4
Silvas reined Bay to a stop on a switchback halfway down from Castle Mecq. He looked down at the village, then gazed along the valley toward the ridge where they had stood earlier that day to take their first look at the area.
“Sir Eustace enjoys being awkward,” Silvas said softly. “You might think he just sits there waiting for someone to badger.” He hesitated a moment. “But he doesn’t seem particularly evil, just bad-tempered. It’s his style.” He laughed. “It might be nothing more than poor digestion.”
Bay didn’t reply, even with a snort. Although no one was close enough to overhear, he didn’t care to take chances—a matter of discipline, he liked to tell Silvas.
“But we have our charge at least,” Silvas continued. “I thought it might take longer for someone to openly ask me to take care of the water. I didn’t count on the good lady Eleanora being so talkative, so cooperative.” He chuckled, then flicked the reins. “Let’s go to the inn, Bay. See if anyone else is ready to open up.”
There were cooking fires burning in most of the cottages now. Thin plumes of smoke found their way out doors and through holes in the roofing thatch. The women were preparing what would be the only real meal of the day for most of the villagers. The fields across Eyler had been deserted. Only a few people still worked in the small garden patches behind their homes. Brother Paul was pulling weeds in the garden behind his church. Everyone would be at supper by sunset, and most of the villagers would be in bed before full dark.
As they neared the Boar and Bear, Silvas spoke softly to Bay. “I’m going in for an ale or two. You can go home or wander the village if you want. I shouldn’t be overlong.” Bay stopped in front of the inn’s open door, and Silvas dismounted, leaving the reins draped over Bay’s neck. The horse remained still until Silvas entered the inn, then he walked slowly across the green, not quite toward the column of smoke.
Although the open door admitted some light, the Boar and Bear appeared even darker than the great hall of Eustace’s castle. The ceiling was lower. There were no lights burning within. Silvas stopped just inside the door to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. Along the wall to his left, two kegs rested on trestles. Master Ian stood in a doorway leading to a back room, looking toward the front. Two villagers sat on a bench at one of the two trestle tables in the public room. Each farmer had one hand wrapped firmly around an earthenware mug. They stared at Silvas but showed no other reaction to his entrance.
“Ale all around,” Silvas announced. He sat at the table with the villagers, across the trestle and closer to the end. The clink of money drew the eyes of the farmers. They looked at the coppers as they spun and settled. Then their gaze moved back up to the wizard. Silvas nodded a greeting. They nodded back. One farmer raised his mug and took a long drink. His companion followed suit, just an instant behind.
Master Ian hurried to fill the order. He brought Silvas a mug, then took the mugs of the farmers after they drained the ale already in them to refill them.
“And yourself, Master Ian,” Silvas said when he brought the refilled mugs back to the farmers. The innkeeper nodded and touched a finger to his brow. He brought his own mug back to the table and stood there to raise it to the wizard before he drank.
“I thank ye, sir,” Ian said, wiping foam from his mouth. He took his due from the collection of coppers on the table and slid them into the leather purse hanging from his belt.
Silvas took a long pull at his ale. It was everything he expected it to be—thin, bitter, and barely drinkable—but he didn’t let his reaction show. When he set the mug down, he nodded as if in approval. Master Ian was undoubtedly his own brewmaster, and Silvas didn’t want to offend the man over something he probably could not help.
“It’s been a dry year here, I see,” Silvas said after a moment.
Ian nodded forcefully. “Aye, it has, one dry year after another.” He took another long drink of ale.
“Yer can’t grow food without water,” one of the farmers grumbled, half under his breath. The bitterness in his words was obvious.
His companion nodded and said, “One o’ these years we’ll jist dry up complait like and blow away i’ we don’ get better rains.”
“Sometimes now, when the wind blows, ye can see the dirt jest blowin’ off the fields,” Master Ian said, his voice soft and sad. “If we don’t start getting rains the way they should come, year after year, if the Eyler don’t come back into its banks the way it did when I was a lad …”
“The vicar says it’s jist God’s way o’ testin’ us,” the second farmer said. He shook his head. “E’en Job wasn’t tested so to tears.”
“Mikes a man wounder,” his companion said. Both raised their mugs to take long drinks of their ale. Silvas followed suit.
“Before I leave,” the wizard said, “I’ll solve your water problem. That is my promise to you, to all the village.”
Master Ian and the farmers stared at him for a moment before anyone spoke.
“God bless yer if yer can, Lord Wizard,” the first farmer said. Then all three drank their mugs dry. Silvas finished his own and ordered another round.
“I’ll do whatever must be done for the water,” Silvas said while Ian was fetching the second round, “but I doubt that’s the only need you’ll have of my services. There’s not a village in the kingdom that can’t use the help of my sort now and again.”
There was no quick responses. Ian brought the mugs back and collected his coppers. Everyone sampled. The farmers and the innkeeper looked at each other, out the door, and back at each other before any of them looked at Silvas.
“There’s Giller’s mam,” one of the farmers said with a grin. “Her hens won’ lay a rooster egg for naught. She says she’s been witched.”
“Aye, there’s little blights enow, I’d say,” Master Ian said, nodding slowly. “But good water an’ plenty’ll solve ‘most all of ‘em, Lord Wizard. We have water an’ most folks’ll figure all else is fine.”
“Whatever the problems, I’m here to help,” Silvas said, quickly downing his second mug of ale. “Anyone can come to me, any time. I’ll hear a call at my gate.” He didn’t explain and none of the others asked what he meant.
“Thankee fer yer help, sir,” the first farmer said. “And thankee much for the ale. It shore goes down proper, it do.”
Silvas nodded and got up. He wished the others a good day and stepped out into the village green. He saw no sign of Bay, but that didn’t worry him. Whether Bay was roaming the village or back in his stable, he could take care of himself—and if there was trouble, Bay could broadcast the news to Silvas, well enough to draw his help. The wizard stood on the green for a moment, taking deep breaths. Master Ian’s ale had enough punch behind it for all that it lacked.
Daylight was almost gone. The sun was below the ridge to the west, throwing long shadows into the village and beyond. Above, the sky was still bright. There were red swirls in the sky west of Mecq’s valley, too far away.
A peaceful little place, by the looks, Silvas thought, somewhat mellowed by the ale and by the wine he had drunk earlier. But he could still feel the evil that surrounded Mecq. Silvas turned slowly, looking in every direction, casting his mind out, gingerly feeling the aura of the place.
There’s evil enough here, for certain, he told himself, not for the first time. There was neither fear nor triumph in his eyes as he walked to the smoke and the Glade within.
I will do my best was a promise to himself as well as to his Unseen Lord and the people of Mecq.
The great hall of the Glade was arranged differently than the halls of most castles. Instead of one long lower table butting against a shorter head table, there were a half-dozen tables spread around the great hall, with the head table set off a little on its dais. The different races of retainers had different requirements. The tables for Bosc and his kin were lower, the benches adapted to their different legs. The lupine warriors also had unique needs. Their tables were wider, and almost as low as those for Bosc’s people. The lupine kin preferred to eat squatting next to their tables. Chairs and benches remained alien to them. Only the humans sat on normal seats at normal tables.
There were people of all three sorts in the great hall now, many more than there had been at noon. And Carillia was standing on the dais at the head of the room when Silvas entered. She stepped down when she saw him and met him halfway.
“I was wondering if you would be delayed,” she said after they shared a light kiss of greeting.
“Whenever I’m away, I can’t wait to get back to you,” Silvas said. They smiled at each other and Carillia linked her arm with his as they walked to their table on the dais. Silvas stopped when he spotted Bosc coming into the hall, just long enough to confirm that Bay had returned.
“There has been activity today,” Carillia said when they were seated and servants started bringing the first courses of food. “A horse and rider left Mecq while you were at the castle. They crossed the river and headed upstream, across the valley at an angle.”
Silvas considered that news for a moment, then nodded lightly. “St. Ives lies in that direction.” It was the only likely destination for a rider from Mecq, particularly now. “Brother Paul must have sent for instructions from his bishop about me.” He chuckled. “The vicar of Mecq is a cautious fellow, my love, that’s for sure.”
“Do you know his bishop?” Carillia asked.
Silvas shook his head. “There’s a new man at St. Ives since last I was there.” It had been many years. Bishop Hugh had been an ancient then, long past his time. “Bishop Egbert Barlowe has the see now, as far as I know. He must know me by repute at least. If nothing else, he’ll know that I have His Majesty’s countenance.”
“And what do you know of Bishop Egbert?” Carillia asked.
Silvas shrugged. “That he is an adept of the Greater Mysteries within the White Brotherhood and not a mere nepotistic appointee.” That meant that Bishop Egbert would have considerable magical substance—much more power than Brother Paul, if not nearly as much as Silvas. The gradations were relatively clear. An initiate of the Lesser Mysteries would possess only minimal powers. He might have a dozen spells for commonplace magics at his command. An adept of the Greater Mysteries would have a lager number of magics, some of them of considerably more power. But a wizard … years of study, followed by a grueling process of initiation, made him almost a demigod, with quite extensive resources at his command.
The wizard turned his attention to the meal for a few minutes.
“In any case,” he said after washing down food with a long drink of wine, “it will take better than two days, almost three full days, for a rider to reach St. Ives from Mecq. Add whatever time it takes Bishop Egbert to reach a decision and get it back to Mecq. We may have close to a week before we have to consider Egbert Barlowe in our calculations.”
The evening meal was the main repast of the day in the Glade. It was not a meal to be hurried. Silvas’s great hall was a cheery place most evenings, light and airy. Tall windows showed a disregard for physical assault. Mirrors on the walls reflected and multiplied the available light, whether from the windows or from fireplaces, torches, and candles within the room. In winter, thick glass panes were carefully fitted to the windows—carefully because everyone who worked with them knew the tremendous expense they represented. Many years had passed since the last time a pane had been accidentally broken. The retainer responsible for that accident, one of Bosc’s people, had anguished more over it than Silvas had.
Musicians played through the meal, changing places so one group could eat while the others provided the light airs that Carillia always praised so highly. Guards finished their meals and hurried out to relieve the sentries on the walls so they too could get a hot meal and a little warm companionship. Servants brought more food in from the kitchen and carried off empty platters. The scullery staff took most of their meals in the kitchen, and preferred it that way. Their food was hotter and there were fewer hands reaching for a share.
Before the new shift of guards left, Silvas stood and banged on the table for attention. The hall quieted quickly. Everyone turned to look.
“We are in a new village tonight,” Silvas said. He didn’t raise his voice, but his words carried to every corner of the hall. “Normally that doesn’t much affect any of you. This one might not either.” He paused and looked around before he added, “Or it might.” That he spoke of it at all would have given most of his people that idea. “There is a strange feeling to this place called Mecq, and until I know what it represents, be on your guard. I’ll want to know at once of anything out of the ordinary, no matter how minor you think it is.”
It wasn’t the first time that Silvas had delivered that sort of warning, but the instances were rare enough that it struck home. His people sat or stood and looked at him, searching his face for clues, taking his words seriously, as he knew they would.
“Tell those you relieve on the walls,” Silvas said, his eyes flicking from one sentry to another. When he sat down again, the new shift of guards hurried out. Slowly the atmosphere in the great hall returned to something approaching normal, though no one was quite as animated as before.
“You are worried,” Carillia said softly, leaning close to Silvas so that no one else would hear.
“I am,” Silvas agreed. “Until I can chase this feeling to its source to find out why there is such a sense of evil about Mecq, I’ll feel much safer knowing that everyone is as alert as possible. Trouble in Mecq could flow over to the Seven Towers.”
The evening meal continued after Silvas and Carillia left the great hall. One of the first changes Silvas had made when he inherited the Glade from Auroreus was to stop the tradition of meals ending when the lord of the castle got up from the table. “I’ve had too many of my own meals cut short,” he had explained at the time. Everyone knew what he meant. Auroreus had been prone to eat quickly and sparingly, and to leave the great hall before most had a chance to fill their bellies.
Carillia went straight upstairs. Silvas went out to the mews, to the large enclosure at one end that was Bay’s.
“People do not sleep well in Mecq,” Bay said when Silvas entered.
“Tonight, or in general?” Silvas asked.
“Both, obviously,” Bay replied. “There is much fear in the village. Many lie awake listening for the Devil’s footsteps at their door.”
Silvas sat on a bale of hay. Unlike the ordinary horses in the rest of the stable, Bay could be trusted not to gorge himself on fodder left within reach.
“I wonder if it is not more resignation than fear,” Silvas said. “Fear is the common lot of peasants, especially on the marches where warring armies might come through burning and killing at any time.”
“That kind of resignation is but fear carried on too long for the edge to remain,” Bay said. “It is still fear. They bar their doors at night, sleep clutching crucifixes and rosaries, and wake with a quick Hail Mary at any sound. Judgment Day would surprise no one in Mecq.”
“It’s more than the water,” Silvas said.
“Much more,” Bay agreed.
“Even the vicar may not realize it.”
“You heard about the rider?” Bay asked.
“Carillia told me.”
“The vicar must have some sense of the danger, even if he can’t name it, or he’d not be so quick to send for news of us,” Bay said.
“Perhaps. But he probably won’t discuss this feeling with me until he decides that I’m not the threat. Or until his bishop replies.”
The two were silent for a moment. Bay paced back and forth a couple of times, then stopped near the door. The top half was open to give him fresh air. Silvas remained seated.
“Have you decided how to give Mecq its water?” Bay asked finally.
“I haven’t thought hard on it yet,” Silvas replied. “Water should be easy, if not for the threat from Blethye. It would be a hollow victory for Mecq if the duke came in as soon as we left and overturned our work.”
“Blethye has grown uncommon strong of late,” Bay observed. “One might wonder at that.”
“How has he grown strong?”
“A question that may need answering before long,” Bay said. The conversation lapsed into silence. Silvas sat with Bay until Bosc came in. Then he got up, stretched, and wished both horse and groom a good night.
Silvas stopped in the center of the courtyard, senses reaching out to the sentries above the gate and on the walls, feeling for any hint of alarm—and finding none. Then the wizard looked straight up, bending his head back. The sky was ablaze with the points of stars, a rash of lights across the heavens.
“A few drops of rain from each of you,” Silvas whispered. “But I doubt you have even the scant water Mecq husbands.” He had tried to look closely at a star once, when he was still an apprentice new to the gift of telesight. He had focused and reached out toward the brightest star in the night … and had nearly had the eyes burned out of his head for his rashness. The ball of raging fire had nearly consumed him. Only the quick intervention of Auroreus had saved him. “Some visions even the gods are denied, lad,” Auroreus said after tending the young Silvas’s injuries. “I should have warned you about this.” There had been none of the shouting that Silvas had expected.
“Someday,” Silvas whispered, scanning the sky. “Someday.” Memory of his burns returned. He would not challenge the fires of heaven yet.
Carillia was pacing the length of the small sitting room that adjoined their bedchamber, hesitating each time she passed one of the room’s two windows to look out into the night. She wore only a light robe of silk now, so fine that it was nearly transparent. Her brows were knitted in an uncommon expression of deep concentration or worry. She hardly seemed to notice Silvas’s arrival, and that in itself was evidence of great agitation.
“What bothers you so, my love?” Silvas asked, not attempting to disguise his astonishment. Carillia stopped pacing and faced him.
“I don’t know,” she said, and the music of her voice was oddly discordant, with almost a tangible anguish. She took a deep breath. Silvas watched as she carefully banished all signs of her concern. When she spoke again, her voice was calm, her face showed no hint of bother.
“Ah, my heart.” She moved to Silvas and took his hands in hers. “It’s just a fancy that came over me. Likely it’s no more than a reaction to what you told our people at supper.”
Silvas didn’t believe that any more than Carillia did, but he didn’t question her explanation. It would serve for the moment. Velvet and Satin came out of the bedroom, and Silvas could see that even the cats looked less serene than usual.
“Morning will come as always, my love,” Silvas said. He drew Carillia into his arms and kissed her lightly. She relaxed, softening in his grip. Then Velvet and Satin were with them, and the cats were looking for attention as well. They needed a lot of stroking before they would settle down in front of the bedroom door so Silvas and Carillia could enter.
The soft lights of the night came in through the bedroom window. The darkness was only partial, even after Silvas extinguished the last of the candles. The wizard and his lady required little more light than the cats in order to see.
Silvas undressed, setting the belt with his dagger on a stand at the head of the bed. Carillia dropped the robe from her shoulders. For a moment she stood silhouetted against the window. Silvas and Carillia moved toward each other and met in the center of the bed. They moved smoothly from soft kisses and light caresses through to the harder passions of their love. Mecq disappeared from their thoughts in the regular renewal of their pillow vows. The light of climax, when it came, was nearly as bright as the star Silvas had once tried to look into … but this light was without pain.
Afterward, as Silvas and Carillia snuggled together to slide into sleep, Velvet and Satin pawed their way quietly into the bedroom to take up their usual positions at either side of the bed. Sleep was another soft caress in the dark, a peace that moved outside time into eternity … and ended with the frantic screams of the cats.