Elliott, Kate - Crown of Stars 3 (58 page)

"Hold!" Lavastine's voice came abruptly, from the other side of the door. "Stand back."

They all obeyed without thinking. The latch moved. The door creaked, shifted, grated.

"It's stuck," said the soldier, and he and Alain got their shoulders behind it and shoved. It gave way all at once, and Alain fell into the room, staggered, and caught himself, blinking. The shutter lay wide and the thinnest gray streak of light blurred the horizon. Servants crowded in behind him, but the silence was frightening, and intense.

Lavastine stood barefoot, in a shift, on the stone floor. In his right hand he held his unsheathed sword, in his left a knife. Sorrow and Rage growled at the men until Alain bade them hush. They were so tense that even then they growled, but they sat. Terror lay on the floor licking one of his hind legs, and Fear crowded directly behind Lavastine, a headless bulk.

The torchlight made shadows dance crazily in the room as the servants moved forward, muttering, afraid.

"Father!" Alain found his voice and stumbled forward to grasp Lavastine's wrist. His skin was terribly cold, but his face was flushed. "Ai, God! What happened?"

Lavastine opened his hand and the knife fell to the floor with a thud. Fear growled, a rumbling in his throat. He moved around Lavastine, and Alain had a brief glimpse of something white dangling from his jaws before the hound opened his mouth to drop a sickly white ratlike creature at Lavastine's feet like an offering. It looked quite dead.

But it was too late anyway.

Alain's gaze, drawn down, stopped at the count's bare feet, pale, well-groomed, and clean . . . except for two spots of blood on his ankle, set close together. Lavastine said nothing, only set a hand on Alain's shoulder for support and with Alain beside him limped back to the bed, where he sat down.

But his expression was perfectly calm. "Call the deacon," he said. "I have been bitten." The servants wailed aloud, all clamoring at once, but he raised a hand for silence. "Nay, God is merciful."

"Merciful!" cried Alain, aghast. He did not want to look at the creature that lay exposed on the plank floor, but one of the soldiers poked it with the haft of its ax, and it did not stir, made no movement. It was completely lifeless.

"Now it is dead and cannot harm you, Son." Finally, one of the soldiers hurried away down the stairs. Lavastine touched Alain. His fingers seemed as cold as marble. "See that it is burned, but out away from the village where the smoke cannot poison anyone."

Across the room, Terror whimpered, and suddenly the count's cool expression faltered, and the shadow of death flickered in his eyes. "Ai, God. My old Terror. Most faithful."

"Here, now," said Alain brusquely, "sit there, Father." He grabbed the knife from the floor and cut a cross over the wound, then set his own mouth to it and sucked, although Lavastine began to protest but gave up. His blood tasted as bitter as hope. Alain spat it out on the floor, sucked again, and again, and then did the same for Terror while the servants hurried to get hot water, cloth to bind the wound, and a shovel to carry away the dead creature. The deacon came as the sun rose. She busied herself making a poultice, and Alain sent a messenger to the monastery of St. Synodios, asking them to send their Brother Infirmarian at once.

Lavastine sat throughout as calm as stone, and never once cried out in pain, never cursed the Eika enchanter, only waited, stroking Terror's head, and watched with that least smile, the one that denoted his approval, while Alain ordered the servants and then, finally, because there was nothing else to do, knelt beside him and prayed.

VIII

T WHICH L

"HERE comes the young lord!"

Alain heard the shout rise up as his entourage rounded the forest path and came to a halt in a clearing. Ten huts stood along the path with narrow garden strips stretching out behind each one. A score of cows grazed along the forest's verge. Fields of winter rye sprouted beyond the village. He dismounted and gave his reins to a groom.

"This is the disputed land?" he asked his steward, but already the village folk swarmed forward and in the old tradition began clamoring all together to get his attention.

A steward brought his stool, and he sat down, although that did nothing to mitigate the outcry. So he just sat, calmly regarding them with Sorrow on one side, Rage on the other, and Fear flopped down at his feet, and after a while one and then another stopped shouting and gesticulating as, one by one, they realized he did not intend to speak until there was silence. In time, because he was patient, they all stood respectfully before him and waited.

"It has come to the attention of my father, Count Lavastine, that certain disputes have disrupted the peace of this village and that several men have been injured in fighting. It is my father's will that no feuding be allowed on his lands, so I have come to settle the matter. Let those with an interest each come forward— No!" He had to raise his voice as several crowded forward at once, arms raised to get his attention. "Each person will have opportunity to speak, no matter how long it takes."

Their testimony took a while to give, and it was cold work, especially since he was obligated to sit still and listen under a chill autumn sky. But he had a fine, furlined wool cloak, and, in addition, he never wanted for hot cider brought to him by the village children. He listened, because he was good at listening, and after a while as the village folk saw they would truly each be heard, a certain temperance settled over their speech and they began to accuse less and explain more. Once he had sorted through their complaints of each other and the petty injustices and quarrels over the meadowland, grazing rights, division of rents paid to their lord out of the common rye fields, how to parcel out the remaining fallow lands, and how often to let the fields lie fallow, he lifted a hand for silence.

"This is the root of what I hear you say: that you have all prospered so well under the rule of Count Lavastine that there isn't enough land for your children to inherit so they can each have a portion as large as the one you have worked in your time." They dared not quarrel with his opinion, but he saw the idea take hold in their minds. Once he had seen the pattern emerge, he knew how Lavastine and Aunt Bel would answer it, and he wanted to do the best he could. In truth, he could have sent a steward to deal with the problem, but with Lavastine ill he needed to be seen. And anyway, staying busy kept his mind off Tallia.

"It is my will as heir to these lands that you be rewarded, not punished, for your hard work, but it is also necessary that these disputes end. Therefore, in the name of my father I will allow you to cultivate clearings within the forest, which has up to now been reserved for foraging, pigs, and hunting. But you must take only two harvests from any field there, and then move on to clear new fields, and you must not return to any field previously cleared for at least ten years. For every five measures of grain reaped, one shall be given to the count's granary. For one plowing a year you shall have the use of an iron-sheathed plow from Lavas Holding. In the name of my father, and in my own name, I have spoken."

They were satisfied. He saw it in their expressions as they bent their knees to him, as they said, "Bless you, my lord." No doubt details remained to be worked out, but those could be left to the stewards. Quarrels would -$till erupt because they always did. But he was content that he had done his best.

"What of our good Count Lavastine, my lord?" called one of the elders. "We heard he'd taken ill."

Any satisfaction he felt drained from him in an instant. "Pray for him," he replied. "Pray to God for Their healing grace."

They returned to Lavas Holding by early afternoon, and as Alain followed the hounds up the stairs to Lavastine's chamber, he heard a woman's muffled weeping. He entered the room to see Tallia kneeling beside the count's bed in prayer, her shoulders trembling and her cupped hands covering her face.

"I pray you, Son," said Lavastine, seeing Alain as he chained Fear and Rage to an iron ring set into the wall close beside the bed. The expression that crossed his face was clearly one of relief. "Escort your wife to your chambers. She has prayed over me all morning, and I fear she needs rest."

Alain paused to caress Terror; by Lavastine's order the old hound had been allowed to lie on the bed beside him, and there he rested, quieter each day but somehow still alive. He whined, pressing his hot, dry nose into Alain's hand. He could not thump his tail, or move his legs, but he kept his dark gaze focused faithfully on his master.

"Come, Tallia." She did not resist as Alain took her elbow and raised her up. Behind, servants helped the count sit up in bed, then flinched back as Fear jumped up onto the bed to lie across Lavastine's dead legs. Alain looked away and hurriedly led her upstairs. Sorrow followed him as far as the threshold; then, whining, she turned back into the room to remain with the count.

Upstairs, Alain sent Tallia's servingwomen from the room. She was still sobbing softly. Her sorrow for Lavastine touched him deeply. He thought he had never loved her as much as he did now, when her compassion was made evident by her tears.

"Don't despair, beloved," he whispered into her ear. She was limp with sorrow; he held her close.

"How can I not?" she said faintly. "He remains stubbornly

blind. That's why he's turning to stone, because he refuses to accept the true word, the holy death and life of the blessed Daisan, who died that we might all live unstained in the Chamber of Light. He will fall into the Abyss. If only God had given me the strength to make him see!"

He was too startled to reply. This was not what he had expected.

Then she looked up at him; a spark of passion lit in her eyes, a hundred unspoken promises. It dazed him, torn with grief and sorrow for Lavastine, yet wanting her so badly. He sighed and gathered her closer, waiting for what she would say to him while she allowed him to hold her so intimately.

"After he's dead, you will let me build a convent, won't you? You'll put no obstacles in my path, I know it. It's only
he
who is trapped by his old allegiances to the word of the false church. We can build together a church dedicated to Mother and Son, and we'll dedicate ourselves there, in perpetual virginity, in Their Names. In this way we can free ourselves from the burden of mortality! We'll bless any children we might have had by never condemning them to the prison of existence on this earth!"

"No!" He flinched, let go of her as he recoiled. How could she talk like this when every soul in this holding mourned their good lord who lay dying? "You know Lavas County must have an heir. You know it! It's our duty."

"Nay, it's our duty to break the chains of this world, to escape the flesh that traps us." She shuddered. "Everything that is most distasteful, all that binds us to the Enemy, darkness, desire, bestial mating, all that pumping and panting—

Was she mocking him? Out of patience, he grabbed her shoulders. "But we must make a child, Tallia!
That's
our duty." She tried to pull away, but he was too angry to feel compassion for her fear, if it was fear at all. Maybe it was only selfishness.

"Never! I'll never defile myself so! I've dedicated myself to—"

"Do what you will, build what you will, dedicate yourself as you will—
after
you've given Lavas County an heir!"

She swayed, eyes rolling back, and fainted.

He stood there stupidly with Tallia limp in his arms as her servingwomen crossed into the chamber, alerted by their raised voices. They stared at him like frightened rabbits. With a cry of frustration, he surrendered her into the care of Lady Hathumod; i the only sensible one among them, and fled to the chapel. He knelt before the Hearth, but although the frater who attended the chapel touched his lips with sanctified water from a gold cup, still he could find no words. After a while, the frater left him alone in the silence of God's chamber, and as he knelt there, he thought he had never felt more alone ib his life. He wanted to weep, but he had no tears. He wanted to pray, but he had no eloquent words. Yet did good God ever demand eloquence? How many times had Aunt Bel told him that God preferred an honest heart to a clever tongue?

Finally he gripped the tasseled end of the altar cloth in one hand and pressed the cloth against his forehead. "God, I pray you," he whispered. "I beg you, heal my father."

For the longest time he listened, but he heard no answer.

"I beg you, come, my lord," said the frater quietly, reentering the chamber. "The count is asking for you."

He followed the frater quietly, and so quietly did they come that he paused at the threshold to Lavastine's chamber without at first being noticed. Fear still lay on the bed, and Sorrow and Rage sat within reach of the count's hand, should he wish to pat them. As unnaturally still as Terror, they ignored the folk crowded around the bed, and Alain did, too. He could not take his eyes from Lavastine.