The Bread of the Miracle

The frozen mud of the market square held the imprint of fifty villagers kneeling in the slush.

Nobody dared draw a full breath. The elder women pressed their wool scapulars tight against their chests; the woodcutters held their axes low, heads bowed as though a holy procession had just crossed the palisade of Eisengard. Upon the sleigh's box, Astrid's bare hand remained resting firmly on Severin's armored shoulder plates.

No black soot curled from the joints of his harness. Only a faint, pale blue vapor, carrying the soft aroma of toasted birch bark.

—Rise —Severin commanded. The duke's voice was rough, yet it lacked that hollow, reverberating roar that used to rattle the rectory windowpanes—. Return to your hearths and distribute the firewood among the aged. No soul will freeze in this fief while my granaries hold rye.

He turned upon his heel, iron spurs ringing against the ice, and stepped inside the closed carriage without a backward glance.

Throughout the ascent through the twelve hairpins of the gorge, neither spoke a word. Inside the cabin draped in lead-gray velvet, the winter wind outside seemed powerless to pierce the glass. Astrid watched the duke's gauntleted hands resting stiff upon his knees.

Crossing beneath the portcullis of the inner bailey, Baroness Walpurga waited under the arcade, her thin lips drawn in a bloodless line. Behind her stood two Carmelites holding open ledgers and quill cases, poised to record any theological anomaly.

—They say in the hamlet that the lady laid hands upon the cursed flesh —Walpurga sneered, omitting the customary curtsy—. The friars fear the sacrilege will poison the cistern water.

Severin gave her no reply. He descended the carriage step, brushed past the monks, and strode directly down to the lower kitchens, Astrid following close behind.

The scullery maids and the head cook backed against the brick bake-ovens, trembling before the armored lord of Eisengard. Upon the white-oak kneading table rested a great round loaf of rye bread, fresh from the hearth, crust crackling and steaming hot.

Severin slowly undid the buckles of his left gauntlet. The steel-plated leather fell to the flagstones with a dull thud.

His bare hand was pale, the knuckles scarred by old campaign cuts, blue veins pulsing beneath thin, almost translucent skin. No black grime dusted his palm. No embers crawled along his fingertips.

Severin stretched his shaking hand toward the steaming loaf.

Astrid held her breath. The cook shut her eyes, bracing for the familiar explosive hiss of black ash that reduced every morsel of food touched by the duke's flesh to ruined cinder.

Severin's fingers closed around the warm crust.

The loaf did not burn. There was neither smoke nor spark. The crust yielded softly beneath his thumb, releasing the sweet fragrance of sun-ripened grain and live yeast.

Severin tore away a mouthful of soft crumb and raised it to his lips with solemn reverence. He chewed slowly, his gaze fixed on the barred embrasure looking out over the white abyss.

A single heavy tear rolled down his cheek, losing itself in his short beard.

—It tastes of wheat —whispered the man known across the empire as the Beast of Eisengard—. Only of wheat.

Three black chargers draped in purple velvet arrived at noon, their muzzles crusted with frozen foam.

The lead rider dismounted without shaking the snow from his wool cloak. It was Brother Bernardo of Ravenna, a canon of sharp cheekbones and sunken eyes bearing the heavy silver pectoral cross of the Holy Office upon his breast.

Walpurga received him in the Great Hall's antechamber with a servile genuflection she had never once accorded her nephew's southern bride.

—Peace be upon this afflicted house —the prelate intoned, drawing a lead cylinder sealed with the Cardinal Vicar's arms from his robes—. I bear a mandate from the Holy See. The rumor of the prodigy in the valley below has reached the ears of the metropolitan bench.

Severin entered the hall through the private turret door, clad in a mantle of dark wool edged with wolf fur. He no longer wore iron gloves within the keep; his bare hands hung at his sides, pale and clean of ash.

Astrid walked half a step behind him, chin held high, wearing a gown of forest-green wool that set off the fair warmth of her skin.

—In Eisengard, letters are read on one's feet, canon —Severin said without offering a seat—. Unroll your scroll and state what the curia demands of my mountains.

Brother Bernardo slit the lead cap with an ivory quill-knife and read in a shrill, liturgical drone:

—'Whereas reports have reached this Holy Tribunal that the noble Astrid of Montmirail has demonstrated thaumaturgical agency over the fire curse afflicting the Duchy of Eisengard, her immediate conveyance to the archiepiscopal seat of Ravenna is hereby decreed for formal examination of spiritual discernment. Any defiance will incur the supreme interdict of the realm.'

Walpurga stepped forward, clasping her hands over her stomach with pious malice.

—It is the sacred duty of every true Christian to submit to holy mother Church, nephew —the baroness urged—. The girl has naught to dread if her soul is pure of occult covenants.

Astrid felt a cold pit open in her stomach. She knew too well what a 'spiritual examination' entailed in the vaults of Ravenna: windowless cisterns, red-hot irons, and coerced confessions tailored to forfeit a noblewoman's ancestral dote to the curial treasury.

She made to step forward, but Severin's bare arm barred her way with gentle, immovable firmness.

—Give me the mandate —the duke commanded.

Brother Bernardo held out the parchment with visible hesitation, careful not to brush against the northern lord's skin.

Severin took the document in both hands. His gray eyes locked onto the friar's gaze with an intensity that drove the churchman back a full pace.

—The House of Eisengard recognizes no foreign tribunal over the person of its duchess —Severin pronounced with glacial composure.

From the center of his bare left palm, a bright, pure flame erupted without a speck of smoke. It was not the foul, reeking black ash of the ancient curse; it was an incandescent golden fire that consumed the vellum in three heartbeats, letting a handful of fine white dust drift harmlessly onto the wolf-skin rugs.

The prelate crossed himself thrice in frantic haste, stumbling backward toward the arched exit.

—Sacrilege! —the friar choked out—. Defiance of the Vicar of Christ! The interdict shall fall upon your crags!

—Tell your cardinal that if he marches spears into this valley, the snows of my peaks will provide their shrouds —Severin concluded, gesturing to the open doors—. And if you ever speak my wife's name as a threat again, you will not ride out on horseback.