Her Majesty's Wizard #1 (41 page)

   "Escort him to the chapel, then." The dead Emperor seemed almost amused. "And show him there a pallet, for methinks that he is like to topple with his weariness."

   Or maybe, Matt decided, it was plain old discrimination-they were knights, and he wasn't. They couldn't have the hoi-polloi mixing with their betters. He should have resented it, but he just didn't have the energy.

   Sir Guy bowed and turned away. Matt turned with him automatically.

   "Worthy knight."

   Sir Guy turned back, eyebrows raised. "Majesty?"

   "Moncaire must have the measure of this man."

   Sir Guy inclined his head respectfully. "Your pardon, Majesty-but I believe he has taken it already."

   "Well enough, then. To the chapel."

   Sir Guy turned away again, and Matt stumbled after him, wondering what that business about measurements was. And what would Saint Moncaire have to do with it?

   The chapel was a side cave, a nice little intimate grotto nestling up against the great hall. There were no pews-that had been a relatively late addition in churches-but the altar was gilded and very elegant, gleaming richly in the light of the single candle next to it. It was the only light in the place; mostly, the chapel was shadow.

   Sir Guy led him to the back of the cave and put out a hand to stop him. "Here is your bed."

   Matt couldn't see anything. He stuck out a tentative foot and felt-fur brush against his shin, nearly to the knee. He sighed and started to fold into it, when one last stabbing worry straightened him. "Sir Guy ... Malingo... are you sure.. ."

   "Entirely, Matthew. There is not room for the slightest beginning of a doubt. Puissant as Malingo is, his power's not sufficient to find this cave; and even if he could, he'd not dare come in. His entrance here would be just such a sign as Hardishane awaits. He and his knights would rise, to charge throughout the Northern Lands, subduing all to remake the Empire anew. They would, in passing, obliterate the sorcerer who waked them. Rest your heart from fear and all concern."

   Matt nodded, sighed, and let himself fold, tumbling forward. An ocean of fur pressed up against his side and cheek; his eyes closed automatically, and the darkness pressed in. After all, it had been at least three days since he'd had a full night's sleep.

   "Matthew." Fingers touched his shoulder, and Matt came awake, tensed for battle, but feeling as if he were filled with sand. He could just barely make out Sir Guy's face, hovering over him. The knight had taken off his armor and had found a maroon robe of very rich material, belted at the waist. So this was how the local other half looked in their off-hours.

   "Rise," the Black Knight said gravely, almost sternly. "You've slept the candle down."

   Candle? Oh, yes-the one they used for telling time here, with alternating bands of red and white; each took an hour to burn through.

   "How big a candle?" Matt muttered.

   "Twelve hours," Sir Guy replied. "Rise and take up vigil."

   Matt had never seen Sir Guy look so serious. He rolled off the pile of furs and came to his feet, frowning. "What's happening?"

   But the Black Knight only turned away, beckoning. Matt followed, with a scowl.

   Sir Guy paced down the nave to the altar. Matt stopped beside him and looked down at a suit of plate armor, just like Sir Guy's, only newer-brand-new, in fact; bright, silvery, untarnished steel.

   "Kneel," Sir Guy instructed. "Begin your vigil."

   Matt looked up, frowning. "Shouldn't we be back on the road? There's a war on, you know."

   "The war may yet be lost, if you keep not this vigil."

   Matt stared at him, but Sir Guy gazed back, unperturbed, with such a thorough sureness that Matt found himself turning and kneeling by the suit of armor. He tried one last, feeble protest. "Are you sure this is necessary?"

   "Absolutely. Good fortune to you-and 'ware temptations. Newly wakened though you are, your eyelids will grow heavy. Impatience, ennui, hidden night-fears-all will assail you. Let them not disturb your watch. Be sure, 'tis vital. If you fail in this, dire actions will follow."

   "But nobody's gonna come in and try to steal this stuff! Odds are, they couldn't even lift it! It can't walk off by itself, you know!"

   "I do not know that, nor do you." Sir Guy's fingers dug into Matt's shoulder, almost as hard as his gauntlets. "Have faith in me, Matthew. I've never asked it ere this time. Have faith."

   He turned away and was gone.

   Faith! Matt looked up at the altar, glowering at the tabernacle. That's what it all came down to here, wasn't it? But he didn't doubt what the knight had said about this vigil's importance-to Matt's own life. Face it, he was a lackey here. He had no more place in that company of heroes outside than a private had in the officers' mess. If he tried to go back in there uninvited, those dead knights would find some way to skewer him. They didn't look as if they could lift their swords-but they didn't look as if they could still talk, either. Magic ruled here.

   Okay. It was necessary for him to stay out of the way, and this was really a very polite way of making sure he did-instead of telling him to keep out, they gave him a job to do and told him it was important. Nice piece of face-saving; he'd be a fool to reject it and force them to get ugly. They were really being very nice.

   But it rankled.

   The more he thought about it, the angrier he got at being shuttled out of the way, so he wouldn't clutter up the space for the big guys! He had half a mind to charge out there and ...

   You will be tempted. Sir Guy's voice seemed to ring through his head, and Matt sawed back on his emotions, suddenly alert to danger from inside himself. Even here, Evil could reach in to tempt him into a rash act that just might result in having his head handed to him. And, as he'd had pointed out to him far too often for comfort, if he failed, Alisande's bid for her throne failed with him.

   He rolled back off his knees, folded his legs tailor-fashion, and settled himself for a long night, summoning the patience that had lasted him through long, dull undergraduate lectures. But patience wouldn't come.

   Then think, he told himself. He was supposed to be a scholar with inner resources that should cope with any amount of unfilled time. This was a church, a place of religion, so he might as well pray, if he couldn't do anything else!

   But he'd never had much use for prayer. Faith! It seemed such an empty word, yet it was the keystone of this culture. He rolled that around in his mind. Faith could be the core of magic, as it was the core of religion. This whole universe might be built on it, somehow. What would happen here if the people stopped believing God had created the universe? Would everything disappear? But that line of thought was getting him into the type of stuff the followers of supposed Eastern cults chewed on in their meditations.

   Meditation, he thought. He'd never really tried it, but it might help to get him through the night. He settled himself again and began trying to regulate his breathing with the only mantra he remembered. Om mane padme om. Om mane padme ...

   Abruptly, he jerked his head up, realizing he'd almost put himself to sleep. You will be tempted! To a man who'd only just wakened after days without rest, it was an easy temptation to give in to.

   He began to regulate his breathing again until he had a slow, deep rhythm that would continue while he busied his mind again with the matter of faith.

   Did Malingo have faith? In this world, he must; but he turned away from God and put his faith in the Devil. And it paid off, for a while. For now, Malingo's perverted faith gave him an edge.

   He'd certainly proved adept at harassing Matt. There'd been the old witch and then Sayeesa; Malingo had moved her fifty miles or more, castle and all, to put her in Matt's path. Then there had been the peasants who came hunting her, whipping themselves into a lynch mob. And Father Brunel, who turned were again suddenly.

   Something flickered at the edge of Matt's vision. Without turning his head, he began concentrating on the shimmer at the comer of his eye.

   It took shape gradually, becoming almost solid-a figure in ancient armor. But its head was scarcely human. The face was piggish, lacking eyelids, and with a low brow; the mouth yawned wide, filled with three.-inch, pointed teeth.

   It paced toward Matt, drooling. He watched it pensively, feeling no fear or tension, sure that the thing did not exist. It was only an illusion. What else could get into a chapel that was guarded by Hardishane's cave? Besides, he could still see through it faintly. He didn't know who had sent it or why-possibly his own subconscious.

   Could it hurt him? Only if he believed in it. And he didn't.

   He put out a hand, spreading the fingers. The monster loomed over him, lowering its head. The shark-jaws gaped, enveloping the hand-and paused, not closing. The lidless eyes glared into his. Then, slowly, the apparition faded.

   Matt's neck muscles twitched in a faint, satisfied nod. He'd known it was illusion, so it hadn't been able to hurt him.

   What did that mean for the people of this age and place? Did their magic and their monsters exist only because they believed in them? No, surely not! Stegoman had to have pragmatic reality on his own, didn't he?

   His mind went cartwheeling off through the night, never following a train of thought, but moving from one concept to another in free association, revolving endlessly around and around the problem of faith and reality.

   Then something flickered to the right of the altar.

   It came toward him, gaining substance as it moved, dragging a hundred pounds of chain wrapped around its body and trailing on the floor behind. It wore the tatters of a nobleman's robe, a thatch of unwashed black hair, and a festoon of beard flecked with spittle. The face had a broad forehead, a high-bridged nose, and thin lips-an aristocratic face; but the eyes were wild, making the whole face obscene with madness. It came toward Matt, giggling and drooling, hands outstretched through the chains, fingers flexing, reaching for Matt's throat.

   Matt watched it. He couldn't see through the madman, but it had to be illusion; it couldn't by anything else.

   The madman stopped with fingers an inch from Matt's throat, staring at him. Then it pointed at him, giggling. The giggle grew and broadened. It threw its head back, cackling with insane, gleeful laughter.

   Then the fingers shot out, seizing Matt's throat. The face swelled with homicidal rage, and the eyes lit with a strange, unholy glee. It cackled and gibbered as the fingers dug in. Dimly, far away, Matt seemed to feel a ghost of pressure. That was wrong; he knew this madman wasn't real. It couldn't really touch him, couldn't hurt him. It was only a phantom, sent to try and tempt him-to test whether he was sure of the basics, or didn't know what was real and what wasn't.

   Matt knew. Now is an end to all confusion, he breathed, framing silent words with his lips. The figure stilled, staring into his eyes, and, staring, it slowly faded away, till there was nothing between Matt and the altar.

   Matt sat immobile, filled with a satisfying sense of rightness, His sense of reality had corresponded with actuality; what he'd believed was illusion had actually been illusion; so he was still alive. Whatever faith had to do with existence couldn't really be known; but the faith in his own perceptions could be. The test was drastic, but simple; and Matt had passed it.

   What if he'd believed it was real?

   Then it might have been able to hurt him-which was to say, Matt would have been letting his own mind hurt him. Even in his own universe, men could be destroyed by their illusions. Here the process was more direct-

   His mind went pinwheeling off again into a hundred assorted concepts, all dealing with matters of faith and existence-until the armor stirred.

   It clanked. The pieces shifted about and rearranged themselves. The pile of spare parts sorted itself out and heaved. A steel man rose up over Matt, towering there, silent and menacing, wearing Matt's sword at its hip. Then the hollow knight drew the blade, grasped the hilt with both hands, and swung it up.

   Every centimeter of Matt's skin crawled with horror. He knew what that blade could do. If it even touched him, he was dead. Whether by his own substantial death-wish or someone else's spell, that sword was threatening him.

   He was aware, with sinking horror, that he had passed the border-he'd accepted the illusion's reality, at least partially. Now, illusion or not, if the sword hit him, he'd die.

   The sword was swinging down.

   Matt realized in near panic that magic could never work against his own mind. Faith, he thought-and prayer! He began hastily muttering words he was not sure of, words from earlier prayers, his eyes seeking the altar.

   The sword started to swing down-and stopped. The armor fell into separate pieces, crashing down onto the stone. The sword struck and bounced, taking a piece out of the cave floor; then it lay still.

   Matt sat motionless, hands still clasped, hearing the blood hammer through his head.

   Faith! When all reasoning was stripped away, and a man had to confront himself, his gut response gave the truth of what he believed.