The Librarian turned his back to the Viscount and placed the last of the books on the shelves. When he turned, he was wringing his hands and he laughed nervously. “I am afraid this is the entire collection here. There are a few books which concern a brief hist...”
“That's peculiar,” Loki’s face turned quizzical. “I’ve heard from one of the Avangarde, Gawain I believe, mentioned that there is a private collection locked up hereabouts.”
The priest shifted uneasily, but maintained his smile. “Oh,
those
works. Well, as the good knight pointed out,” there was a bit of irony in his voice when he said
good knight
. “Those works are private and at the Church's order remain under lock and key until it is decided what to do with them.”
Loki tsked. “Surely a fellow scholar such as you can appreciate my innocent inquiries. I only wish to expand my knowledge. Certainly no harm could come of it.” The Viscount nudged the little priest with his elbow and winked. “I am sure you have felt from time to time the twinge of curiosity.”
The Librarian grinned. “Maybe, maybe, but Father Constant, and certainly Mother Superior, forbid it.”
“How would they...”
“They would, trust me, and certainly have the perpetrator excommunicated.”
Loki raised an eyebrow. “Well, I dare say I wouldn't want that. I'm not that curious!”
“There's a fellow,” said Father Benis.
The Viscount folded his arms and stroked his dark glossy goatee. “And where would such items be kept underneath lock and key? The keep dungeon? Treasure room? Or maybe the tower?”
Father Benis laughed. “Why, in the treasure room with all the keys that go to all the chastity belts of all the maidens in the keep.”
Loki guffawed. “With the keys...!” He couldn't finish the sentence, he was laughing so hard. He slapped the Librarian on the shoulder in a friendly manner. Benis returned the gesture. Loki bade the Librarian good day between wheezing breaths and staggered out of the keep Library.
When Loki had left, Father Benis stood wiping tears from his eyes for a moment, smiling. “The keys...” He shook his head bemusedly and once again started to put books on the shelves. He paused for a moment, looked back in the direction that the Viscount had taken, and moved to the back of the library. There, he tugged on the edge of a wooden shelf. It swung away from the wall like a door, and behind it was a metal cabinet with a large key hole. He removed his string of prayer beads and held forward the large metal crucifix dangling at the end. He placed the end of this into the key hole and turned. The cabinet door swung open to reveal scores of ancient leather-bound volumes, scrolls and peculiar objects. After gazing upon them for a moment, he closed the metal portal, locked it, and shut the shelf. He then walked away.
Above him, unnoticed, was Minion sitting and watching from a shadowed shelf, expressing his enthusiasm with his characteristic hand rubbing.
#
Several nights later Loki hovered over a boiling cauldron in the woods. He stirred the coals in the fire with a stick and then threw some spices into the boiling liquid, which did absolutely nothing to improve the smell of the concoction. Utilizing the secret door, Loki had come to find that sneaking out of the keep was easy enough, even with all this paraphernalia (though it took several trips to ready for this evening). It was all about timing.
“Minion, fetch the chicken,” he demanded. The impish servant moved to remove the hapless fowl from its wicker basket cage.
Loki pulled his hands back from the pot, and shook them with a look of disgust. “This is ridiculous. Eye of newt, tongue of snail...yish! I'm telling you, Minion, I long for the old days when one didn't need such silliness to facilitate a simple invocation. But then again, that is why I am here, isn't it? Give me that!” He snatched the struggling bird from Minion's fumbling hands. Loki adeptly wrenched the animal’s neck and it stopped its squirming. He threw its carcass into the cauldron and chanted an arcane tune, half smirking.
He circled his hand over the boiling liquid, then reached down and picked up a mandrake root from his supplies. He brushed it off and then, barehanded, thrust it into the hot liquid. He squeezed his eyes shut, grunted terribly, then released a howl that at first sounded of pain, but turned to something that sounded akin to pleasure.
“Yes!” he cried. His lips grimaced into the shape of a smile around gritted teeth. He removed the dripping root and held it up, chest heaving, eyes closed.
“Master! Look!”
“I know, be calm.”
Loki slowly opened his eyes and saw his servant huddled nearby. All about their little encampment there was movement. Shadowy, flowing figures that made no noise. There was a single set of blazing eyes before them in the night, as high as the tree branches just out of range of the firelight. These burning coals belonged to a hulk of a creature. Branches cracked and the earth rumbled as the beast shifted in the darkness.
“Who summons me, in an age when no one summons?” it growled. Its voice was unearthly. Minion's teeth chattered.
Loki stood. “Loki summons you.”
The eyes narrowed in the dark. It snorted like a bull. “I know this name, though it means nothing to me anymore. Be gone, you have no power over me.” The eyes shifted as the creature moved to depart.
“I beg to differ, ogre,” Loki said, holding up the vaguely man-shaped root. This he squeezed violently, and fluid dripped from it. The creature in the woods lurched and growled fiercely.
After a long time: “What is your bidding?”
Loki sneered. “That's better. I need you and your kindred here. I need a diversion in yonder keep.”
The eyes laughed. “You are mad. That place reeks of men and iron. What would our presence possibly accomplish? They already suspect our existence. They foray out into these woods from time to time to chase us. If we enter their walls, they could do us harm. Even I, who can not be harmed by their iron, would be eternally harassed. We are weak. No good could come of it.”
“If you do this for me, I can make you strong again,” Loki enticed.
The eyes narrowed again. “You lie, this is not possible. Our age is over. Even on this island the Light penetrates the mist that separates the worlds and is growing.”
“Wrong. I can reverse that, even extend the vale!” Loki stepped forward. “I just need time, and the proper diversion inside the walls of the keep. Do this for me and I will grant you powers of your former self. I am Loki.”
The eyes shook from side to side. “Half of us have little substance, the other half losing substance. We are like smoke.”
Loki smiled devilishly. “Perfect. Smoke and mirrors are my specialty.”
“I am listening.”
#
Across the room, Sir McFowler entered the dining hall with his now-ever-present entourage of Willy and Sir Gregory. The trio had become fast friends—finding a common bond in their boyish exuberance. Jason personally tutored William in the bagpipes, and Gregory and the Highlander loved to play the riddle game. Their laughter echoed in the corridors of Greensprings. The two knights and the merchant's son bustled toward some open benches near the nuns’ table.
Jason accidentally bumped into Mother Superior and he could be heard saying; “Oh, pardon me, Ma.”
Mother Superior just shook her head.
Patrick smiled and shook his head as well. Soon, however, he realized after watching the trio carry on that he was sitting all alone in a sea of people enjoying each other’s company; King Mark merrily talking with the Lady Christianne; Sir Geoffrey surrounded by young ladies like a cock in a coop; Sir McFowler and his companions; Patrick watched them and envied their carefree camaraderie. He sighed heavily and inspected his glass for the thousandth time:
Real crystal
, he thought, scrutinizing the cup. He was so often surprised at the wealth that turned up in the keep.
“Gawain, please.” Christianne's shrill voice penetrated his thoughts. He looked at her, and she gestured with her head at his hands. He realized that he had been running his finger around the brim of the crystal, causing it to hum eerily.
“Pardon me, my Lady,” he said, sounding more than a little sarcastic. He drained the last of the courage from the crystal, stood, straightened out his surcoat over his mail and walked over to the three across from him at their table.
“May I join you?” he asked. There was a brief moment of silence as the trio took in the sight of him.
“Of course, have a seat old boy,” said Jason.
Sir Gregory patted Patrick on the back as he sat. “Just come from duty there?” he said, gesturing at Patrick’s mail hood, which hung loose over his surcoat.
“I didn't keep you up this morning, did I?” William asked.
Patrick smiled. “No, not at all.”
“That's because I've resorted to playing the pipes outside on the walls like Jason here. I dare say you shan't be woken by me anymore.”
Patrick shrugged as if he didn't care, but was relieved to hear it.
The conversation turned back to the subject. Sir McFowler was agitated and even more animated than usual.
“...and I told him—again!—that he is to be escorted, that is accompanied, watched, followed, hand-held—call it what you will—anytime he is to be out of sight of the keep walls. 'But I just wanted a midnight stroll alone and away from those stuffy walls,' he says. What if he fell in a ditch and died? How would I explain that to Mark his Majesty yonder?” Jason did a wonderful impression of the Viscount, snooty accent and all.
“He is a bit sour isn't he?” Gregory conceded.
“And cruel. He beats on his valet constantly,” Patrick pointed out.
“I'd be beaten too if I were that ugly,” Willy said.
Jason laughed. “Abused just for being ugly? Is that what my problem has been all this time?”
The evening wore on and slowly the residents began to drift out of the dining hall. Willy bade the knights goodnight and left.
“I am not tired at all,” Jason said. I am still much too moved by my confrontation with his Lokiness to go to bed. I need to vent my anger on something, or somebody...” He clenched his fists and looked around the hall.
Patrick raised his head, seeing an opportunity. “Hey Highlander, you still owe me all the beer I can drink. Let us go to Aesclinn and vent that rage on a pint?”
Jason slapped the table. “Excellent idea!”
#
The three men walked the dusty trail to Aesclinn by moonlight. Jason stopped periodically to punch the bushes or swat at tree limbs. He was in rare form.
When they entered the pub, the establishment was dead. There were a couple of villagers in the corner and the barkeep leaned against the bench, slowly cleaning a cup.
“I feel the cold clutches of boredom creeping up on me,” Jason said. They ordered drinks at the bench anyway.
The more he drank, the more agitated Jason became and he drummed his fingers on the table. He looked about, couldn't find any trouble, and so decided to create it: He leaned over and punched Gregory across the jaw just for the sheer hell of it.
“Ouch!” Gregory shook his head and took another swig of ale.
#
They left late that night, finally admitting defeat. Gregory was rubbing his jaw and complaining. Jason was walking several paces behind, grumbling to himself.
“Relax Gregory, he quit after he made you call him Zeus,” said Patrick.
“That's easy for you to say. It wasn't you he decided to play with,” the little knight lamented. “He certainly has an odd sense of humor.”
“He's Jason. That explains it all.” He walked slightly ahead, whistling softly to himself.
When they approached the gate to Greensprings, two heads bobbed on top of the wall and shouted, “Who goes there?”
“It's us, idiots. You let us out, you can let us back in,” Jason growled.
“What's the password?” the head demanded. There was giggling on top of the gate.
Jason placed his hands on his kilt-girdled hips. “It's: open up or I'm going to shove my foot up your asses.”
There was laughter and the gate rumbled open. Jason exchanged good natured catcalls with the night watchmen and then said goodnight to them. He turned to Patrick and Gregory and gave them slaps on the back.
“Goodnight, McFowler,” Sir Gregory said, and he and Patrick turned to go down the path that led to the Hall for Guests.
Clouds floated across the moon, blanketing the keep in shadow. Gregory and Patrick were now at-home enough to navigate, and they felt their way along the keep wall and searched with their hands for the place where rock gave way to ivy and the cobblestones to dirt. It would be then that they knew they had passed the keep proper and should turn left to the Hall.
Suddenly the moon broke free of the clouds, splashing the courtyard in eerie light. Gregory’s hand clamped down on Patrick's arm. “Look!”
Patrick turned in the direction of the Englishman's extended arm. There was an old woman washing bloody rags in the courtyard fountain. A greenish glow engulfed her, and she was moaning silently.
“What the hell is that!” the little knight cried. The old woman turned. Her eyes were hollow sockets. And then the dark pits turned to blazing green flames and her moan turned to a hellish wail, and she rose in the air, circled the fountain, and then shot off like an arrow over the wall. The thing was gone. The night watchmen seemed oblivious to these events.
“That,” said Patrick, “was a banshee. It means someone is going to die.”
#
They went to Mark's apartment and reported the event. He seemed disturbed, but chose not to do anything about it.
“It is only another manifestation unique to Avalon. A walking myth. It doesn't mean anything, and if it does, what could I do to prevent the future?” He thanked Patrick and Gregory told them to go try for some sleep.
Patrick paced in his chamber, wishing his stomach could expunge the butterflies and let him rest. He decided to take Mark's advice and just forget it. He started to pull on the cords that held his chain mail together, but stopped. Instead he laid down on his bed fully clothed, put his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling.