Wolfhere walked farther into the crypt, into dark chambers and down a short flight of steps, and Liath followed him. The deeper they went, the fresher the air smelled, tinged with the dry sweetness of some kind of grain. She sneezed.
“But it is also said,” added Wolfhere, “that only those of great holiness, great innocence, or great need ever find that grave.”
“Whose grave is it?” Liath asked, casting about, looking for any least gleam of silver light or hidden corner of stone concealed in the shadows, but she saw nothing besides the tombs of biscops and presbyters, holy deacons and robed mayors, and one count of Gent whose effigy showed her holding a scroll in one hand and a knife in the other.
“St. Kristine of the Knives, she who endured unspeakable torments in the last days of the old empire rather than yield her place to the invaders. It is said of her that though an empire might fall from grace, she could and would not fall because of her great strength.”
But they found no saint’s tomb.
They returned to the half-flight of stairs and passed into a dim corridor and thence into a side chapel that contained two tombs so ancient their inscriptions were almost rubbed away, as well as a single slab of black stone that glinted when she brought the torch up beside it.
She knelt and ran a hand along its surface. It was smoother than glass. “This is obsidian,” she said. “Though some say that this is not stone at all but the remains of dragon bones that have been exposed to sunlight.”
Wolfhere knelt opposite. “By this means, I will view. Did Bernard teach you the art of vision?”
She shook her head. She had never seen Da “vision” anything, although she had read it was possible to look long distances through certain media: water, fire, and certain kinds of stone. “Is it—is it right to practice the forbidden arts on holy ground? In a church?”
He glanced up. His gaze was mild but direct. “It is needful, and Our Lord and Lady do not prohibit what is needful. Or so agreed the church elders at the Council of Kellai. The church did not condemn sorcery, Liath, though at the Council of Narvone it imposed a penance on those who practice it outside the supervision of the church.”
What had Hugh said to her? “I am sure there are those in the church who have made it their task to learn the forbidden arts of sorcery, but I have not found them so far.” “But they are called the forbidden arts,” she whispered.
“It is true the church looks with disfavor on those who seek the elder arts, those practiced by the ancient heathens which have come down to us in their writings. Those which can be used by the unscrupulous to gain power. But it would be more than foolish to deny that such arts and powers are within our grasp, or to attempt to condemn them as heresy is condemned. It would be impossible, as well as dangerous. So in her wisdom Skopos Mary Jehanna, who presided over the Council of Kellai, was first to pronounce some of the forbidden arts as lying within the provenance of the church, and that ruling was confirmed by the Council of Narvone a hundred years ago. Indeed, in these days the Convent of St. Valeria is known for its study of the forbidden arts.”
“But you are not in the church.”
“I received some part of my training at a monastery in Aosta, at a schola there. I was never pledged to the church. Now. Attend.”
He opened the leather pouch that hung from his belt and took out a flask. Then he took dagger and sword from their sheaths and laid them to one side. He unstoppered the flask and offered it to her. She shook her head, and he took a drink himself and set the flask down.
She waited. It seemed safe, now, to betray her intense curiosity. He knew what her parents were, after all. And had she not called fire?
He placed both hands, palms down and his shoulders’ width apart, on the glassy black stone surface. For a long while he simply stared at the rock face. It was so quiet in the crypt she felt she heard the sound of dust settling on the tombs and the slow creak of stone shifting against the bones of the earth. The darkness beyond the flickering torchlight no longer scared her; it was merely shadow and silence and the physical remains of the dead, their spirits long since risen up through the seven spheres.
“Liath.”
She started up. Wolfhere glanced at her, surprised. He had not spoken.
His look was a question. She shook her head and settled back. “I beg your pardon,” she said.
“What is it?” he asked. Either he had not heard the voice or he was more subtle than she feared.
“Nothing.” She settled back into place, her grip tight on the torch. It blazed with undiminished strength. “A spider crawled up my hand.”