The Warlock Heretical (19 page)

"Those that elves did see," the elf qualified. "For the ones we only heard mortals talk of, we cannot answer."

"Yet they, too, were likely false," Brom rumbled. "When so many come so quickly, belike all are alike."

"And if they're false, people made them." Rod nodded. "I told you about the esper sentry Cordelia detected, didn't

I?"

"And the boys confirmed? Aye, thou didst." Brom had a special interest in the Gallowglass children.

"Thou didst

say 'twas a sign that the Abbot—who calls himself Archbishop now—had cozened witchfolk into aiding him."

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Generalizing from inadequate data, Fess's voice sighed through the implanted radio transmitter in Rod's ear. He

ignored horse sense and told Brom, "I still think so, even though it does seem an unlikely alliance. After all,

when there's a witch-hunt, you think of clergy as leading the mob."

"Yet 'tis rarely so," the other elf said. " Tis more often self-appointed hedge preachers who raise the hue and cry."

"Aye; yet a man who seeks power will ally with any," Brom answered. "How wouldst thou deal with them, Lord

Warlock?"

"With their own kind, of course. No, not more monks— other witches." Brom nodded. "Even as I thought. I shall advise Their Majesties to set the Royal Coven to warding, that they

may discover when a monster doth appear, and hasten to banish it."

"Fact is, we've done that already. Except for the part about advising Their Majesties. I'll let you do that, and I'll

get back out on the road, to see if I can find the ringleader and bring him in."

Brom looked up indignantly. "Thou wouldst go gallivanting about, escaping the burden of command!"

"Yes, but I can get away with it." Rod grinned. " 'Cause the only other person who'd stand a chance of finding an

esper ringleader is Gwen, and you wouldn't want her roaming around the countryside alone, would you?"

Brom could only glare at him. Gwen was his daughter, though only he and Rod knew it, and he would rather

have gone through fire than chance her coming to harm. "Thou dost take unfair advantage, Lord Warlock!"

"Yeah. Ain't it great? Besides, if I'm not available, maybe Tuan and Catharine will finally get the idea that Gwen

can handle any crisis they can come up with, just as well as I can."

"Almost," Brom demurred. "I would not wish her to go into battle."
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"In spite of the fact that she has, several times. I know, though, you'd rather risk me than her. All right for you,

Brom O'Berin. See if I come to your next Wild Hunt!"

"It shall more likely come to thee," Brom growled, "though 'to' might not be the most precise word. Nay, get thee

hence! Is not the road a fit place for a mountebank?"

"But he'd rather keep his mountie in the bank, if he could." Rod tightened the girth on Fess's saddle.

"Sometimes

I suspect the old elf of actually having developed affection for me."

"Merely good friendship," Fess assured him. "You have shared dangers and joys."

"You mean the children? Well, we do have him over to dinner whenever we can." Rod frowned at a thought.

"Y'know, if the kids hadn't picked up that esper sentry, I might not have put five and five together, and come up

with a handful of espers on the Archbishop's side."

"What else ... I withdraw the question. In this land it could be almost anything." Rod nodded. "Witch-moss constructs from old grannies who don't know they're projective telepaths; telling

bedtime stories to projective grandchildren, for example—or a projective maiden having a nightmare that she

casts into others1 minds."

"Still, Rod, the coincidence of so many such phenomena in so short a period of time . . ."

"Concerted action is enemy action. Yeah." Rod scowled.

"And the scary part is that it's happening all over the land, in every dukedom, county, and parish. That was a long

list the elves put together." He shook his head. "No, when so many espers are on the Abbot's side, somebody has

to be leading them. This is a confederation we're fighting, not a bunch of individuals who were fired up by their

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parish priests."

"You are not the most skilled at detecting psionic nuances, Rod," Fess said delicately.

"I should bring along an expert, you mean?" Rod retorted. "I don't know anybody better, except ..." He froze on the thought. Fess maintained a tactful silence.

There were so many tacts that Rod got the point. "Oh, all right!" He threw down the reins and stumped out of the

stable, calling, "Cordelia! Pack your saddlebag!"

"And this is their response!" Brother Alfonso slapped the parchment down on the desk. "Nay, they have not even

the courtesy to send this news in a letter to thee! We must have a copy sent in secret from this royal clerk who is

our deacon!"

"Thou hast the right of it." The new Archbishop glowered at the fire. " 'Tis an egregious lack of protocol."

Neither of them thought of their own slip in failing to send the King and Queen word of the Abbot's self promotion to Archbishop; they had only had the parish priests proclaim the news from the pulpit.

" 'Twill not do, milord!" Brother Alfonso snapped. "This statement that the Crown must reign, and the Church

must rule in matters of faith and clergy only, saith naught!"

"Aye, naught that was not already said," the Archbishop said heavily. "He will not budge an inch."

"Nor shall we!" Brother Alfonso cried. "This is not a response—'tis a lack of response! What, my lord!

Wilt thou

be content with no effect?"

"I will not! The King must declare himself openly! We must find a way to induce him to do so!"

"Induce?" Brother Alfonso gasped, outraged. "Nay, milord! Thou must needs demand! Thou must not let him

scorn thee thus!"

"Demand!" The Archbishop looked up, startled. "What dost thou speak of, Brother Alfonso? Tis not meet for a

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subject to 'demand' aught from his liege!" Then he heard the echo of his own words, and his eyes widened.

"'Subject,' forsooth!" Brother Alfonso spat. "An arch bishop subject to a king? Nay, milord! Thou art of the First Estate, and he of the Second! Wilt thou tell me that

we of the cloth claim that title to no effect?"

"Oh, nay, I will not, and well thou knowest it!" The Archbishop turned away, clasping his hands together so

tightly that the knuckles turned white. "We are the First Estate because we are closest to God—most holy, and

therefore most deserving of respect. Yet the noblemen, Brother Alfonso, are the Second Estate because they have

the care of the bodies of all their brethren, even as we of the First Estate have the care of their souls."

"Yet the soul is of far greater import than the body," Brother Alfonso reminded, "and the First Estate is, therefore, more vital than the Second."

"And therefore should be guided by us, I know." The Archbishop leaned his chin on his knuckles, gazing into the

fire.

"Aye, milord. Thou hast demanded only that condition which should ever have obtained. Should the King not

acknowledge the sovereignty of Holy Mother the Church, doth he not set himself in opposition to the word of

God?"

The Archbishop lifted his head, turning to frown at Brother Alfonso. "What dost thou say?"

"Why, I but offer thee a goad with which to prod this arrogant monarch, that he may show his true colors. But

think, good milord—is not the Church of Gramarye the True Church?"

"Thou knowest it is!"

"Then what is he who doth deny it?"

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The Archbishop stared at him, eyes widening. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Thou hast the right of it, Brother

Alfonso. He is an heretic."

The monk behind the wrought-iron gate frowned. "What dost thou here?" He seemed overly suspicious, but Hoban answered anyway. "I have felt a calling toward the sacred life." The monk stood still a moment, then threw the latch and swung the gate open. "Enter and follow. Brother Miles!"

Hoban stepped in and saw another monk sitting beside the wall, looking up from his breviary. He closed it and

tucked it into his sleeve as he rose, looking up inquiringly.

"Take this good man to the Master of Postulants," the porter said. Brother Miles nodded and turned away, beckoning. Hoban followed.

The monk led him into a small building not far from the gate, into a plain whitewashed room with two straight

chairs and some pictures of starving saints on the walls. "Sit," he advised, and left. Hoban sat, gazing about him, rather daunted by the sterility of the little chamber. But as he sat, waiting, he began

to feel his tension ebb away in spite of the lie he was living, and the plain white walls began to seem not sterile,

but clear. In fact, by the time the Master of Postulants came in, he was feeling so much at peace that he didn't

even think of his mission.

"Bless thee, fellow." The Master sat in the other chair. He was tall and lean and lantern-jawed, with the supressed

eagerness of a pointer sighting a pheasant. "What is thy name?"

"I am called Hoban, Father." Hoban rose.

"Sit, sit." The priest waved him back toward his chair. "I am Father Rigori. Thou dost believe thyself to have a

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vocation?"

"I think that I may, Father." Hoban was amazed to realize he was telling the truth. "How may I be certain?"

"By living among us a few months, good youth." The Master's eyes glowed. "Yet say to me what hath put this

thought into thy mind."

Hoban remembered, with a touch of guilt, his reaction to his brother Anho's first visit home, his own wondering

if perhaps he, too, should seek the holy life. He should have acted on the thought. " 'Twas my brother, Father.

When first he came home from these halls, I thought perchance his road should also be mine."

"Thou hast a brother here?" The Master almost jumped on it.

"Aye, Father. He is called Anho, and our village is Flamourn."

"I know him." There was a trace of doubt in the Master's face. " 'Tis two years he hath been among us; he is a

deacon now. In truth, he will go to a parish in a year's time. Wherefore hast thou been so long in coming?"

Hoban hung his head. "Ah, Father! I am but a strong back on two legs, not a man of wit!"

"There is a great deal to learn, I own," the Master agreed, "yet 'tis far more a matter of zeal than of studies. When

last cometh to last, 'tis for thine heart our Lord doth care, thy faith and thy charity. Wit matters little to Him; yet

he who would lead a flock must needs have some understanding of God's Word."

"I wish to learn," Hoban said fervently.

"Then belike that will suffice." Father Rigori nodded. "Zeal alone may drill into thy brain the truths thou must

needs con." He stood up. "Much more could I tell thee of thy life among us, good Hoban, yet I trust thy brother

can tell thee more. Come, thou art hereby a postulant among us; I shall take thee to Anno." He turned away, and Hoban followed, his heart leaping in his chest at the thought of seeing his brother;
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between

his religious zeal and his delight at the thought of seeing Anho, not once had he thought of his mission for the

King, nor of the Lord Warlock.

He had more of the same waiting for him, when he saw Anho.

"Ho, Brother brother!" Anho cried, clapping him on the shoulders. "Art thou so lonely for me, then, that thou

must needs follow me even unto holiness?"

"He is thine for the nonce," Father Rigori said. He drew a saffron bundle from his robe and laid it on the cot.

"Clothe him, Brother Anho, and guide him through the places a postulant must know."

"But he hath already seen the fields, Father, as he came near!" Father Rigori smiled. "Thine humor will light us all, Brother Anho. Nay, but show him also those places he hath

come to find—an thou knowest where to find the abbey." Rigori bowed and turned away.

"I dropped both my jaw and mine hoe when they told me thou hadst come." Anho picked up the saffron packet

and shook it out; it was a monk's robe. "Strip off these clothes, brother, and don the cloth of the Order!

What

wrought this change of heart in thee, lad? Had the lasses tired of thy great thews and hot breath?" Hoban grinned, stripping off his smock and leggings. "Eh, Anho! Thou dost wrong me! Ne'er did I touch a lass

more than was seemly."

"Aye, but only for that thou couldst not keep thy mind on any one of them long enough! Thou didst ever see

another more comely ere thou hadst fondled more than a kiss!"

"Kissing doth come before fondling, brother," Hoban corrected, pulling the robe on. "Yet 'tis not that book I have

come to con."

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"I" truth? And what could take thy mind from the lasses?" There was an undertone of seriousness to the question. Hoban looked up, frowning. " 'Twas thyself, brother,

when thou didst come home to sojourn—thyself, and the aura of peace and contentment thou didst bring."