Sword of the Bright Lady Page 4

  Hobilar came into the room. Indoors, his armored figure was unreal, the quality of a nightmare. His cruel, panting chuckles broke the spell, and all Christopher had left was the fear.

  Christopher raised his stick to the guard position. Hobilar’s sword lashed out, and the wood cracked and splintered. Stumbling backwards, Christopher fell, staring upwards in hypnotic helplessness.

  Behind him the cold wind blew in through open doors, and Svengusta sailed past, waving his arms and shouting. Hobilar tried to brush the old man off. Svengusta gestured commandingly at the frieze hanging over the fireplace. Hobilar snarled, but it seemed he feared the wooden god. Reluctantly the knight retreated past Christopher, through the double doors, and down the stairs. There he stopped, sheathed his sword, and unlimbered his shield, digging its pointed bottom into the ground. Resting his hands on the shield, leaning against it, he smiled at Christopher.

  No translation spell was necessary to understand his message: I can wait.

  Once again Christopher sat in the little kitchen, drinking hot tea. Svengusta was no longer happy, alternating between scowling at the blankets hung over his ruined door and frowning at Christopher’s silence. The old man had tried to draw him out with conversation. Christopher could not see the point of it. He did not speak the language; he did not understand the rules. He did not belong here, and Hobilar would soon resolve that problem. Christopher was only waiting for him to overcome his superstitious fear and finish the killing. When an armored man walked into the kitchen from the main hall, Christopher didn’t even look up.

  But it was the soldier rather than the knight. Karl frowned at Christopher, frowned at Svengusta, and spoke over his shoulder. Another man followed him into the room—old, white-haired, white-bearded, and dressed in sharp white robes. He greeted Svengusta like a dear friend, but he glared at Christopher like a washer-woman contemplating an unfortunate stain.

  Svengusta and Helga went out, leaving Christopher alone with Karl and the new priest. The formality was discomforting.

  The priest chanted in the beautiful language, touching his tongue and ears in the same ritual Krellyan had used. When he was done, he spoke to Christopher in English.

  “I am Cardinal Faren, the top legal counselor for the Church, and unfortunately the bearer of bad news. As it may have become apparent to you, Ser Hobilar cannot be dissuaded. Though I have convinced him to stop trying to kill you for the moment, he demands a trial.”

  “Can I win?” Christopher asked.

  “No,” Faren said. “The facts and the law are clear.”

  “So I’m to die?” Christopher could not prevent his bitterness from spilling over.

  “So we must change the facts,” Faren said.

  Now Christopher stopped, made himself consciously set aside his emotions.

  “I’m listening.”

  Faren tipped his head, a tiny sign of approval. “One obvious solution to this dilemma is to change your status. If you are ranked, then your assault upon another ranked individual does not carry an automatic and inflexible death sentence.”

  Suddenly this conversation seemed to be going in a direction Christopher liked.

  “But rank is not cheaply come by. Saint Krellyan’s pockets are not so deep as to elevate everyone who needs it, or even deserves it, out of mere charity.”

  The priest seemed to be waiting for something.

  “I would be willing to earn my keep, if that is a possibility,” Christopher offered. What could they possibly want him to do that was worse than farm work?

  “I was expecting as much. Still, I hesitate. What I offer you is fraught with danger. Every year our young men are called to war. With them we send a pair of healers. We have considered you for this position, for two reasons: First, we have taken the liberty of divining your suitability for the priesthood, and you qualify. Secondly, your skill in arms indicates you are not wholly unfamiliar with the battlefield, and thus perhaps you will fare better there than one of our young priestesses, whose innocence is matched only by their naïveté.”

  They wanted to draft him, and who could blame them? He had no family here to mourn his fall on the battlefield. What did this society owe him, anyway? Hadn’t they fed and protected him? Well, not terribly well, actually. He could do with more bacon and fewer rapists.

  Then something clicked in his head. If tael came from people, and wars killed people, then wouldn’t a feudal army count tael as part of its loot?

  “Does war tend to lead to the collection of large amounts of tael ?”

  “Yes, it does,” Faren said. “But this is unlikely to be of value to you. Battlefield promotions, while the stuff of every boy’s fantasy, are in fact quite rare. Politics and privilege govern the distribution of booty, as a man of your age must already be aware.”

  “Let me ask you another question,” Christopher said. “Do your armies build siege weapons?”

  “Occasionally, I suppose.” Faren seemed slightly mystified.

  A mechanical engineer could surely make living out of that. It would make him valuable; more importantly, it would keep him off the front lines.

  “I’ll take it,” Christopher said.

  Faren raised his hands, slowing Christopher’s impetuous charge. “There is more to consider. To be drafted is to serve for three years, but to become a healer is to dedicate your life to the Bright Lady. It is not lightly entered into.”

  “You said I qualify, right? Or wait, is there a catch? Do I have to give up sex, or stop eating pork, or—” A terrible thought occurred to him. “—cut something off?”

  “Nothing as simple as that,” Faren said, grinning for a moment before remembering his severity. “You must agree to serve the Bright Lady’s cause. Pursuant to that, of course, is to accept the authority of our Church and its leaders. And naturally, behavior consistent with the Good, which your affiliation suggests will not be unduly restrictive.”

  Although the magic translated the words, it did not provide meanings. Affiliation with who, or what, and how did the priest know he had one if he didn’t know about it? What was the role of the Church in this society? Was it a force for progress and civil liberty, or a bastion of conservative repression? What was its position on, say, farm machinery?

  “We could go into this for hours,” Christopher said, “so I’m just going to take your word for it. Tell me that I don’t have to do anything immoral, or give up my wife, or stop trying to go home, or engage in any perverse self-mutilation, and I’m onboard.”

  Faren obviously wanted to object, but the pressure of the circumstances swept him forward. “Agreed,” he said. “I swear to you that you need not surrender your morals, your wife, your home, or any body parts. In exchange, you must agree with the Lady’s credo. To put it so briefly that it causes me physical pain, it is this: Justice for all, even those who have died and those who do not yet live.”

  That sounded like a pretty reasonable creed.

  “Deal,” Christopher said.

  Faren sighed. “I am sure I must be committing some kind of crime. You know nothing of our Church, you lack the years of training normally demanded of a novitiate, and you know nothing of our realm. Yet I am pressing you into not only war but priesthood, solely because sending a stranger to likely death is easier than sending one of our own.”

  “Priests get paid, right?” Christopher asked.

  “Yes,” Faren said with a snort, “you will receive a stipend. It will not make you wealthy, but nor will you starve.”

  Money meant escape from the peasant class. Every man had his price, and right now, Christopher’s was bacon in his porridge.

  “Where do I sign?”

  Faren pulled a small vial from under his robes, attached to a silver chain around his neck. He opened it and poured out a tiny purple ball, about the size of an M&M.

  Christopher stared at it, entranced, although he could not have possibly explained why.

  “Consume this, go into the chapel, and pray. You must open you
rself to the Bright Lady. Clear your mind and let her speak to you. Ah, how can I teach you this in an afternoon? This is folly!” Faren turned away in frustration.

  “I’ve meditated before,” Christopher said. Zazen was part of the ritual of kendo. “I think I can handle it. Is there anything specific I should chant?”

  Faren glowered at him from under his bushy white eyebrows. “You are full of surprises. Yes, there is a phrase, though you need not chant it. Simply recite, ‘I pledge myself a willing vessel to the Name of Ostara, Bright Lady of Heaven.’ Then pray, or meditate, as you put it, until she responds. If after a full day she has not responded, then she will not accept you. I do not expect this to be the case.”

  Christopher decided to act before he lost his nerve. He picked up the ball, and before Faren could invent further problems, popped it into his mouth.

  It dissolved instantly, with no taste or sensation whatsoever. It was as if he had eaten a ball of air. It seemed a bit of a letdown after all the hype.

  “Thank you for your generosity,” Christopher said awkwardly, trying to cover his disappointment.

  The courtesy seemed to sour Faren. “Considering we have coerced you into risking your life, I think the balance is even.”

  They left him alone in the chapel, with a fire in the massive, dusty fireplace, so he sat down on the floor in front of the wooden frieze of the god and goddess and cleared his mind. Meditation was not his favorite activity. He preferred the action trance of kata. Still, he owed it to them to make an honest effort. Then it occurred to him that his total lack of expectation was unwise. He had been exposed to lots of crazy stuff, so maybe he really was going to be contacted by an otherworldly spirit.

  But a god? He didn’t think so. Clarke’s third law: any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. However all this stuff worked, it was just technology, even if he couldn’t see it. He had faith in that.

  “Om” had never worked for him. Instead, he thought of the winter wind drifting along the snowy streets of his childhood Pennsylvania. He thought of that one magical night, a full moon on fresh snow, midnight as bright as day, the world still silent and sleeping. He walked along the sidewalk, making the only tracks in sight, snow whispering under his rubber boots the only sound.

  Time slipped away.

  He was hallucinating.

  The snow he walked on was now inside a room that grew brighter and larger. The pale moonlight gave way to color, pouring from great stained glass windows. The altar stretched away from him, down a long white carpet. Statues of gold and silver emerged along the walls, objects of art and beauty. Someone was waiting for him.

  Slowly he walked forward to the raised altar, where a beautiful woman dressed in white greeted him with a warm smile. He recognized her from the frieze and the tapestries, although he would have known who she was without them; her identity could not be mistaken. She was suffused with a pearly radiance, bright and pure. He knelt, not because he knew he was supposed to but because something in him wanted to.

  “You cannot be compelled to this choice,” she said in musical tones. She gazed upon him earnestly. “Do you truly wish to pledge to my service?”

  Christopher was swept away by awe. She was everything good and right he could think of. Being in the presence of so much moral purity did not make him feel inadequate but only encouraged him to try harder. There was no blame here, only shared desire for the greater good.

  He really, really wanted to join the team. He wanted to be on her side. At the same time, her words echoed in his mind. He instinctively knew he could not be compelled to this, even by her. He must choose.

  While he struggled to control his emotions and order his thoughts, he noticed, in that unsurprising way of dreams, a man sitting on the edge of the altar, idly playing with a katana.

  It was the swordsman from the frieze.

  “You are in need of a favor,” the swordsman said, “or rather, may soon be. I, too, may possibly require a favor in the not too distant future.”

  The image of Ostara stood smiling, waiting patiently, like a computer animation waiting for someone to hit the “next” key.

  “Who are you,” Christopher said to the swordsman, “and what are you doing in my hallucination?”

  The swordsman rose to his feet, sheathing the katana in a single fluid move, and bowed.

  “I am Marcius, Marshall of Heaven, Consort of Ostara, and an aspect of the Bright Lady.”

  The titles seemed to indicate a lot of rank. “What could you possibly want from me?”

  “First let us talk of what I can offer you. My portfolio would seem topical: Strength, War, Luck, and . . . Travel.”

  Those were all words that applied to Christopher’s situation. Especially the last one.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Luck we already have, in that you are here. Your Strength must be your own. But I would have you serve me in War. In return, I will serve you in Travel. Pledge to my service, and I will offer you my pledge of service: when you have paved a road a thousand miles to your home and are short but one small pebble to bridge the gap, then you will call on me and I will not fail you.”

  It sounded like a hard deal. Then again, Christopher was in no position to bargain. Marcius was offering him a chance to go home, despite what the priest had said about the way being unknown. The god wanted something in return. Then again, everybody did.

  “I accept,” Christopher said.

  “I accept,” repeated Marcius. “But not without gifts.” The god spoke the same prayer that Faren had, touching Christopher’s lips and ears.

  The dream began to fade away, everything emptying into white.

  “But what am I supposed to do?” Christopher asked desperately.

  The voice of Ostara spoke again, from a distance. “To thine own self be true.”

  And then he woke, manifestly alone in front of the dead fire, although the sense of presence, of recently departed company, was overwhelming.

  What was he to make of this? Were there really gods? They didn’t seem omniscient, or omnipotent. In fact, they were making deals. Did this mean they were demons? Did that imply there was actually a real God out there somewhere?

  Becoming a priest before studying any theology might have been a bit rash.

  The windows were dark; the hour was late. He staggered to his feet and went into the kitchen, where Helga slept with a blanket over her head. She had left the light on for him. Intrigued, he walked over to the mantel to stare at the little gas flame.

  It wasn’t attached to anything. Where did the gas come from? He couldn’t hear any sound, and when he picked up the little stone cup that housed the flames, he couldn’t feel any heat. But most disconcerting, when he pointed the cup at the wall, the flames didn’t bend up, they went straight out, horizontal to the ground.

  The flame wasn’t real: it was a hologram. He put his hand in it. The flames stopped at his fingers, and he felt nothing. He covered the cup, and the light went out.

  He removed his hand and let the light return. What in the hell? They didn’t even have an iron stove, but they had holographic lighting. And worse, it was stupid holographic lighting. Why simulate a torch flame? Even fluorescent tubes were less annoying. Why not simulate a steady glow like an incandescent bulb, or even better, pure sunlight?

  As far as he could tell, the cup was simply hand-carved stone. He could not find an opening to replace the batteries. Fumbling for the nonexistent catch, his dismay surged at the inexplicableness of it all. Magic healing, but swords to fight with; light from a stone, but no telecommunications; the ability to speak the language of Earth, but no way to travel there; gods who made deals with him, but his life in the hands of a thug.

  “What a crock,” he muttered, perhaps louder than intended. From the side room Svengusta stirred and poked out his head.

  “A big day tomorrow,” the old man said. “Best prepared for by sleeping, I would think.”

  “Of cours
e. Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake . . .”

  It occurred to him that he had understood the old man. The sounds coming from his own mouth sounded strange after the fact, though they felt natural enough on the way out.

  Svengusta was remarkably unsurprised and responded in the beautiful prayer-language. “It appears you have graciously accepted our burden. Thank you, and well met, Brother.”

  “Our burden?” Christopher began but stopped again when he realized he had responded in the same priestly language.

  Svengusta waved aside his confusion and returned to the common tongue.

  “Time enough in the morning. I’ve cleared a bunk for you in here.”

  Apparently priests weren’t supposed to sleep with the help. Christopher followed the old man into the tiny, cluttered room, where two double bunk beds served mostly as shelf space. The mattress was as solid as wood, the hay tick packed down from years of neglect, but Christopher did not feel inclined to complain. He had been given too much already, and the debt of kindness was fast outgrowing his ability to repay.

  Morning caught him by surprise, in the space between new and familiar. He could not remember where or who he was, until Svengusta stuck his head in the room.

  “Helga’s kept your porridge warm for you, Brother.”

  “Thank her for me,” Christopher said.

  Svengusta’s weathered eyebrow quirked. “You can thank her yourself, easy enough. But not from that bed.”

  Christopher climbed off the bunk, feeling grungy. It had been days since he’d had a shower, and there was little hope of one on the horizon. The facilities here were crude; the chapel had an outhouse, and even the big church in town had relied on chamber pots.

  “Good morning, Pater.” Helga handed him a bowl of porridge, smiling shyly.

  “Call me Christopher,” he said without thinking.