The Binder gave her a strange, perhaps even an accusing look, and Ocyrhoe felt her face flushing. “I am the only sister left in the city,” she added. “This message would have come sooner, and... more correctly, if there were anyone else... more experienced... to bring it.”
The woman’s dark eyes opened wide, briefly, like a cat just before it pounces. Then they narrowed, and the woman turned with barely hidden disdain to the commander, then back to Ocyrhoe. Her expression softened. “Our mother receives one of her children most gladly. You may give your message to this man, and he will carry it to its final destination. Then, relieved of your burden, you and I may talk.”
Ocyrhoe felt her entire body sag with relief. “Thank you,” she said, her throat tight.
She turned her attention back to the man. The words tumbled out: “Robert of Somercotes, Catholic Cardinal, greets His Imperial Majesty Frederick and summons him or his men to the Septizodium within the walls of Rome, where all of the Cardinals are being held against their will by Senator Orsini until they have selected the new Pope. I will lead your men to the Septizodium.”
She glanced nervously at the woman. There was a pause.
The woman closed her right hand and moved it slightly toward her heart. Ocyrhoe picked up on the hint and slammed her fist against her sternum, eyes still on the Binder.
“Thus delivered of your message, you are as the fox, unbound and unencumbered,” the woman said. Ocyrhoe sucked in a breath and almost recited the confirming phrase after her, then realized this would only make her look more foolish. Instead she nodded, once.
During this exchange, the commander and both soldiers had exchanged concerned looks, and now the commander spoke rapidly to the woman in that same dialect spoken by the ruddy-faced soldier. She could not quite follow what was being said, and she could sense Ferenc’s frustration as well.
The woman replied briefly, and Ocyrhoe heard the Cardinal’s name and a reference to the Emperor; the commander responded with a brusque nod and left, the two young guards following him.
Left alone with the newcomers, the Binder cast a questioning eye at Ferenc—who returned her look just as quizzically as before.
“He is with me,” Ocyrhoe said quickly. “He knows Rankalba.”
The woman blinked and pursed her lips. “You have taught him?” she demanded accusingly.
“No,” Ocyrhoe said quickly. She tried to think how best to explain their strange fellowship, but the Binder had already turned her attention to Ferenc. She moved to him swiftly, took his arm, and signed something onto it. He glanced, startled, at Ocyrhoe, then made the sign for Mother on the woman’s arm.
The woman shook her head angrily and pushed his fingers from her arm.
“He is from Buda. I think his mother was a Binder,” Ocyrhoe interjected, trying to mediate between the woman’s anger and Ferenc’s confusion. “He does not sign quickly and we have not had time for long explanations. He must be completely confused by what is happening.”
The woman searched Ferenc’s face for a long moment before answering. “There may be men in this camp who speak his language. I will have someone explain everything to him,” she said.
Ocyrhoe let slip a tired laugh. “Everything? You do not know how long that will take,” she said. The woman turned her attention to Ocyrhoe, and under the brunt of that gaze, Ocyrhoe wondered how much the woman actually knew.
“I am Léna,” the Binder said as she gestured toward the camp stools at the other end of the tent. “Please, let us sit and talk.”
Her name alone revealed nothing of who she might be or from where she may have come. Were they not kin-sisters? Ocyrhoe wondered. Why did she not share more of her identity? The delight she had been relishing at meeting another Binder threatened to slip away, and she hid her panic beneath the stoic mask she had worn when they had first reached the camp. “I am Ocyrhoe,” she replied guardedly, and with a gesture toward her companion, “He is Ferenc.”
“Tell me what is happening in Rome,” Léna directed as they sat down on the stools.
“Did you send the dove?” Ocyrhoe asked.
“What dove?”
“The dove on the statue of Minerva,” Ocyrhoe said, and as the panic threatened to overwhelm her, she let her tongue go. “Are you the Bind-Mother?”
Léna gave her another long, questioning stare. “I see,” she sighed at last. “You are an orba matre.”
Ocyrhoe didn’t know what to do with her hands, and so she clutched the rim of the stool. Holding tight. “I am... I don’t understand.”
“A child, born of a Binder mother”—Léna glanced at Ferenc—“a girl child, would know more than you do, for your age.”
“I was chosen,” Ocyrhoe said, a little hotly.