God sends, and they bow to His Will.” She bit her lower lip. “Sometimes I think they know when I lie; God whispers to them, and they heed Him.
You
know when I do; I can feel it,” she said, slowly pacing toward the main door, not looking back at him. “You say it doesn’t matter, that you accept it as part of me, but it does; it matters.”

“Then why do you lie?” he asked, wondering if she would finally tell him the truth, whatever that truth might be.

“Because they’d kill me if they knew.” She turned and came back toward him, her gaze fixed on the floor. “You might not, but…”

“I will not kill you if you tell me the truth: my Word on it.” He regarded her steadily, adding, “And I will keep your secret.”

She shook her head. “No. No, you won’t.”

“I will.”

“I can’t.” She looked at him for a searing instant, then turned away.

He went to her but did not touch her. “Shall I tell you what I think your secret is? Would that make it easier for you?”

Although she nodded, she said, “No. You can’t know. You’d despise me if you knew. You’d betray me.”

“I would not,” he said, his voice low and solacing; as he spoke, he sensed his protests were fruitless.

A distant mumble of thunder marked the end of the hail and the start of the rain.

“Is it over?” she whispered.

“The rain should go on for some time,” he said, and lightly brushed her upper arm with his fingers.

She flinched as if she had been scalded. “Don’t! Don’t treat me well when you know I’m not worthy of it. If I told you—” Then she studied his face, her curiosity mixed with contempt. “Why don’t you force me to tell you? No one would blame you, not even I would.” 

“When has force ever gained truth?” he asked her, compassion in his dark eyes. “You would tell me what I want to hear, not the truth.” He had a brief, troubling memory of Srau. An ineluctable sadness came over him, and he regarded Nicoris heedfully. “When you decide to tell me, I will be honored to listen.” He could not tell her that he knew because he had tasted her blood, knowing how much such a revelation would distress her.

“Why? Because you take your pleasure with me?”

“No: because I love you, and the pleasure I receive is yours to give.” His compelling gaze rested upon her.

“You love what I provide you,” she countered, unnerved by his serene demeanor.

“Yes: because it is the essence of you.”

She began to weep, making almost no sound, her hands shading her eyes as if to block the sight of her tears from him.

“Nicoris—”

“Promise me,” she said as she cut him off. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone about this.”

“That you have a secret? I will not.”

She whispered, “I wish I could believe you.”

He held out his hands to her. “So do I.” He waited, and when she remained still, he added, “You know my secret, and you have kept it.”

Slowly she put her hands into his. “Dom, why do you endure my insults?”

“Because I hope to keep your good opinion,” he said, and realized Nicoris would be puzzled by this explanation, and so added, “To retain your respect.”

“You can command my respect,” she said.

“If I must command it, it is not respect but concession.” He slowly enfolded her in his arms, remaining silent while she cried.

When her tears had given way to sniffs and hiccups, she finally looked up at him. “I wish we could leave this place.”

“So do I,” he said. “But until we know that we may travel without risk of being attacked, it is safer to remain behind the double walls here.”

She sighed. “Do you think you could go with the soldiers? If Neves and his company left, couldn’t we go with them? Wouldn’t we be safe?”

“Possibly,” said Sanctu-Germainios, cradling her close to him. “But they will not be departing until the crops are in, at the earliest.” And when, he added to himself, the risk of raids would be at its height.

Nicoris thought about this for a brief time. “All right,” she said, “but must we stay here for another winter?”

“I … ,” He faltered. “I hope it will not be necessary.”

The wind was picking up and the rain swept the mountains in angled waves; inside the old chapel it sounded as if the storm were breathing.

“It
is
God, making His Presence known.” She twisted in his arms, listening to the susurrus of the rain. “The monks are right about that.”

“It is the nature of wind and rain,” he said.

“How can you be sure?” She shivered from fright.

Instead of renewing the debate, he kissed her forehead. “It will pass, Nicoris, and if it rains long enough, the fire to the east will be put out. If the wind lessens, we will have a fine day tomorrow.”

She relaxed a little, her body no longer bow-string taut. “It would be a fine thing to have the fire die.”

“The wind has shifted to the north, which will also serve us well.” He turned her face to his. “Let me give you a tincture to help you to rest. By the time you waken, the storm should have lessened and we will have time together.”

“Will I have dreams?” Her apprehension was less apparent than it had been while the thunder was beating the mountains, but it had not faded entirely.

“You may,” he said gently.

“Can you make sure I won’t dream?” she pleaded.

He considered. “I can make it so you probably will not dream.” She thought about this, then she nodded. “All right. I will take your potion.” She moved out of his arms. “And tonight I’ll welcome you to my bed.”

“If that is what you want,” he said.

“It is. It will be,” she said with conviction.

He started toward the red-lacquer chest. “Then it is what you shall have,” he said.

As she watched him, she said suddenly, “You could give me poison, couldn’t you?”

“I could, but I will not,” he said, turning toward her.

“How can I be sure?” She trembled, but held his eyes with her own.

Certain now that she felt threatened by more than the thunder and lightning, he opened the chest and took out a chalcedony cup, his curiosity about her apprehension quelled for the moment. Selecting his ingredients, he said, lightly and painfully, “I suppose you will have to trust me.”

Text of a letter from Verus Flautens, Praetor-General of Drobetae in the former Province of Dacia, to Gnaccus Tortulla, Praetor Cus- todis of Viminacium in the Province of Moesia, written in Greek code on sanded linen and carried by Flautens’ personal courier and delivered twenty-two days after it was written.

To the most esteemed Praetor Custodis of Viminacium in the Province of Moesia, the Praetor-General of Drobetae in the former Province of Dacia, on this, the last day of July in the Christian year 439, Ave!