Crown of Stars (Crown of Stars #7)

Crown of Stars (Crown of Stars #7) Page 235

Mother Scholastica was leaving. She paused at the door, and stepped back to let Rosvita pass in before she went out. She inclined her head, as she must do now, although Rosvita felt no triumph in it. Indeed, none of this had been of her doing.

“It is agreed that—with your blessing—Sister Hathumod will become biscop of Autun,” said the abbess.

Rosvita nodded. “Are you at peace, Mother Scholastica? Your voice has been raised many times among those who argued most forcefully against the final decision made by the council.”

The abbess looked toward the couch placed among the shadows. Her expression remained disapproving, but her words were firm. “I have spoken last rites over her. At the hour of dying, a person may see the heart of God, and speak true words. So is it written.”

She departed, making for the chapel. Rosvita crossed the chamber and knelt beside the couch, but Constance’s eyes were closed although a faint rise and fall like the echo of the sea swell stirred her chest.

Sister Hathumod kissed Rosvita’s ring. “Holy Mother.”

“Has she spoken?”

“Not since three days ago, Holy Mother, when she made conference with the last of them that held out against the truth.”

“Does she know that the final vote came last night?”

“I have not told her, Holy Mother.”

Rosvita took that limp hand between hers. She felt Fortunatus behind her, a steadfast presence. There were others in the chamber, and it seemed to her that many stood who were living and many who were only there in spirit, waiting to guide Constance’s soul up through the spheres to the Chamber of Light.

“I will tell it quickly, Constance. It has come about as you foresaw. The testimony of The Book of Secrets has opened its heart to us. The council has spoken. The world has changed. From this day forward the church will follow the path of the Redemption. So be it.”

Constance stirred. Her mouth parted. “Who are you?” she whispered.

Rosvita smiled wryly, glancing over her shoulder at Fortunatus and the others. In the room it was too dim to make out any but shadows, figures that might be dream or real, the past or the present or the future.

“I have been elected as Holy Mother, according to the decision of the council and the college of presbyters. Darre lies in ruins. It is uninhabitable, as our agents have seen. Autun will become the seat of the skopos. What is left to tell you? Nothing and everything.”

“You are the rose,” Constance murmured, in answer to her own question, and Rosvita saw that her vision had, in fact, ascended far past the bounds of mortal Earth. “Yet where have you gone?” Then her eyes opened and her face was transformed as if by light. “Ah! There is your crown!”

The breath left her. She died.

The journey would be a long one, climbing the ladder of the spheres.

Rosvita prayed over the body, and then they must go. Many were waiting.

The day was bright; the sun shone. The octagonal chapel was packed tight, and more spilled into the courtyard, folk from many lands: Wendar and Varre, the Eika north, the marchlands, Karrone, Polenie, Salavii deacons and monks, a handful of renegade Salian clerics split away from the rest of Salia’s biscops who had refused even to send an official representative to the council, a straggle of church folk out of Aosta who did not support the unknown skopos appointed by Queen Adelheid, and a party of contentious observers from Arethousa who had nonetheless striven at intervals to strike a note of conciliation. They, too, had suffered. They, too, struggled to recover from the cataclysm. Alba remained stubbornly heathen except where the Eika ruled, and it was rumored that the king would soon set sail to fight a rebellion in the Alban hinterlands.

For now queen and king observed together with other nobles of the land, Prince Ekkehard, the dukes and margraves and nobles and biscops and monastics, any of whom could see the great benefit to Wendar and Varre in having the seat of spiritual power move into the north out of the south. The crown of stars rested in the grasp of Taillefer once again, atop his carved statue, because it had been returned to Autun and laid on his bier in memory of his empire. But after all, it was only an object of gold and jewels. The true crown of stars had no such earthly substance. It could not be grasped or held, fought over or broken, but it could be worn by the one whose heart was pure.

He had vanished after the miracle of Sanglant. That was all anyone knew. Fortunatus touched her on the elbow. “I pray you. Wake up.”

She startled out of her reverie. This was not what she had expected, nor was it anything she had sought. But it had come to her nevertheless. So be it.