Authors: Gael Baudino
The faces did not budge, but the sound of a footstep made Agnes turn. Dinah, the novice, pale and clad in a habit that was more a suit of tatters than a nun's proper garb, had come out of the gate. Her eyes were downcast and red. She had showed up at the abbey gate in that habit and with those eyes, and in almost two weeks neither had changed in the slightest.
Agnes held out her hand to her. Even had the small woman not brought news of Omelda, Agnes would still have taken her in, for she had seen heartbreak in the small woman, and deep shock, and what looked like a profound and unremitting desire to flee—preferably away from life, preferably into the echoing dimness of an abbey church—all of which Agnes had recognized in herself . . . and in a part of her own life now long dead and buried.
“Dinah?”
The little novice took Agnes's hand, looked up at the men. “Is Master Manarel there?”
“No, ma'am,” said the soldier. “He's off with Mister Jacob.”
“Oh. All right.” Dinah considered. Then: “You can let them in, Dame Agnes. Manarel was an Aldernacht man, and these are Aldernacht men. Aldernacht men are good men, not at all like the Aldernachts themselves. I . . .” Her eyes clouded, and she shrugged. “I know.”
Agnes suspected that Dinah's evaluation of Aldernacht men was not at all accurate, but she was touched enough by the novice's words to give permission for the soldiers to enter the abbey. The men, in turn, were obviously so shamed and flattered by such imbecilic trust that, after carefully counting out Mattias's prescribed allotment, they took the gold into the treasury, set it down, bowed to the nuns, and departed without the slightest impropriety.
Arms folded, still guarding her gate, Agnes watched them go. Mattias was at her side, holding a hastily scrawled receipt. “The bishop thanks you, Dame Agnes, for all your help.”
“I could use less thanks and more explanations, Mattias.”
“Well, I suppose you could,” he said. “But that will have to come later. For now, you have His Excellency's gratitude.” He smiled, bowed, and swung up to the back of his horse. His hand went to the heavy sack that was now strapped to his saddle, but his eyes, Agnes noticed, were on Dinah, who was standing off by herself, watching the retreating soldiers as though they were taking a piece of her heart with them.
Agnes felt protective toward the girl. “Is something wrong, Mattias?”
“Ah, no, Abbess,” said the clerk. “Dinah there . . . she is new, is she not?”
“She is.” Agnes was not about to offer any further information. She knew, and Dinah knew, and Dinah's confessor knew, and that was the end of it.
“Her habit . . .”
“Is a hand-me-down,” said Agnes. “We've little money here, Mattias. You know that. We can't afford new clothes for everyone.”
“Ah, yes,” said Mattias. “I see.” But to Agnes's surprise, he grinned.
“Mattias?”
A chuckle. “That is about to change, Dame Agnes.” He laughed, and then he slapped his horse on the rump and galloped off down the road as quickly as he had galloped up, his voice trailing behind him like a flag. “All that is about to change!”
Whispers.
Whispers in Furze. Whispers in the streets, in the alleys, in the taverns. Where once had been the bright-eyed silence of listening, there were now whispers. Whispers everywhere.
Siegfried heard them, saw looks exchanged and the sudden stilling of lips that had, a moment before, been whispering, uttering something to which he was not privy. At first he tried to ignore it all, to proceed with his work, to give this order for confiscation or that order for arrest, but the whispers continued: pressing in, intruding everywhere. And whether he interrogated prisoners, said mass, read his Office, ate, mediated, or longed for a vision of the divine, the whispers were there, drifting out of anteroom and pantry and alleyway, rubbing up against his thoughts like hungry cats.
“What is it, Giovaddi?”
“I-I don't know, Brother Siegfried.”
Someone was whispering in the hall outside the office. Siegfried rose quickly and jerked the door open, but no one was there, not even the usual guard.
The Inquisitor discovered that he was sweating, discovered also that he was now hearing whispers from the stairwell. Feeling dizzy—it was the pain, it had to be the pain—he closed the door, leaned against it. So much to do, and so little gold with which to do it. Even the money taken from the Aldernacht men was hardly enough to begin the work.
To be sure, he had Natil, but he knew without a doubt that there were others. Was that it? Was that what the whispers were about? Was Satan marshaling his forces? And just how many Elves were there in Furze? How many demons walked beside mortals right here under the nose of the Inquisition, spreading their lies and their heresy, massing for . . .
Massing for attack?
He wiped his palms on his habit. He needed money. And therefore he needed Jacob Aldernacht. Byt the wily old sinner had
still
not revealed himself.
More whispers. Down in the dark street. Coming, apparently, through the walls. Drifting through the air like smoke from the kitchens. “We bust fidd out, Giovaddi. We bust fidd out.”
Giovanni shook his head. “The only word I've been able to make out so far is
gold
.”
“Gold?”
“I hear it all the time. It's always gold they're talking about.”
“Gold.” Siegfried pondered, feeling cold despite his persistent sweating. “Why gold? Did Jacob's bodey show up?”
“There's been not a sign of it.”
Siegfried found himself staring at the bloodstained dent that his nose had left on the surface of the desk. He looked away quickly, feeling again the white hot pain.
“I've confiscated the houses and the possessions of the wool cooperative, as you ordered,” said Giovanni. “Perhaps that explains it.”
Siegfried fastened on the explanation hungrily. “Yes, yes,” he said. “Doubtless.” But the chill remained, and he knew that he was lying again . . . lying, this time, to himself. “We will questiod the prisoders again id the bordig. If decessary, we will use force. They will see what playig stupid does for theb. We will fidd out for certaid what is goig od.”
But when Siegfried awakened in his b ed the next morning, he did not hear whispers. His house was, in fact, very quiet, without the usual muted clatter that announced breakfast and the beginning of the day, without the sounds of footsteps or conversations.
He arose and dressed, making sure that the order for Jacob's condemnation was still safely tucked into his sleeve. The silence remained, clinging to the house like a funereal shroud. He opened the door and went down the hall. The silence followed. He called for his servants. Still more silence. He opened doors, inspected a deserted kitchen, examined rooms. Silence.
There was no one in the house but himself.
Biting back an anger edged in cold fear, Siegfried descended the stairs to the chapel. Fra Giovanni was waiting there for him.
“I don't understand,” said Giovanni. “The House of God is deserted. I was waiting for a morning report, but no one came. The guards are gone, the servants are gone . . . the entire staff is gone.”
A crow fluttered at the open window, landed, peered at the two men with a black eye. “It does dot bake ady sense,” said Siegfried. “There is do od id the house. Do od at all.”
And, as both men soon realized, there was no one coming to mass that morning, either.
“What's happened?” said Giovanni.
“I do dot know,” said Siegfried. “But I ab goig to fidd out. I ab goig to fid theb, wherever they are, ad I ab goig to ask. Ad I had better hear a reasodable adswer!”
The morning was growing as Siegfried and Giovanni, after making a hasty confession to one another and rushing through morning prayers, went off into the streets of the city to look for the powers that had, apparently, deserted them.
***
What gets us through?
Natil wanted to know, not for herself, but for the future. Having reclaimed her heritage only to know the final and irrevocable failure of Omelda's death, she had nothing left but a guilt that would soon be forever terminated by the flames of the stake and—fragile, founded itself upon the ineffable workings of a Woman unperceived and unknown—a hope that would not find fulfillment for another half millennia.
What gets us through?
The Elves of the Rocky Mountains did not
know
. They had not a clue as to the existence of the Mystery that dwelt within a mind's reach. And, as far as Natil could tell, they would never know, would never have a clue as to the well of sustenance within them.
Dear friends, I would tell you . . . if I could. I would tell you how to search for Her. I would try to show you how to find Her.
In the distance, as though in reply, sounds. Clangings. Chains falling on stone floors. Doors banging open and slamming closed.
The sounds came closer, and now she heard men shouting to one another. “Get that one open. My God! Look at that!”
A crash . . . and a woman's sobbing cry.
Voices: yes. But here were no screams of pain, no insinuating and accusing questions, no curt or sadistic orders. Instead, Natil heard horror, urgency, and righteous anger; and she stared in wonder, listening.
“Get that one outside, quickly. Give her some clothes and some soup.” A muffled response. “Then you
carry
her, hobhead!”
Suspended between floor and ceiling as she was between grief and hope, Natil stared.
Manarel?
Closer now: “Here they are, master! Ho! Aldernacht men! On your feet!”
Even closer: the rattle—distinct, unmistakable—of an iron door swinging open on rusted hinges.
“What the hell do you mean you can't find the goddam key? I'll break down that door with your head if you don't get it open right now!”
This last, from directly outside her cell, made Natil start, for the voice—irascible, imperious, demanding—could belong to none other than Jacob Aldernacht.
A jingle of keys, a clatter of metal—and a blaze of torchlight invaded her cell. The Elf blinked, dazzled. “Who comes . . . please?”
Jacob's voice was dry. “Your employer.” She heard him turn. “Come on: get her out of those chains. You there, find her clothes.”
“I've already got them here, Mister Jacob.”
“Good. Where's her harp?”
“We're looking for it now.”
“Well, find it! And bring something I can clean her face with. She's better off than the others, but she's still a mess.”
Steps, hands. Natil's sight finally switched from lavenders and blues to torchlit reds and yellows, and she found herself surrounded by men. Some were supporting her while others unfastened her chains. One stood nearby with a bundle of clothes. Off by the door, watching, was Jacob.
“Mister Jacob!” she cried. “Master!”
He scowled at her, his spectacles glinting. “What's this master crap? I distinctly recall that you ran out on me. Do you have any idea what the Aldernachts do with servants who go running off like that?”
“I . . .” The chains came off, and the Elf almost toppled, but the men—one of whom, she recalled, had dragged her down the steps of the House of God not twelve hours before—caught her and eased her down to the floor. Someone threw her old cloak about her shoulders to cover her nakedness, thrust her old eagle feather into her numb hands. “I can—”
“Shut up. I don't want to hear it. Damned musicians.” Jacob turned to the men who were with him. “I'll handle Natil. Here, give me those clothes. Now go on and help the others. And
find that harp
.” The men murmured, tugged at forelocks, and left.
In the light of a torch left burning in a socket by the door, Jacob knelt beside Natil. “How bad did they hurt you? Can you get up?”
“In a moment.” Feeling was coming back to her arms now, sparkling through the flesh in welcome prickles as the blood flowed freely once more. As she rubbed them she examined Jacob through the starlight in her mind. Something had changed about him. Something had released, yielded. “I am not hurt badly,” she said. “What is happening?”
“The House of God is out of business,” said Jacob. His scowl wavered, cracked, and was abruptly replaced by a harsh laugh. “And you're an expensive woman!”
“I . . . I do not understand.”
“Bishop Albrecht is the man in charge of Furze now.” Jacob waggled his gray eyebrows. “Wealthy man. Fabulously wealthy.”
Natil stared.
“And Albrecht just hired all of Siegfried's men right out from under him, at triple their former wages.” Jacob cackled: nothing resembling humor seemed able to come out of the man unless it were edged in iron. “Quite a fellow, Albrecht.” Another cackle. “He'll go far.”
“But . . . but what about Siegfried?”
“Oh, he's off somewhere. Probably hiding. God knows, I'd certainly be hiding if I were him.” A knock at the open door. Jacob looked up. “Ah, here's your harp. Give it here, Manarel.”
Natil's hands were still weak and shaking, but when Manarel carefully set the instrument on her lap with a rough-hewn smile, her arms went about it instinctively. She laid her cheek against the wood, felt the scrape of tuning pins against dried blood.
After handing Jacob a basin of water and a cloth, Manarel left with a
God bless
, and Natil was once again alone with Jacob. “And you . . . you did this . . . for me?” she said, still almost unbelieving.
Jacob put a horny hand beneath her chin and lifted. With a damp cloth, he swabbed gently at the crusts of blood on her face, his scowl firmly in place. “I've never done anything for anybody except myself in my entire life,” he said, “and don't you think that I'm going to be starting now. I did it for me.” He released her chin, jerked a thumb at himself. “I'm a free man now. I've got no family waiting for me to die . . . and trying to help me do it, I've got no debts, and I've got no regrets.” He pointed at her. “And you're free, too. And so is everyone else in this hellhole.”
Natil bent her head, the tears welling up. Some, indeed, might be free, but there was one she knew for whom freedom had come to late. “Omelda is dead.”