ggk.asongforarbonne-第96节

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gs　could　be　a　kind　of　defence。
　　Until　that　fear　became　so　deep　and　cold　a　terror　that　it　became　the　very　reason　for　their　peril。　Galbert　de　Garsenc　seemed　to　have　crossed　over　that　line　one　day　or　night　in　his　own　past。　His　fear　of　the　women　of　Arbonne；　his　hatred　of　Rian　and　all　the　goddess　meant；　was　the　reason　there　was　an　army　in　the　mountains　in　the　midst　of　winter；　whipped　into　a　killing　frenzy　by　the　High　Elder　of　Corannos。　They　would　be　out　of　the　mountains　by　now；　Beatritz　corrected　herself；　her　heart　aching；　a　slow；　cold　dread　moving　through　her　like　a　poison　in　the　blood。
　　She　didn't　know　what　to　do。　That　was　the　worst　of　it。　She　could　pray；　gather　everyone　on　the　island　under　the　temple　dome　to　offer　hymns　and　incantations　all　day　and　night；　seeking　some　access　to　the　goddess；　invoking　her　intercession。　Rian　could　not　be　pelled；　though。　That　was　the　oldest；　deepest　law；　she　was　capricious　and　inviolate；　and　death　was　a　part　of　her　dominion…it　was；　in　fact；　one　of　her　incarnations。　She　was　mother；　she　was　bride；　but　she　was　also　gatherer　of　the　dead。
　　It　might　even　be　that　Rian　herself　had　ordained　this　scourge　as　a　punishment；　a　cleansing　of　the　evils　of　their　time。　Beatritz　didn't　know　what　their　great　acts　of　evil　might　be；　but　she　was　only　a　servant　of　the　goddess；　not　privy　to　divine　awareness。　She　would　have　thought…she　would　have　said…that　there　was　no　darkness　or　evil　in　Arbonne　deserving　of　what　had　happened　to　the　corans　in　that　watch…tower　below　the　High　Pass　last　autumn；　or　to　the　priestesses　of　the　temple　of　Aubry　that　same　night。
　　She　would　have　said　as　much　to　holy　Rian　herself。　As　if　it　would　matter。　The　owl　ruffled　his　feathers；　bringing　her　mind　back。　She'd　been　considering　options；　responses。　She　remembered　how　her　father　used　to　do　that；　crisply　running　through　possibilities　aloud　before　decisively　choosing　his　path。　It　was　still　difficult　for　her　sometimes　to　accept　that　he　was　dead；　that　the　burdens　were　her　mother's　now　and　her　own；　with　such　aid　as　could　be　invoked　from　the　bitterly　divided　nobility　of　Arbonne。
　　There　was　no　heir。　That　had　always　been　a　problem；　and　Guibor　IV　of　Barbentain　had　been　unable　to　name　one　in　his　last　years　for　fear　of　tearing　the　country　apart。　He　had　even　tried　to　make　Beatritz　leave　the　sanctuary　of　the　goddess　in　the　year　after　Aelis　died　with　her　child　in　Miraval。　Guibor　had　anticipated　this　trouble　in　the　time　that　followed　the　death　of　his　youngest　child。　He　had　always　anticipated　a　great　deal；　it　was　a　fault　of　his；　to　try　to　make　too　many　things　fall　right　at　the　same　time。　It　had　been　that　way　with　Aelis's　marriage　to　Urté　de　Miraval　in　the　first　place：　a　powerful　duke；　one　of　the　mightiest　in　the　country；　a　choice　that　could　not　be　impeached；　and　a　man　anxious　to　father　children；　a　son　or　even　a　daughter　to　rule　Arbonne　when　Guibor　died。
　　But　Aelis　had　died　first；　and　so　too；　almost　certainly；　had　her　son。　No　one　could　be　absolutely　sure；　though　everyone　knew　what　she　had　told　her　husband　on　her　deathbed　about　the　fathering　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　darknes