Ars Magica (17 page)

Such wisdom, one had, when one could look back on one's follies. If he had been wise at all, he would never have left Aurillac.

He knew where the grimoire was. It was like a fire in the darkness. Most of it was no use without the spark of magic; but there were a few spells that needed little more than strength of will and strength of voice, and all the makings in their proper order. Not that they were simple, but because they needed so little of true magic, they were perilous. Any man with discipline and determination and a little learning could avail himself of them. And, thereby, gain a new kind of power.

It was not quite the black art. But neither was it the high white magic which grew out of true power. It partook of compulsion; of the pact arcane.

Of which, Master Ibrahim had had little good to say. “The pact,” he had taught his apprentice, “is a sign of weakness. A true mage has no need of it. Either his magic suffices to work his will, or if he be of the darkness that makes slaves of men and spirits, he can compel obedience without need of bargaining. He who chaffers like a merchant with the beings of the greater or the lesser worlds is merchant indeed, and no magus.”

True enough, Gerbert thought. But a man bereft of magic must take power where he might. Once he had his Jinniyah back, then he could forsake this shame and be again the master of magic.

There was one great advantage in this kind of spell. Since it called power from without, it did not tax the body's strength as true power did. He need not wait until he was all healed, if indeed he ever would be. Something had broken in him; he was beginning to suspect that it would never wholly be mended.

He wasted no time in feeling sorry for himself. He knew who had done this. He would see that Arnulf paid, and paid high.

He had, to be sure, sworn oaths. But this was no matter of power in the world or in the Church; only of magic that had been taken away. And he would not harm Arnulf. Not he; not his own, inborn power. Arnulf himself had seen to that.

Arnulf, in whom he had centered all his hate. Arnulf, who had broken him in body and in power.

Carefully, in secret even from Richer — especially from Richer — he had gathered what he needed. Now he had all of it, both what he could buy and what he must make. The virgin parchment had not been easy, nor the athame: the dagger forged of silver under the moon. That had cost him somewhat of his recovery, and some suspicion from Richer, who had needed a potion or two to make him sleep.

Tonight Gerbert would do it. The day was quiet, its only labor the ordeal of the mass, which Arnulf made him serve like an acolyte. He suffered it because he must, and begged off from dinner afterward. Richer would not have been so easy to dispose of, but the boy had taken a well-earned holiday. He would have gone to St.-Rémi to be among his brothers, one of blood and the rest of the cloth. Alone and fasting, dreading what he must do yet fixed upon it, Gerbert missed that endless, faithful, frequently exasperating presence.

Best that he be out of it. This sin would be Gerbert's, and Gerbert's alone.

oOo

Richer had been thinking much the same, but turned about. He had not exactly lied regarding his reasons for disappearing after matins; he had simply let people decide that they knew where he was going. He helped them by setting out in the direction of the abbey. But, having diverted anyone who might see through as bad a liar as Richer was, he drew up his cowl and slouched to lessen his height and became simply another anonymous monk in a city full of them.

It was natural enough that he should hang about the archbishop's palace. The prayers he muttered, audibly lest anyone try to question him, were quite real, and quite heartfelt. The beads were cool in his hands, comforting.

For a terrible few moments, he knew that he had failed. Arnulf had not yet gone to the cathedral. He was late, and much displeased, berating the sluggard who had overslept and omitted to wake him. His servants scurried, flustered. Richer found himself pressed into fetching his excellency's bath, along with another stalwart and a train of lesser luminaries with steaming buckets.

His excellency was waiting in his shirt and in no good temper, being shaved by a tight-lipped barber. Once the razor slipped. Richer wondered if Arnulf had acquired his vocabulary from his uncle's soldiers.

Richer was maliciously tempted to linger and see if the rest of Arnulf matched his face, but his better nature prevailed. What with the confusion in the outer room, no one noticed one black habit edging toward the inner door.

Someone was behind it, fussing about the bed. Richer froze on the threshold. Not that the room was occupied by anything mortal. That something else was there.

As if a man going blind slowly, had noticed it only because a miracle gave him back all that he had lost. As if his ears, dulled by imperceptible degrees, found again the keenness of his youth. Richer had not known how much of his magic was gone, until it flooded back fullfold, staggering him where he stood.

It was there where report had placed it, on a table by the bed, where Arnulf could lie and gaze at its antique beauty. No doubt it pleased him to have such visible evidence of his rival's submission. Or else he simply liked to look at it. It was even prettier than he was.

Richer's heart sank. There was no way in the world that Arnulf could fail to know what the image was, and what was in it. Even if Richer could steal it, it was no good to him if it betrayed him to its new master.

His jaw set. He had to try.

With a great deal of flurry and temper, Arnulf finished his toilet and set out for the cathedral. Most of his servants went with him. Richer ducked into the bedchamber before he could be pressed into service with the bath. He heard the others curse him for escaping, but none thought to look within rather than without. It took them an unconscionably long time to clear away the debris, and themselves with it.

At last he could draw a free breath. He turned toward his quarry, and stopped. An old gammer of a monk had finished tidying the bed. As Richer turned, he turned also, mumbling to himself. He blinked at Richer, clearly none too quick in the wits, or he would not have said, “Here, here, it's all done, what are you hanging about for?”

Richer could think of any number of things to say. In the end he said nothing, simply walked to the table and set hands on the bronze. The magic roared and flamed in him. There were wards upon it. They had no more substance than shadows.

The old monk was babbling. “What are you doing? Put that down. Put it down, I say!”

The bronze rang like a bell. Richer started and almost dropped it. The old monk's mouth opened and closed. It was mildly comical, like a fish gasping, and no sound in it at all.

“Now,” said the Jinniyah. “I'm holding the wards and the man. Take me; be quick. I can't hold much longer.”

Richer could not move. The man was outside. Richer was within. The wards were between: a sphere of silence, a wall like finest glass, ringing on the utmost edge of hearing. It made him dizzy; it reft him of his wits.

The beautiful inhuman voice soared to the point of pain. “
Take me
!”

He lurched forward. The old monk stared, eyes half starting from his head. He was staring, Richer realized, at something well beyond the stumbling thief.

Richer tucked the Jinniyah under his arm as he had half-jestingly said he would, and essayed another step. It was rather steadier than the last. He could walk, after a fashion. He giggled as it struck him. He was royally drunk; and no wine anywhere near. It was all magic.

No one either stopped or questioned him. There was magic in that as in all the rest of it, trembling now with effort, but holding fast. He seemed to have no power over his feet. They carried him out of the palace by a back way, through its burgeoning garden, into a dark stone-scented passageway and down a stair. With a small shock, he recognized the crypt of the cathedral. There was the undercroft with its flickering candles, there the tomb of an archbishop who had lacked the pride or the influence to be buried in the upper reaches. Richer set the image on the lid and grinned at it.

It stared levelly back. Its eyes were as disturbing as ever, both lifeless and intensely alive. A smile seemed to curve the graven lips.

“Well?” he said. “What now?”

“You ask me?”

He giggled again. Once he had started, he could not stop. He dropped to the cold floor, shaking with it, helpless as any drunkard.

“You are worthless.”

The Jinniyah's scorn sobered him. Somewhat. He kept erupting into new fits. “But you see — I can't — it's so
strong
!”

For a moment he went blind. He clutched at air, stone, sanity. Slowly the light came back. The sweet madness was gone: the splendor that had been his master's magic. He leaned against the tomb and remembered how to think. “God in heaven! I've always known what he is, but to
feel
it...” He drew a steadying breath. “It's too much for the likes of me.”

The Jinniyah spoke above him, clear and cold. “When you have finished babbling, you might see fit to tell me what you intend to do with me.”

“Take you back to Master Gerbert.”

“Under Arnulf's nose?”

“What do you think I just did?”

“You did nothing. I found us a hiding place in which he may not think to search.”

The last of Richer's drunkenness withered and died. “He knows what you are.”

“He has been using me as my geas will allow.”

“Dear God.” Richer lowered his head into his hands. “He'll raise heaven and hell to get you back.”

“He will. But perhaps,” she said, “not for a while. The monk will remember nothing but a moment's confusion, and nothing that should not be there — and everything that should. We have perhaps a day and a night before the magic fades: before Arnulf sees that his table is empty. Unless, of course, he questions his oracle. My power falls short of illusions that speak when spoken to.”

“Then let's pray he doesn't.”

“Amen to that,” said the Jinniyah, which widened his eyes. She laughed briefly. “What, did you think I'm a demon? Iblis is my forefather, I confess it, but my family has made amends. I was a good Muslim before I fell among the infidels.”

Richer crossed himself without thinking, which made her laugh again. He scowled at her. “How do I know you haven't betrayed us all?”

“I told him nothing beyond yes or no, and those when he invoked my geas. I must prophesy. Nothing and no one has ordained that I must also tell what I am and what I bear.”

“You're free enough with me.”

“I choose to be.”

Richer drew a long sigh. He knew he should be more wary, but he believed her. That was one of his magics, to know truth from falsehood. It was pleasure like pain, to have it back again.

He shook himself. He was dallying, and the day was running on. “I have to find a place to hide you while I ready our escape. If you hadn't led me here — ”

“Here is safe,” she said. “Under the altar cloth is a loose stone. Lift it out.”

There was indeed, and behind it a space, a hollow in the great carved table. Perhaps it had been meant for a relic which had never come; perhaps some forgotten priest or builder had meant it for a hiding place.

Richer hesitated. “This feels like sacrilege.”

“If I can bear it, surely the altar can.”

Slowly Richer set the image in the niche. It was a close fit. He blessed bronze and stone alike, at which the Jinniyah mercifully kept silent. He could not bring himself to cover her face with the stone.

“Let be,” she said. “The cloth will cover me.”

He hid the stone behind the tomb, and stood with the cloth in his hand, staring at the glimmer of bronze. “Are you sure you'll be safe here?”

“As safe as I can ever be.” That was hardly comforting. “Go now, look to our escape.”

Richer let the cloth fell, smoothed it carefully. He was shakier now than he had been in Arnulf s chamber. Reaction, some of it, and fear that he had missed some crucial and damning detail.

“God,” he said to the altar. “God, guard us both.”

“Amen,” said the voice of air and bronze.

13.

For a moment as the day waned, Gerbert dreamed that he had his magic back again. It was glorious; it was intoxicating. Then it was gone. The world was all the darker in its wake, his madness all the stronger. If his courage could have faltered, now it was unshakable. He would do this. He would win back what Arnulf had taken away.

When compline was sung, Gerbert was ready. He had sent his servants away; the house was silent, empty but for the murmur of the wind that had risen with the evening. He shuttered the largest chamber against it, and cleared the space of encumbrances: the table on its trestles, the benches, the cabinet in which reposed his treasure of linen and plate. That was no easy labor for a man on the far side of sickness, and fasting besides. He had to pause after, sweating, battling darkness that came and went.

At last it left him. He sent fear after it, and guilt. His hand on the knife's hilt as he drew the circle of power was perfectly steady, his voice unwavering in the words which he must say. Words quite like them sealed wards major in workings of the high magic; but these wrought patterns that needed no sealing of power. Their cadences lulled him. He firmed his will to remain their master. It was like singing in choir. A hesitation, a stumble, and all the patterns would collapse.