Ars Magica (12 page)

oOo

“Master?”

It was one of Gerbert's own, quiet Bruno who had been his servant since he came to Rheims. The man was no less quiet now, but his eyes were watchful.

“A message, magister. The king will see you as soon as it pleases you.”

Gerbert did not leap up like an eager boy. He took his time: put away the chart, gathered together the bits of parchment, the pens, the inks in their bottles. Bruno had fetched his boots and his heaviest cloak; having seen Gerbert into them, the servant produced his own and stood ready to follow.

Almost, spitefully, Gerbert considered making it his pleasure to keep the king waiting for a day or three. But the king was the king. Gerbert snuffed the candle by which he had been working, and paused. The Jinniyah said nothing. Of course she would not, before this man who had no magic.

He shook himself. He trusted too much in her presence, nagging, exhorting, advising; he was forgetting to do his own thinking. As he was forgetting his vow, to wield no magic in matters of the world.

Bruno was waiting. Gerbert waved the man ahead of him, and left his oracle to her silence.

He caught his breath as the cold of the outer air smote his face. It was close to vespers, from the look of the sun; he realized that his stomach was empty. He had forgotten to eat.

The sooner he faced this, the sooner it would be over. And yet he paused. Seventeen years, and still it could catch in his throat: this city that was his, this island of humanity in the wilderness that still, for all the labors of kings and farmfolk and holy Church, was Gaul. There should be a wine like the light that fell on it even in winter's snow, pale gold, effervescing in the eye like wine upon the tongue. It was cooler than the honey-warmth of Aurillac, softer than the swordlight of Barcelona, cleaner than the mists and miasmas of Rome. From the moment he saw it he had loved it, and the city on which it lay. Saint Remigius' city at the crossing of the Roman roads, ancient and holy, where kings came to be crowned.

Where a king waited, while a mere and humble priest dallied in the cold. He ducked his head into the warmth of his cloak, drew a breath that bore only a slight edge of ice, and stretched his stride.

oOo

Rheims was a fief of the Church, therefore it had no secular lord. But the king kept a house by the gate that looked out over the cleared and rolling fields to the river, large enough to merit the name of palace, part of it built into the city's walls. From the school the walk was not long, but there was a crowd to fight: Rheims had barely begun to empty, yet, of those who had come to see the archbishop laid in his tomb, and others had come after, drawn by the king's presence. Gerbert began to regret not coming mounted, with escort.

He had been accused of keeping great state for a schoolmaster. His accusers would have been gratified to see him now. But instinct had bidden him do it, and he trusted instinct, which laired in the roots of his magic.

The king's guards recognized him. They showed him respect, of which he took due note. One of the two, taking Bruno's place at Gerbert's back, conducted him within and handed him over to a page, who bade him wait in an anteroom.

No one waited with him. The palace was far from empty: it was full of armed men, their servants, their women, their hounds and hawks, a jester or two, a dwarf with a gargoyle's face, even the odd child. Yet none came into the small cold cell in which Gerbert sat. It was a chapel of sorts: a crucifix hung on the wall above a reliquary in a niche, a shadow and a gleam in the flicker of a rushlight. Gerbert prayed briefly, though the relic was not genuine. That was a service he would offer when he had taught the world what magic was: to winnow the true relics from the false. Though perhaps he would not be thanked for that. A shrine that had built its fortune on a lie, would hardly be grateful for the unmasking.

He did not like to wait, but he had had long training in it. He settled in as much comfort as he could on the bench that faced the relic, wrapping himself well against the chill, and set his mind to the puzzling out of a spell. There was a certain ratio in the composition of the powder with which one warded the circle; if that ratio were altered, bearing in mind the combined and the individual efficacies of its components, and the effect of the incantation and of the fundamental magic, then...

He was almost sorry to be called into the king's presence. His body was grateful: it was a good strong body, as bodies went, but it was no longer young. It creaked as he rose, and protested with pain.

It was still his servant. He mastered it with force of will; it bore him where he was bidden to go. Into the solar, as it happened, behind a hall full of men fed, wined, and readying for the night's diversions.

The king had eaten, from the evidence of the cup and the bowl, and the wolfhound worrying a bone at his feet. He was alone but for a servant or two, which was not usual.

Having done proper reverence, Gerbert sat where the king indicated, on a stool near the fire. One of the servants offered wine heated with spices, which Gerbert was glad to accept. He wrapped his hands around the cup to warm them, and sipped cautiously, savoring richness: cinnamon, cloves, the bite of pepper. He murmured a compliment.

“The spices were gifts,” the king said, “from the Empress Theophano.”

The Lady of the Romans, wedded to the Saxon emperor who had died all untimely, regent for the child who had taken the throne. She reckoned herself Roman truly: she was a princess from Byzantium which called itself the only proper heir of old Rome, kin to emperors of the east. She was very beautiful. She was also very capable, and strong-minded as any man. And she was, by oaths sworn first to her husband's father when Gerbert was a youth in Rome, Gerbert's liege lady.

“May God bless her generosity,” Gerbert said. “She will be grieved to hear that my lord Adalberon is dead.”

“She is not alone.” The king took off the circlet that bound his brows, and rubbed the deep furrow where it had been. He sighed deeply. “I know that God has a proven fondness for taking His bishops when their great tasks are done, but I could wish that He had seen fit to let us keep Adalberon for a little longer.”

“Perhaps He has other purposes which none of us yet knows.”

Hugh's glance was sharp. “Time only will tell us that. Unless...?”

“My lord knows,” said Gerbert with careful calm, “that a godly man does not vex the Divinity with questions as to what will be.”

“Even if he has the...wherewithal to do so?”

This was perilous ground. Hugh fought well in the field, he could not have won his vassals' respect else, but the war of words and wits was more properly his element. Gerbert did not set down his cup: that would have been a betrayal. But he drank more slowly, and feigned more often than he sipped. He took his time in responding to the question. “A man who has the wherewithal to do murder does not in wisdom choose to do so.”

“No,
magister
? What if the murder is necessary?”

“No murder is necessary, sire. The taking of life for justice's sake is execution.”

“Even in war?”

“That depends upon the motives of the murderer.”

“So: and why not in prophecy as well?”

“Life and death are given into man's hands, to wield as God wills. Prophecy is the province of God.”

“What then of the prophets?”

“God chose them. I,” said Gerbert, “have not been so chosen, greatly though your majesty honors me in suggesting it. If you wish your fortune told, there are plenty in the realm who claim that power. Or shall I cast a horoscope? That, I can do. The stars are written in patterns for any educated man to read.”

“And so any educated man seems moved to do.” The king spoke sharply, impatient. “You are not any educated man, Master Gerbert. You are something beyond that.”

“So I am,” Gerbert said. “I have arts dead in Gaul since Rome became Byzantium. I've taught them to any who can understand. Twenty years ago I was something to marvel at. Now I'm simply the first of many.”

“I sent my son to you,” said the king. “He wasn't the best of your pupils.”

“Nor was he the worst. He was and is a bright lad; you can be proud to be his father.”

“You didn't teach him all that you have to teach.”

“I taught him all that he needed to be either prince or king.”

“A king doesn't need magic?”

There: it was out. Gerbert almost smiled. “No one needs magic. Magic needs us. A king...if it were given to him, he would bear a greater burden even than kingship. Power; possibility. Temptation. To use what he has, all of it, to work his will in his kingdom. How easy then to lose proportion; to equate his will with God's.”

“Not if he has wisdom.”

Gerbert straightened on the stool. “My lord, your son has wisdom — as much of it as is granted any man so young. What he has not, and that you may be glad of, is magic. It's a rare gift, that, and dangerous. There's danger enough for him in kingship. Would you wish more on him?”

“No,” said the king. “No. He's a good pupil: he told me much the same. You taught him, at least, not to fear what he can't see. He's an alarmingly rational young man.”

For a prince, Gerbert thought but did not say. His highness' rationality did not extend to women. Aloud he said,
 
“I gather your majesty is satisfied with his son's education. Despite its omissions.”

“Satisfied, yes. I know what you have here. I'd like to see it continue.”

Gerbert tensed infinitesimally. “So it shall, my lord. The foundations are laid. We only have to build on them.”

The king nodded. He, too, had tensed. He was coming to it. And none too soon, Gerbert thought. Until the king said, “You know that my crown is a matter of contention. I hold it by election. Another claims it by right of blood.”

“Charles,” said Gerbert with strained patience. “Duke of Lower Lorraine under the Saxon imperium. Brother of your late predecessor.” Uncle of a certain clerk of the cathedral of Rheims, but he did not say that. “May God teach him the error of his ways.”

Hugh was no fool. He knew irony when he heard it. He bared his teeth in a wolfs smile. “God, or the king in God's name. If you were king,
magister
, and Charles were offered to you on a platter, would you take him?”

“I might,” said Gerbert, “inquire as to the price of the merchandise.”

The king laughed. “A wise bargainer! What price would you reckon too high?”

“My soul,” Gerbert answered promptly.

“Ah,” said the king, sobering. “Yes. That would be high.” He paused. “What of an archbishopric?”

Gerbert looked into the king's eyes, though they tried to slide away, and knew. He was not surprised. He did not, as yet, know what he felt. His voice came easily: he was proud of that. “So. Arnulf has become a loyal man. That's worth the price, if he can pay it.”

“He promises that he can. Charles the pretender, delivered into my hands. And in return — ”

“And in return, Rheims.” Gerbert's wine had gone cold. He sipped it regardless, wanting to drain it in a gulp. “It's a fair exchange.”

“You think so?”

The king honestly seemed to care what he thought. He, who understood much that he had been refusing to understand, was oddly touched.

“You'll keep your place,” the king said. “Unless, of course, you would prefer to go elsewhere.”

Gerbert's shoulders tightened. “Rheims is home. My work is here. Where else would I want to go?”

The king seemed relieved; even pleased. “The boy needs you. He's young; he has no experience in ruling a great domain. And,” Hugh added, “he may need an eye kept on him. Not that I mistrust him. He's agreed to swear fealty on the Eucharist, to become my man in soul as in body. But he's still young enough to be...impressionable.”

“I see,” said Gerbert. As he did. He was not to have what was his by right of labor and of ability, but he would be set on watch over the young intriguer who had it. For the kingdom's peace. For a king's ease of mind.

Now he knew what he felt. Anger; bitter disappointment. And black amusement. So much for his pride and his high ambition. He was forty-four at Candlemas. Arnulf was twenty years younger. He could guess which of them would outlive the other.

The king shifted uncomfortably. “You know how little I like this. You also know how little choice I have. I offered him another see, when one should become vacant; he wouldn't hear of it. Rheims is here, and now, and powerful enough to sway even Charles of Lorraine.”

“I understand,” said Gerbert. Clearly; not choking on it.

“You do,” the king said. “Forgive me. I'm beset with knaves and fools; I've forgotten what it's like to deal with plain good sense.”

If he chose to see it as sense, that was his privilege. No doubt it salved his conscience. Gerbert rose and bowed as a schoolmaster should bow to a king. “I will do my lord's will as best I can. Does my lord give me leave to go about it?”