THE VISITOR
CHAPTER 8
Bishop Gervinus, no longer young but still tall and strongly built as the noble Frankish warrior stock from which he came, walked in welcome solitude. Elsewhere in the teeming maze that was the Vatican complex was the usual crowd of bishops and deacons, notaries and accountants necessary to keep such a complicated organization functioning. But this one slightly out-of-the-way hall was quiet and private, faintly scented as nearly every hallway was with incense and candle wax, and glowing softly with gold in the ever-present candlelight. There was not the .slightest hint of turmoil, religious or political.
Almost, Gervinus thought, as though there wasn’t undeclared war between the Roman Church factions and those of my own Frankish lands. Were I a truly religious man, I would be horrified by such hatreds within the faith.
The bishop continued on down the quiet halls, hearing his own footsteps seeming loud against the inlaid marble floors by contrast with the surrounding silence, his thoughts still on politics.
Undeclared war between the two factions, indeed: barely a year ago, Roman agents had actually attacked and nearly killed the pope himself, angry at his alliance with the mighty Emperor Charles, he who was as often named Charlemagne. Only that alliance had rescued the badly injured Leo from a most unpleasant death, and it was he who would soon, barring further turbulence, crown his rescuer as emperor.
Charlemagne. My own family’s liege lord. And which side should I back in this ecumenical battle, I wonder? Which side is most likely to win?
Had matters been slightly different, there wouldn’t have been a question. After all, as the son of a high-ranking Frankish noble, a man of some importance at Charlemagne’s court, Gervinus had been born into a predictable, well-regulated world.
Unfortunately, he had been born the second son. The superfluous son. It had been many years since older brother Conrad, solid and strong as their father and brainless as a true warrior, had brought that fact home to him, but the bitterness remained. They’d both been children back then, Conrad nine and Gervinus seven, but as fierce as any older foes. That day, Conrad had been sitting on his younger brother’s chest after yet another of their vicious fights, taunting him with, “You’ll never be anyone of worth. You’ll be nothing but a musty old priest.”
Gervinus’ mouth tightened with the memory, remembering even now his shock, his pain, his pride. He hadn’t let any tears show then, for all his rage and hurt. Nor had he wept later, when his father, that tall, grim man who almost never laughed, had beaten him for getting into and losing yet another fight. Instead, ignoring his aching body, the boy had asked coolly, “Why must I be a priest?”
As always, his father had looked away from his steady gaze. Gervinus had learned at an early age that he was considered by everyone in the keep as a frighteningly bright, frighteningly cold child. “What else is there for you to be?” his father had asked. “Conrad is the eldest, and of course the firstborn boy must inherit all.”
“But why?”
That had brought a frown. “A noble’s estate can hardly be portioned out like some peasant’s land! Come, boy, you’re surely old enough to realize that there’s no other honorable post for a second son than the Church.”
“But I don’t want to be a priest!”
For a moment, he’d been sure his father was going to strike him. But then the man, unexpectedly, had smiled. “Think about it, boy. Think of how high a clever priest might rise. The power behind the throne, boy. The power behind the throne. Ah yes, I see the ambition flickering in those cold eyes of yours. Young as you are, you know exactly what I mean.”
So he had. But later that night, he’d methodically set about destroying every one of Conrad’s weapons and noble dress.
Fortunate my father didn’t beat me to death for that. But then he wouldn’t have had a son to donate to the Church.
The bishop stopped in front of a door as though readjusting the drape of his robes. Beyond, he knew, lay a small council chamber, empty as it usually was and far more private than his own spartan quarters. Hearing voices behind him, Gervinus turned, nodding politely to the two deacons who were passing him, chatting softly together. The young men fell silent, shying slightly from him like two startled wild things, then returned his nod and hurried on.
Idiots.
Once he was alone again, Gervinus bent to the door’s lock and murmured a phrase that was neither Latin nor the Frankish tongue. The words were nonsense to him, but he had learned from the first memorization that they were enough to focus Power: with the softest of clicks, the door swung open. He slipped inside, closing the door silently behind him, and repeated his small spell in reverse. The room was now guarded against any chance intruders.
Ignoring the religious images watching somberly from every wall, Gervinus sat at the heavy oak table that dominated the room and waited to catch his breath. Maybe the tales told of sorcerers casting spell after easy spell, but he knew the truth: one could only work sorcery after long study and careful concentration, and even then only in limited fashion.
One did what one could. Recovered, the bishop drew out of his robes a plain, leather-bound book sealed with a small, intricate lock, and an equally plain little mirror. For a moment he sat studying them. Such ordinary-seeming objects. Yet the mirror had taken long months to make and had nearly cost him his life: only at the last moment had he remembered that it was perilous for any sentient being to be the first to glance at the polished surface. The dog he’d forced to gaze into the mirror had died in convulsions from the uncontrollable surge of Power that set the mirror to functioning. And as for the book, his precious grimoire—
Gervinus shook his head. Every now and then the sheer strangeness of the path his life had taken struck him like a blow. He had never actually intended to study sorcery. No, in the Frankish monastery where he’d first been sent (a quick memory: the disquieting glint of relief in his father’s eyes at being rid of his troublesome son), the boy-Gervinus, thrilled by his introduction to the literate world, had devoured whatever his tutors had given him to study, whether letters, psalms, mathematics or grammar, but always with an eye towards purely normal, purely temporal power. Even when he’d stolen into the monastery’s small library at night to read every precious book or scroll he could find, he had certainly never dreamed of anything more.
Until that night when he had found one crumbling little scroll on which was scrawled what was undeniably a spell of Summoning. Too curious to be afraid, the boy-Gervinus had carefully carried out each step, standing, trembling just a bit, in a chalked circle, whispering the ugly, alien syllables.
And Something had come, Something strange and chill and… empty. Gervinus tensed slightly even now, remembering the moment his life had been forever changed. For that Something had whispered to him that he, too, was empty, that he believed in nothing, in no one, but himself… night after night, that same chill voice had whispered in his dreams, telling him the same terrible truth, until at last the terror was gone and only the truth remained. After all, even back then, he had believed only in himself, in what he could win through wit and will.
Why not? Look what the supposed One True Faith produced: my father, illiterate and proud of his ignorance, who never once showed that so-vaunted Christian love to his own son, and my brother, equally illiterate and stupidly content in his ignorance, who showed most unChristian hate towards his own brother yet never once suffered for it—
Bah, what could such a faith possibly hold for him? And if there were times after Its visits that his dreams turned dark, warning of endless nothingness, why, what were dreams but foolish fancies?
So, now. If the only path of power open to him meant he must spout Churchly dogma even if he believed none of it, so be it. Granted, he’d expected, being a noble’s son, to be rewarded with a post at the emperor’s court, Charlemagne, who thought nothing of creating his own bishops when he pleased, taking papal consent for granted. Even though the emperor was seldom at that court, off battling Saxons or Slavs or anyone else who debated his rule, there would have been no end to how high an ambitious cleric might rise at the royal court.
Instead, Gervinus thought with a touch of impatience, here he was trapped in Rome, watching Pope Hadrian die and Pope Leo replace him, watching this faction try to oust that one, doing nothing much else all these tedious years. He’d been pulled from the Frankish monastery at his father’s whim. Why? Some misguided attempt of the man to enter international politics? Or merely the urge to separate warring brothers as far as possible? Why bother? Dear Conrad was and remained as he had always been, in excellent health, and his brood mare of a wife had by now given him two equally healthy sons. Gervinus snorted. Short of murdering two generations of kin without leaving a trace, there wasn’t a secular hope for him.
Ah well, one took power where one found it. And the learning to be found here had been so intoxicating: the books, so many more than could be found in any Frankish monastery, the chance, for the first time in his life, to fully use his mind and stretch his knowledge—even, Gervinus added silently, beyond the limits allowed the clergy.
Oh, yes. Secret excursions into the depths of the Vatican library had unearthed some very strange books, ostensibly hidden there to keep them out of the reach of Darkness, books so much more powerful than that one pathetic little spell-scroll back in the Frankish monastery. He already had a talent for sorcery, surely; that Summoning, amateurish but effective, had proved it. And now at last he’d had a chance to expand that talent. The grimoire had come from that sorcerous cache of books, and hour after hour of study, Gervinus knew, had made him quite proficient in its use.
But what good is it? I don’t dare risk anything truly Powerful, not here in the very heart of the Church! Looking back at himself as the brash, bitter, lonely young man he’d been, hating Rome, hating everything about the Roman Church that was so alien to a Frankish boy, Gervinus shook his head at opportunities lost. What a fool he’d been! No matter how I despised them, I should have wooed friends, allies.
Instead, his early aloofness had branded him unpleasant, unsociable, coldly brilliant. All, Gervinus admitted frankly, quite true: he was brilliant, and he had no desire for the weaknesses that were good fellowship or the sins of the flesh. But that coldness meant that while he had at first managed to rise rapidly through the clerical ranks, it had been only so high and no higher. Yes, he had gained the status of bishop, but Auxiliary Bishop only, without a diocese, without a purpose, without a use save to serve as errand boy to the Curiate.
He came sharply alert. No time now for reflection. Deep within the Vatican’s maze, members of that Curiate had just begun their meeting, activating the spell he’d set in their chambers. Unlocking his precious grimoire, staring into his sorcerous mirror, Gervinus began his muttered chant. Soon a wavering image formed in the highly polished silver, soon he could hear voices, thin and faint as though from a great distance. Straining, the bishop could make out tantalizing bits, just enough to let him know they were discussing, as was everyone these uncertain days, the politics of Church and empire.
And… him? Was that his name being mentioned? Something about… “troublemaker… cold-blooded… can’t tell which side he’s on.” Frowning, Gervinus struggled to hear more. Something about, “…must be rid of him.” “But how?” “…can’t just see he vanishes… nobleborn…”
They were silent a good while, so long that Gervinus’ spell began to fade. Just when he thought it would disappear altogether, he saw one of those Churchly bureaucrats straighten and say, “Mother Church’s reach… stretched… over the far realms… not enough news from the distant lands.” There was a frenzy of excitement from the others, a good deal of jabbering he couldn’t hear. And then the spell dissipated and was gone. Gervinus slumped in his chair, drained and exhilarated at once.
They were going to rid themselves of him, those bureaucrats, and never once see the favor they were granting him. He would at last be free of this prison! It only remained to see to which far-flung land he would be sent, and then he could begin to plan, to act, to finally use his talents.
###
Bishop Gervinus, late of Rome, originally of the Frankish lands, stood at the ship’s rail, mysterious in his hooded cloak, hiding his impatience behind a mask of tranquility as he looked out over the flat expanse of blue. With the ship becalmed, there was nothing to do but wait. He was pretending not to hear the whispers of the sailors around him—not an easy thing to do, what with no sound from the motionless ship or the limply hanging sail and Church standard, or the utterly tranquil ocean.
Bah, whispers were nothing. Gervinus was used to such foolishness as these idiots were sharing; the lower classes were full of their superstitions. If the commons thought him, despite his clerical garb, somehow in league with Darkness just because he held himself aloof from them, what man of any importance would stoop to listen to them?
Even, Gervinus reflected with a moment’s sardonic humor, if they might happen to be correct.
His thoughts were interrupted by a nervous sailor, doing whatever it was sailors did when a ship was becalmed. The bishop raised a hand in casual benediction as the man passed, and the sailor dipped his head in uneasy thanks.
Idiot. Idiots all.
“Your pardon, Holiness.” It was the ship’s captain this time, a roughly made, weather-worn man whose hodgepodge of an accent indicated someone who spent more time in foreign ports than at home. Diffidence sat most uneasily on him. “You asked for me?”
“Indeed,” Gervinus said. “We have been becalmed for nigh a day now. What do you intend to do about it?”
“Well… uh… there isn’t too much we can do, Holiness, not without wind. Unusual for it to turn so calm this far into autumn, but,” with a helpless shrug, “there you are.” He glanced hopefully at the bishop. “I don’t suppose you…”
Gervinus stared. Did the idiot really think he was going to get down on his knees here and now and pray for wind? “I shall do what I can. In my cabin.”
The ship was crowded with his retinue of guards and servants, but at least he needed to share the cramped little room that was misnamed the cabin of honor only with the acolyte Arnulf, a youngster of Frankish blood like himself; a valuable find, not for his intellect (dubious) or cunning (low) but because he shared certain sorcerous views.
The bishop paused in the doorway in distaste as the stench of sickness reached him. Gervinus had the stomach of a sailor, but his acolyte did not. Closing and bolting the rickety door behind him, the bishop snapped, “Get up, Arnulf. The sea’s as still as glass. You can’t possibly still be ill.”
Arnulf’s face was a ghastly green, but he staggered to his feet, a slight young man asking hopefully, “Is Eriu in sight?”
“No. Nor is it likely to be any time soon unless we do something about it.”
Arnulf’s eyes widened. “The others—”
“Will hear nothing unless you keep shouting like that. And,” Gervinus added grimly, “I’m sure you will continue to keep a discreet tongue in your head.”
“Of course, Master!”
Of course, Gervinus mocked silently. It had nothing to do with priestly obedience. Arnulf longed for Power far more than for Salvation.
Reaching into his belt-pouch, the bishop pulled out a simple copper ring set with a small red stone, slipping it onto his left hand. From the clothes chest at the foot of his narrow bunk, he extracted his precious grimoire with its intricate little lock. Gervinus paused, studying it for a moment. Lately he had felt the oddest pull whenever he attempted sorcery, as though some outside Something was enticing him to use Power whether he would or not.
Nonsense.
His glance sharpened, noticing the faintest of scratches marring the smooth surface; Arnulf, the young idiot, had been trying to steal a bit of his master’s knowledge.
I should let him open the book. Let him learn for himself what true Power means—and how perilous it can be.
But a dead acolyte would be a nuisance. He needed Arnulf, for now at least.
At a murmured word from the bishop, the lock fell open. “Clear me a space,” he said over his shoulder, “and fill that bowl with fresh water.”
“You’re not going to call on him again, are you?”
Gervinus turned to stare so coldly that Arnulf shivered and dropped his head in submission. “What I do or do not is not for you to question,” the bishop murmured. “Now do as I tell you.”
As Arnulf hurried to obey, Gervinus stood motionless, focusing his thoughts, ignoring the fierce, distracting surge of joy his sorcery always brought him, then opened the book and began, quietly, to read Words that were in no human tongue. The cabin’s stale air began to stir, ruffling his robes, but the bishop never faltered. Midway through the calling, he thrust his ring-bearing hand into the water, submerging ring and stone, continuing without pause to read the spell to its final twisting end.
The cabin shook to a sudden blast of cold, dank air. Something came, something vaguely manlike yet so shrouded with mist even Gervinus couldn’t make out its true shape. But it could only be the being he’d summoned.
“Arridu.”
“What would you?” The soft voice was the sound of wind whispering over ice.
“Something of your power.”
Arridu glanced about the cramped cabin and laughed coldly. “A storm? While you are trapped on this fragile little piece of wood? That would be… amusing.”
One did not show strong emotion to a demon. “Not a storm,” Gervinus said in a perfect counterfeit of calmness. “Merely a wind. A steady wind to carry this ‘piece of wood,’ as you so poetically call it, west and northwest to the land known as Eriu.”
“Why should I do this thing?”
“Because, Arridu, I know your true name. I bear your ring.”
The misty shape swirled and shifted. The air filled with the rank stench of wind over swampland. “True, true,” the demon said at last. “But I must be paid. Give me a sailor’s life. A life for a wind.”
Gervinus hesitated a careful moment. “A sailor’s life,” he repeated. “Neither I nor my acolyte are sailors, understand that.”
“Understood.”
“A sailor’s life you shall have, then. Done.”
Arridu laughed and vanished in a swirl of mist and a roar of wind. Gervinus staggered, bracing himself against a wall as the wind rose and rose. “So be it,” he murmured.
It would be a simple thing to see that a sailor slipped overboard during the windstorm. All knew that sailors could not swim. It would be thought a sad accident, nothing more.
And soon enough, they would be in Eriu, and he would never have to see this ridiculous ship again.
###
“Uh… Your Holiness?” It was the captain, nervously approaching Gervinus where he stood at the rail, wind tangling his robes about him.
“What?” Gervinus just barely kept from snarling. The demon had kept its pledge, but with a touch of true, demonic malice: The howling wind that had followed, driving the ship before it, had been only one small degree removed from a storm, shredding sails and standards, nearly snapping the mast itself. Only the one unfortunate sailor had been dragged screaming overboard, but the survival of the ship had been a narrow thing.
“You asked me to inform you when Eriu was in sight. Well… uh… it is, although it’s going to take us a while to limp into shore, the sails being torn the way they are.”
Idiot. I already knew that. But Gervinus dipped his head in a curt bow. “Thank you. You may leave me. I would not keep you from your duties.”
After a moment, the captain bowed just as curtly, and left Gervinus to his brooding. He glanced up at the once-proud Church standard where it hung in sad, useless tatters, and clenched his teeth.
Arridu nearly escaped my control. And yet that is such a minor demon, its powers only of one Element! If I cannot control it, if I cannot wield true, stronger Power, I am naught.
He would manage, Gervinus told himself. He would, in fact, triumph. Not one of the Curiate had expected him to give in so graciously when they’d told him he was being sent to Eriu “to see that our far-off brethren do not sink back into the ways of Pagandom.” Not one of them had guessed why he’d been so humbly willing to travel such a vast distance and endure so many hardships along the way. But all those pious bureaucrats would have been horrified at his smile just now, thin and cold as the edge of a knife.
In this far-flung corner of Christendom, so far from Rome and the reach of Mother Church, he would settle. The people here would have no sophistication. How could they, the ignorant louts, sitting out here on the edge of the world? They would know nothing of Rome, or even of the secular splendor of Charlemagne’s court, and be easily fascinated by anyone coming from so far away. Ah yes, through sorcery and cunning, he would bend their High King to his use, turn the man into his puppet. In this far-flung corner of Christendom, he would build his realm.
And if it meant rousing Darkness to do it, why, so be it.