The Robin and the Kestrel (42 page)

Robin kept her face stony-still, but she was astonished that he would have brought the subject up at all, much less addressed it so directly.

The crowd began to murmur uneasily, and with the same surprise as Robin. Padrik continued to look out at them, gently, benevolently.

"Oh, do not deny that you have heard those rumors—and perhaps, have been tempted to believe them! But I say unto you, that not only are those tales the basest of lies, but the temptation to believe them was
indeed
a
temptation,
a snare set by dark forces to lead you into disbelief! There are those out there among the unbelievers who only wish to spread dissension and lies, so that the truth will be obscured! There are those who would wish you to think that what is truth is a lie, and lies are truth!" His voice rose, just a little. "And today, I have the means to show you the agent of those rumors!"

He gave no sign that Robin could see, but suddenly the heavy drapery fell away from the construction near the altar—and it was not a new bit of building at all.

It was a cage.

A hanging-cage, to be precise; with a loop on the peak of its domed top, clearly meant to receive a hook. Spaced around the cage were iron loops, where bindings could easily be attached, and manacles and closed-hooks already hung from them.

There was something inside the cage, huddled on the floor. One of the guards prodded it to stand with the butt of his spear, and as it did so, both Gwyna and Jonny stifled gasps of recognition.

It was T'fyrr!

Robin's heart stopped, and Kestrel went completely white. Never in their worst nightmares could they have imagined this!

"This vile creature, this half-demon, was sent to spy upon the godly people of Gradford, and to lead them astray with false tales and rumors," Padrik proclaimed, as T'fyrr pulled himself up to his full height and glared at him through the bars of the cage. His beak had been clamped shut with some iron and leather contraption; he looked half-starved. "He was sent by the evil and decadent Deliambrens, who seek to destroy us and all humankind, to make us into their pets and slaves for their lusts and their amusements—and here is the proof!"

One of the Guards brought out a couple of bewildered-looking rustics, who twisted their hats in their hands, and said, yes, that they had seen this bird-man with a Deliambren. Oh, they knew it was a Deliambren; they'd seen the fellow before, and besides, only a Deliambren would have such a mucking great wagon, with all manner of strange things hung on it. They'd seen the two talking—and then the bird-man had flown off—

Padrik nodded wisely, and cut the last one short. The Priests hustled the puzzled men out, discreetly, as Padrik turned back to his audience.

"So you see!" he called, in stentorian tones. "Those honest toilers of the earth would not lie—nor would they produce such things out of their fantasies. But this creature is not only a half-demon himself,
he
is a mage, a mage of dark and terrible evil and—"

"Look!"
cried someone in the audience, pointing at T'fyrr's cage.

A demon appeared in a puff of black smoke, a demon that looked a
great
deal like T'fyrr. It shot a bolt of red lightning at the lock on the cage door, as if trying to free the Haspur—though why it would do so
now,
in full view of hundreds of people, did not make any logical sense. But then, these people were not thinking logically. T'fyrr didn't move, didn't flinch; Robin wondered if perhaps
he
couldn't see the illusion, if it was meant for the eyes of those in the congregation alone.

But the demon only got off the one shot; Padrik whirled in an artistic swirl of white robes that made part of his costume stand away from him for a moment, like a pair of great white wings unfurled. He raised his staff of office over his head, and a beam of light shot from the top of it to strike the demon, who vanished without even a "pop."

The cheapest illusion there is! Done with mirrors, for heaven's sake! You don't even need any magic to pull it off! Only good for a few seconds—the type of illusion that anyone with any experience has seen at a dozen big Faires—but this lot is eating it up!

"You see!" Padrik exclaimed. "You see how he summons his evil minions to aid him! But they are not proof against the power of the Sacrificed God—"

There were shouts now, of "Kill him!" and "Destroy the beast!" Robin went cold with fear. They
had
to get to T'fyrr to free him—but how could they get past a mob in a killing mood?

But Padrik held up his hands, and the crowd calmed instantly.
"We
are not animals,
we
are not monsters, to tear apart our enemies in the heat of anger," he proclaimed, as Robin added nausea to her fear. "The power of God is sufficient to hold this evil, vile creature in his bonds. Nor shall we permit him to disrupt the work we are truly here for, God's own work of healing! We brought him here only that you might see the true face of your enemies, and know them for what they are."

"G-give me one of your p-pick-sets," Kestrel whispered, under cover of the speech. "I th-think I can g-get th-them t-to him."

And then what?
she thought—out she handed him the set of lock picks anyway. He slipped off into the crowd, and if she hadn't seen him vanish, she wouldn't have known he was even there in the first place.

While Padrik continued to pummel the congregation with examples of
his
benevolence and the nonhumans' perfidy, she kept a watch on T'fyrr's cage. And in a moment, she "heard" that little thread of "melody" that meant someone was using magic. This was familiar enough—magic meant to rivet the attention to the speaker, and make his words seem the acme of truth. She was ready for it, and she was not caught like the rest. Padrik's sermon had mesmerized his audience to the point that no one, not even the guards, was watching T'fyrr.

And Jonny had taken advantage of that.

He'd taken advantage of something else, too.

There was another thin thread of mental "music," weaving with Padrik's siren song. Free Bard Kestrel was invoking Bardic Magic,

Don't look at me,
the song ordered.
Don't see me. I'm not here. Ignore me . . . .

And since it not only didn't interfere with Padrik's spell, it actually worked
with
the High Bishop's magic, no one noticed it except her.

She added her power to his, humming under her breath, following that "melody" in her mind with a real melody meant to reinforce the magic.

Once again, if she hadn't been watching, she would never have seen that shadow slipping among the statues of the saints, the movement down near the floor as something was tossed into the bottom of the cage, and T'fyrr's quick bend to retrieve what had been thrown in.

As Padrik wound down, Kestrel reappeared on the pedestal of Saint Hypatia, looking as calm as if he had never been gone. But he was breathing carefully, hiding the fact that he had been exerting himself, and he llll looked very, very tired.

Just about as tired as she felt. He flashed her a quick glance and a hidden gesture of approval; she gave him a strained and nervous smile in return.

Well, now T'fyrr had lock picks, hidden in his feathers. Whether or not he could use them was another story entirely. Whether he would get an opportunity to—

But Padrik's Priests were assembling those in the crowd who felt in need of healing—and with a quick glance and a nod, they both slid down from the pedestal to crowd up a little further to the front.

She bit her lip as her mind accelerated through plan after plan, shuffling bits of foolhardiness with honest fear. Wasn't there something they could do?

Suddenly Jonny grabbed her hand, and whistled a soft phrase of melody—that of "The Skull Hill Ghost."

She stared at him in puzzlement for a moment, completely baffled, as he shook her hand with impatience, and whistled the chorus. Then, as if dawn had suddenly broken over her, she
knew
what he was trying to tell her.

If the Ghost was free—oh, surely it was by now!—it would be only too happy to see Padrik again. And if it was free, well, couldn't they
call
it? They'd called an Elf before, just by thinking about Bardic music and magic and wanting to have an Elf answer them.

How could it hurt to try?

She nodded frantically, and began to hum Rune's tune under her breath, concentrating very, very hard on how
much
she wanted the Ghost of Skull Hill to appear right now—

Faintly, she heard Kestrel do the same. And as his melody joined hers, the internal music that sang of the power of Bardic Magic took on life and strength.

The line to the altar was long, but the two of them were so short that the Priests might have mistaken them for children; somehow they found themselves in the first rank when Padrik began the first "healing." Robin's teeth chattered unexpectedly and the melody she hummed broke for a moment. They hadn't expected to be up
here—

Oh no—what am I supposed to be sick of?
she thought in a panic, T'fyrr momentarily forgotten.
What can I fake? Infertility, maybe
—

Padrik had his hands on the head of a "cripple," one of the Patsonos, of course, who stared up at him in carefully simulated admiration while the High Bishop prayed. And just as Robin decided that infertility was probably a good choice—

Every light in the Cathedral suddenly blew out.

Then the windows darkened abruptly as well, plunging the interior of the Cathedral into thick gloom.

There were screams from outside, as Padrik stopped in mid-sentence, and looked up at the windows, a most unsaintly expression of annoyance on his face.

"What is going—" he began.

But before he could complete his sentence, his final word was obliterated, as a bolt of lightning struck the roof of the Cathedral directly over his head.

The thunder that accompanied it flattened everyone to the floor. Glass shattered and showered the people with tiny slivers and specks; Robin's eyes swam with tears of pain from the burst of light, and she tried to blink away the spots obscuring her vision. Now there were people screaming inside the Cathedral as well as outside, but only the loudest could be heard above the ringing in everyone's ears the thunderclap had caused. The crowd surged towards the exit; she stayed where she was. Trying to move in any direction at all could get them trampled.

Something made her look up, as soon as she was able to see anything at all. The lightning had torn an enormous hole in the roof; she glanced at Padrik, only to see that he was just as surprised as everyone else.

So
this
isn't
one of his miracles? Is this—could this be the Ghost?

She hardly had time to do more than frame the thought. In the next heartbeat, a terrible, chilling wind rushed in through the hole in the roof, a wind that chilled the soul as well as the body, and howled like all the nightmares that had ever walked herded together. It formed into a whirlwind in front of the altar, picking up bits of everything from within the Cathedral and sucking them up into itself. The debris began to glow with a spectral, greenish-white light, and the whirlwind spun tighter, faster, forming a column—

Oh dear gods. I've seen this before!

—and then into a manlike shape, a shape that wore a deeply cowled robe, a robe that had never contained anything like a human form.

But this time the shape was five times the height of a man. And the posture of the Ghost of Skull Hill said without any need for words that he was
not
happy.

And that he saw, and recognized, his enemy.

Padrik made a hasty motion, and a ring of fire sprang up around the Ghost, confining it, momentarily at least. Robin couldn't hear anything above the screams, but she saw Padrik's lips moving, and she didn't think he was praying.

So
he
is
a mage!

The Ghost looked down at the ring of flames surrounding him, and moved towards them, but the bottom of his robes flared and flickered as he advanced. The barrier held against him. Padrik's expression brightened for a moment—but in the next instant, the Ghost made a gesture of his own, and the whirlwind formed around him.

The wind whipped the flames, and the flames thinned, threatening to die away altogether.

Padrik gestured again, shouting now, words and incantations that Robin didn't understand, but which hummed in the back of her head like a hive of poisonous wasps. The flames rose up again with renewed strength.

The Ghost spun his whirlwind faster still, staring at Padrik across the barrier of fire and wind, his hatred a thing so real and palpable that it, too, was a weapon.

Behind the more dramatic action, T'fyrr worked frantically at the lock of his cage with the lock picks Kestrel had passed him. Robin noticed him—at the same time as the only one of Padrik's guards to remain standing fast.

The guard's mouth opened in a shout that simply could not be heard over the howling of the Ghost's eldritch winds. He ran towards the cage with the keys in his hands—

T'fyrr looked up at the movement, and froze, dropping the picks. Before Robin had blinked twice, the guard had reached the cage—

And had put himself into T'fyrr's reach.

T'fyrr's taloned hand shot through the bars, and grabbed the hapless guard by the throat, plucking the keys from his hand and tossing him aside like a discarded doll.

In a moment, the Haspur had the cage unlocked and kicked open the door. But the guard was not giving up on his responsibilities so lightly.

The guard rose to his feet, drew a sword, and charged the open cage door; the Haspur didn't even pause. His eyes were red with hunger-madness and he was quicker than she would ever have believed. He slashed out with his clawed hands, using them as his weapons, before the man could even bring his blade up to guard position.

He caught the Guard across the throat, tearing it open with a single blow.

Robin turned away, sickened, as blood sprayed across the white altar-cloth, and the man collapsed with a gurgling cry.