In they all marched. Sister Corinthia presided because the old deacon had died two years ago and the count’s father had sent no one to replace her. That Aunt Bel had had the foresight to keep a cleric in her house to educate her grandchildren had given her immense prestige in Osna village now that Sister Corinthia led all the services. The cleric had even picked out two village children bright enough to be educated at St. Thierry.
The young cleric led them in a dozen psalms before stepping aside to let Bel stand up.
“Have you some news for all of us, Fotho? I pray you, speak loudly and clearly so we can all hear. Hilde, take the children outside and watch them.”
Hilde was Stancy’s eldest, a stout, well grown girl about the same age as Blanche but of an entirely opposite disposition. She herded out a score of mewling, giggling, restless children, some older than she was. Silence descended as the score of adults regarded first each other and then the quiet woodsman who shuffled forward to stand on the first step of the dais where they could all see and hear him. Everyone was sitting on fine benches built in Aunt Bel’s workshop. Blanche clung to Alain, and he let her crawl up onto his lap, the only child who hadn’t gone outside.
“Refugees,” said Fotho. “Come up the coast road. Not a man over twelve or under forty among ’em. They’re wearing nothing but rags—if they have clothes at all, which most of the children don’t. They’re starving. They come up out of Salia. They say there’s fighting along the border again. No food to be had.”
“Is it Eika?” asked Agnes tremulously.
“They’re not out of Medemelacha way, if that’s what you’re asking, lass,” said Fotho kindly, and with some warmth. He was a decent-looking young man a few years older than Agnes. He had a yen for her, as everyone knew, but it was a hopeless case even though Agnes was now considered to be a widow after only a year of marriage.
“Is it even safe to sail to Medemelacha?” asked Gilles Fisher. He was too crippled with arthritis to sail or even to build ships, but his keen mind and store of knowledge were precious to the community.
“That’s one of the questions we must ask and answer,” said Henri. “It was safe last year, even with the emporium under the rule of that Eika lord.”
Agnes wiped away a tear, glanced at Fotho, and dropped her gaze to the ground.
“It doesn’t sound as if these refugees will give us any trouble,” said Artald. “I say we let them move on. They can beg at Lavas Holding.”
“Hah! As if Lord Geoffrey has aught to give them, or as if he would!” It was Mistress Garia’s truculent son who spoke, but he had the decency to blush as every person there looked at Alain and away as quickly. “We’ve not heard a word from Lavas Holding for six months. Hung us out to dry, the lord has.”
“What do you suggest, then?” asked Stancy. “We haven’t enough to feed every soul who comes begging.”
“If you turn no one away, there will be enough,” said Alain.
They fell silent. Blanche sucked a dirty thumb, eyes wide and expression fierce. The light through the glass window washed the floor in five colors, according to the panes: there was red, and a pale green, as well as yellow, blue, and smoky violet. Because the bay of the church faced east, the sun shone through the glass window in the morning. Now, at midday, there was no direct light, but it was still bright enough with the doors flung wide to see the murals painted along each side of the nave. There, the blessed Daisan at the fire where he first encountered the vision of the Circle of Unity. And again, the blessed Daisan with his followers refusing to kneel and worship before the Dariyan empress Thaissania, she of the mask. The seven miracles, each depicted in loving detail. Last of all the eye might rest upon the blessed Daisan lying dead at the Hearth from which his spirit was lifted up through the seven spheres to the Chamber of Light. Beside him, St. Thecla the Witnesser wept, her tears feeding the sanctified cup.
Once he had seen brave scenes of battle hiding beneath the lamplit murals, but now he saw only suffering and it made him angry, and it made him sad.
Sister Corinthia cleared her throat. “Spiritually, you speak what we all know to be true, friend Alain. The church mothers teach that every heart is a rose, and that to turn away from those in need when you could aid them causes the rose to wither. In this same way, plants need water to live, and we need breath. But in truth …” She faltered and looked to Aunt Bel for help.
“One loaf cannot feed one hundred starving beggars,” said Aunt Bel. “Wishing does not make it so.”