by Rick Shelley
"I have come to Mecq because you have need of my services," Silvas continued. "I will provide such help as you require, that I may honorably give. I will stay until all of those needs have been met or until I am needed more urgently elsewhere. And then I will leave. I ask no payment of any kind for my services. My reward comes from another place." He glanced up briefly. Let them make what they will of that, he thought.
"I do not even require that you provide for my maintenance while I am here. If I stop at the inn for ale or wine, I will pay for what I order. If I require the services of any of your craftsmen, I will likewise pay full value for my needs."
He stopped and looked around at the people again. There was no sudden outpouring of welcome, no rejoicing that he had offered free service. Most of the faces wore their suspicion openly. Silvas was a stranger. That was indictment enough for many people. He said he was a wizard. He said he would help. He said he would take no payment for his services and that he would pay for anything he needed from the villagers.
He said.
Silvas kept any emotion from showing on his face. None of this was a surprise. None of it was new. Villagers along all of the marches were like this, whether they faced Celts, Norsemen, Germans, or Franks. Strangers were rarely good news. Outsiders brought trouble if they brought anything. Silvas was accustomed to these silent, not quite hostile receptions, but they did rankle at times. Finally he let his gaze rest on the friar and on the man with the heavily muscled arms. The friar stepped forward, coming within a few feet of Silvas. His companion stayed with him, hardly a half step behind.
"Welcome, sir," the monk said. He gave Silvas the scantest of nods and drew a cross in the air ahead of him. "I am Brother Paul, vicar of Saint Katrinka's here, vicar of Mecq." He pointed across the green at the small church. Brother Paul stood just under five feet tall, so he had to tilt his head back to meet Silvas's gaze. He was extremely thin, but the extent of his emaciation was concealed by the robes he wore. "I am a friar of the White Brotherhood, an initiate of the Lesser Mysteries."
"Friar." Silvas nodded in greeting, then blinked and reached out with his mind to touch the borders of the monk's power. Faint but noticeable. I couldn't expect more in a parish like this, Silvas told himself. He easily detected the monk's clumsy attempts to touch his power. "Your being here may be of assistance," Silvas said, brushing aside the vicar's probing with hardly a thought.
"Forgive my asking," Brother Paul said, "but are you a loyal son of Mother Church?"
" 'He who is not against us is on our part,' as it is written," Silvas replied. "I have often worked alongside the White Brotherhood, but a member, no."
The monk's face relaxed, but only a trifle. He was clearly not ready to surrender his reservations despite Silvas's show of candor. He is cautious, he does not leap to judgment, Silvas thought. That was not always the case, even among the White Brotherhood. The White Brotherhood, order of nearly all of the popes Silvas could name, was the largest and most powerful order in the western church, both pastoral and mystically militant in mission, known formally as the Congregation of the Guardians of the Faith.
"Welcome to Mecq, Lord Wizard," Brother Paul said, nodding a little more deeply with this second greeting. "This honored burgher beside me is Master Ian, proprietor of the Boar and Bear Inn. You'll not find better provision or service in the finest inn of St. Ives."
Silvas shifted his gaze to Master Ian. Ian was taller and not nearly as thin as most of the villagers around, but he could by no means be described as fat.
"Master Ian." Silvas nodded. "You have the arms of a blacksmith, not of an innkeeper."
"Aye, sir." Ian's voice was gruff, gravelly. "I also do what smithin' we need." He glanced at Brother Paul for an instant before he returned his attention to the wizard. "I'd not make such lofty claims for my inn as the good friar, but I'll warrant there are more places worse than better, in St. Ives or elsewhere. Might I ask what ye'll be needing in the way of victuals and lodging?"
Silvas grinned, then stopped quickly. People sometimes misinterpreted that gesture from him. "I'll likely stop by for a flagon or two of ale before the sun sets, but I have my own provision for the rest," he said. Without looking, Silvas knew that nearly every pair of eyes around him flicked their glance toward the rear of his saddle. There were no packs, no saddlebags, no sign of any provisions.
"What sort of wizard would I be if I could not provide for my own comfort?" Silvas asked loudly. He sat straighter in the saddle and spread his arms out to the sides. As soon as he started to chant, everyone moved back, giving him more room for whatever he was about to do. Even the vicar and innkeeper stepped quickly out of his way.
They'll have no doubt now that I'm a wizard-potent, Silvas thought as he started the incantation. He never prepared people for this demonstration. It was the only "revenge" he ever took for the cool receptions he received.
"Dar fistu sprath. Dar estu demiese. Fichu kevry sprath." The words boomed out and echoed around Silvas, carrying volume of their own that did not depend on Silvas's wind.
Wind. It comes. Silvas closed his eyes and repeated the chant. It was significantly louder the second time, though he put no more force into it. He didn't need to see what his magic, and the power of his Unseen Lord, was producing. He knew. But the people of Mecq could not be certain what was coming. A couple of them scurried for cover, not waiting to witness whatever this wind would bring. But more of the people stood riveted in place, unable to move.
Silvas kept his eyes closed and brought the incantation into his mind. A small breeze started to eddy, stirring up dust in a perfect circle just wide enough to encompass the giant horse. The swirls of dust turned into thin white smoke. Then the circle widened until it was a dozen feet in diameter and the smoke thickened as it sought its way toward heaven. The spectacular visual display was only for times such as this. Alone on the road, Silvas used less ostentatious means to open the way to his home. This show was intended to impress the uninitiated.
Others: Brother Paul crossed himself. Most of the other villagers followed his example automatically, even if they were staring at the smoke and didn't see the vicar's reflexive gesture.
As the circle of smoke rose to hide the horse's withers, a few of the people, including Brother Paul, saw the ghostly image of an immense castle with many towers. The castle seemed to be contained within the circle of smoke… but at a great distance, approaching rapidly. The illusion, the paradox, was so compelling that Brother Paul grabbed his rosary beads and clung to them, seeking comforting strength.
Silvas's chant was clearly audible to those around the circle of smoke, loud and insistent, but no ears could hold on to the words long enough to fix them in their minds. The words, cadent and insistent, seemed to instantly erase themselves from every mind. No villager would be able to repeat these sounds of power that could not be grasped except by those with power of their own. Brother Paul came closest to comprehending the essence of the chant, but even he failed to grasp the words. An initiate of only the Lesser Mysteries, he knew that this was something that only those much more powerful in magic than him could ever hope to hear and hold. But he could see the approaching castle for a few seconds longer than the few others who saw it at all. The castle was huge, perhaps as large as the entire village, but it was also circumscribed by the twelve-foot circle of smoke-smoke that continued to climb straight into the heavens.
"Like the pillar that guided the children of Israel in the desert," the vicar mumbled. He had crossed himself so often since the smoky circle started to form that he consciously stopped himself when he realized that he had started again. He couldn't show fear or his flock would be terrified beyond belief.
The tower of smoke finally rose until its upper end-if it truly had one-was lost in the distance, blurred by the sun. The cylinder seemed perfect. Brother Paul walked around it, hand held to within a couple of inches of the crisp border. He could feel the hot tingle of power there, even if he could not touch it or ful
ly understand the power that maintained it.
Are you really on our part, or against us, a tool of the Devil? the friar asked himself. He had seen wizards before. He had not spent all of his life in the backwater parish of Mecq. But none of the wizards he had seen before had displayed this level of power as their introduction.
We shall have to see, Paul promised himself. There was no fear in him, not of this wizard or any other. If the power of Silvas was too much for the country vicar… well, in the White Brotherhood, no brother ever stood alone.
CHAPTER TWO
As the circle of smoke rose around him, Silvas waited patiently for the translation to complete itself. The view inside the rising cylinder of smoke was different than the view the people of Mecq had on the outside. The smoke faded and disappeared completely soon after it rose above Silvas's head. The shape of his home came into focus around him. The Glade was an old wizard's castle set in an out-of-the-way valley of the Pennines, somewhat to the north and considerably to the east of Mecq, almost at the far eastern end of the Pennines, not all that far from the border with Scotland. The Glade had been built of stone at a time when most fortresses still had wooden palisades. Even today most new castles lacked many of the features of the Glade, or the Seven Towers as it was sometimes called. Kings would be in awe of Silvas's home, if kings were ever invited in. No regal residence had towers that stood so high or walls so sturdy.
Overhead, the quality of the sky changed when the smoke vanished. The blue seemed crisper, purer. The difference was subtle, but Silvas marked it as he always did. The air he drew in with each breath was sweeter, fresher, cooler.
"Home," he muttered softly. The tug he felt in his chest was not unusual. He was bound to the Glade with a depth of emotion he himself did not fully comprehend.
The main gate was just in front of Bay. The towers of the gatehouse rose on either side. A smaller pedestrian gateway passed through the gatehouse to Silvas's left. Auroreus-the wizard who had built the castle before the Goths sacked Rome-had wanted to make a statement. The Glade was invulnerable to common attack. The drawbridge was wide, and next to it a stone causeway crossed the moat from the smaller gateway.
Silvas looked around carefully, as if he had been away for years and not just since early morning. The Glade's keep rose before him, a hundred feet high and 70 by 140 feet long, connected to the curtain wall and to the lower buildings within the bailey-the tables, storage houses, and such that were built against the inside of the curtain wall. The bailey of the Glade was larger than Mecq's village green. Mecq might almost fit within the castle walls if not for the buildings already there.
"The Seven Towers still stand," Bay said drily.
"They stand," Silvas agreed. The last flickering of the translation had ended. They were indeed home, hundreds of miles from Mecq.
A small figure ran out of the keep, his legs churning as if he hoped to make up for diminutive size with effort. There was something peculiar about the way his knees bent, as if those joints were constructed differently, but that was the least of the peculiarities about him.
"Bosc," Silvas said.
The little figure bobbed his head. Up close, no one could ever mistake Bosc for human. The features of his face were heavily porcine. If his head lost its mop of tightly curled, thick brown hair, it might actually be mistaken for the head of a pig. Bosc was little more than three feet tall. His nose was flat, his ears pointed and set too high, flopping a little to the sides. His hands each had a finger less than human hands; his thumbs were stubby, set far too low and at the wrong angle. Boots covered four-toed feet. Clothing hid the curly brown hair that covered most of his body. The skin of his face seemed a ruddy gray-ashen but touched with blood. His movements were jerky, inelegant, like a puppet on strings, controlled by an inexpert puppeteer.
Silvas dismounted and handed Bay's reins to Bosc. He bowed first to Silvas and then to Bay. Equal bows. Bosc always showed them equal respect.
"Everything is ready for you, Lord Bay," Bosc said, straining his neck to look up toward Bay's eyes.
"I could use a couple of apples," Bay said. "My mouth feels the need for something both sweet and tart."
"We have new apples just up from the village," Bosc said quickly. He led Bay off toward the stables. "Would you like them before or after your wash and grooming?"
"Before and during," Bay said. "Something to occupy my taste buds. I need to think and I always think better over apples."
Silvas brushed dust from himself, slapping at his clothes and stomping his feet while the two moved off, Bosc running to keep up with Bay's slowest walk. For all his power and insight, Silvas did not fully understand either of them. Bay was not merely his steed. Bosc was not merely Bay's groom. They each had power of their own, and veils that protected their secrets, whatever they were.
When Bay's tail disappeared around the corner of the keep, Silvas shook his head and walked toward the main entrance. He felt a sudden urge to climb to the crenelated battlements atop the keep to look out at the long valley that held the Glade, and at the peaks around it. The ability to return home on a few minutes' work was precious to Silvas, his link to the tradition and power that he represented. The Glade always remained where Auroreus had built it more than eight centuries before. The various villages of the marches remained where they were. The tower of smoke was merely a magical device that let Silvas travel between two fixed points without taking the time that would be needed to ride between them. It would take perhaps weeks to ride between Mecq and the Glade. It had taken four days to ride to Mecq from the last village Silvas had visited. If only I could move the smoke from village to village without riding between them was a thought that came often. But the passage always had to be opened at the far end from the Glade, whether in a new village or just when the day's ride was done. Silvas had never been able to expand the magic to avoid the days of riding between stops.
"It might let you fall out of touch with the countryside, with the folk," Bay had once suggested. "You might close your eyes to too much. Not to mention the way you would terrify villagers each time your tower of smoke appeared in their midst and we rode out of it."
"It would save you as much time as me," Silvas had replied.
"The exercise is good for both of us."
– |Rainbows and birds flew circles over Silvas, singing songs of welcome, complete with harmony and counterpoint, a rich musical mosaic to accompany their bright colors. The unique birds of the Seven Towers were part of its lore… and the token of a promise. Silvas stopped walking and looked up to whistle his own greeting. The birds came down, bringing their circles closer to his head, arranging themselves like strands of a small tornado rising above the wizard.
"Joy to my heart," Silvas said softly, smiling at the birds. They could hardly help but lighten his mood. "I would be lost without you to greet me."
He looked off at the curtain walls then. Sentries covered every side. Some of them appeared to be kin to Bosc. They made excellent watchmen but poor warriors. Others on the walls looked like a cross between humans and wolves-not werewolves or shapeshifters, but perhaps mistakable for them if they strayed far from the sanctuary of the Glade. Even the birds that cavorted around Silvas might easily be mistaken for supernatural. Their colors-each bird a single solid color-were far too bright and pure for normal birds. Their songs were too melodic. But within the Glade notions of normality had nothing to do with visible distinctions. Whatever their nature or place of origin, all of the Glade's inhabitants were there because they belonged-drawn in by Silvas or his predecessor… or by the Unseen Lord who provided their power.
One of Silvas's earliest memories was of asking Auroreus about all of the strange beings that inhabited the Glade. Auroreus had been ancient then. He had been old when he built the Seven Towers. By the time he brought Silvas in to teach him the craft, old was a ridiculous understatement applied to Auroreus. He looked like a proper wizard was how Silvas recalled him-long white hair, skin parchment dry
and wrinkled beyond description, a prominent nose with a hook that was almost a right angle, eyes so sunken that their color could not be discerned, voice that rasped like fingernails across roofing slate.
"Where do they come from?" young Silvas had asked.
"They are all creatures of our Unseen Lord," Auroreus replied. The wizard produced a large white marble. Silvas applauded what he thought was a clever piece of sleight of hand. Auroreus's quick frown immediately silenced the boy, though.
"This is our world," Auroreus said in his stern "teaching" voice. He held the marble between thumb and forefinger, rolling it around, holding Silvas's eyes on it. Auroreus closed his hand over the marble, turned his hand over, and opened it to show six dice sitting on his palm. Each die showed a different number of pips.
Silvas's eyes got wide. "That's wonderful! How did you do it?"
"You're missing the point, boy." Auroreus closed his hand and opened it again: only the marble. Again he closed and opened his hand: six dice. "This is still our world, the one world."
"But you have six dice."
Auroreus rolled the dice onto the table. They landed, each with a different number of pips showing again.
"Watch closely, boy," Auroreus said, pitching his voice to induce just the proper level of fear in his seven-year-old apprentice. He picked up the dice that showed one and two pips, held them at an angle to each other, and pushed them together. Silvas had watched from just inches away. He knew that this was not sleight of hand. The two dice had merged into one object that had…
"Sixteen points, forty-eight surfaces," the old wizard supplied.
"Keep watching," Auroreus cautioned. One by one, he added the remaining dice to the construct. At first more points and surfaces appeared, but then the points became less distinct, the surfaces blended into each other, and when the sixth die merged into the others, only the round marble remained.