“Is that what you want? To kill someone?”
The other woman smiled slightly.
“At what do you wish to succeed, Caput Draconis?” Antonia said, curious now. She hated being curious. It put her at a disadvantage.
“I want only that we might all become closer to God,” murmured the woman.
“A worthy goal,” agreed Antonia. The moon set, and with its passing came the first glimmers of dawn. A bird sang. Stars had faded. Clouds massed now at the second of the three snow-covered peaks that guarded one side of the little valley. Thin streamers of mist rose from the ground and seemed to coalesce into shapes with human limbs and human hands and half-formed human faces. But that surely was only a trick of the light.
“But I must know if you have the strength and the will to aid us,” continued the woman, looking past Antonia to what stood behind her. “Some offering. Some sacrifice …”
Antonia knew at once, and a small fire of anger bloomed inside her. Such presumption! “Not that,” she said. “Not him.” She refused to show weakness by turning to make sure Heribert was still in one piece.
Now there was enough light for Antonia to see the other woman’s face: pale of complexion, it had a certain distant familiarity about it—but, as with the sparrows, she could not grasp how she knew it. She could have been as old as Antonia or as young as Heribert; no obvious sign of age, or of youth, marked her. Her hair remained tucked away in a scarf of gold linen. She wore a fine silk tunic dyed a rich indigo and leather shoes trimmed with gold braid. At her throat she wore the golden torque that signified royal kinship in the realms of Wendar and Varre and Salia. Though the granddaughter and niece of queens, Antonia had no right to such a symbol of her royal kinship. Karrone had been a principality allied to Salia not three generations ago, in the time of Queen Berta the Cunning. Berta had been the first of its rulers to style herself “Queen.” Neither did the petty princes of the many warring states of Aosta wear the torque. They, too, could not trace their royal blood back to the forebears of the legendary Emperor Taillefer.
“Very well,” said the woman. “Not him. But let that, then, be your first lesson. That is why you are neither caput nor cauda draconis but rather seventh and least of our order. You can only take as much power as you are willing to give of yourself.”
Antonia did not agree, but she was too wise to say so out loud. She gestured to Heribert, and he crept up beside her. She noted with some approval that, though he was silent and certainly quite frightened, he held himself straight and with the pride of a man who will not bow before fear. Or perhaps he had been stricken dumb by a spell thrown on him by this woman. He was not, as was his habit when nervous, murmuring a prayer.
“What do you want from me, then?” asked Antonia.
“I need a seventh. I need a person who has strong natural powers of compulsion, as you do. I am trying to find a certain person and bring that person here, to me.”
Antonia thought about power. Imagine how much good she could do with greater powers, with the ability to compel others to act as she knew they truly wanted to. She could return order to the kingdom, return herself to her rightful place as biscop and Sabella to the throne that was lawfully hers. She could go farther even than that: She could become skopos and restore the rule of God as it ought to be observed. “Let us imagine that I agree to join you. What happens then?”
“To come into our Order you must give something.”
“What is that?”
“You would not give me the young man. So give me your name, the secret, true name your father whispered in your ear as is every father’s right when a child is born of his begetting.”
Antonia flushed, truly angry now. This was impertinence, even from a woman who wore the golden torque. Although by what right she wore that torque Antonia, who knew the royal lineages of five kingdoms as if they were her own names, could not guess. “My father is dead,” said Antonia icily. “Both of my fathers. He who sired me died before I could walk or speak.”
“But you know.”
She knew.
And she wanted the power. She wanted the knowledge. She could do so much with it. So much that needed to be done.
She spoke it, finally. After all, Prince Pepin had not lived long afterward. His spite could not haunt her, for it had fallen with him into the pit.
“Venenia.” Poison.
The woman inclined her head respectfully. “So shall you be called Venia, kindness, in memory of that naming and to honor a new beginning. Come, Sister Venia.” She stepped outside the circle of stones. They followed her out onto grass moist with dew. Heribert gaped and knelt to touch, wonderingly, a violet.