In time, he thought, she would forget the other man. In time she would love Ivar alone and only remember as a kind of hazy dream that she had spoken so about another man, a dead man. A dead man was no rival to a living one. And, because he had learned, for the first time he thought rather than acted impulsively. She was kinless, so needed kin, clan, family. There was Hugh to deal with; but Ivar wanted his revenge on Hugh, and he understood Hugh well enough to know that if Ivar had Liath, then, sooner or later, Hugh would appear. There remained only how to get out of the monastery. He must find a way to escape. But this would take planning.
“It will take time,” he said at last and with reluctance. “Will you wait for me?”
She smiled sadly. “I will stay an Eagle. That much I can promise you. They are my kin now.”
“Hush,” he said suddenly, pressing her away from him. A rustling more like mice than wind sounded from the hidden corner of the room. “Who’s there?” Ivar demanded.
She came out quietly from behind a row of cabinets. It took Ivar a few moments to recognize her in the dim room, and then his mouth dropped open in astonishment.
“Are you my sister Rosvita?” he demanded.
“Ai, Lady,” swore Liath. She jerked away from him.
“Yes, Ivar.” As soon as the cleric spoke, he knew it for truth. “My brother,” she continued, expression bland and eyes bright with—laughter? anger? He did not know her to be able to judge. “My brother novice,” she went on, gesturing toward his coarse brown robe, “this is most irregular. I will have to report you to Mother Scholastica.”
But at those words, Ivar exulted. “Very well,” he said, drawing himself up. “I will go willingly.” Brought to Mother Scholastica’s notice for the sin of consorting with a woman, surely—surely—the mother abbess would throw him out of Quedlinhame once and for all time.
It was a serious enough offense that Ivar had only to wait through Sext, the midday prayers, kneeling like a penitent on the flagstone floor in front of Mother Scholastica’s empty and thereby imposing chair, before the door opened behind him and the abbess entered her study. Rosvita walked with her. Ivar could not read his sister’s expression. He wished he knew her, so that he might guess what she had told the abbess, might guess whether Rosvita was sympathetic or hostile to his cause. But he did not know and dared not guess.
“I gave you no leave to look up, Brother Ivar,” said Mother Scholastica.
He flinched and dropped his gaze, watched feet shift, a dance whose measure and steps he could not follow. To his horror, Rosvita retreated from the room to leave him alone with the formidable abbess. He clenched his hands together, wrapping the fingers tightly around each other, and bit down on his lower lip for courage. His knees hurt. There was a carpet, but he had been strictly enjoined not to kneel upon anything that would soften his penance.
Mother Scholastica sat down in her chair. For a long while, though he dared not look up, he knew she studied him. A knob, an uneven hump in the stone, dug into his right knee. It was so painful he thought he would cry, but he was afraid to utter any complaint.
She rules with a rein of iron, so they all said. She was the king’s younger sister. Why had he ever ever thought, in that wild liberating moment in the library, that he could face her down?
She cleared her throat as a prelude to speaking. “In our experience,” she said, “when the king visits Quedlinhame with his court, there runs in his wake like the wash of a boat on the waters a shiver of restlessness through those of the novices and some few of the brothers and sisters who are not at that moment content in their vows. Always a few, seduced by the bright colors and the panoply and the excitement, mourn their loss of the world and seek to follow the king. It is our duty to rescue these fragile souls from their folly, for it is a fleeting temptation, dangerous but not, I think, unforeseeable.”
“But I never wanted—”
“I did not yet give you leave to speak, Brother Ivar.”
He hunched down, nails biting into knuckles. She did not have to raise her voice to make him feel humiliated and terrified.
“But I do mean to give you leave to speak. We are not barbarians, like the Eika or the Quman riders, to enslave you for no cause but our own earthly enrichment. It is your soul we care for, Ivar. Your soul we have been given charge of. That is a heavy burden and a heavy responsibility.” She paused. “Now you may speak, Brother.”
Given leave to speak, he also took the chance to shift his right knee off the digging knob of rock. Then he took a breath. Once begun, he could not hide his passion. “I don’t want to be here! Let me go with the king. Let me be a Dragon—”