Sword of the Bright Lady (6 page)

“You cannot be compelled to this choice,” she said in musical tones. She gazed upon him earnestly. “Do you truly wish to pledge to my service?”

Christopher was swept away by awe. She was everything good and right he could think of. Being in the presence of so much moral purity did not make him feel inadequate but only encouraged him to try harder. There was no blame here, only shared desire for the greater good.

He really, really wanted to join the team. He wanted to be on her side. At the same time, her words echoed in his mind. He instinctively knew he could not be compelled to this, even by her. He must choose.

While he struggled to control his emotions and order his thoughts, he noticed, in that unsurprising way of dreams, a man sitting on the edge of the altar, idly playing with a katana.

It was the swordsman from the frieze.

“You are in need of a favor,” the swordsman said, “or rather, may soon be. I, too, may possibly require a favor in the not too distant future.”

The image of Ostara stood smiling, waiting patiently, like a computer animation waiting for someone to hit the “next” key.

“Who are you,” Christopher said to the swordsman, “and what are you doing in my hallucination?”

The swordsman rose to his feet, sheathing the katana in a single fluid move, and bowed.

“I am Marcius, Marshall of Heaven, Consort of Ostara, and an aspect of the Bright Lady.”

The titles seemed to indicate a lot of rank. “What could you possibly want from me?”

“First let us talk of what I can offer you. My portfolio would seem topical: Strength, War, Luck, and . . . Travel.”

Those were all words that applied to Christopher's situation. Especially the last one.

“I'm listening.”

“Luck we already have, in that you are here. Your Strength must be your own. But I would have you serve me in War. In return, I will serve you in Travel. Pledge to my service, and I will offer you my pledge of service: when you have paved a road a thousand miles to your home and are short but one small pebble to bridge the gap, then you will call on me and I will not fail you.”

It sounded like a hard deal. Then again, Christopher was in no position to bargain. Marcius was offering him a chance to go home, despite what the priest had said about the way being unknown. The god wanted something in return. Then again, everybody did.

“I accept,” Christopher said.

“I accept,” repeated Marcius. “But not without gifts.” The god spoke the same prayer that Faren had, touching Christopher's lips and ears.

The dream began to fade away, everything emptying into white.

“But what am I supposed to do?” Christopher asked desperately.

The voice of Ostara spoke again, from a distance. “To thine own self be true.”

And then he woke, manifestly alone in front of the dead fire, although the sense of presence, of recently departed company, was overwhelming.

What was he to make of this? Were there really gods? They didn't seem omniscient, or omnipotent. In fact, they were making deals. Did this mean they were demons? Did that imply there was actually a real God out there somewhere?

Becoming a priest before studying any theology might have been a bit rash.

The windows were dark; the hour was late. He staggered to his feet and went into the kitchen, where Helga slept with a blanket over her head. She had left the light on for him. Intrigued, he walked over to the mantel to stare at the little gas flame.

It wasn't attached to anything. Where did the gas come from? He couldn't hear any sound, and when he picked up the little stone cup that housed the flames, he couldn't feel any heat. But most disconcerting, when he pointed the cup at the wall, the flames didn't bend up, they went straight out, horizontal to the ground.

The flame wasn't real: it was a hologram. He put his hand in it. The flames stopped at his fingers, and he felt nothing. He covered the cup, and the light went out.

He removed his hand and let the light return. What in the hell? They didn't even have an iron stove, but they had holographic lighting. And worse, it was
stupid
holographic lighting. Why simulate a torch flame? Even fluorescent tubes were less annoying. Why not simulate a steady glow like an incandescent bulb, or even better, pure sunlight?

As far as he could tell, the cup was simply hand-carved stone. He could not find an opening to replace the batteries. Fumbling for the nonexistent catch, his dismay surged at the inexplicableness of it all. Magic healing, but swords to fight with; light from a stone, but no telecommunications; the ability to speak the language of Earth, but no way to travel there; gods who made deals with him, but his life in the hands of a thug.

“What a crock,” he muttered, perhaps louder than intended. From the side room Svengusta stirred and poked out his head.

“A big day tomorrow,” the old man said. “Best prepared for by sleeping, I would think.”

“Of course. Sorry. Didn't mean to wake . . .”

It occurred to him that he had understood the old man. The sounds coming from his own mouth sounded strange after the fact, though they felt natural enough on the way out.

Svengusta was remarkably unsurprised and responded in the beautiful prayer-language. “It appears you have graciously accepted our burden. Thank you, and well met, Brother.”

“Our burden?” Christopher began but stopped again when he realized he had responded in the same priestly language.

Svengusta waved aside his confusion and returned to the common tongue.

“Time enough in the morning. I've cleared a bunk for you in here.”

Apparently priests weren't supposed to sleep with the help. Christopher followed the old man into the tiny, cluttered room, where two double bunk beds served mostly as shelf space. The mattress was as solid as wood, the hay tick packed down from years of neglect, but Christopher did not feel inclined to complain. He had been given too much already, and the debt of kindness was fast outgrowing his ability to repay.

Morning caught him by surprise, in the space between new and familiar. He could not remember where or who he was, until Svengusta stuck his head in the room.

“Helga's kept your porridge warm for you, Brother.”

“Thank her for me,” Christopher said.

Svengusta's weathered eyebrow quirked. “You can thank her yourself, easy enough. But not from that bed.”

Christopher climbed off the bunk, feeling grungy. It had been days since he'd had a shower, and there was little hope of one on the horizon. The facilities here were crude; the chapel had an outhouse, and even the big church in town had relied on chamber pots.

“Good morning, Pater.” Helga handed him a bowl of porridge, smiling shyly.

“Call me Christopher,” he said without thinking.

“Fair enough,” Svengusta said. “We need not stand on ceremony out here in the fields, as it were. It's no Kingsrock with its ‘by your leave, lords' and ‘begging my pardon, ladies.'”

Helga giggled, overcoming her momentary confusion, and turned back to her chores.

Christopher realized that while he might know how to talk, he still didn't know what to say. He ate his porridge in silence, considering what would be a safe way to ask questions about last night's vision.

Before he finished either task, he heard the double doors in the main hall open, and the tramp of feet. Karl came into the kitchen, carrying a bundle of cloth.

“You're not still on your knees, so I assume it worked.” Without waiting for an answer, he tossed the bundle to Christopher. “Get dressed. The trial starts in half an hour.”

“So soon?” Svengusta said.

“Best to deal with hungry wolves quickly. Every day Hobilar spends here is a danger to your villagers. In town at least the Vicar can keep an eye on him.”

“It's not an eye he needs, but a leash,” Svengusta said. “Here in settled lands, every jackass that buys a rank acts like he's the hero of the ages.”

Karl's lips formed a flat, thin line, the closest to a smile Christopher could imagine on that hard face. “You banter that word lightly, given present company.”

“Pshaw,” the old man said. “Brother Christopher here has done more to earn his rank than any novitiate, simply by hewing to his affiliation for so long.”

“If being good in the face of evil were sufficient for a battlefield promotion, we should all be lords by now.”

“So we should.” Svengusta threw the young soldier a look charged with meaning. “So we should.”

“No matter.” Karl changed the subject before Christopher could ask what they had been talking about. “Your chapel will serve as a courthouse. Afterwards the Pater will transfer to Knockford, for his training.”

“How soon?” Helga asked, her dismay obvious.

Karl was unpitying. “Say your good-byes now. He's been drafted.”

Helga gasped, and Svengusta turned a shade paler.

“A bit long in the tooth for that, isn't he?” the old man said.

“As you noted, rank must be earned. By your leave, Paters.” The soldier tipped his head and marched away to join the noise still ongoing in the chapel hall.

Christopher picked at the bundle Karl had given him, until he recognized it as a priestly robe, unadorned but reasonably white. When he looked up to compare it with Svengusta's robe, he saw the old man watching Helga and turned to see what she was doing.

Helga was at the fireplace overseeing a pot, her back to them, but it was obvious that she was crying.

“Helga,” Svengusta said, “he is a priest and skilled with weapons. Do not weep yet.”

Christopher finally found a question to ask. “Why is being drafted worse than being stalked by Hobilar?”

Svengusta looked at him with sorrow. “Each winter, all the boys who are sixteen are sent to the draft for three years of service. Only half of them return.”

“Half?” Christopher choked. “Half of . . . all of them?”

“Yes,” Svengusta said. “All are called, even the townsmen, even the scions of the nobles. Of course, those rich enough to buy ranks are much more likely to survive, but even they pay their share of dying.”

“But can't they be . . . revived?”

Svengusta looked at him mildly. “And who would pay? What a staggering cost that would be, even if anyone could afford it. And in many cases, with the bodies lost on distant battlefields, it is not even an option.”

How could a society survive such a continuing holocaust? Who did all the farming? How did women find men to marry?

Helga's flirtations suddenly became understandable.

“It is not thus in your land?” Svengusta asked gently.

“No. Not even close. Such a casualty rate is . . . unthinkable.” Fifty percent of every generation! Christopher's mind reeled under the weight of such terrible numbers.

“Then you are indeed tragically separated from your home.” The old man sighed. “Still, the ones who return are the good ones. They are the strong, the blessed, the brave. They take wives and mistresses, and the realm thrives. They learn trades and crafts, and forget about the horrors of war until it is time to send their own sons into the thresher. Then they drink, and hope.”

Faren had tried to warn him, but Christopher had ignored the Cardinal. He had been so focused on going home that he blanked out the dangers.

And in any case, the alternative seemed to be a one hundred percent chance of fatality.

“I should change,” Christopher said, and he went into the bunk-room to put on his new clothes.

4.

A TRYING EXPERIENCE

Svengusta's chapel had been transformed. Cardinal Faren had a high seat in front of the fireplace, though Christopher could see it was just a stool on two pews, and his impressive bench was merely double-stacked pews covered in drapes. But he could only see this because he came in from the kitchen hallway. Viewed from the perspective of the sparse audience, it was imposing. The room was half-f of peasants, concentrated close to the double doors.

Christopher sat at one pew, feeling Halloween-ish in plain white robes and tennis shoes. Hobilar, still wearing armor and sword, lounged on a pew on the other side of the room with a bottle in his hand. The only apparent sign of courtesy was his bare head. Probably he just couldn't drink through the helmet.

“With your permission, Ser,” Faren said, and when Hobilar indulgently nodded, he began a prayer while Hobilar took a drink from his bottle.

Christopher felt the same unseen pressure that he had experienced in the church. If it affected Hobilar, the man did not reveal it.

“Now, Ser Hobilar, what seems to be the trouble?”

“You've got a rat in your church, and it belongs to me.” Hobilar's voice was not slurred; the bottle was just for show. Sadly, Christopher's impression of Hobilar was not improved by understanding the knight's words.

“A remarkable assertion,” Faren said. “But please, for the sake of formality, outlay your actual charges.”