Hounds of God (11 page)

“If you could swear,” the Legate said, “if
you could lay down all your magic arts to remove yourselves utterly from
humanity, to live apart and in penitence, I would let you live. With no
Interdict; no Crusade.”

Alf’s smile was gentle, and as terrible in its way as
the fire in his eyes. “You have a wise and compassionate spirit. Unfortunately…
We do intend to withdraw. Utterly, as you say; finally. Men are no better for
our peace than we are for theirs. But our power, our pride, those we will not
forsake. Our King will not depart a penitent with ashes in his hair, atoning
for what to him is no sin.”

“Not even for his kingdom’s sake?”

“That,” said Alf, “is why we will fight.”

“As must we. The Church will not be mocked.”

“She too is proud. We are all proud; intransigent.”
Alf closed his eyes for a moment. “Your pardon, Eminence. My wisdom is
all scattered; I have neither the will nor the wit to treat with you as your
office demands. If this can be settled at all, perhaps… You will not
immediately pronounce your sentence?”

“I must follow the proper procedure,” the Legate
answered. “I will not delay it, but neither will I hasten it.”

Alf nodded. “We can ask no more. Only, for my King’s
sake I beg you, allow his son a Christian burial.”

“Can I prevent it?” Torrino asked.

Their eyes met. Alf bowed slightly. “For that, Eminence,
my thanks.”

There was, thought Torrino, very little else that he could
be thanked for. He bowed with respect, with regret, and turned. The door was
open, the squire gone. With back stiff and head up, he took his leave.

Prince Alun lay in state before the high altar of Saint
Brendan’s Cathedral. The light of many candles caught the broidered
silver of his pall, winked in the jewels of his coronet, turned his hair to
fire-gold.

Jehan’s eyes blurred. He blinked irritably. There had
been tears enough here, a whole kingdom’s worth. He needed to see.

A boy asleep. Not handsome, not sturdy; always too pale,
blue-white now, the bones standing stark beneath the thin skin. With his
quicksilver stilled he was haughty indeed, his nose like his father’s,
arched high; his lips thin and finely molded, closed upon the greatest of all
secrets.

Slowly Jehan crossed himself and knelt by the bier. The air
was full of chanting, the slow deep voices of monks, ceaseless as the sea. He
let them shape his prayer for him.

By day and by night Rhiyana’s people kept vigil over
their prince. Women veiled in black, men in dark hoods, had come to look, to
pray, to weep or to turn quickly away. Fewer came as the night advanced; of
those few, some took refuge in side chapels, praying as Jehan prayed, silently,
while the monks sang.

Perhaps he drowsed, arms folded on the bier’s side,
head bowed upon them. Stiffly he straightened his neck.

Others had come in silence to stand about him, a circle of
hooded shadows, tall and black and shapeless on the light’s edge. The
chanting had paused. The only sound was his own breath, loud and quick.

One by one the hoods slipped back. Alf was a sudden luminous
pallor across the bier; Prince Aidan came to kneel at his side as Nikephoros
knelt at Jehan’s. And at Alun’s feet stood the King; at his head
the Queen.

The monks’ voices rolled forth anew.

“Dirige, Domine, in conspectu tuo viam meam.
Introibo in domum tuam:
adorabo ad templum sanctum tuum in timore tuo.
Domine, deduc me in iustitia tua;

propter inimicos meos dirige in conspectu tuo viam
meam....”

“‘Because of mine enemies...’” Alf
spoke softly yet very clearly. “They are many, and they are one alone who
can slay with power.”

“Perhaps he did not mean to kill,” murmured the
Queen.

Aidan’s eyes flashed green. “Ah, no; he meant
only to taunt us, to set all our power at naught, to escape unscathed and
unconquered. Who but a fool would venture so little when there was so much more
to gain?”

“Whatever his intent,” Alf said, “this he
did. From Rome, all at once, with deadly ease. I’m proud enough, cousins,
but I tell you freely, I’m afraid.”

“So are we all.” Maura’s hand rested on Alun’s
cheek, lightly, tenderly. But her eyes on Alf were level. “God alone
knows when he will strike again, or where, or how.”

“We’re ready for him now,” Aidan said. “He
struck once through all our ramparts, all unlooked for. But never again.”

“Can we be sure of that?” Alf sounded ineffably
weary. “I’ve met our enemy. Only from afar and only for a brief
moment, but I tell you, strong as you all insist that I am, trained and honed
in my power, he is as much stronger than I as the sun is stronger than the
moon. All the careful weavings of our magic are to him as spider threads, to be
snapped at his pleasure.”

He hates us,
Nikki
said.
I felt that when I found him.
Abomination,
he called us.

Aidan shook his head, sharp with impatience. “One
stroke and you’ve let him conquer you. He may be the greatest of all
mages, or even Prince Lucifer himself, but he is one, alone. There are a full
score of us. Surely we can band together against him.”

“How and when,” Alf asked, “and for how
long? A score is a very small number when half of them are untrained or
relatively weak, and one of the strongest lost already to that same enemy.

And if we—you—band
together as you say, what happens to Rhiyana? It needs our bodies now,
preferably in armor, and as much of our minds as we can spare.

The Prince leaped up and began to prowl, oblivious to the
altar and the holy things save as obstacles to his passing.

They all watched with a measure of indulgence. He was as
changeful as the fire he was named for, volatile always, in small calamities as
in great ones. Maura even smiled, as if she took comfort in his restlessness.

He halted in a swirl of cloak. “As to Rhiyana, some of
the Folk are useless in physical combat: most of the women; Akiva the scholar;
our handsome jongleur. But of these, many are strong in power. Let them wall
themselves in Broceliande. The rest of us, who fight as well with the body as
with the mind, can stand to Rhiyana’s defense.” His white teeth
bared in a grin. “We’ll see how a rabble of hedge-knights and hired
soldiers will contend with my lady of the
Hashishayun
.”

“Not to mention the Flame-bearer himself.” Maura’s
smile died. “I know how we intend to face the threat of the Church and
its Crusade; that was settled long ago. But this new danger may be worse than
either. Our armies can drive back invaders; our clergy can treat with the Pope’s
embassy. How must we face the sorcerer? His body lies in Rome, long leagues
away. His power can strike us down one by one. In the end, if we are gone, can
all Rhiyana’s priests and men-at-arms stand fast?”

“Not under Interdict.” Alf bowed his head under
all their stares, and raised it again almost defiantly. “Why do you
stretch your eyes at me? Of course the Church will use that most persuasive of
its weapons. No Mass, no sacraments. No offices of the Church anywhere while
the Pope sustains his ban.”

“Without us,” Aidan said with a touch of
bitterness, “there would be no such ban.”

“There might,” murmured the Queen, “if
rebellion persisted—for pride, for honor. Remember, brother. Always
remember Languedoc.”

“So,” the Prince said, “the sorcerer threatens
us all—then let us do battle with him. Go to Rome, challenge him, cast
him down. Then we can get to the work of defending our kingdom.”

“It’s a month’s ride to Rome,” Jehan
muttered.

Aidan laughed like a whipcrack. “For us, dear Bishop,
a moment’s journey at the speed of a thought.”

That supposes you can
find him instantly.
Nikki flushed a little under the Prince’s glare,
his own quick temper rising to match it.
He
scorns us; he let me see the shape of his city. But not precisely where he was,
and he doesn’t mean us to find out. And Rome is a big and complicated
place.

“I could find him,” Aidan said.

Could you destroy him?

“Peace,” the King said. Only that, but in each
the lightnings retreated; Jehan’s hackles settled, caught in the middle
as he was, with fire on either side.

They looked at Gwydion. Almost they had forgotten his
presence as he had seemed oblivious to theirs, walled in his private grief. His
face was waxen pale, yet his eyes were clear and quiet. They rested on each in
turn, and lifted to the altar, to the golden glitter of its cross. “Those
of the Folk who cannot wield a sword will go to Broceliande. The rest remain
here in the world as we had decided, some to ride with the army to the Marches,
some to guard Caer Gwent under the Queen’s regency.”

No one spoke, to approve or to protest. With startling
suddenness his glance seized Alf. “You go to Rome, you and Nikephoros. I
charge you to find your lady and your sister and your children; to track our
enemy to his lair and to dispose of him however you see fit; and finally to
confront His Holiness the Pope. He let this war begin. Let him treat with us
directly, with no intermediaries, and let him make an end.”

“But,” Alf said in the stunned silence, “you
need me here. My power, my sword—”

The King’s gaze was compassionate although his words
were as harsh as stone. “You are of no use to us as you are. Your sword
is skilled enough, to be sure; your power likewise. A human might almost be
deceived. But you are not what you were. Your temper is uncertain; you struggle
to keep your mind clear and your body strong. You are perilously close to
breaking.”

Alf shook his head, mute.

Gwydion’s eyes bound him. “Behind your shields,
half your mind is torn away. Struggling, enduring, but bleeding to death slowly
and surely. I command you to seek the only possible healing. Find Althea and
the children she bore you. Avenge them and your sister and my son. And speak
for Rhiyana before the Chair of Peter.”

Or die in the trying.
That was in all their minds, clear as a shout.

Slowly Alf shrank, drawing together, covering his face with
his hands. Jehan noticed as if for the first time how thin those hands were,
thinned to the bone. He was terribly, frighteningly fragile: he was beginning
to break.

Aidan’s every muscle was taut with protest. Maura was
white and silent. Nikki alone seemed glad. He had been chosen; he could go, he
could act, he could conquer or die. He was very and truly young, as not one of
the others could be.

Alf straightened. His hands lowered; his head came up. He
seemed perceptibly to gain in breadth and strength—a wonder, a marvel.

He met the King’s stare directly and smiled, bright
and splendidly fierce. “Yes,” he said in a strong sure voice. “Yes,
Gwydion. In Rome it began, and in Rome it will end. Alun will have his blood price,
I my kin. That I promise you, by my Lord and all His hallows.”

oOo

Jehan wanted to hit him. “I know you have to go. I
know you’ll be in constant and arcane danger. I
know
you’ll probably get killed! And I’m. Going. With
you.”

Alf’s burst of strength had passed. He lay on Nikki’s
bed; Nikki lay beside him, face to the wall, ears and mind closed, deeply and
blissfully asleep.

He himself would have sought the same blessed oblivion but
for Jehan’s persistence. “Jehan,” he said with weariness that
came close to desperation, “I love you dearly. You’ve been a
brother to me; a son. I know you’d happily go to your death for me, as
would I for you. But. This is no errand for any mortal man, let alone an
anointed bishop. Even if you manage to escape with your body and your sanity
intact, what will become of your life? You’ll be worse than discredited.
You’ll be unfrocked; excommunicated. In a word, destroyed.”

Jehan’s jaw set. “I won’t be a drag on
you. I know Rome. I lived there off and on for a good twenty years, remember? I
know people, places—”

“We can’t use them.” Alf sat up and caught
Jehan’s wrists. His fingers were fever-hot. “We have to find the enemy
first and in complete secrecy, or he can simply reach out and shatter us. If we
have you with us, well known as you are in the city and the Curia, and without
power besides, we’ll be doubly pressed to defend our concealment.”

“And what’s more invisible in the Eternal City
than a Jeromite monk with a pair of pilgrims in tow?”

“Anything at all, when that monk is the very large,
very famous, and very distinguished young Bishop of Sarum.”

“My size,” growled Jehan, “I can’t help.
But in a well-worn habit, with a well-worn beard—”

Alf’s glance was eloquent. Jehan grimaced. “Well.
I’ve got almost a day’s start. With a little help from you...”

With great reluctance Alf laughed. “You ask me to
bebristle your chin when I can’t even manage a beginning on my own?”

Jehan’s wrists were still imprisoned, else he would
have given Alf a good shaking. “You could if you would, and you know it.
Stop your nonsense now and think. Who will look after you when you’re in
one of your trances?”

“Nikki—”

“Nikephoros is a charming boy, an excellent squire,
and a passable scholar. But can he stand in the market and haggle over the
price of a turnip?”

“He would never need to—”

Jehan snorted. “Maybe he wouldn’t. Those eyes of
his are lethal to anything female. But he can’t talk, and very likely he’ll
be in a trance himself. You need someone without power, to keep your bodies
together while your souls do battle.”

“You.” Alf released him and sighed. “We’re
all going to regret this.”

A grin welled to the surface. Jehan throttled it. “We
never have before.”

“Thanks to God and Dame Fortune.”

“So we’ll say our prayers and do our best to
keep our balance on the Wheel. When do we leave?”