Her Majesty's Wizard #1 (19 page)

   Sir Guy sighed, flinging his head back. "Great was that battle. Countless deeds of valor did King Kaprin and his knights enact. But in the hour of victory, Dimethtus's spell struck home past Conor's ward and changed the giant Colmain into stone. Yet in the doing, Dimethtus neglected to guard 'gainst Conor, and the wizard froze him in a timeless moment, while Kaprin led his armies raging through Dimethtus's host. At sunset, Kaprin held the field, with all his foemen slain or captured. Only then did Conor loose Dimethtus, and the sorcerer looked upon the field, knew his fate, and pleaded for salvation. Upon the word, demons thronged to claim his soul by his blood-contract. But Saint Conor held them all at bay, while a country priest hearkened to the long and foul tally of a sorcerer's sins. When he pronounced the words of absolution, the demons howled in despair and rage, retreating. Then Kaprin and his men could hang Dimethtus."

   "You ... don't say." Matt felt a little dazed. "A ... very interesting story, Sir Guy, but ... what's it got to do with us?"

   "Why, our princess." Sir Guy's eyes glittered.

   "You don't mean she ... ?" Matt swallowed, turning to look at Alisande, then back to Sir Guy. "Well, well! King Kaprin's dynasty lasted a long time, eh?"

   "Three hundred years, or nearly. Our princess's father was---"

   "Ho-o-o!"

   Their heads snapped around toward the princess' voice.

   Alisande had reined in, one hand flung up to signal a halt. Then she beckoned to them, eyes still fixed straight ahead.

   Sir Guy touched his heels to his horse's flanks, and the great beast leaped out in a gallop. Stegoman lumbered into a run.

   They pulled up next to Alisande, who was pointing ahead, her mouth a thin, hard line. "Behold the fruit of evil kings!"

   Matt looked-and saw charred ruins.

   It might have been a village, once-maybe only last week. But now it was a jumble of charcoal timber ends, sticking up from ash heaps.

   "It is even as she says," Sir Guy said softly. "This is the result of Astaulf's rule. The King is the symbol of the nation; he stands for all the people."

   Matt knew the power of symbols in this universe. He nodded. "So whatever the King does, the people do."

   Alisande nodded, thunder in her face. "He gained this land by theft; now many of my people live by theft."

   "There has been much brigandage this last year," Sir Guy explained, as Matt stared at a blackened roof beam standing out from the rubble. "Troops of bandits roam the land. If the village will not pay tribute in food, gold, and virgins, the bandits howl through the houses like an evil wind, ripping plank from timber, stone from stone, and burning all to ashes."

   Matt tried not to look directly at the low, charred, twisted mounds that lay here and there among the embers. It didn't help; he knew they were corpses.

   Then something caught the corner of Matt's eye. "Stegoman, off to the left, there ... Let's see it a little closer."

   "Wherefore?" the dragon growled; but he waddled forward.

   Alisande and Sir Guy looked up, startled. Then they nudged their horses to a walk, following, towing Sayeesa along behind. "What do you seek, Wizard?" the princess demanded.

   Matt pointed for an answer.

   It poked up out of the rubble-a burned and broken building, but still standing, twice the size of a peasant's. hut.

   "The church," Sir Guy murmured.

   "How come it's still there?"

   "The power it served protected it somewhat, Lord Wizard. This was consecrated ground."

   Somewhat was right. The walls still stood, but they bore an outer layer of char, and half the roof was gone. The empty windows stared in reproach.

   But, desolate as it was, it waked Matt's conscience to uneasy pricking. He had resolved to confess his sins at the first church he found, or to the first priest. Okay, here was the church-but the priest was gone, if he was lucky; crisped, if he wasn't. Of course, if the bandits hadn't hit ...

   Matt stiffened, eyes widening. "How long ago would you say the raiders hit?"

   The knight pursed his lips. "There's still some warmth ... A day or two, or more. Wherefore?"

   "Could it be..." Matt felt his stomach sink. "You don't suppose they could have done this to celebrate our arrival, do you? Or mine, I should say. If Malingo peeked into the future right after we escaped, he could have seen that I just might be passing this way-if I got this far, that is-and that I might be looking for a priest..."

   Sir Guy's breath hissed in between his teeth, and Alisande grated, "Aye, most certainly. You have the right of it, Lord Wizard. This is the sorcerer's work."

   Matt glowered at the building, feeling the anger and resentment grow. Okay, they'd headed him off-but he could still make the gesture of defiance! He swung his leg over Stegoman's neck and jumped down.

   "What dost thou intend?" But from the tone of her voice, Alisande had guessed. "There can be naught within! And the roof could fall, the floorboards crumble! I prithee, Lord Wizard, abandon this folly!"

   "Aye, abandon it!" Sayeesa sounded downright scared. "I feel strange forces lowering near that I like not!"

   Matt could feel it, too, now that she mentioned it-just barely tingling. It felt like a snowbank ready to fall, a dragnet ready to tighten, just needing a pull on the string. But something tugged at him from the church, and suddenly he was certain that going in was right. "Just a quick look." He started walking.

   "Thou hast no need!" Alisande cried.

   But Sir Guy held up a gauntlet. "Let be, your Highness. What he must do, let him do."

   Matt steped up to the church, kicking chunks of burned timber out of the way. He set a foot on the rough-hewn charcoal that had been a doorstep and leaned his weight on it tentatively, then all the way. It held, and he stepped through the broken bits of door that still hung twisted on the frame and set foot on the church floor, carefully, until he realized it wasn't burned.

   Nothing was, inside. The interior of the church was in amazingly good shape, though the roof over the sanctuary was gone. The sunlight streaming in over the altar lent an air of sanctity to the whitewashed walls and rough-hewn pews. Even the confessional stood intact, scarcely more than a wide, upright box with a partition down the middle, its near side curtained; but the homespun curtains weren't even crisped.

   Matt looked about him, skin crawling at the nape of his neck. There wasn't a bit of char or fleck of ash to be seen anywhere, and the feel of magic forces was growing stronger, tingling along the strings of his neurons. His muscles tightened, readying for trouble. This wasn't just amazing-it was impossible.

   "What seek ye, goodman?"

   Matt whirled about, grabbing at his sword hilt.

   A friar stood before him, old and bent, in a brown, cowled robe with a white rope for a belt. His hair and close-trimmed beard were white, and he'd once been tall. But he still looked solid, even stocky, and his complexion was ruddy. His eyes were bright, and his voice was deep and resonant. "'Tis not the custom to bring arms within a church, Sir Knight."

   "Yeah, well, I'm not a knight." But most of Matt's brain was trying to add up oddball factors. The old man looked normal enough, but there was something about him ... His habit was totally clean, and he looked remarkably cheerful for a priest whose parish had just been wiped out. But there was something else ...

   "What seek you in this church?" the friar inquired gently.

   Go, something within him urged. Here lies danger.

   Matt steeled himself against it. He saw no evil here, only great serenity. And there might be something strange about this strong ancient, but Matt was somehow sure he was a priest and a good man. "My soul is heavy, Father. I must confess."

   "Ah." The friar raised his head-that explained everything. He turned away to his confessional, nodding. "Come, then. Speak your sins, and I will hear."

   He disappeared behind the homespun curtain at the left-hand side, and Matt's stomach churned as every gland within him urged, Away! He tightened his jaw and stepped firmly into the confessional.

   He knelt and slowly, very slowly, made the Sign of the Cross. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been..."

   His mouth dried up, tongue cleaving to his hard palate. The words wouldn't come.

   "Yes?" the firm old voice urged gently; from the other side of the lattice. "How long since you've been here, my son?"

   The question loosed Matt's tongue. "Four years." He swallowed, bending his head, and shifted into overdrive. "I've missed my Easter duty four times, skipped Mass 208 times, mocked my father six times..."

   He worked his way through the Commandments, going so fast he could hardly make sense of it himself. Somehow, the sins kept coming to his mind, with a relentlessness that dumfounded him. It almost seemed that something was surrounding him, pushing the tale of his minor iniquities out of his soul like paste from a tube. He couldn't stop until, at last, he found that he'd run dry.

   "FortheseandallthesinsthatIcannotremember, Iamverysorry!" he blurted, and collapsed over his white-knuckled hands with a sigh: of relief.

   "And there is nothing more?" the friar prodded.

   Matt went rigid. He'd forgotten about Sayeesa! ""Uhhh ... Well, you see, Father, it was this way ...

   He went on, running through the whole story, until he finally finished with the collapse of the palace. He sagged against the woodwork, breathing deeply.

   "And?"

   Matt stiffened. Was the old priest a mind reader? He sighed and leaned forward, elbows on the ledge. "All right, Father. After that, the princess and I got into a bit of an argument, and the end of it was that I got up on my high horse and denied the existence of Good, Evil, God, Satan, and sin. And that's it."

   "What then changed your mind, that you came here?"

   Oh, this guy was good.

   He was-really good. Matt took a deep breath. "Okay, Father. Let me tell you about this dream I had..

   He gave the friar a shortened version, emphasizing the despair, which was a sin, and his illusions, which couldn't exactly be said to be wholesome. When he finished, he waited in apprehension.

   But the old friar murmured, "You were fortunate indeed to have a sponsor from the host of Good."

   Matt nodded. "Yeah. I've heard that dreams can kill."

   "You were dead already." The old man's tone sharpened. "Be sure! You were in Hell. Which was, most surely, penance..." The old man sighed. "But not earthly penance. For your sins, say five rosaries..."

   It went on from there, and it went on for a while. Matt absorbed it all, amazed at the devaluation of sin since the Middle Ages.

   "And ten Glorias," the old man finished.

   "Thank you, Father." Matt started to get up.

   "And one thing more."

   Matt froze. Here came the goodie!

   "For your latter sins," the friar mused, "I charge you with a mission."

   "Uh, well, I'm kinda busy just now..."

   "'Tis in your path, for your party must needs travel west. This witch, Sayeesa, must go to a certain place, there to atone for her multitude of sins. I charge you with safekeeping of this broken witch, till she comes to her destination."

   Matt swallowed. "Anything you say, Father."

   "Then go your way, and try to sin no more. In Nomine Patri, et Filio..."

   Matt came out of the booth, shaken but resolute. He turned toward the door...

   "A moment, my son."

   Matt froze. When would he learn to move fast?

   He turned slowly. "Uh, you had a postscript, Father?"

   The old priest stood in front of the curtain, nodding. "Bring me the witch."

   Matt stared.

   Then he cleared his throat and said, "Uh, Father-are you sure? I mean, a witch.. ."

   "Her power is broken, and you tell me her conscience now troubles her, so much so that she would destroy herself. She is in despair, one of the most insidious of sins. Bring her to me."

   "I, uh, don't think she'll be exactly willing.. .

   "Did I ask. if she was?" For a humble friar, he had a very commanding, penetrating stare. "Bring her to me."

   Matt swallowed and turned away. "Well ... okay. You know what you're doing ... I guess."

   Behind him, he heard the whisper of sandaled feet as the friar crossed to the center aisle and strode down toward the altar. In the doorway, Matt glanced back, doubtful, and saw the old man kneeling at the communion rail, head bowed, before the tabernacle. Sunlight struck down through the ruined roof, and a shimmering glow seemed to envelop him, a sort of aura...

   Matt turned away, giving his head a quick shake. It must be his imagination. It had been overstimulated recently, no doubt about it.

   Alisande stood by her horse, holding its improvised halter, looking worried. She saw Matt and quickly looked angry. "You were in the church overlong, Wizard."