Hounds of God (14 page)

But as time crawled on, they grew and changed with the
swiftness of beastkind. Their eyes learned to see; they learned to walk, an
awkward big-bellied waddle that transformed itself into a lolloping run. They
found their voices, and they discovered play in all its myriad avatars. Only
their eyes betrayed their kind, cat- pupiled blue paling slowly to white-gold,
marked now and then with a sudden uncanny clarity.

Thea, chained, was nurse and refuge, her temper held at bay
for their sakes. Anna was friend, playmate, even teacher.

For she talked to them. She talked constantly, and the
invisible one be damned. She told them of their father and their kin and their
inheritance of power; of Rhiyana and Broceliande and the great world; of magic
and the Church, orthodoxy and heresy, philosophy and theology and all the high
learning her imprisonment denied her.

“Boredom,” she would say while Liahan dueled
with a wickedly snarling Cynan for possession of her lap. “That is the
curse of the prisoner. Stale air, stale light, unremitting confinement—what
are they to the mind that has work to do? Nothing at all! But put it in a cell
without book or pen or parchment; without conversation, without games, with
nothing to do but count cracks in the stone, pull straws out of the pallet,
dispute with imaginary philosophers, and invent progressively less inventive
fantasies; and directly it rots away. If I didn’t have you imps to chase
after, I believe I’d barter my soul for one glimpse of a book. Or,”
she added with deep feeling, “a bath.”

For that was worst of all, worse even than the long bookless
hours, to be so dismayingly unkempt, cleaned sketchily and stickily with wine and
the edge of her camise, gaining nothing for her efforts but a steadily more
draggled hem. At least her courses had not begun, which belied the eternity she
seemed to have been here; she refused to consider what would happen when they
did.

She was still dreaming of rescues. All the Fair Folk in a
storm of fire. Father Jehan in white armor with a cross on his breast. Alf
walking calmly in and bidding them be free.

She shut her eyes tight, the better to see his face. He was
smiling. His body gleamed softly as sometimes it did at night, as if his skin
had caught and held the moon. His eyes were red like coals, like rubies, rimmed
with silver fire; about his head shone a white nimbus of power.

She sighed and shifted, and groaned a little. Her neck was
stiff. Unwillingly she opened her eyes.

He was
there
.
Living, breathing, shining pale, all in white and grey silver, looking down.
Her whole being gathered to leap into his arms.

Knotted. Cramped. Recoiled.

It was Alf. It was
not
.

Tall, pale, yes. Beautiful, ah yes, more beautiful than
anyone had a right to be and still be unmistakably a man.

But not Alf. The face was the merest shade broader. The hair
was merely gilt, with no glimmer of silver. The eyes were a hard clear grey
like flint. And on the lean young cheek was a distinct shadow of beard.

She tried to swallow. Her mouth was burning dry.

This not-Alf, this creature as like to him as a brother, was
Brother indeed, severely tonsured, habited—impossibly, terribly—in grey
over white. A Pauline monk, looking not at her at all but at the hound who lay
silent at her feet.

Thea was awake, frozen, every hair erect. From beneath her
burst her son, hurtling upon the stranger with an infant roar.

The monk’s eyes flickered. Anna’s own hackles
rose as at the passing of lightning. Cynan ran full into a wall no one could
see, tumbling end over end yet snarling still with irrepressible fury.

His mother’s forefoot pinned him; he struggled wildly
beneath it. Thea’s voice rang in Anna’s mind.
Demon. Coward. Judas. Bind me, beat me, compass me in the mind of a
hound—whatever betrayal you hunt for, you’ll never get it from me.

He looked at her, a flat grey stare, revealing nothing.

From behind him came a second Pauline monk. Quite an ordinary
monk beside that other, a heavy florid man, unmistakably human. Yet, Anna saw
with bitter clarity, he was no fool. For all their heavy-lidded languor, his
eyes were sharp, gleaming with amusement. “Spirit,” he said in the
langue d’oeil
, “is always to
be admired, even in your kind. But spirit can be broken.”

Or killed outright.
Thea’s quiet was deadly.
You have
us, I grant you that, and it’s no mean feat. But for how long?

“For as long as we please.” The monk folded his
arms and smiled. “Do you care to test us?”

Although Thea’s eyes burned, her silent voice was
cool.
I’m not an utter idiot. Can I
say the same of you? It’s clear enough what you holy Hounds are up to,
casting nets to trap witches in, with your own tame witch to lay the bait. You caught
us in a moment of weakness. You’ll catch no more.

“We caught three.” The pale monk even sounded
like Alf, damn him: clear, light, melodious. “We killed another. The
world sings to be free of him.”

Anna tasted blood. She had bitten her tongue. She felt no
pain, yet.

Alun.
Thea
mourned, but in wrath.
You murdered him.

“Executed a witch,” said the worldly cleric.

Murder,
Thea repeated
fiercely, her eyes fixed on the other, the fair one.
He was your own kin!

“He was an abomination,” said that travesty of Alf’s
voice, if not his accent at least; this was strange yet familiar, a softening
of the vowels, a quickening of the words’ flow. “A spawn of the
Pit, a child of—”

Then so are you.

His eyes focused and began to burn. “He was foul. He
stank to Heaven. I stretched out my hand; I called on my God; He came and smote
him down.”

You killed him. You
killed with power.

His hand came up as if to strike. Thea crouched over her
children, snarling on a low and deadly note.

“God smote him,” he repeated. “God shall
smite you also, who take refuge from righteousness in the body of a beast.”

“Better that, perhaps, than a glittering travesty of
humankind.” The worldly man did not sound as if he believed it; rather as
if it were an idea he toyed with, testing its weight. He regarded the
witch-hound with a touch of regret and more than a touch of satisfaction. “You
are an attractive creature as hound bitches go, although your eyes are more
than a little disconcerting. But that, Brother Simon tells me, should change
with time. The mind within that elegant head is clear enough now, and quite
witch enough, if held most strongly in check. How long before the change
begins? Already I see it in your whelps, who have forgotten that they ever wore
any shape but this. Soon you will follow them. Your mind shall begin to darken,
the edges to blur, the higher thoughts to slow; the will turn toward the belly;
the yellow demon-eyes grow soft and brown and bestial, matching at last the
inner to the outer being. Witch no longer, woman-fetch no more, but hound in
truth, with neither memory nor sorcery to free you. Or,” he said after a
calculated moment, “your offspring. Unless, as may well be, it is already
too late for them.”

The hound’s head shook with an odd gracelessness,
human gesture fitted ill to inhuman body. But Thea’s eyes were still her own,
and they were eloquent.
Never,
they
flared.
Never!

The monk smiled. “You may defy us as much as you like.
It changes nothing. Rage; threaten; taunt. Watch your children fall ever deeper
into the darkness of the beast. But”—He leaned forward almost within
reach of her spring—”but. That need not be so. They can be free in
their proper forms, and you with them. Free and at peace.”

Dead,
Thea said.

“Not dead. Alive and sane.”

At what price? Murder
and mayhem? Mere treason?

“No price. Only acceptance of God’s will. Thus
far we have been gentle; we have simply confined you to the shape you yourself
chose, giving you ample time for reflection. Now you must decide. You may rise
a woman, or you may remain as now you are.”

And if I yield? What
am I yielding to? What happens to my children?

“Ah,” said the monk, drawing it out. “Your
children. You defend them very bravely and, I gather, with somewhat more
strength than Brother Simon would have expected. In vain, in the end. He has no
desire to harm them, but so he will do if you compel him.”

She stood over them, Cynan restrained but uncowed, Liahan
watching with eyes too wide and too clear for either the infant she was or the
pup she seemed.

Touch them,
her
mother said,
even cast a thought at them,
and you will see exactly how strong I am.

“We will have them,” Brother Simon said, light
and cool and dispassionate. “Satan’s grip on them is feeble yet. We
will bring them to salvation.”

The other nodded with approval more fulsome than flattering.
“Salvation, yes. The light of the true God. They will live and grow and
be as strong as ever you could wish. Nor need they be torn from you. While they
have need, they may remain with you, provided only that we have your promise to
teach them no black sorceries. You will be nurse and mother as God has made
you. Others will have their teaching.”

You,
said Thea.
Simon. Simon Magus, Simon-pure, Simon the
simple. Don’t you think I can guess what you want with us? You have one
tame warlock. Here are two more, firm in your hand, young enough to mold as you
would have them, powerful enough to make you lord of the world. After, of
course, you’ve disposed of this minor inconvenience
. She grinned a
wide fanged grin.
Not so minor after all,
am I? He can’t get at my babies while I’m determined to ward him
off, and I’m not such an idiot as to give way to your persuasion. It’s
an impasse.

“No,” said Brother Simon. “I will break
you if you compel me.” He moved swifter than sight, swifter even than
Thea’s jaws, snatching up the still and staring Liahan. He held her with
gentle competence, stroking her leaf-thin ears, evading her sudden snap as
easily as he had her mother’s. “You can wall her mind in all your
defiance. But can you defend her body? A chain confines you—”

Thea leaped, twisted, dropped to a bristling crouch. The
chain hung limp. Her eyes flared green; the collar dropped with an iron clang.
Her muscles knotted, tensing to spring.

His calm voice went on with scarcely a pause. “Attack
and I strike. This neck is delicate; how easy to break it. And I am swifter
than you.”

Thea sank down, ears flat, eyes slitted.
Give me back my daughter.

“Give me your choice. Your children now and under your
care, or later and in despite of you.”

Anna could endure it no longer. “No!” she cried.
“There’s no later. There’s only now.”

They stared at her, both the brothers of Saint Paul, as if
she had burst upon them from the empty air. Maybe to them she had. She was only
human, and they had three witches to burn.

She was past caring. She plunged on recklessly, relegating the
fat one to nonexistence, fixing the whole force of her rage on the other. “Simon
Magus, Simon traitor, even I can see the truth, lowly mortal female that I am.
You need these children, and you need them now; and you can’t get at them
any more than you can get at Rhiyana. And time’s pressing. Any moment the
Pope could call off the Crusade, or the Fair Folk could find a way to overcome
you and set us free.”

“God is with His Holiness. Your fair demons, the dark
king, the white one who may be more than a king—” Simon’s
face stiffened; his eyes narrowed. But he laughed, a light terrible sound out
of that face of ice and flint. “That one had his own splendor of folly. I
think I chastened him a little. All his fire and wrath merely pricked me. Have
your mighty Kindred no more to send?”

When Anna was afraid, she was also most angry. “He
scared you, didn’t he? He wasn’t expecting to clash with real
power; he didn’t have all his strength ready. You routed him, but it cost
you. Closed out of Rhiyana, with Thea holding you at bay here—what’s
left but a round of pleas disguised as threats?”

“I am not held at bay.” That was not anger,
certainly. It was more like amusement. Simon set Liahan at her mother’s
feet, where she remained, watching him. “Your kin, little one, have fled
within their walls. Wise creatures. So too would I, if it were myself I faced.”

“You’d be gibbering under your bed behind a
barricade of blankets.”

“You are a fierce little shrew,” observed the
florid monk. Anna smiled sweetly; he returned the smile with one fully as
lethal. “You are of no account. Flotsam merely, drawn up in the net. And
things of no account are swiftly cast away.”

Thea moved with suppleness more of the cat than of the
hound, setting herself between the monks and the woman.
Touch her,
she said very gently,
and though I have neither power nor speed to match with yonder magus, I
assure you I am perfectly capable of tearing out your fat throat.

“Only,” said the nameless monk, “if yonder
magus permits.”

She flowed toward him. Her eyes held his, burning bright.

She blurred. He cried out sharply.

She sat at her ease, licking her lips. From one small prick,
a droplet of blood swelled and burst and broke, runneling down the thick neck
to vanish beneath the cowl.

You taste vile,
she said to him.

But Anna, and perhaps Thea herself, had misjudged him. The
color drained from his face, leaving it utterly calm.

Deep in Anna’s mind, a small separate self observed
that he must have been a strikingly handsome boy. The bones were fine under the
thickened flesh, the forehead broad and clear, the profile cleanly carved still
though it blurred into the heavy jowled throat.