They almost could not see the two black-clad figures that slipped through the briefly opened doorway, sensed mostly by their movement and the brighter blur of averted faces within the close-shadowed frame of flat-topped caps and waist-length monastic veils fastened close beneath the chin. Neither man stirred as the pair moved before the eastern icons and reverenced them with a deep bow and a sweep of right hands from brow to floor to right shoulder and left.
Turning in their places, the pair then repeated their salute to south, west, and north, finishing in the east once again, after which the taller one retreated to the door by which they had entered and stood with her back against it, hands piously folded beneath her veil and face averted. As the shorter one started to turn toward the visitors, Michon set a hand on Oisín’s forearm and sent, Wait here. Say and do nothing.
So saying, he moved into the center of the chamber, with the table between him and the woman, and silently inclined his head.
He would not have known her, had he met her outside this place. The Princess Camille Furstána whom he remembered had possessed the charm and vivacity of youth, and a self-assurance that comes of royal blood, but nothing of physical appearance to suggest that maturity might bring anything approaching beauty. The passage of time had not given her that, but age and her vocation had made Mother Serafina a striking woman. Though still slender of form and small in stature, her erect carriage and the flat cap beneath her veil added at least a handspan to her height and gave her a physical authority to match her psychic presence. The eyes, at least by candlelight, were still the same: dark and intense, unwavering in their scrutiny; and the shields behind the eyes were adamantine, as they had been for as long as Michon had known her.
«You indicated that you wished to speak to me on a matter of some urgency», she finally said, her voice low and measured, just as he remembered.
«I did», he said, again inclining his head, «and I do. And I thank you for seeing us».
«It is not usually done», she replied, favoring him with a nod of acknowledgment, «but I was curious to know what would bring you to me after all these years — though I can guess».
«Can you?» he returned, the question also a statement.
She inhaled deeply and let out a quiet sigh, lifting her chin a little defiantly. He could see only her face; the hands were clasped close beneath the veil over her shoulders and upper body.
«Well, I am quite certain that you have not come to ask for training», she said breezily, a faint smile curling the corners of her mouth as she glanced at him sidelong. «But I would venture to guess that you have come to ask about the training that I am providing to certain others».
He inclined his head in agreement. «That would be an accurate reading of my intentions», he said neutrally.
Her eyes at once went dark and dangerous. «How dare you!» she breathed, almost inaudibly. «Whom I choose to train, and how, is my business, not yours — or the Camberian Council’s!»
«In that, you are much mistaken», he replied, in the same low tone. «I trust I need not remind you of what happened to Lewys ap Norfal, when he entertained similarly dangerous notions regarding his powers. Train your nephews, if you must; they are subjects of Torenth, and the concern of her king. If they perish through their folly, that will simply mean somewhat fewer Furstáns to threaten my king! But if you persist in training that twit Zachris Pomeroy, he becomes a potential threat to my king — and he is not a subject of Torenth!»
She sniffed in derision and lifted her chin defiantly. «What arrogance, to presume that what I teach is folly!»
«Camille, you were there when Lewys failed», he began.
«Camille is dead!» she interjected coldly. «Mother Serafina has far surpassed the girl who once was. You will address me by my proper name and rank».
«As you wish», he murmured. «But consider this a warning. If one of your students goes astray in Gwynedd, the Council will take a very dim view of your actions. And next time, it may not be an old friend who comes calling».
«We did not part as friends, Michon de Courcy. Do not presume to play on my emotions».
Michon had cocked his head at this declaration, and held up a hand to stay further such revelations.
«How time can alter our memories», he murmured. «But I shall not cause further offense by bringing up bygones. Just remember what I have said».
Her jaw went steely, and her eyes narrowed. «Let the past be past, Michon», she said softly. «Consider that you treat now with a stranger».
«Yes, I can see that», he replied. Clasping his hands behind him, he inclined his head in cool leave-taking. «Should I ask a blessing before I go? I am given to understand that such is expected».
Her lip curled in faint disdain. «I shall pray for you, Michon, as I pray for all who are in need of enlightenment. But I think you would not thank me for what blessing I might give you».
He lifted his chin and braced his shoulders, then gave her another nod, this time in the nature of a dismissal and farewell. «Then it appears there is nothing more to be said. Forgive me for wasting your time».
With that, he turned on his heel and strode briskly toward the outer door, where Oisín quickly opened it for him and followed him outside. Their escort monks were waiting beyond the gate to the little courtyard, and fell in behind them as they retraced their steps to the monastery gatehouse. The sound of the gate closing behind them held a note of finality.
The pair did not speak until they were well down the steps leading back to the harbor. Behind them, in the lowering twilight, a deep-throated bell began summoning the inhabitants of Saint-Sasile for the Great Office of Sabbath Eve.
«Did that go as badly as it sounded?» Oisín finally summoned the courage to ask.
Michon uttered a breathless grunt meant to be an ironic laugh.
«It certainly did not go well», he replied.
By the time they reboarded their ship and were under sail, heading back across the straits toward distant Tralia, a ghostly glow had begun to flicker above the spires and domes of Saint-Sasile.
Chapter 9
«Can a maid forget her ornaments, or a bride her attire?»[10]
Though Michon’s visit to Saint-Sasile had been less than satisfactory, his and Oisín’s onward journey into R’Kassi yielded far more positive results. In the course of visits to a number of that land’s most prominent breeders of fine horseflesh, Oisín identified half a dozen promising two-year-olds of suitable lineage and temperament for Prince Brion’s first adult mount. For each of these animals he left sizeable deposits and instructions for their care and training in the coming year, promising to return in the spring to make his final selection.
«In truth, they are all fine animals», he told Michon as they rode back to Tortuña to take ship for their return to Rhemuth. «If all of them develop according to their promise, I shall probably take the lot of them in the spring and keep whatever ones the king does not choose. I have no doubt that I shall find buyers for as many as I care to sell on; and a few may even end up at my own facility at Haut Emeraud».
«I think that neither the king nor Prince Brion will have cause to complain», Michon assured his younger companion. «The Council, alas, will be less pleased. I wish we could take them better news».
But if the completion of their summer missions had met with mixed results, the same could not be said for that of the new head of Corwyn’s regency council. Looking back on that first summer at Coroth, the stay of Lord Kenneth Morgan and his countess at the Corwyn capital could only be counted as a success. Though the Duchy of Corwyn had been formally in abeyance for nearly thirty years, waiting for a male heir to come of age, Malcolm Haldane and then King Donal had chosen well in their selection of a caretaker council to administer these important lands, so vital to the security of Gwynedd’s eastern border with Torenth.