Daughter of Mystery (27 page)

Margerit’s eyes flicked back and forth between the two texts. “It’s not as changed as he makes out,” she said quietly. Barbara wasn’t sure whether it was to avoid reaching the librarian’s ears or because she spoke only to herself. “This phrase, here…and those two lines. And here the original has all these repetitions. That’s what made it seem much longer.”

Barbara leaned in to compare the sections she indicated. “That’s the style of the Penekizes—the old Benedictine house at Eskor. You see it all the time in the chronicles the monks kept there. It only seems repetitive to us but in Dombert’s time each piece had a slightly different meaning.”

Margerit looked surprised. “Really? It doesn’t look anything like the old Latin that I studied. What’s this word here?”

Barbara felt off balance. She didn’t like shifting between the roles of armin and fellow scholar in public. She compulsively took another look around the room. There was nothing any more menacing than the glowers of the two schoolboys who perhaps felt that Margerit was setting a bad example by waxing enthusiastic over her studies.

The two texts were set out in strikingly different manners. The older one was the more familiar style. The new text was written out in a flowing copperplate that marked the change in speakers only by a brief initial at the head of each line. It took some time to match the two to compare the passage Margerit had questioned.

“
Stet dedicatum tuum in aeternum.
Dedicatum
—is that the word you meant? I’ve seen it before in the chronicles. It’s something between ‘shrine’ and ‘chapel’ but it can also mean ‘home.’ Or even ‘palace’ if the text was speaking of kings. It’s—I guess something like a special dedicated building. It could mean ‘home’ in a poetic sense but you’d never see it for an ordinary house. It’s not proper Latin at all. The older texts have a lot of that.” She traced the same passage on the new page. “See, here, this is where it should be in the prince’s lines and here the bishop’s line echoes it using
aedificium
.” She frowned.

“What is it?” Margerit asked eagerly, leaning in to follow the lines.

“Just a matter of style, I suppose. The old text in this part is a fragment of Mauriz’s
lorica
—a protective prayer using military images because he was a soldier. But when they borrowed the pattern from the Lyon mystery there wasn’t anything parallel—their patron Blandina was a fairly ordinary martyr. So instead they used bits of the Martin
tutela
, which makes sense I suppose since he was a soldier too. Armand’s Martin mystery is considered the ideal model for new liturgy, but his Latin is very much in the French style and the flavor is different. Look here.” She pointed. “If I saw that phrase in the Penekizes chronicles, I’d read it as ‘the building and its walls.’ Sides, more literally. But here it’s clearly meant to be understood as ‘the parish and its surroundings.’”

“Does the meaning really change that much?”

Barbara shrugged. “Words change, sometimes. If you walked up to a man in Paris or Barcelona or Vienna and said, “A blessing on your head!” in the vulgar tongue, everyone would understand what you meant. But if you took those same words and put them into Latin, you might end up blessing his cookpots or cabbages.”

Margerit stifled a giggle and glanced quickly in the direction of the librarian for fear of another disapproving glare. But he still sat unmoving at his desk, no longer muttering imprecations against newcomers who mucked about with the old rituals. She slid the next leaf of the rewritten text to the front of the stack. “So here the prince said his line the same, but the bishop’s part—”

“—takes out all of the repetitions. The older law texts always said things five times in five slightly different ways to make sure everything was wrapped up tightly. I think this was doing the same. See here in the prince’s old lines: strength…protection…wardship…shielding…and then the new text has only protection. Shrine…memorial…dedicatory stone…altar…church—but the new text uses
sepulcrum
in this part which wouldn’t have made sense in Dombert’s day because it would have meant only the actual grave where the saint’s body lay. And then here grounds…district…this is an archaic word meaning the people served by the specific church. It’s the same problem. They boiled it down to one word and it doesn’t capture all the meanings.”

Margerit broke in, “And then the prince has the line about Saint Mauriz protecting us with his shield and defending us with his spear. I remember those because it matches the image in the window so well. And here it finishes—”

Barbara took over once more. “—with a repetition of the previous bit, but now it’s the archbishop speaking it so we actually got the simple version this time. Before it would have meant something like ‘Grant your protection to this place dedicated as a memorial to you and to its people and the lands surrounding it,’ but he’s gone straight to Armand for the model and if you read it in the Lanpert dialect back in Dombert’s day there’s no way to understand it except ‘to your grave and the body in it and its walls.’ And that doesn’t make any sense because Saint Mauriz isn’t even buried here. I think we have a finger bone and that’s it.”

“But that’s it!”

It took a moment to realize that Margerit wasn’t simply echoing her own words. “What?”

“The vision. The
charis
was supposed to rise up through the church and spread out over the whole district—the way it always did at Chalanz. But it got confused. At the end, instead of being told ‘protect and bless the church and its surroundings’ it was told ‘protect and bless the saint’s grave.’ The closest thing it could find was the relics buried in the foundations. They must be down there under the corner of the altar where the
fluctus
sank away.”

As the meaning of her description sank in, Barbara’s gut clenched. “Margerit, hush!” she ordered, looking over to the desk. Had Brother Iohannes heard? Had the schoolboys understood enough to repeat it?

Margerit followed her glance, first in fear, then confusion. “What—?”

The librarian glared at them but only with the expression of one distracted by noise. Barbara lowered her voice. “Maisetra, it might be best to save your thoughts for a more private time.”

After another moment of confusion the message went home. Margerit dropped her eyes to the bundle of papers and shuffled through them once more as if nothing unusual had transpired.

But in the close privacy of Margerit’s own library that evening it was a different matter. “I can’t believe it’s that dangerous to discuss the details of a mystery out loud.” There was frustration but no hint of reproof.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. If I err it must be on the side of your safety. When you talk about the
fluctus
and
charis
doing this and that—as if they were angels or demons carrying out our commands—it goes beyond what most would consider orthodoxy. In a philosophy class it could be safe enough, but within the grounds of the cathedral I’d rather not take the risk.”

“But—” Margerit was pacing back and forth before the fire like some wild thing in a cage. “How can the text of the ceremony get fixed if no one dares to talk about it? Does no one care that the mystery failed?”

Barbara was stunned into a brief bewildered silence. “What did you think you were going to fix?” she asked at last.

“But it’s all…wrong. However you want to describe it, the city isn’t being protected by Saint Mauriz the way they all think it is.”

“And how do you know? How would you
prove
it?”

Margerit had no answer.

“Didn’t you hear what Brother Iohannes said? If centuries of tradition made no difference, if the disagreement of the cathedral canons made no difference, if even the opposition of Prince Aukust made no difference, why do you think the archbishop would listen to you? This isn’t about the mystery, it’s about power and influence. And that’s an even better reason to watch what you say and who hears you say it.”

“But…gah!” she exclaimed in disgust.

In her heart Barbara agreed—assuming that what Margerit had seen was true and not a trick of her own senses. But the world had its ways and it wasn’t easy getting around them.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Margerit

Mesner Pertinek had proposed. Margerit wasn’t exactly surprised but she was a little shocked at the rapidity with which it happened. To go from a first introduction to asking to name a date in the space of a month might not be unheard of for a girl in her first true season, but somehow it seemed precipitous for older people.

“And what was your answer?” she asked, not even trying to keep the excitement out of her voice.

Bertrut was sitting in the soft chair at her bedside. It wasn’t her aunt’s habit to claim late evening tête-à-têtes but it was one of the few opportunities for a truly private conversation. She was staring down at her hands twisting nervously in her lap. “I told him I would need to discuss it with you.”

Margerit laughed. “Isn’t that a bit backward?”

“Margerit, be serious. Don’t think I’m asking your permission because I’m not. But you’re my first responsibility and I’d never give marriage a second thought if it interfered with that. I don’t have any illusions—his proposal was more in the line of a business proposition. He says he finds me charming and pleasant to talk to and I find him the same. But his intent would be to live here, with us. It would be out of the question if he wanted to set up his own household—well, but if he could do that he wouldn’t be talking to me. It’s not very romantic to be told you’re someone’s last hope at leaving the house he was raised in. Although when you think of it,” she added wistfully, “I suppose there have been spinsters enough who have accepted an offer for no better reason than that.”

“Do you love him?”

Her aunt pursed her lips with a faraway look and shook her head. “I enjoy his company. And I believe, in time, we have a chance to become quite fond of each other. There isn’t much point in talking about love. If I’d married at your age, it wouldn’t have been for love. I’d like to tell him yes. He seems like a good man and he’s been very honest about his life and prospects. Do you know, he even went to LeFevre to reassure him that he had no designs on your inheritance!”

Margerit’s mind went back to the look he had exchanged with Barbara that day in the cathedral. Had she too been asked to approve the proposal?

Bertrut continued, “The advantage wouldn’t only be on his side. He pointed out that his presence would add to the respectability of your house without imposing any hardships on you. He neither wants nor expects any authority over your life, but if you wanted, there are doors he could open for you. You still only see a small part of Rotenek society, you know.”

“And will you be Mesnera Pertinek?”

“No, no.” She shook her head, smiling. “I don’t want the burdens of that! And for that he’d need permission from his cousin and a
carta equinoma
from the prince. And…it would complicate matters.”

Margerit privately completed the unspoken. Those in the nobility who had welcomed them for the sake of her inheritance might change their mind if she aspired too high.

“He said if I liked he’d present me at court—and you too, of course—and that would be the end of it, but I told him there was no need for that. What do you think?” For all her attempted diffidence she seemed anxious about the answer.

Margerit wanted to exclaim,
Of course!
and begin the congratulations, but too many people were schooling her to caution these days. Did LeFevre truly believe he lacked ambitions for her wealth? What did Barbara know? Would this cause difficulties for her? She replied more carefully than she wished. “Just as you wanted to consult with me, I need to discuss it with—well, with others.” No need to rub it in that Bertrut’s future might depend on the critical opinion of a mere armin.

“Yes, yes of course,” her aunt replied, returning to a businesslike manner. “But not your uncle,” she said firmly. “I won’t have him thinking he has the right to say yes or no on what I do. If we wed, we can do it before everyone comes for Christmas and that’s how I’d want it.”

“I’ll have an answer for you tomorrow,” she promised. It would make for an interesting family holiday. And with that thought she remembered that it was past time to steel herself to talk to Nikule. He was unlikely to come if he thought the invitation came from his father and not from her.

* * *

The answer was yes, with all her advisers concurring that Charul Pertinek was most likely exactly what he seemed. And if he weren’t…there were safeguards in place.

It seemed it was the time for betrothals. Cheristien Riumai had left the coterie of girl scholars to prepare for a more conventional pursuit. Verunik Felix, though with no similar excuse, had become bored with the exercise and came less and less often. Amiz still gamely showed and there were others Margerit didn’t know as well due to differences in their schedules. And Antuniet, of course. In her, Margerit recognized a fellow enthusiast, if not a comfortable companion.

Working over the changes in Mauriz’s mystery had given her confidence in her grasp of the basic principles but also a gnawing hunger to share her questions with someone else. Barbara—well, the problem was that Barbara was blind to the visions. She would listen raptly to Margerit’s descriptions of a particular effect, but once they worked past the physical forms of a ritual she could only shrug. Antuniet had hinted at more.

It was easy enough to broach the subject as they waited for the men to exit after Desalamanca’s lecture. “I haven’t thanked you yet for that book you recommended. He’s opened my eyes in so many ways.”

“Was that meant to be a joke?” Antuniet asked drily, looking down at her with a hint of laughter in her dark eyes. Margerit felt herself blush. The other woman had a way of making her feel like a foolish schoolgirl without saying anything the slightest bit offensive. Antuniet continued as if nothing had happened. “Did you have much trouble finding a copy?”