“St. Sonja offered herself at the gates in the hope of saving her people, even though they ridiculed her for her faith. Because of her youth and beauty, she was taken to the tent of the cruel king, Azaril, where she sang so sweetly that his heart was softened. He spared Korinthar and all those people who lived inside its walls. At this sign of God’s grace, the entire town wept and prayed at the tiny church built by St. Sebastian Johannes with his own hands, and pledged from that time forward to follow the faith of the Unities.”
“What happened to St. Sonja?” asked Hathumod.
“No one knows,” admitted the cleric. “Some say the Bwrish king took her captive and later had her killed when she refused to become his wife.”
One of the girls squealed. “But it’s said that the Bwr people aren’t people at all but—”
“I beg you, my lady!” From such a mild-mannered man, the retort bit doubly hard. “It would be abomination to speak more on that subject. That’s only a tale concocted to tempt men and women into improper thoughts. Most agree that she walked of her own accord into the dark lands inhabited by the Bwrmen to bring the Light of the Unities to their tribes. She was never seen again. But in any case, she left Korinthar and did not return.”
“Look!” Tallia jostled her way to the front of the procession and now emerged first into the wide clearing. Alain rode up beside her. The ruins lay sprawled below them. She stared, pink staining her cheeks, and as he surveyed the walls, he wondered if there was a Dariyan road hidden here, now covered by grass and moss.
While the rest of the progress fanned out to explore, Tallia dismounted, and he followed her into the ruins where she exclaimed over the carvings on the stone: spirals, falcons, people with human bodies and animal heads. “We must tear all these walls down! We can chisel these evil images from the stones and use them to build a convent where our prayer will glorify God.”
She grabbed his hand to tug him along. Inside the altar house she knelt beside the white altar stone—still holding Alain’s hand—and with her free hand traced the pattern of four spirals that led into a fist-sized hollow sunk into the center of the pale stone. She shuddered ecstatically and drew Alain against her. “We will build the church right here! The chapel, with the Hearth, right over this very stone!”
Her shoulders were so thin. She was still quivering. The feel of her body against him swept such strong feelings through him that he tried to disengage his hand from hers so he could step back. The memory of nettles was not helping.