ggk.asongforarbonne-第79章

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ring　of　the　child：　in　doing　so　she　had　given　dreadful；　calamitous　life　to　the　feud　that　had　shaped　Arbonne　ever　since。　Urté　could　not　even　be　approached　or　spoken　to　on　this　issue。　Beatritz　had　tried　once；　at　the　end　of　the　year　after　Aelis　died…and　had　received　the　most　stinging　rebuke　of　her　life。　They　would　have　had　to　put　the　duke　of　Miraval　to　torture　to　even　try　to　make　him　speak。　And　he　wouldn't　have；　they　all　knew　that：　he　wouldn't　have　said　what　had　happened　to　the　child　even　then。
　　Not　even　Guibor　the　count　had　been　able　to　quell　or　control　what　Aelis　had　begun　between　Talair　and　Miraval　on　that　night　so　long　ago。　So；　searching　for　alternatives；　he　had　tried　to　make　Beatritz　leave　the　clergy；　e　back　to　Barbentain；　prepare　herself　to　marry；　to　have　a　child　of　her　own。
　　It　was　then　that　she'd　had　herself　blinded；　in　that　small　temple　in　the　Gotzland　mountains；　taking　the　step　no　priestess　had　taken　for　years　upon　years；　aligning　herself　irrevocably　with　Rian。　She　had　bee　High　Priestess　two　years　later　and　had　e　to　the　island。
　　Her　father　had　never　truly　forgiven　her。　That　had　always　hurt；　for　she　had　loved　him。　Not　as　her　mother　did；　with　an　undying　passion　of　the　soul；　and　not　even　as　her　sister　Aelis　had；　with　something　plex　and　yearning　at　its　core。　Beatritz　had　known　her　father's　weaknesses　and　his　flaws　too　well；　had　seen　him　too　clearly　for　either　of　those　kinds　of　love：　she　understood　his　pride；　how　he　wished　to　control　and　shape　far　too　much　in　too　many　different　ways；　his　own　guiding　hands　on　the　reins　of　everyone　and　everything。　Of　course　she　understood　such　a　thing：　it　was　her　own　besetting　vice。　She　was　Guibor's　child。　Her　call　to　Rian　had　been　real；　though；　the　truest　thing　in　her　life；　and　she　had　known　it　young。
　　Her　mother　had　understood；　surprisingly。　Signe；　beautiful　and　glittering　like　an　ornamental　jewel　under　torchlight　in　Barbentain；　seemed　nonetheless　to　have　understood　a　great　deal；　always。　Beatritz　ached　for　her　tonight；　picturing　her　in　the　wintry　castle　with　these　brutal　tidings　newly　e　and　the　terrible；　crushing　knowledge　that　she　might　be　the　ruler　of　Arbonne　in　the　time　it　died　forever。
　　The　owl　grew　restive　again；　a　motion　of　admonition。　Options。　She　had　been　considering　her　options。　She　could　start　north　herself；　leaving　the　island　and　the　seat　of　any　power　or　foreknowledge　she　might　be　given；　to　lend　her　purely　mortal　strength；　what　wisdom　she　had；　to　her　mother　and　those　who　would　be　with　the　countess　now。
　　They　didn't　need　her；　she　realized　with　a　gnawing　helplessness。　She　had　counsels　to　offer　in　times　of　peace　or　preparation；　of　smaller　and　larger　intrigues；　the　tidings　her　own　network　of　informants　might　gather；　but　what　did　she　know　about　waging　war？
　　It　was；　she　told　herself　with　bitterness；　time　for　the　men　now。　The　irony　was　coruscating。　Arbonne　was　to　be　destroyed　because　of　its　women；　because　of　the　goddess　who　shared　in　their　love　and　devotion　with　Corannos　in　the　sky；　because　it　was　ruled　by　a　woman　now；　because　of　the　symbols　and　the　music　of　the　Court　of　Love　and　the　examples　of　grace　set　by　figures　like　Signe　and　Ariane。　And　yet　now　that　ruin　had　e　to　them　with　sword　and　axe　and　carried　brand；　now　that　images　of　rape　and　fire　would　dance　behind　the　closed　eyelids　of　every　woman　in　Arbonne；　it　was　the　men　who　would　have　to　save　them　after　all。
　　And　despite　more　than　twenty　years　of　her　father's　striving　before　he　died；　and　then　her　mother's　afterwards；　despite　patience　and　wiles　and　even　Guibor's　attempts　at　absolute　mands；　the　two　most　powerful　men　in　Arbonne　still　hated　each　other　with　a　ferocity；　with　a　savage；　time…locked　obsession　that　had　never　let　them　go；　and　would　never　do　so；　never　let　them　act　together；　even　to　save　themselves　and　their　land。
　　Beatritz　knew　this。　She　knew　it　with　a　despair　that　almost　overwhelmed　her。　This　had　always　been　the　weakness　at　the　heart　of　Arbonne　in　their　time；　the　thing　that　left　them　wide　open　to　destruction。　Not　the　fact　of　a　woman　ruling　them。　Not　the　rumoured　softness　of　their　corans；　that　was　false　and　manifestly　so。　Not　the　corrupting　influence　of　the　troubadours　and　their　music；　there　was　no　corruption　in　the　flourish　of　that　art。　Their　danger；　their　crippling　wound；　was　Talair　and　Miraval。
　　Her　sister　Aelis；　Beatritz　thought；　with　an　old；　unrelenting　bitterness；　had　much　to　answer　for。
　　It　was　an　unfair　thought；　she　supposed。　Her　mother　had　told　her　as　much；　over　and　again　through　the　years。　Unfair　or　not；　it　was　there；　she　was　thinking　it；　she　would　think　it　until　she　died；　and　she　would　die　remembering　Aelis；　dark　and　slender；　far　too　proud；　with　her　will　like　forged　iron　and　that　unwillingness；　ever；　to　forgive。
　　Like　Bertran；　that　last　quality；　Beatritz　thought。　Like　Urté。　And　then　a　newer　thought；　as　she　reached　up　again　to　gentle　her　restive　owl：　Like　me。
　　〃Oh；　Aelis；〃　she　murmured　aloud。　〃Oh；　sister；　did　we　all　begin　to　die　the　night　you　died；　with　or　without　the　child？〃
　　It　was　possible；　she　thought。　There　were　ripples　to　events；　and　they　went　a　long　way　sometimes　across　the　dark　pools　of　time　and　the　world。
　　Brissel　shifted　on　her　shoulder　again　and　then　suddenly　flexed　his　sharp　talons　in　a　way　she　knew。　It　was　always　like　this：　without　any　warning　at　all　the　presence　of　the　goddess　might　e　to　her。　Catching　her　breath；　feeling　the　familiar　speeding　up　of　her　pulse；　Beatritz　waited；　and　was　answered；　assuaged；　with　images　in　her　darkness；　images　swirling　to　take　shape　as　out　of　some　primal　fog　before　the　world　was　made。
　　She　saw　two　castles　and　recognized　them　immediately。　Miraval　and　Talair…she　had　known　those　proud；　twinned　assertions　all　her　life。　Another　image　quickly：　an　arch；　immeasurably　old；　massive；　humbling；　carvings　of　war　and　conquest　stamped　upon　it　like　foreshadowing　from　long　ago。　And　then；　as　she　released　her　breath　in　a　spasm　of　love　and　pain　she　could　not　quite　hold　in；　the　High　Priestess　of　Rian　saw　a　lake　in　her　mind；　a　small；　delicate　isle　in　the　midst　of　it；　three　plumes　of　smoke　rising　straight　as　swords　into　the　windless　winter　sky。　The　last　thing　she　saw　was　a　tree。　Then　the　images　were　gone　and　she　was　left　with　only　darkness　again；　and　Brissel　on　her　shoulder。
　　It　came　like　this；　and　it　went；　never　coerced；　never　subject　to　entreaty。　The　goddess　remembered　her　children　sometimes　and　sometimes　she　forgot　them　in　the　caprice　of　her　nature。　She　could　shower　gifts　like　blessed　rain　in　spring；　or　she　could　turn　her　back　and　let　ice　and　fire　have　their　way。　She　had　a　face　of　laughter　and　one　of　desire；　a　countenance　of　true　passion　and　a　terrible　visage　of　judgment。　In　the　teachings　of　Arbonne　it　was　Corannos　the　god　who　was　kinder；　more　soberly　caring　for　men　and　women。　Rian　suffered　them；　and　loved　them；　but　she　could　be　cruel　as　nature　was　cruel。　It　was　the　god　who　held　their　mortal　children　always　in　mind；　who　did　not　fail　to　see　their　sufferings　upon　the　earth。　So　it　had　been　taught　in　Arbonne　for　generations。
　　The　teachings　were　different　elsewhere。　They　were　very　different　in　Gorhaut。
　　She　was　going　to　have　to　stay　here；　Beatritz　understood。　Only　on　the　island　could　she　have　access　to　any　such　precognitions　as　this　one。　A　message　would　have　to　go　to　Barbentain　tonight。　She　would　ask　the　two　young　troubadours　who　were　wintering　with　them　here。　They　would　not　deny　her；　these　were　not　men　to　hide　in　the　sea　when　death　and　ruin　were　ing　down　from　the　north。　She　would　send　them　to　the　countess；　warning　her；　telling　them　all　where　the　culmination　was　to　be。
　　It　would　be　in　the　place　of　this　vision；　she　was　being　told：　by　that　small　isle　in　Lake　Dierne；　by　the　arch；　the　two　castles；　it　would　end　there。
　　Of　course；　she　thought；　aware　of　an　inner　stillness　in　the　aftermath　of　the　presence　of　Rian。　Of　course　it　will　be　there。　She　felt　the　nudge　of　an　old　sorrow。　I　should　have　known。　That　is　where　it　began。
　　She　was　wise　and　no　longer　young；　Beatritz　de　Barbentain；　deeply　conversant　with　the　ways　of　power　in　the　world；　and　long　since　accustomed　to　her　darkness　and　the　occasional　gateways　to　knowledge　it　gave　her。　She　was；　in　fact；　more　privy　to　the　paths　of　Rian　than　she　allowed　herself　to　acknowledge；　for　she　had　always　wanted　more　than　she　had。　It　was　the　nature　of　her　family；　the　legacy　of　her　blood。　Still；　the　goddess　had　never　yet　abandoned　her　entirely；　however　long　the　intervals　might　be。　She　knew　a　great　deal；　having　been　granted；　at　moments　such　as　this；　clear；　sharp　visions　through　rifts　in　time　hidden　from　all　the　other　living　children　of　Corannos　and　Rian。
　　On　the　other　hand；　there　were　things　even　the　High　Priestess　on　her　island　did　not　know　and　had　never　known；　whether　of　future　or　present　or　the　widening　ripples　of　the　shaping　past。　Nor　would　it　have　been　proper　if　she　had。　Oaths　sworn　to　the　dying　were　sacrosanct　in　Arbonne。
　　
　　When　they　e　down　at　last　from　the　snows　of　the　pass　into　Arbonne；　the　crusading　army　of　Gorhaut　are　halted　by　their　spiritual　leader；　and　on　a　high　plateau　they　kneel　in　their　armour；　every　man　of　them；　to　hear　the　High　Elder's　prayer　of　thanksgiving　to　the　god。
　　They　have　e　through　the　mountains　with　humbling；　awe…inspiring　ease；　only　some　few　hundred　men　and　horses　lost　to　the　high　cold　and　the　icy；　treacherous　path　and　the　one…amazingly；　only　the　one…avalanche　that　missed　the　main　army　by　less　than　a　bowshot；　taking　only　the　rear　guard　down　into　a　white　death　with　no　true　burial。
　　It　might　have　been…it　ought　to　have　been…so　much　worse；　this　folly　of　taking　an　army　through　the　mountains　in　winter　to　seize　the　advantage　of　surprise。　Even　the　High　Elder　himself　narrowly　escaped　losing　his　life。　Standing　beside　their　tall　king；　he　speaks　to　the　army　with　an　arrow　held　aloft　in　one　hand　and　a　crimson　bandage　on　his　left　arm；　brilliant　against　his　blue　robe　and　the　white　of　the　snow　behind　him。　He　had　caught　up　to　them；　wounded　as　he　was；　in　the　midst　of　the　pass；　riding　alone…which　every　man　there　knows　to　have　been　foolhardy　beyond　words。　Foolhardy；　that　is；　for　one　not　perfectly　trusting　of　Corannos；　not　favoured…as　Galbert　de　Garsenc；　High　Elder　of　Gorhaut　so　manifestly　is…by　the　blessing　and　the　protection　of　the　god。　Which　means　that　they；　too；　in　his　pany；　are　so　blessed；　the　chosen；　the　elect；　the　weapons　of　Corannos。
　　This；　in　fact；　is　his　message　to　them　when　the　prayer　is　over　and　they　rise。　He　holds　up　for　all　to　see　the　Arbonnais　arrow…fired　by　a　coward；　and　not　in　a　time　of　war…that　might　have　killed　him　in　his　own　castle。　The　god　is　with　us；　he　tells　them　all；　we　are　his　agents　and　his　instrument。
　　It　is　hard　not　to　agree；　and　the　men　of　the　army　of　Gorhaut；　in　the　presence　of　their　king；　are　not　inclined　to　be　cynical　or　doubting　at　a　time　like　this。　They　have　e　miraculously　through　the　mountains　in　winter；　and　before　them　now；　bright　and　fair　as　a　dream　under　blue　skies　lies　the　land　that　has　been　promised　them。
　　Promised；　that　is；　after　the　scourging　is　done。　They　are　the　hammers　of　the　god；　the　High　Elder　proclaims。　The　temples　and　villages　of　Arbonne　and　the　depraved；　unclean　women　who　inhabit　them　are　the　anvils　upon　which　their　most　holy；　cleansing　blows　must　fall。
　　The　temples　are　first；　the　castles　will　e　after；　he　tells　them。　Everyt