The Sword of the Lady c-3

by S. M. Stirling

  Unexpectedly, Abdou spoke:?I, my men not fight. We carry hurt, though.?

  Rudi nodded grateful acknowledgment as the corsair called orders in his own language. ?Ingolf?? he went on.

  The Richlander swallowed. Rudi didn?t think that was the dangers of battle that brought the sheen of sweat to his face despite the cold. ?I came in the other way. But… right up that street from the harbor, the one the maps call Center, and then left where it forks. The house with the pillars on your right. I think. It was… mixed up, there, at the end.? ?That?s what we?ll do, then. You lead and-?

  Ignatius shook his head.?You and the Princess must go first, Your Majesty,? he said.?I will hold the rearguard with the rest.?

  He smiled when Rudi started to object.?What have we made this journey for if not to get you to the Sword? And the Princess is my charge. If you would save us, accomplish your mission swiftly.?

  The smile grew broader as he patted his own hilt.?Gain your Lady?s Sword, your Majesty. I also have a sword blessed by a Lady, and a mission laid upon me. I will fulfill it.? ?Right,? Rudi said tightly.

  More smoke was coming out of the stern windows, trailing along on either side of them as the wind that pushed the ship took it. It gave a little cover, and the Gisandu had to turn slightly every time she fired; the bow-chaser couldn?t shoot directly over her own bowsprit. The stern-chaser on their own ship could, but… ?The deck?s starting to get very hot here!? Mathilda called; not alarmed, just reporting.

  She jerked the lanyard. Tunnnggg. This time there was a splintering crack almost immediately, as the shot caught the other vessel at the waterline. They were gliding southeast through a narrow passage now. A broadside of incendiaries came flying at them as they came about to head directly south and the harbor opened out around them, a broad shallow lagoon. Two globes smashed against the steel shields and hissing fire ran down. Their own replied, and a sail came rattling down on the Gisandu as a stay was severed. Corsairs worked frantically at a deck pump to wash the napalm down and into the sea before it started another fire.

  Edain and his picked archers crowded onto the poop deck. He was firing like a machine across the hundred-yard gap, draw-aim-loose nock-draw, chanting under his breath: ? We are the darts that -got you bad, bastard!- Hecate cast!?

  Rudi made himself turn. As he did he realized that something had been inhibiting him, something besides his natural desire to keep his eyes on the men trying to kill them all. He blinked and shook his head, but there was nothing wrong with his eyes. It was as if he saw multiple images laid one upon another, like paintings on layers of glass. A festival where men and women danced through snow. Tall-masted ships tied at the docks. Something smooth and silvery and massive that floated above the water, then turned its nose skyward and rose with impossible speed…

  Then a very solid dock and roadway, wharfs on barnacle-encrusted tree trunks, what looked like a street of low brick buildings, interspersed with white-trimmed gray shingle shops and leafless winter trees, with church steeples rearing beyond. No dwellers… or was that a band in oilskins with duffel bags over their shoulders? No, they were gone. And the dock was there. ?Brace for impact!? he shouted, as it loomed before their bowsprit, and looped his elbow around a line.

  Crack. His feet skidded out from beneath him. A long crunching, grinding sound, and the bow reared up as the huge momentum of the two-hundred-ton vessel ground into timber and stone. Nearly everyone else fell too; Mathilda went sliding past him as the impact pitched her off the gunner?s seat of the weapon, and he snagged her with a leg. She clung to his sword belt as the long echoing crash continued and the deck canted more and more steeply beneath them. Their helmets rang together as the foremast broke with a sound like thunder and came down on the shattered dock.

  Silence except for snapping wood and the growing burr of the fire beneath them. ?Go, go, go!? Ignatius shouted.

  Rudi hauled Mathilda upright as if her solid weight and the armor were nothing. They ran along the side to the buckled rail, up to it, down onto the crazy-quilt mess of the dock where the schooner?s weight had struck. His leg went through a broken board and he wrenched it free. Then they were running, up past a dry fountain and onto a stretch of cobbles. His weight pounded down through his boots, but the sound was too deep, as if he were walking on a drumhead. An arrow went past them… but it floated past. His run turned to steps in a dream, one where you floated. He floated, past primeval forests, past a rough hamlet hacked from the woods where folk in rust-colored coats and high-steepled hats and long dresses gaped at him, past the street he?d first seen, but dense with the cars and trucks of the ancient world, past the same with ox carts heaped with fish… ?Here. We?ll hold them here!? Ignatius shouted; the stone basin of the fountain blocked part of the street.

  Shields locked on either side, and the archers fanned out in two forward-slanting wings from side to side of the roadway. The Bou el-Mogdad was burning like a pillar of fire now, delaying the men the Gisandu carried and making it impossible for her deck engines to shoot. They came staggering out of the smoke anyway, and first was a man in a tattered red robe the color of dried blood. His hands were held out before him like claws, and his eyes were windows into negation. ?Noooooooo!?

  The endless wail was as much shriek as word, and less a protest than a single long scream of what he was, or what the thing that wore the man like a glove was. Ignatius raised his sword and brought up his shield, but behind the visor of his helm he shouted for joy as his gaze met those wells of night without end. ?Yes!? he cried.?Eternally, yes!?

  Behind him Edain barked:?Let the gray geese fly. Wholly togetherShoot!?

  The bows snapped, and men went down in the ragged mob of Bekwa and Sword troopers and corsairs who rushed forward as the arrows sleeted into them, but there were too many, far too many. Three punched into the High Seeker, but his body simply flexed and came on. ?Nooooooo!? ?You shall not pass, Hollow Man!? Ignatius cried.

  And then Knight-brother Ignatius snatched at his sword. It wasn?t there, nor was his armor and gear. Instead he wore the simple Benedictine robe and cowl; after an instant he was conscious that he sat on a bench. Before him was a cloister, slender white stone columns supporting arches on three sides of a garden and fountain where water played before an image of the Virgin. The shadows within the walk hid tall doors; behind them was a hint of bookcases full of leather-bound volumes. Within the court the sun ran dappled on the water that lifted and fell in its basin, shifting in spots of brightness through the leaves of tall beeches; a few flower beds stood in troughs between walkways of worn brick, shimmering in gold and silver and hyacinth blue.

  The day was mild and dry and warm, with scents of rock and wet and warm dust, and somewhere a hint of incense. It was very quiet; the sound of the plashing fountain, a few cu-currrus from doves that stalked past, perhaps very faintly a hint of chanted plainsong in the distance. He smiled. It wasn?t Mt. Angel, but it was as if…

  As if it is the distilled essence of everything I loved about the abbey, he thought. Peace, beauty, wisdom. God.

  Beside him another monk sat; the man threw back his cowl and smiled. Ignatius? eyes went a little wide. It was Abbot-Bishop Dmwoski, but as he?d first seen him as a postulant, the square hard face amused at his earnestness but in a way that was kindly, not mocking. ?Am I… is this…? ?No, you are not, my son,? the abbot answered. ?Then, you-?

  Dmwoski laughed; it had been a rare thing on Mt. Angel, but it lit the warrior-cleric?s sternness like a candle through the glass shutter of a lantern. ?Not yet, as your life thread is drawn; there I am currently fighting the sin of despair, and grappling with a sea of troubles. Time is different here. Or rather, we?re not entirely in time as men understand it.? ?I always thought you would be a saint,? Ignatius blurted.

  Dmwoski frowned.?All human souls are, potentially. I… have been allowed to progress.? ?And this is-?

  Another chuckle:?And yes, this is where you think it is. Or as much of this… one of the many mansions… as you can currentl
y understand. Think of it as a metaphor, but a true one.? ?Such peace,? Ignatius breathed, wondering.

  He drew the air into his lungs, and then glanced behind him. A long table reached into dimness; someone was turning the pages of a text, and the bright colors drew him even through the glass and across the distance. ?Yet…? he said.?It does not feel in the least static.? ?Never. More like an endless high adventure; or rather, what an adventure should be. We cannot fully know Him, yet we can know ever more of Him; and in that is the completion of our natures. Come, walk with me, my son.?

  They rose and folded their hands in the sleeves of their robes. A bell rang somewhere as they paced through the cloister and out the gateway, a great bronze throb that seemed to scatter brightness through the air. ?Why am I here, then, Father?? ?Partly as a reward. I flatter myself that I was a good judge of men, and choosing you for the mission to the east was perhaps the best decision I ever made. And you met one who is a far, far better judge; one who laid a charge upon you. Both of us are very pleased with you.?

  Outside they walked on a country lane. Land rolled around them, green field and wood and orchard. It was like and unlike the land of little farms around his birthplace, like the summers of his remembered boyhood when the chores were done and he lay watching the clouds and dreaming vast formless dreams until his mother called him in for dinner. Far distant mountains climbed steep and blue, their peaks floating like ghosts of white. He thought the silver towers of a city rose in their foothills, tall and slender and crowned with banners. ?And partly you are here to give you heart for what is to come. Much depends on you.? ?Then…? He looked around.?Victory is not assured? Even though we have reached our goal??

  Dmwoski shook an admonishing finger.? This is our common goal, my son. And no victory is ever assured until the very last. We are made in His image; and so we have freedom, which must necessarily include the freedom to fail. Adam and Eve walked with Him in unimaginable closeness when time itself was young, and they failed their test. Yet even their failure was redeemed, for mercy is infinite and grace fills all creation.? ?But… forgive me, Father, but if you are here, don?t you know whether we succeeded or failed?? ?No. That I am here is… sealed in Eternity, as it were. But how I arrived at this is still-from your point of view-contingent, because it is in Time, not in the eternal Now. Did I die defending the altar at the last, against a tide of triumphant darkness? Did I die of old age, in bed, with you among the watchers, contented and tired and longing for this with hope and confidence? That, my son, is up to you .? ?And where are my companions?? ?They also are being told as much Truth as they can bear, in the words that will mean most to them.? ?As am I?? Ignatius ventured.

  Dmwoski laughed again.?There is one God, maker of Heaven and Earth,? he said.?Start with that, my son, for it is absolutely true. But you must build your own faith. That is something only you and God can do together.?

  A bird flew from the hedgerow by them, caroling and trailing colorful feathers. Their sandaled feet scuffed through the thick white dust of the road; insects chirped. Beyond the hawthorn barrier apricots glowed like little golden suns in their world of green leaves.

  Ignatius shook his head in rueful acknowledgment.?You still reward work accomplished with yet more work, Father!?

  They laughed together. He stooped and picked up an acorn: ?I remember, Father, how once you lectured my class of novices and used a seed like this as a simile for the soul. How every stage of the tree?s long life was implicit in it, yet never guaranteed before it came to pass?? ?I?m glad you remember. I taught you as best I could… and what I taught you is true. Very true, I find. But not… complete.? ?How could it be?? Ignatius said.?Didn?t you tell me also that Truth is a ladder of many rungs, and that from each we gain a new perspective??

  The abbot rested a hand on his shoulder; it was a light touch, but the younger monk felt a sudden shock at the depth of the contact. As if he was a ghost, a figment, and the contact had revealed him as unreal, a dream within a dream that strove to wake itself from illusion. ?I tried my best,? Dmwoski said.?I sinned as all men do, and sought forgiveness, and sinned again despite my wishes. Yet perhaps the most important thing I accomplished in my life was my part in forming you, my son.? ?That… is a humbling thought.?

  Dmwoski snorted.?It should be! I merely had to be the best possible version of myself. For every day of your life, you must strive to be the chosen Knight of the Immaculata!? ?Yes,? Ignatius said, and was elsewhere.

  Rudi Mackenzie made another step, and another. Arrows drifted past him, and he could see them turn as the fletching caught the air. He cast away the world-huge weight of his shield and knocked the sallet helm off his head. Their clatter on the cobbles was distant, like the beating of surf on beaches a world away. Mathilda staggered beside him, then slid to the ground and crawled, dogged and brave, and her love like a force behind him, pushing him forward into a world of resistant amber. A building loomed, handsome and simple, three stories of red brick with white pillars beside the door.

  The door swung open, and light blazed from it. His hand went up before his eyes, but the light shone through it, through him, as if it were real and he a shadow. Within it was a shape, straight sweep of tapering blade, crescent guard, long double-lobed hilt, pommel of moon opal grasped in antlers. Pain keened into his ears, his eyes, his mind. A lifetime of it passed in each step. His foot touched the first step, the second, the threshold?Mother?? Rudi Mackenzie said, walking forward.

  The three figures around the campfire looked up at him. His eyes flicked back and forth. The fire killed some of his night vision; he could sense huge trees rearing skyward, like the Douglas fir in the Cascades above Dun Juniper but grander still and with more deeply furrowed reddish bark. Scents like spice and thyme and flowers drifted on air just cool enough to make him glad of his plaid.

  He glanced down for an instant. He was in shirt and kilt and plaid. The short slight redheaded figure in the middle wore a shift and arsaid, and leaned on a rowan staff topped by a silver raven?s head. On her left was a tall thin woman with black skin and broad features scored by age, her cropped cap of white hair tight-kinked, wearing unfamiliar clothes that had the look of a uniform. On her right was a not-quite-girl of a little less than his own age, long-limbed and blond and comely, in a strange outfit of string skirt, knit tunic, feathers and a necklace of amber-centered gold disks. ?Mother?? he asked again.

  Then the wholeness of what he was seeing caught him. Three women, youthful and matronly and aged… ?Yes,? the one who bore the countenance of Juniper Mackenzie said. ?I am.? ?Are you-? He hesitated.?Are you my mother? Or… Her??

  His hand moved in a sign. She answered it.?And the answer to that, my lad, is… yes!?

  Impish amusement glinted in her green eyes for a second. The black woman snorted; there was something about her that reminded him of Sam Aylward, though there was no physical resemblance at all. When she spoke there was a soft drawl to her words: ?Call me a Crone, and you?re toast, bukra boy.?

  Rudi didn?t know what a bukra was, but he suspected the word-she prounced it as bookra -wasn?t a compliment.

  He brought the back of his right hand to his brows. ?As you wish, Wise One,? he said-which was just another name for the eldest of the Three. ?Damn, but it?s annoying to be just a person again when you?re used to being an archetype. Or vice versa. I suppose we had to. I feel like someone has squeezed me down into a can of Coke.?

  She looked at her own hands, flexing the fingers as if the sensation were unfamiliar. ?Marian, how long have we known each other?? the blond girl said, a soft purling lilt in her tones. ?Forty-seven years, or untold billions, depending on how you define we and know.? ?And either way you?re still a grouch.?

  She smiled at Rudi.?And they called me Deer Dancer, in my day. I died three thousand years before your birth, on another turn of the Wheel. I was the Maiden sacrifice, and I was the Mother who loves, and in my age I tossed silver hair to dance down the Moon. Now I wear this face of Her once more, for a little whil
e.?

  Two ravens soared down from the branches and landed on one of the logs that flanked the fire, preening and grooming themselves. Somewhere a wolf howled. Sparks drifted upward, into boughs underlit by the flames, towards stars larger and brighter-colored than any he?d seen before; yet that paled beside the shining glory of a full moon. Despite the darkness, what he could see was hard-edged, somehow more definite than any vision by the light of common day.

  If the trees had spoken, he would not have been surprised. He did not feel as if he dreamed; rather that he had woken, as if he had been drifting beneath the sea all his life and now had plunged upward like a leaping dolphin into the shock of air and light.

  Rudi made reverence; then he stood erect, his arms crossed on his chest. ?Why am I here, Ladies?? he asked bluntly.?When last I remember I was on a task of some urgency.? ?You are here to understand, a little,? the Mother said.?We have to come towards you in forms you can grasp so that we can talk at all; but that limits Us.? ?Of course,? he said.?How can a man tell all his mind to a child, or a God to a man? What can you tell me?? ?What did I tell you about magic, child of my heart??

  Many things, he thought. But… ?That it doesn?t stop being magic when you understand it??

  She nodded.?Then see.?

  Darkness; a nothingness in which he floated, nothingness so complete that even emptiness was absent and duration itself had not yet begun. A point of light, and existence twisting as it expanded and the arrow of time sprang from the string, soaring upward. Darkness that swelled, dense and hot and pregnant with Being, and then a flash of light as suns fell in upon themselves and lit. They burned with a glow that illuminated curtains of red and yellow fire, structures so vast that worlds would be less than grains of sand amongst them. Stars and galaxies flying apart from each other. Darkness again, as they dwindled into distance. Suns turned swollen and red and guttered out, or exploded in cataclysmic violence that faded into cankered knots of twisted space. Those boiled away in turn. Darkness more absolute than imagination could encompass, as the stuff of matter itself decayed into absence. Darkness without end, for nothing was different from nothing and nowhere was anyplace and everywhere. ?What does that remind you of?? his mother?s voice asked.