Parry couldn't hear her reply, but he saw its effect. "Then we'll roust him out the easy way," the soldier said grimly. He gestured to a companion. "The torch!"
Suddenly a torch was flaming. They touched it to the thatch of the cottage, which blazed up. In a moment all of it was burning, sending coils of smoke into the sky.
Parry could do nothing. He lacked magic potent enough to douse a fire of that magnitude, and had he had it, he could not have gotten close enough to use it without being spotted and captured or killed by the soldiers. His best choice was to wait until the soldiers departed, then help the woman craft another shelter. He was sorry he had brought this mischief upon her.
How had they known of his presence? They had been turned away before, but this time had been certain. No one had seen him except the woman, and he knew she had not betrayed him. They had erred only in their conviction that he remained in the cottage. That had saved him—but cost the proprietor.
Yet where was she? He saw the soldiers, but not the old woman. She would not have remained within the burning house! But she did not seem to be outside it, either.
He watched with growing alarm, then with honor. The woman had not emerged! Had she refused to leave her only refuge, or had the soldiers cruelly kept her in there to die in the flames?
At last the flames died down. The house was gone; its straw and wood had been consumed, leaving only the shoring of mud. Satisfied, the soldiers departed.
Parry was going to check the ashes, but now the villagers were coming out. They had to have seen the fire, but wisely stayed clear until the soldiers were gone. What would they make of Parry?
He doubted they would be kind. He knew he was responsible for the old woman's death. She had refused to tell the soldiers where he was, so they had burned her out. Perhaps they had stabbed her, so that she fell back into the flames and died. He had not thought to use his second sight—and what good would it have done, anyway? It would only have fixed his blame more precisely. It was his fault, regardless of the details. The woman had helped him, and he had tried to help her, and for that she had died. To his grief for his father and his wife was added this score for the old woman, whose name he had never learned.
There was nothing remaining here for him. He would have to get far away from here, where the soldiers did not know of him and did not seek to kill him.
He could change form and move rapidly. He had been restored, physically, by the food and the night's rest. But that would cost him the clothing the woman had given him, and he was reluctant to lose it. It was tattered material, and the shoes chafed, but it was clothing, and it was all he had left of the generosity of this brief acquaintance.
But to trudge afoot, with the shoes wreaking blisters on his feet—that was not ideal either. He considered, then retreated to the deep forest and got out of the clothing. He formed it into a bundle, the shoes inside the tunic, and gripped it with his teeth. Then he changed form to a small horse, still holding the bundle, and set off north at a trot. He could travel a long distance rapidly this way.
He did so. By nightfall he was many leagues north. But he could not keep running forever; though he was very like a horse in this form, he had not perfected a horse's digestion, so could not graze. He was tired and hungry, and had to revert to his natural form for the night.
He did so, when his ears told him he was near a town. He pried the bundle from his locked teeth and untied it. He donned his tunic and shoes. Now he had to find a decent inn, and find a way to pay for his keep. He did not relish the notion of cheating the innkeeper, but he had no money.
He scouted about and found a naturally faceted stone. He concentrated on it, transmuting its silica to glass. It was harder to change a solid than a liquid, but silica was close to glass in composition, which facilitated the process. Soon he had a pretty faceted glass stone, translucent with a blue tinge.
He walked toward the town. He was in luck; there was an inn at the edge. He entered.
The innkeeper eyed him warily. "Refugee, eh? Let's see the color of your coin."
"I am a refugee, and I have no coin," Parry said. "All I have is this pretty stone I found. I doubt it is worth much, but if you would be kind enough to accept it in lieu of payment for the night's lodging—"
The man peered at the stone. He brought it to the fireplace and held it before the dancing flames. The light refracted, and the blue showed through.
"One night?" the innkeeper asked. "Then on in the morning?"
"I'm traveling north," Parry agreed. "As I said, that stone may not be worth much, but it is pretty, and—"
"Done." The man pocketed the stone. "Go ask the wench for soup, and she'll show you your room after."
The wench...
Parry quelled his surge of grief. All day he had kept it at bay, focusing narrowly on his effort of running, of finding his way along little-used back trails so that he would not encounter many people. A runaway horse was fair game for anyone! But now, abruptly, that grief threatened to overwhelm him.
He went to the girl, who was a blotchy-faced creature with just one fetching feature: a deep cleavage that she flaunted knowingly. She leaned forward to serve him a bowl of soup, and he gazed down the proffered valley, not because of any interest but because it would have marked him as odd had he not done so. Satisfied that she had his proper attention, she straightened up so that the view suffered. She was a natural tease. What a contrast to—
Again he clamped down on it, and marched to a solitary table with his brimming bowl. As he slurped the soup, he saw the innkeeper showing something to another man. The stone, surely. Well, Parry had never told him it was valuable; he had protested that he thought it wasn't. If the man had convinced himself it was a diamond, worth an abbot's ransom, could Parry be blamed for that? The innkeeper thought he was cheating an ignorant refugee peasant. It served him right.
Still, Parry felt some guilt. Then he realized that the man would probably sell it to some equally ignorant trader, and make a tidy profit on the deal. The stone might in time become as valuable as others thought it was, and no one would suffer.
He had a good meal, and a good night, except for the looming anguish of his memories. Again he looked at the smear of blood on his wrist. Perhaps he was just being foolish, but it seemed that his wrist was warm in the vicinity, as if heated by a kindred spirit. Jolie...
But just before dawn he came abruptly awake with another concern: had he heard the baying of hounds? No, of course not—and even if it were true, they would not be after him. Not this far from his origin.
Still, he scrambled into his shoes and hurried downstairs. The innkeeper was up already, stacking loaves of bread in his pantry. "If I may have one of those, kind sir, I'll be on my way," Parry said.
He needed no second sight to fathom the man's thought process. One loaf was a cheap price to be so readily rid of his patron, so that no one would know the origin of the precious stone, or be able to reclaim it. He handed Parry a loaf.
"I thank you most humbly for your generosity," Parry said, tucking it under his arm. Then he hurried out.
The dogs were definitely closer. Parry walked on through the town, ducking around corners. Then, unable to control his suspicion, he looped back until he could see the inn from cover at the rear.
The dogs appeared, with soldiers holding them on leashes. They looked like the same soldiers who had pursued him before. How could they have followed him this far?
Then he heard loud voices. "Sorcerer... killed a sergeant... price on his head..."
Now there was no doubt. He was the one they were after!
Parry moved away; this was no safe place for him. But as he fled, he wondered: how had they traced him down so fast, so accurately? And, that being the case, why did they not realize when he was right within sight or hearing? Twice they had run him down, only to overlook him when he was virtually under their noses. How had they even known he was alive, after burning down the villain woman's cottage? For all they sh
ould have known, his charred bones were there with hers.
Yet obviously they did know—and as obviously, they had no really precise fix on him. That was why they used the dogs, who nevertheless could not penetrate the mask of his changed shoes. It was as though they were hunting a fox, who had been spotted in the vicinity but now was hiding well. They knew he was here, but not accurately enough to nab him. What could account for this odd combination of precision and imprecision? He thought he had escaped cleanly when he fled as a wolf, and then as a crow, and then as a horse...
Then, abruptly it burst upon him: the transformations! They were tuning in on the magic! The exercise of magic had its own aura, that a sorcerer could detect, even from afar. His father had known that there was no other of his caliber in the region, because he would have detected the magic. But obviously the crusaders had a competent sorcerer, who was spotting the magic of others, so that those others could be tracked down and killed. What a way to abolish effective resistance! No wonder they had fixed so swiftly on his father, and then on Parry himself! Every time he performed magic, he made a beacon for them to orient on.
He had transformed to his own form after running as a wolf, and they had come; he had thought it was a straight tracking, but now saw that it was not. He had flown from them, and they could not follow, but they had noted the location of his transformation back to a man, and sent a party there in the morning. Or perhaps they had overlooked the form-changing, and picked up his transmutation of the water to wine; the timing made more sense that way. Even the best of sorcerers could not remain on watch all the time; he had to sleep. So he watched mostly by day, and gave the soldiers a fix when he picked it up. He would have noted Parry's changing to horse form, but of course the soldiers could not keep that pace. So they had followed more slowly. Then Parry's transformation back to his natural form had registered, too late for them to reach the town that day, but they had made sure to close on it first thing in the morning, hoping to catch their quarry asleep. And they had almost done so!
So now he knew his liability. A powerful sorcerer was watching, with his own version of second sight. The soldiers were not apt; they merely went where directed, with the dogs confirming what scent there was, and inquired. Thus Parry had escaped, narrowly, twice.
What could he do, against determination like that? They really wanted him dead!
He knew what he had to do. He had to hide, long and well. To do that, his first step was to do no more magic. The magic he had used to help the villain woman had cost her life. Future magic would surely cost him his own life.
How, then, would he survive? He had no money, no assets. He would soon enough starve, unless he found some gainful employment—and if there were a price on his head, how could he risk mat?
Then he heard faint music. Someone was singing. The sound was strangely evocative. Parry paused to listen, though he feared that any delay was foolish. Then he walked toward the sound.
It was a friar, a singing friar, with an alms bowl. He was begging musically for his breakfast. But his voice was strangely good; it was a pleasure to listen.
Then it burst upon him: he, Parry, had an excellent voice! He could sing for his sustenance! Who would suspect a poor singing friar of being a sorcerer?
He approached the friar. "Oh, holy man, I have heard your singing and admire it. What denomination are you?"
"No denomination, my son," the man replied. "I am not a holy man, merely a member of the Brotherhood."
Such a brotherhood might be easy to join. "Do you accept converts?"
"We welcome them! Can you sing?"
"Very well, Brother."
"Let me hear you, then."
Parry sang the refrain the friar had just rendered. He was apt at music, and could repeat anything he heard. He sang it well; indeed, surely better than the friar had heard it done before.
"Come with me!" the friar exclaimed, excited.
As they moved, they exchanged introductions. The friar was Brother Humble; he explained how they adopted appropriate names at the time they joined the group, to exemplify their intentions.
"Then I think I would be Grief," Parry said without feeling any cleverness or delight.
"As you wish. We do not inquire into our backgrounds; the name signifies the devotion."
They went to the local Brotherhood headquarters, which was merely a stone and wood house of the type becoming common in towns: more permanent than the country cottages but just as dirty. Another friar was there, introduced as Brother Lowly.
"I would like to be called Grief," Parry said.
Brother Lowly looked at him, nodding. "The mark of it is on you, Brother Grief."
"Here we each contribute what little we have to the group, and take what little we need," Brother Humble explained.
Parry took the hint. "I have this loaf of bread. I give it to the group."
"Bless you, Brother," the man at the house said gratefully. "We knew the Lord would provide."
Other friars appeared as if by magic. They shared the loaf, and soon it was gone.
"Brother Grief has the finest voice I have heard," Brother Humble said. "I believe we should work as a group today, to show him our way, and to benefit from his ability."
The others were agreeable, and so was Parry; this would be the perfect concealment.
Then they found a bowl for Parry, and a hooded cloak, marking him as a lay friar. They went out into the town for the day's work.
The routine was simple. Wherever there was a reasonable group of people, such as at a shopping mart, the monks would start singing, forming an impromptu chorus. Parry picked up their melodies quickly, and developed appropriate counter-points that amplified the effect.
The result was dramatic. Parry had always had the ability to project his music, making it seem to the listener as if there were an accompaniment. Now, for the first time, he was using his talent for other than selfish purpose. Whether it was because of this, or because of the added feeling his grief lent to it, or because he was singing in company with others, or because the Lord approved and augmented their effort, the music became more than it had in the past. The voices of the other friars assumed greater stature, becoming closer on key, and blended more harmoniously with each other. The music they made together was truly beautiful.
The audience responded immediately. The shoppers formed a circle around the friars, and when the song was done, dropped small coins into the extended bowls. The friars glanced down, evidently trying to mask their surprise; they had not been this generously rewarded before.
Brother Humble squeezed Parry's arm. That said it all: recognition that Parry's voice had made the difference. The other friars, somewhat reserved before, now welcomed Parry completely. They might have dedicated their lives to God and poverty, but they saw no point in taking the latter to extremes.
The day was a success. As they retired for the evening meal, they had more than they ever had before, for the coins had bought decent food instead of the usual scraps. More than one friar approached Parry with a message like this: "I deeply regret the sorrow that brought you here, Brother, but there can be some good even in the worst of cases. Welcome to our Brotherhood!"
Parry's grief was real, and his faith was suspect, but he was as quick as the others to recognize a good situation. He had a new home.
If only he could have shared it with Jolie!
A year passed. Parry practiced no magic, protecting himself from discovery by the searching sorcerer. He sang with the friars, and their group nourished. They traveled from town to town, singing and preaching the glory of God and begging alms. Parry had reservations about the glory of God, because he was certain that no just God would have allowed a crusade in His name to wreak the kind of havoc it had in southern France, or to kill as perfect a creature as Jolie. But he preached the word too, for to do otherwise would have made him suspect. The sentiments were easy enough to cover: that God in His greatness deplored the conditions of the world, and require
d a return to the fundamental values of generosity and forgiveness.
But a strange thing happened as time passed. Parry discovered that his belief began to follow his words. Generosity was good, forgiveness was good, and the ways of the Lord might be strange at times, but perhaps did have merit. He could not accept the loss of Jolie, but he was coming to accept the notion that his present life might be doing more good in the world than his past one. Before, he had helped the folk of a single village, for suitable fees; now he helped the folk of the entire nation to see the error of their ways, so like his own of prior times. Yet the evil of the deaths of his father the Sorcerer, and Jolie, and the villain woman who had helped him could not be justified by this. Had God simply come to him and asked him to become an impoverished friar, he would have done so; it had not been necessary to have good folk murdered. This was not the way of the kind of God he could accept.
Where, then, had the evil originated? Parry thought about that increasingly, as the cutting edge of his grief abated and left his mind free for thought. He considered and reconsidered every aspect of it, and slowly came to the conclusion that only one entity could be responsible. That was Lucifer, the figure of evil. Lucifer must have seen the advantage in turmoil and warfare, so had generated a situation that brought war to southern France. The crusade, waged in the name of God, had actually to be the work of the Lord of Evil.
This was a phenomenal revelation, and one he dared not publicize. He had trouble, initially, believing it himself. How could God tolerate such an inversion?
The answer had to be that God was not paying proper attention. God was starting wormy projects, but Lucifer was perverting them almost as fast as they developed, so that in the end the gain was Lucifer's. Thus the worthy crusade became unworthy almost as it formed, and Parry's grief was only a tiny part of the result.
Another strange thing happened in this period. The drop of blood on Parry's wrist continued to heat, seeming to possess a kind of life of its own. Finally Parry realized that it might be Jolie's spirit trying to communicate with him. "Jolie," he said. "Come to me!" That was all it took. Her ghost rose from the blood and hovered before him, vague and wavering, but definitely present. Thanatos had spoken truly; she was with him, in the blood!
For Love of Evil Page 6