“Let us pray fittingly to God, who have shown us Their mercy by bringing us a new skopos renowned for her wisdom, piety, and noble lineage.”
How could they crown Anne as skopos? How could they trust her, who was the greatest danger of all? How could she stop them when not one soul in the hall was aware of her presence?
She pressed through the celebrating throng to the side of Sister Rosvita, who had interceded for her before. But although the good cleric looked thoughtful rather than pleased, concerned rather than joyful, nothing Liath could do caught her attention. The sardonic cleric seated beside Rosvita, who kept making sarcastic asides, brushed at his shoulder when Liath tugged at his robes, as though brushing at a fly. He didn’t even look up.
She dared not ascend to the high table, where Hugh sat in the place of honor between Queen Adelheid and the new skopos. Hugh would not heed her; he had ensnared Adelheid and Henry both. Obviously he had become Anne’s favored ally, even though Anne had seen him at his worst, abusing her own daughter. Hadn’t Anne let him take Da’s Book of Secrets? Had she guessed all along what he could become and meant to twist him to her own purposes, or was it Hugh who had twisted Anne?
Did it even matter? Hugh’s goals, at least, Liath could comprehend: he wanted knowledge and power. All that mattered to Anne was destroying the Ashioi.
Without allies, Liath wasn’t sure how she could stop her.
“Come, Sister, do not despair. There is usually an answer if only you know where and how to look.”
She turned.
The woman facing her was obviously human, not tall but not particularly short either, with black hair neatly braided, a broad face and a generous mouth, and a livid burn scar marking one cheek. But she was dressed so primitively in a tightly fitted cowskin bodice with sleeves cut to the elbows and an embroidered neckline, and a string skirt whose corded lengths revealed her thighs as she took a step forward. At each wrist she wore a copper armband incised with the head of a deer. The metal winked, catching lamplight, and Liath blinked hard, recognizing her.
“I saw you kneeling before a cauldron. Where is Alain? Is he living, or dead?”
The woman shuddered as at the passing of a cold breeze, making a complicated sign at her chest, a hex to drive away evil spirits. “He lives. He is my husband.”
“Living!” murmured Liath as hope flowered in her heart. “At least he is free, and alive.”
“The Holy One brought him to me from the land of the dead. Is this that land?” The woman gestured toward the merry folk feasting in the hall as they celebrated the coming investiture.
“Nay,” she said bitterly, “this is the land below the moon, but I cannot reach them. I cannot stop them from doing the very thing they must not do.”
“I do not understand,” admitted her comrade, coming forward to stand beside her. “I thought this might be the Fat One’s realm.”
“That land I do not know.”
“Of course you know it. The Fat One is the giver of all things, pain and death as well as plenty and pleasure. Can you not see her hand here as well, in this place wreathed half in light and half in shadow?”
“Who are you? Where are you from? Where is Alain now?”
“I am called Adica, Hallowed One of the Deer people. I come from the land of the living but it is true that I walk now in the land of dreams and visions, as you do. Alain sleeps beside me, in the heart of skrolin country, deep within the earth.”
“Now I am the one who does not understand,” said Liath with a smile.
A horn blew. Like curtains rippling in wind, the hall shuddered as a rich, golden light spilled over the scene, folding like days running together. Had the world come undone? Was the belt twisting?
Liath staggered, dizzy, and found herself grasping her new companion’s hand in a sober hall lined with dark wood and filled with a crush of people, as silent as ghosts.
The empty throne of the Holy Mother stood upon a smaller dais wrought entirely of ivory and gems which was itself placed upon a larger dais carpeted in gold and red. A procession worked its way forward through the throng, presbyters cloaked in silken cloaks, clerics swinging thuribles as the smoke of frankincense rose in stinging clouds, giving Liath a headache. Bouquets of roses and lilies wreathed the base of lamp stands and ornamented the closed shutters. Anne walked at the forefront, escorted by Hugh and three other presbyters, all of whom were far older than he was. He outshone them as easily as the sun outshines the moon.
“Ai, God,” said Liath desperately, “I cannot let them make such a mistake. But I’m trapped here, because I’m walking the spheres, not standing in Aosta. I can’t stop it now.”