The Island House (56 page)

Owl-light is treacherous for one whose world is blurred. As Gunnhilde groped along the cloister toward the chapel, she heard men’s voices. In the personal hour, her place was the nuns’ day chamber, and to be caught in an area more commonly frequented by the brothers was unsuitable, old though she was.

Fearful of discovery, Gunnhilde hobbled on until she found the door that led from the outside of the church to the robing room inside. Arthritic fingers prized the latch from its keeper.
Thanks be, Holy Mary!
She was safe.

Opening an inner door to the women’s side of the nave, Gunnhilde knelt with some trouble. Compline tonight would have special prayers, she knew—thanks to God for the completion of the great book of the Apocalypse. She could just make out the manuscript lying on the altar, the gilded binding gathering what light there was from the candles left burning.

Gunnhilde crossed herself. For all her grief about Signy, she was under the Lord’s protection in this place and she could give herself up to worship. If she was seen, she could justly say this was a moment of private prayer, for there was never enough time to reflect upon her sins.

From long practice, the old woman stilled her mind. It was better, these days, to listen for Christ’s voice in silence rather than strain to see Him, even within His dwelling place. Once, as a very young novice, she had caught a glimpse of His glory as a great light—a light that only she had seen—poured from the pyx that stored the Holy Bread. It had happened only once, but in that moment she had known the truth. Her invisible bridegroom lovingly waited for her to join Him, and she so yearned to bathe in that light again, longed to surrender to the radiance. She opened her heart, seeking the comfort of her husband’s presence . . .

Something niggled, a formless fidgeting behind her prayers. Gunnhilde’s focus dispersed, rippled away like the surface of a lake disturbed by wind.

Voices. She had heard men’s voices and they had been whispering.
Why would that be so, when it was permitted to speak between Vespers and Compline?

The voice of one who whispers is hard to recognize—almost sexless, nearly ageless—but Gunnhilde remembered something, the language that was spoken. Memory nudged—Bear, as a child, this had been his tongue.

There were strangers on Findnar.

The outer door in the church wall creaked as it opened. Someone was coming.

The only way to leave the church now was through the west door, and to get there, Gunnhilde must hobble the length of the nave. She was dressed in black, and when she hurried away, turning her back on the altar—something she’d never done in all her long service as a nun—she became a shadow among shadows, moving over the earth floor with little more noise than a night breeze or a mouse. As the strangers entered the nave, she was gone.

The rest was not so easy. She heard other voices, those of her brothers and sisters—and the difference was clear.

Gunnhilde tried to run to her companions, but she stumbled. Something was wrong, she could feel it in her head, a terrible ache; her heart, too, was jolting, and there was an immense pressure behind her eyes. Moving was difficult, for her legs were weak suddenly. Was someone shouting—close or far away? Hold on a little longer, just a few more steps. She must find Cuillin, must warn him and . . .

“Mother!”

Gunnhilde was lying beside the path, a black huddle. The voice called her back from the dark.
Signy!
“Help me, child. Help . . .” The words bubbled away half-said, but Gunnhilde
tried to make Signy understand. “Cui—the, the men.” Her tongue had thickened.

The old woman was a dead weight. Signy could not lift her. “Hush, I am here.”

Gunnhilde convulsed against the kind arms of her daughter. She tried to point.

The girl slewed around. A man was running, his sword drawn high; at his back came others. A torch was thrown against the sky. It landed on the refectory roof. Flames spread through heather like a red knife, and the bell began to toll. Not measured, not sonorous, a frightened clamor.

Signy crouched over the old woman as a hand ripped at her clothes. She tried to bite—she had no other weapons—and the man howled. He hit Signy and then pitched over her, pumping blood. She saw the sword in his back.

Another man loomed. He hauled the raider’s corpse away; fire filled the sky behind, and heat hurt Signy’s eyes. This was death. She would never see Bear again.

Arms scooped her up as light shifted. “Signy!”

She saw his face. Had Cruach sent her comfort as she died?

No. This was Bear, and he was real. He had killed her attacker as the world turned to flame.

Bear was with the raiders.

“Traitor!” Signy knocked his arms away. She stumbled to Gunnhilde, weeping. The nun could not speak, but Signy pulled the old woman up, and as she staggered away she screamed out, “Get away. Go!”

Bear’s sword arm dropped to his side. Signy’s anguish sliced him open like a blade. Around him, the Abbey burned as fire spread from roof to dry roof. Cinders fell, burning rain. Men ran like shadows through red light—monks and raiders, some the prey, others, predators. Screams ripped the night like cloth.

The raid was out of control. This was not what was planned.
Who had done this thing?

The bell stopped. There was no one to pull the burning rope.

Gouts of flame—ravenous tongues—reached up into the night. Hot crimson, ice white joined in the cold sky as the stars faded against heat and the risen moon. Behind that silver disk, a white ball moved. It was small, as yet, but it would grow larger in the days to come.

Many of the monks were already dead. Lining up for Compline, they’d scattered into the path of the raiders’ swords. Struck down, they littered the ground like straw dolls.

There would be a reckoning later from Grimor, from Bear, but not now, not as the flames and fury took hold and the berserkers became a howling plague of death.

Beside the church a bloodied corpse rose up as Signy stumbled on. Pointing with a scarlet hand, it spoke to her.
“Sanctuary.”
Anselm.

Through the blood veil, Signy saw enough of his face to push shock aside. “Help me, Brother. Please!”

The old order of master and pupil was gone. Anselm and the girl lifted the nun, and together all three stumbled toward the side door of the Abbey. It was the last undefiled building left on the island.

Anselm opened the door just a crack. The space behind was empty. Around the church, men roved between buildings, swarming death.

Terror has no words, no plan. Clumsy, silent, they pulled Gunnhilde inside. Beneath the latch they braced a prie-dieu.

Time had come full circle. The two, carrying the third, crept deeper into the body of the church. It was empty, a light burning
peacefully before the pyx. There, too, lay the greatest work ever to come out of Findnar’s Scriptorium: the Book of Revelation.

Dressed with gold leaf, pages of calfskin vellum—cured by Signy’s fingers months before—were pressed between cover boards of whale’s ivory. Crystal, chalcedony, and sea topaz graced the surface; the topaz was from the cove where the raiders had landed once again.

The monk moaned at the sight of his masterwork.

“Anselm! We cannot stay here,” Signy told him.

Anselm did not hear. Lost to shock and remorse, he knew he would die soon, as would Signy and Gunnhilde. Just as his brothers were dying now.

“Anselm!”

The bewildered monk stared at the girl.

“The west door. Then we run to the combe.”

“God is Mercy.” Gunnhilde. Her voice brought Anselm back. The nun’s eyes were wide; the next world was very near, and just a veil remained, only a veil.

Signy gasped. “
Please,
Anselm.”

The brother sighed. “Come, dearest Sister.”

Gunnhilde managed to nod as Signy and Anselm swept her up. In that same moment, Anselm plucked the book from the altar. He cuddled it to his side with one arm.

“Now!” Signy, a scorching whisper.

The three hobbled toward the west door.

They nearly made it.

Behind them, the prie-dieu fell backward as the side door burst open.

Fiachna hurdled the broken prie-dieu. Behind him, like silent wolves, came two more of Solwaer’s thanes.

“The altar!” Candlesticks and the pyx, and a great silver cross.

Half-carrying Gunnhilde slowed Signy and Anselm. Her weight, their kindness, brought disaster.

Fiachna saw the trio. “Women!” He threw his ax.

Signy pulled Gunnhilde down. And screamed as Death flew toward her.

The door behind crashed wide. “Fiachna!”

Bear. He’d seen the man enter the church.

Fiachna turned. “I see you, Demon.”

Bear roared “Betrayer!” as Fiachna hurled forward with Solwaer’s men. Swords whirled in the hot light of the open door.

Bear fought from reflex. His sword so quick it bit and cut. Two of the three died, but Fiachna danced toward him and away. Solwaer’s chief carl grinned like a red dog.

“Why?” Bear challenged.

Fiachna laughed. Sweat flew and breath was short. “The game changed. You won’t win.” A taunt. A thrust, another.