Spires of Spirit by Gael Baudino

hand's breadth from the horizon, was lost in the effulgent flood. Off to her left, Malvern Forest came alive in a chorus of birdsong, and the crops before her were lush and waist high.
    And as the sun broke free of the edge of the earth, she let fall the cloak that covered her and lifted her arms. “I am the Mother of all things,” she chanted, her voice as clear as the warm light that washed over the fields, “and My love is poured out upon the earth. My life is the life of the world. My promise is eternal, and shall not be broken.”
    And so she channeled the energies of the longest day, blessing the growing crops, feeling each plant—root and stalk and seed—clearly in her mind. For long minutes she stood thus, an incarnation of the divinity she worshipped, reaffirming Her promise of life and continuance; and then she dropped her hands and walked into the fields, touching the future harvest, wishing it well, loving it as only a Goddess could.
    The sun was well into the sky when, her rite finished, she let the energies fad and redonned her cloak. In the old days there would have been others with her, and this would have been only the beginning of much feasting and dancing. But those times were gone, and she was alone. For most of the townsfolk it would be an ordinary work day.
    And, for that matter, those who labored in the fields would be arriving soon: best, therefore, that she be on her way, for it would not do to be seen. Kay, the new priest sent to replace Jaques Alban, was from Saint Brigid, and though he had been a kind and tolerant soul as a boy, Roxanne did not know how his seminary training might have changed him. And, indeed, it might have changed him greatly, for he had been trained in the north, in Maris, and the Inquisition was very active there. True, the Inquisition had not stretched as far south as the Free Towns—not yet, at least—but it was certainly better not to give it any excuses, and so she threw on her cloak and headed for the forest, where she had left her clothes.
    Why was she out that morning? Why, only to gather fresh herbs, Your Excellency. Their virtue is best at dawn, as I am sure Aquinas says somewhere. The village healer must have her herbs, must she not?
    She wrinkled her nose at the imagined conversation. Good, except for the reference to Aquinas. She was a woman, and she was therefore supposed to be ignorant. If she ever had the misfortune to face a bishop across an Inquisitorial desk, her knowledge would undoubtedly trip her up. An intelligent woman, particularly a young and pretty one, was just as bad as a witch. Even if, by some miracle, she managed to deflect her accusers from her religious practices, they would probably burn her anyway just to be rid of her.
    She snorted under her breath, reflecting that her jokes were not particularly funny these days.
    The path led her close by the house of David, the woodcarver, and the sight of it half hidden among the trees reminded her that there were still some things for which she could be thankful. David's carvings, for example, antic and serious by turns and full of the life of the wood from which they had been carved, graced the village church in profusion, and they comforted Roxanne greatly during her weekly ordeal of mass attendance. His statue of the Virgin was always of particular aid during those interminable hours, and now, as she passed by the carver's house and heard the steady blows of his mallet and chisel, she recalled that slender figure and wondered again if it really was supposed to be a statue of the Virgin at all, for a moon and rayed star, conjoined, gleamed on her breast, and there seemed to be an elven air about her . . .
    The Elves. Yes: that was something else she could be glad of, for since Varden had healed the hands of the smith five years before, something gentler and more tolerant had become a part of the daily life of Saint Brigid. She was not sure what to call it. A widening of the heart, maybe, or the