Her Majesty's Wizard

CHAPTER 8

Matt rolled over on his bed of pine boughs, unable to sleep because of Sayeesa's heartbroken sobbing. She hadn't stopped crying since her dream castle had vanished.

They had come back to the campsite, with the witch trussed before him on a sobered-up Stegoman, while Alisande rode behind Sir Guy on his horse. Alisande had cut a new bed of pine boughs, and they had settled into salvage what sleep they could. Now she and Sir Guy were deep in slumber.

It must be nice, Matt thought, to have a clear conscience, though hers seemed a little too clear.

He turned over, trying to shut out the sobbing and clear his mind of what kept gnawing at it. Again, he failed.

Was sin real, or wasn't it? Where he came from, it was probably only a delusion, safe to ignore. But he wasn't where he came from. He was in their world. Did that mean he had to play by their rules?

Not necessarily, he decided. He'd already figured out a few rules of magic, and everything he'd reasoned out about it had worked. None of his theories really required any mystical personality behind the power; they could all work nicely by regarding magic as an impersonal force.

He felt better when he thought of it that way. Reason and logic did work in this universe, which meant that the whole pile of nonsense about Good and Evil were merely human constructs, and sin and Hell were just superstitious folk tales, even here.

He'd simply let himself get shaken up by a new environment. All the fundamental things were really as they'd always been.

With that comforting thought, he opened his eyes to gaze at the warm, glowing coals of the campfire.

A small hole appeared in the ground between himself and the fire and widened like a yawn filled with flames. A leering devil hoisted himself out of the hole - a regulation, scarlet-skinned, horned devil, with a long, tapering face, a moustache and goatee, and a pitchfork in his hand.

"Let me congratulate you on your skepticism," the devil said. "Rationalists make such excellent kindling."

The pitchfork stabbed out, lancing into Matt's belly, knotting his diaphragm while it swung him up, arcing high, and sent him plunging down into the flames.

Matt screamed, and nerve ends shrieked all over his body with the raw, pure pain of the fire. It didn't stop, but kept building. The fire grew hotter. Matt screamed himself hoarse, but the pain grew worse and worse ...

Then the pitchfork lanced down again, tossing him into a locker of dry ice that seared his flesh with absolute cold. He was in total darkness, burning with cold, and his nerve ends doubled their anguish. But they did not grow numb.

"Don't trouble to wonder. It doesn't get better."

Matt looked up in mid-shriek.

A sable, amorphous amoeba pulsed near him, shot with veins of fire. It spoke with the devil's voice. "Why, of course it is me," it chortled. "Nothing has real form or shape in this realm."

Hell, Matt realized.

"What did you expect from a devil? Oh, I know, it's not like your infantile conception of fire and brimstone. Don't you know what Hell is? The complete absence of... the Source."

God, Matt thought numbly.

The blot flinched, shrinking in on itself, and away. "I'll thank you not to use that Name here. In fact, you'll find you can't, now; I've knotted the neuron that caused me such pain."

Matt tried to think of the Name, found he couldn't - and the craving, aching emptiness of isolation surged in. It wasn't just the loneliness he'd known when he'd been in a new town and broke. This was worse, a thousand times worse. And despair whetted the loneliness, because there was no way out, now - not even through death.

The cold of Kipling's wind between the worlds swept through him, chilling him to his ectoplasm. The numbing emptiness of absolute loneliness sank in. Nausea bit, trying to turn the soul inside out, to fold it up, to make it fade away, to escape from loneliness into oblivion. But it couldn't cease; it was caught, embedded in total despair that had no other side.

"Yes," the devil crooned, "Yes - forever. Forever."

Pinpoints of warm light winked in the distance. They swelled into discs, then into spheres. The nearest zoomed toward them, filling Matt's vision. A soul flailed there in anguish, mouth sphinctering in unheard screaming, as tongues of white fire enveloped it, and bright, glowing needles pierced through it.

"This is the hell of a hedonist," the devil crowed. "Hedonists claim the purpose of life is its pleasures. But mortals are quickly sated; the pleasures they're born to soon pall. They end by seeking sensation, any sensation, to remind them they exist; and what began as a search after pleasure ends, if they live long enough to find the extreme, in a searching for pain. They seek to come here, though they know it not. Here they gain the sensation they sought, for all time."

The hell veered off to the right, and Matt found himself staring at more of the glowing orange bubbles. They crowded above, they jostled below, they thronged all about.

"Yes, there are many," the devil crooned, "and there's room for a million times more. Hell is quite spacious. Each sinner's alone, in his own personal hell - for there's no companionship here. And we've no problem fitting a hell to a sinner, for each soul provides its own. You come here to the hell you've built for yourself all your life."

Another sphere swept toward them and filled Matt's view. The air about the soul within it was filled with bright points of light that swooped at it, while its head was tilted back, its mouth open, a steady stream of its substance being drawn out into space.

"No matter how much is pulled out, there'll always be more," the devil murmured. "The bright points of light are microscopic blades, each nicking its miniscule bit from the soul. This being claimed it wasn't guilty for the sins it committed -- they were all predestined, or due to its upbringing, or to the socio-cultural matrix in which it was born. The end of it all is that the soul disclaimed responsibility for itself and sinned to its fullest, caring not a whit what damage it did to others - yet each sin was a breach of its integrity, its wholeness. So it lived, constantly losing itself; so it lives here-forever losing."

Another sphere hurtled up. The soul within was frozen in midstep.

"It will stay forever frozen," the devil confided, "because it cannot decide. In life, it was a follower; when it knew not what was right, it asked its priest, or its minister-or it looked in a book, or asked its employer. It never thought for itself; it never decided. Here it stands, as it lived-but with no one about to dictate its movements. You have heard of 'the agony of indecision'? Behold it."

Matt felt a shuddering revulsion sweep through him.

The sphere swam away; another replaced it. The soul lay at the bottom, looking upward, contorted in honor, at a huge heap of foulness plunging down toward it.

"He knows that some day it will reach him," the devil explained. "We told him it would. Some day - tomorrow, or next year, or in a million years; no matter."

The whole heap plunged downward. The soul gasped, stiffening; but the heap halted an inch from its nose and withdrew. Matt wondered what could terrify it so.

"Its own words, its own thoughts. This is one who was sure he was better than his fellows - more righteous, or racially superior, or of a finer temperament. But each sneering thought, each word of insult, fell here and was stored for his coming. He waits to be buried beneath his own mental filth - and in terror, for he knows what it did to those at whom he sneered."

The sphere swerved upward and passed overhead. Inwardly, Matt flinched.

A new sphere swam up. The soul inside sat grinning frantically, sweat popping from its brow, clutching at a brightly-colored object in front of it. As its hands touched it, the colors faded, and the bauble evaporated. Another appeared to the side; he clutched at it, but it faded, too.

"This is a materialist," the devil cackled in glee. "He believed nothing was real save what he could see and feel. He sees it now, but can never touch it. Illusion-all he sees is illusion. Even should he touch his own body, he will find there no substance. He has lost his reality, you see. Still he'll go on, clutching at phantoms, in ever-failing hope that he'll find something real. Each creates his own," the devil went on, as the sphere swam away. "Each damns himself. All have chosen this; none are sent here who have not chosen it."

Matt realized, Madness. They're all going mad - but they can never get there.

"Of course," the devil gloated. "That's part of Hell."

The sphere disappeared, and a dark, empty one replaced it.

"Yes," the devil murmured, "this is yours. It is empty now, but 'twill soon be peopled. You will people it, with your own ungovernable fantasies; for you are, at the bottom, a solipsist, and your subconscious is out of control. Oh, by long and stern training, a man might gain mastery of it-but you have had no taste for such lasting, disciplined effort. Small wonder in that; all Hell is for such solipsists, of one form or another: but you have not chosen your form. These sinners you saw-there is something of each of them in you; but no one form of sinning has dominance in you. You are general, amorphous. All that may definitely be said is that you're convinced you're the center of the universe, you never have grown up, have you? - and that you're lost in your own illusions.

"Let them have you!"

The dark, empty sphere slammed up, and Matt plunged headlong against its surface. It gave beneath him, stretching, like a film of plastic; then it gave, and he broke through and in.

Suddenly, he could move again, of his own accord - and could speak! Screaming, he whirled about and dove at the invisible wall. It stretched beneath him, it gave - but it didn't break.

The devil throbbed and pulsed on the other side, howling with glee. "Oh yes, fight, struggle! But you'll never escape! Hell is forever!"

A last desperate hope touched Matt's mind. "But my hell is being the victim of my own uncontrolled illusions! If I can get them under control, it'll cease to be Hell!"

"Hell is Hell," the devil sneered.

"Is it?" Matt cried. "Or is it purgatory? That's supposed to be just like Hell - except that it ends! And if this might end, it might be Purgatory!"

"It might," the devil said thoughtfully.

"Yeah! So which is it?"

"Hell is not knowing," the devil murmured.

And it hit Matt, with the full weight of despair - the devil was correct in this. If you were in Purgatory, you knew it; you knew it would end. Not knowing, he knew this was Hell!

The devil was fairly bouncing with glee. "Despair! You do it so well! Ah, hope! It's so wonderful - when it's gone!"

Matt realized the devil had been deliberately baiting him, encouraging a last flare of hope only so that it could snatch it away. Anger kindled, plowing through the despair; Matt shot forward against the unseen wall, hands outstretched for the devil's theoretical throat.

"Rage!" The devil howled with delight. "Delightful to watch! I wish I could stay!"

Panic surged through Matt, burying anger. This devil was, at least, a sentient being. "No, please! Foul as you are, you're some bit of company! Don't leave me alone!"

"Alone," the devil mocked him. "That, at the bottom, is the nature of Hell. Farewell, penultimate skeptic! Farewe-e-e-e-e-lll!"

Its voice faded as it shrank down to a dot, receding, going, going...

Gone.

Matt was surrounded by darkness, total, impenetrable, without a single iota of light. Not even the pinpoints of distant, other hells were visible any longer. Despair plunged down on him, flattening the soul. He looked about frantically for a dagger, a razor, anything to end life!

Then he remembered - life was ended.

And the loneliness bit in through the despair, till Matt could have sworn there was nothing left of him but a consciousness that felt its isolation as a burning pain, worse than fire in each cubic millimeter. His whole being pleaded for madness.

A low growling sounded, swelling to fill the void.

Matt whirled about, panic clutching his throat.

It shot toward him - black, with curly fur and a blunted muzzle that opened to show long, pointed teeth, sharper than any dog ever had.

"No!" Matt shrieked, dropping into a crouch, arms up to hide his face. "No! I loved you! You were my friend!"

But the dog came on, its growl rising to rage, eyes reddening.

It was the pet dog from his boyhood, the dog who had died while he was at summer camp.

The growling modulated into words. "I died without you:"

"It wasn't my fault, Malemute! I was a kid, I couldn't get back! They didn't tell me!" And his brain knew the truth of the words, but his subconscious didn't believe it.

So neither did Malemute. Knife-teeth flashed down. Matt screamed as they ripped furrows in his leg. He jackknifed over, clawing at the muzzle, trying to pry the jaws apart. But the dog bit down harder; teeth crunched on Matt's bone, and he shrieked. The dog chewed, ripping the leg into shreds.

"Give him to me!"

Jaws snapped open; the dog's head jerked up, looking back over its shoulder.

Long, golden hair, round face, huge, long-lashed eyes, impossibly full, ruby lips, long, tapering legs, swelling hips, and huge pillow-breasts - she advanced, smiling lazily.

But Matt didn't feel the slightest bit of sexual interest; he felt terror. He knew her; she'd filled his dreams, day and night, in earliest puberty. In his daydreams, she'd been very willing, extremely cooperative-after all, there hadn't teen that much asked. But at night ...

He plastered himself back against the yielding wall, sweat starting from his brow.

"Yes," she murmured sleepily, "this is a woman. Touching you here ...touching you here..."

Matt's scream turned into a shuddering gasp. Her touch was like pliers drawing hot wire, drawing it out of the depths of his body. Fire lanced him from knees up to chest.

"The pain is the preacher's," she breathed, "but - the lust is yours." Her face slipped up, and huge breasts descended, covering, enfolding his face, pressing down, cutting off sight and sound, isolating him, smothering. He fought for air, gasping, struggling; but nothing could move that huge, sodden weight ...

"Stand aside! Let me through!"

Bolster-weight rolled off him. Matt jerked up, gasping for breath...

A knight in full armor advanced, broadsword in hand. He glanced at the fertility symbol, then averted his eyes. "Clothe yourself! Do you not know the law?"

"Law!" Matt grasped at the straw. "Here? What law?"

"The law of your mind," the knight intoned sternly. "The law buried there, in the depths, the prudish ethic - that nothing unclothed can be good."

A friend, Matt thought, with a surge of hope. "Yes! Show me some clothes!"

"I am they." The knight clanked up closer, three feet away. Matt realized, with a shock, that the slits in the visor showed blackness only. "I am clothes, or what you saw clothing to be, only armor, only a shield. You ever went clothed, for you feared other people."

Matt realized that the voice was echoing hollowly, and the fear of the nameless surged though him as the broadsword lifted. "Defense mechanism," the knight boomed. "So you thought clothes to be, thought them armor; but you forgot what accompanies armor and shields." His own shield swept up. Five razor-edged knife blades were welded to it, pointing at Matt. "Your defense gave offense. Those who sought to touch you, befriend you, you pushed away with your shield-and, in pushing, gave wounds." The shield slammed out, stabbing through Matt's chest and stomach in five places. He tried to scream, but only burbling came through the blood in his throat.

The scene reeled about him-dog, knight, and fertility symbol, clothed now in a high, pointed cap with a gossamer veil hanging down to the back of her velvet gown.

The sword! Matt tried to twist away, but the knife-points held him in place. His mouth stretched wide in a burbling shriek as he watched the guillotine-edge swooping down, biting into his neck. Pain shot through him; the scene jolted, then reeled crazily about him. He felt his head turning and falling. Then he bounced, rolled, and looked up at his own headless body, held up by the shield, neck fountaining blood.

The knight leaned into his field of view, sword, dropping from his fingers, steel gauntlet reaching down at Matt's head. He felt himself lifted, saw the steel helmet zooming up as the left hand let go of the shield, letting the body crumple, to swing the visor up. "Look now at the truth of a soul that seeks to hide from all others," the voice boomed. And Matt felt himself jerked up to look down into the helmet. It was empty-hollow to the depths.

Matt's lips writhed back in a shriek, but no sound came.

How could a man of reason face the knowledge that all was illusion-and the corollary that reason forced upon him: that he, himself, did not exist?

Then a thought wafted through his mind like a life preserver. There was an answer that had saved the sanity of countless others. And the answer was - faith!

At the thought, a pencil-thin ray of light lanced down through the void, striking his ear and filling his head with a pure, bell-like tone that became words: Thou wast stolen here before thy true tame was come. Hell cannot hold thee, if thou dost call upon God.

"Cut off his lips!" the girl screamed as the beam of light winked out. The knight dropped his visor to catch up his sword.

But Matt's lips twitched into old Latin words:

And breath came where there were no lungs, hissing the words. Hell had bound the name of God from his tongue, but it had not locked out the word "Lord". His voice croaked and swelled:

The woman screamed, and the knight howled; then their voices faded into distance, their owners sinking into vastness, receding, shrinking down to pinpoints ...

And they were gone.

Matt was whole again, his head on his shoulders, skin intact and unblemished; but he shook, his whole body trembling. He shivered in the cold of the void. He stood, frozen and paralyzed. The hymn had banished illusions, but left him frozen forever in a lightless block, bereft of words.

But emotion was left; and his whole being surged up into one burning, silent, wordless plea, a pathetic, despairing cry for help. In the moment of extinction, the spirit wailed for its God.

And a pinpoint of infrared answered, a pinpoint growing into a dim, ruby glow of blessed light! Other small glows appeared near it. Their glowing grew, seeming too illuminate all of the darkness, to show him... Ashes, charred stick ends, and the embers of a campfire.

Feeble, pale light breathed a cold benediction throughout the dome overhead. Looking up, Matt saw stars and realized he lay on his back.

Lowering his eyes slowly, he made out dim shapes in the darkness. A cloaked mound with a sword lying near a steel hand was Sir Guy. Beyond it, in a shroud of brown riding-cloak, lay Alisande. Stegoman's huge bulk blotted out stars across the fire from Matt. And the still, homespun mound at the left was Sayeesa, her sobs quieted now.

A howl of rage came from the ground, muted by miles of earth, screeching, fading - so faint that it might have been a tag end of dream. Fading. Gone.

He was home.

Matt breathed a long, trembling breath, and his whole body went limp as his soul surged up in an instant, huge blast of thanksgiving.

Then he stiffened, eyes opened wide. For a second, he could have sworn he'd felt an answer, like a benign, gentle hand cupping his soul for an instant, then gone.

He sat up, shaking his head, frowning. Illusion! It had to be.

No, it didn't. Not here.

But it could have been, all of it. It could all have been a nightmare. Did it matter?

He pulled his knees up, wrapping his arms around his shins and resting his chin on his kneecaps. No, it didn't really matter; because, even if it had been a nightmare, it had shown him what he really believed, at the bottom of his soul. Call it conditioning or brainwashing, if you wanted; it still came down to the same thing - in the depths of his being, he believed in sin and Hell.

And if he believed in sin and Hell, then he believed in virtue and Heaven, too.

Here, anyway. He wasn't quite willing to accept the jurisdiction of medieval Christianity over his rational home universe - but here, the theories of the medieval theologians took on weight and substance and became facts. He was in Sir Guy's world now and he had to live by the rules of chivalry.

He felt a sudden ache for someone to talk to and looked about him. He rose carefully, picking his way quietly around the campfire and over to Stegoman. He sat down by the huge head, frowning, wondering; then he shrugged and reached out to tweak the giant nose.

The great head snapped up with a snort; claws scrabbled at the ground.

"No, no, it's only me," Matt murmured.

The head swung around toward him, eyes dulled with a film of sleep. They cleared, and the dragon scowled down at him. "There is a burden on thy soul."

Matt looked at the ground, tugging at his ear. "I'm sorry to wake you, but-"

"Nay." The low, quiet voice cut him off. "Thou hast need. Speak."

Matt looked up at the great head, trying to marshal his thoughts. "It's all real here, isn't it?"

Stegoman frowned. Then his face relaxed, and he nodded. "Aye, all - you, I, the knight, the witch, and the princess."

"And Hell," Matt said softly.

Again Stegoman nodded.

"Yes." Matt nodded, too. "I had a dream tonight. It makes me think I have a moral responsibility I wouldn't acknowledge before." He looked up. "Do you understand that?"

"Better than thou doss think." There was a slight smile on the yard of lips. " 'Moral' is, a word that deals with more than vice and actions."

"Yeah. Sort of the condition of one's soul, I guess. If you don't accept your own morals, you're trying to split yourself in half, each half living by a different set of rules. So you're not whole, not integral. You've lost your integrity."

"Strange word for it," the dragon rumbled. "I would have said that a man who is not true to himself is not wholly himself. Right is good and Wrong is evil. He who seeks to straddle the two betrays Right and chooses Wrong."

"Umm. And here, it seems, Right and Wrong are real."

"Never doubt it," Stegoman assured him.

Matt thought that over for a minute. Then he sighed. "Another thing - in my dream, everybody wore clothes from this universe, not from my own world. My subconscious peopled my dream with medieval illusions. That seems to show that I want to be in this universe. I guess my secret self always wanted to be a wizard in a medieval world. And if this is the world I chose, then somehow it makes me responsible for what goes on in it."

"Thou hast said it," the dragon agreed. "Tell me, dost thou still think to return to thine other world?"

Matt's lips tightened. "The idea has never been far from my mind."

"Let it be," Stegoman advised him. "Abandon all homeward thoughts, Matthew Mantrell."

"Yes," Matt agreed, so softly he could hardly hear himself. One last surge of homesickness ached within him. His apartment, his friends, the life he had led ... Then it faded to a dull ache. It would always be there; but most of the time, he'd be too busy to notice.

He shrugged it off and began describing his dream in rough outline to the dragon. "I never had a dream like that on my own, Stegoman. I could have sworn it was real. And I couldn't wake myself up - it never even occurred to me to try." He shook his head thoughtfully. "I think I had a little help on that dream."

"That most powerful wizard thou didst mention aforetime?"

"Yes. I think he sent me that dream to convince me that Evil really existed here."

"How couldst thou doubt it?" the dragon growled.

"Not hard. Not hard at all - at least, in my world."

"Then it may be that thou hast committed grievous sins. Thou must be freed of them, or thou dost imperil us all. Thou hast accepted the title of Lord Wizard from the princess. Be worthy of it!"

Matt sighed, coming to his feet. He leaned back, stretching. "I guess that means I'll have to get to confession - as soon as we come across a church."

"A priest will do," the dragon rumbled. "And do not wait for one to find thee. Seek thou him - and quickly!"

Matt nodded. "Thanks for listening. I think you've done me a lot of good."

"Thee, perhaps. Not thy soul." The hint of a smile touched the corners of Stegoman's lips. "I have done naught but listen, as any friend should do." He laid his head on his forelegs. "And now, good night."

"Good night, my friend," Matt answered softly. He stood a moment longer, watching as the dragon closed his eyes. Then he turned and made his way back to his pallet.

He lay down, tucking his robe about him for as much warmth as possible. Have to do something about that in the morning. Maybe a long, blue robe, embroidered with schematics ... No, it would hamper his legs, and his life was likely to be pretty active for a while. He really needed clothing more suited to this world, though. Maybe just a doublet and hose, nothing elaborate, crimson and gold would do...

Vanity, said the monitor at the back of his mind, and Matt winced. Vanity was a vice, and he had to abstain from as many vices as possible, unpleasant as that might be.

And, of course, get to confession. Tomorrow. Or possibly next week ...

But Stegoman wasn't quite so sympathetic when Matt tried to explain the delay the next day.

"Thou dost fear the priest," the dragon growled. "Is there so much vice left in thee still?"

"Now, hold on! Why should I be afraid of just listing my sins to a guy I can't even see? It's just not fair to them!" Matt waved a hand toward Alisande, fifty feet ahead, and Sir Guy, much closer. Sayeesa rode between them, bound to Sir Guy's saddle, hands tied to the pommel. But the saddle was on a small, shaggy mare, like the one the princess rode; Sir Guy rode his charger bareback.

Strange about those mares. Matt had been willing to magic up transportation, but Sir Guy had grinned and walked out into the open plain, whistling a weird sort of melody that seemed to slide around definite pitches, never quite hitting the orthodox ones. The two little mares had come trotting up out of a screen of bushes, their eyes rolling fearfully, but coming nonetheless, to tuck their noses under Sir Guy's palms and nuzzle at his armor. They'd seemed a bit skittish about having the girls on their backs; but Sir Guy had stroked their necks, murmuring to them the while, and they'd calmed. Matt had begun to suspect the Black Knight of some magical Gift of his own, till he'd remembered that Sir Guy was a knight, a chevalier in French; literally, a horseman. Even the word chivalry came from the French cheval, which meant "horse." Apparently there was a bond between horses and horsemen in this world; and the knights, being the best of the horsemen, had the most power over the horses. Which didn't explain why Matt was still riding a dragon-but he wasn't about to argue.

Unfortunately, Stegoman was.

"Look," Matt tried to sound reasonable. "To find a church, we'd have to leave the line of march. We could lose a whole day, maybe more. I can't expect the others to go out of their way that much, just because I want to natter with a priest."

"Scouring thy soul is something more than a nattering," the dragon growled, "and thy companions know its importance."

"Oh, come on! It can't be that important!"

"Canst thou?" the dragon snapped.

Matt frowned down at him. "What's eating you, anyway?"

"My tooth," Stegoman snapped. "And do not speak to me of tearing it out from my body. It may rot in my jaw; I'll not be parted from it."

"Okay, okay! It's your agony." Matt sighed, leaning back. "After all, who am I to talk? I feel the same way about confession."

He clamped his mouth shut, shocked at what it had said; but Stegoman turned his head back, fixing Matt with a beady eye for a moment. Then he turned away again, gazing forward. "Thou hast spoken the truth to thyself. Wilt thou not now speak to the princess?

"About what?" Matt said, tight-lipped. "Calling off her war for a day, so I can find a box with a priest in it? Come on! I can't be that important!"

"The hypothetical wizard who sent thee thy nightmare thought thee so. Or the minions of Hell did, when they came to take thee."

Matt shook his head obstinately. "No. I can't buy that. It had to be a nightmare; a trip to Hell is a little too exorbitant. Why should I be important enough to rate such attention?"

"Thou art so important. What hast thou already done, without true dedication to the Good? Thou hast rescued the princess from prison and assembled protectors to aid her; thou hast buried a foul witch in the earth; and thou hast broken the spells of a lust-witch. Four times hast thou weakened Evil; three times hast thou strengthened Good. Both were balanced at loggerheads ere thy coming, a balance which thou hast already disrupted. In this coil come upon us, thou must needs be central."

A chill wind fanned Matt's back. "I definitely don't like the sound of that."

"Wherefore? Hath it too much of truth in it? Accept it, Wizard; for thou hast not overlong to accustom thyself. This coil's been eight hundred years in the making; it will not await thy convenience."

"Eight hundred years! What are you talking about? Malingo and Astaulf came into power less than a year ago!"

"That," the dragon said acidly, "is but the latest chapter in a rather long book. I have told thee how, eight hundred years agone, great Reme fell, and how chaos followed."

"And how Saint Moncaire eventually got sick of the mess and talked King Hardishane into taking over the continent, yes."

"Aye, because Hardishane had conquered the northern Isle of Doctors and Saints and was king by birth of a nation of Sea-Robbers; and was also, haply, heir to the greater part of Merovence, through his mother."

"Oh." Matt pursed his lips. "No, you left out those little details."

"Did I so? Well, 'tis no marvel; any hatchling would know it ... For the taking of Merovence and her neighbors, Hardishane assembled a company of knights of greater glory than the world ever had seen, the Knights of the Mountain. They and the giant Colmain were his spearhead and Moncaire his fortress. Hardishane ruled from the far North, the Isles and the Sea-Robbers' lands, to the Central Sea's shore; and west to the coast of Ibile, east to the farther border of Allustria."

Matt sighed and rolled his eyes up. "So what does that have to do with the current world crisis?"

"That is my tale."

Matt looked up, startled, to see Sir Guy riding at his elbow. The Black Knight had dropped back to join the conversation.

"You're the resident expert on Hardishane's reign, huh?"

"And its sequel." Sir Guy nodded. "This tale concerns men more than dragons, Lord Wizard."

"Sequel?" Matt frowned. "All right - I'll bite. What was the end of Hardishane's story?"

"Why, he died." Sir Guy had his usual slight smile, but his eyes glittered. "He died, and Saint Moncaire entombed him in a cavern, hidden from all mortal knowledge; and as his knights, one by one, followed him into death, Saint Moncaire brought them there, also. The Saint himself died last, and none knows where his body went; for they laid it out in the church, to keep vigil over; but the knights who did guard it fell all at once into slumber. When they waked in the morning, the Saint's body was gone. Then the word ran 'mongst all the people, that Moncaire had gone to join Hardishane and his knights in their cave in the mountain."

"Let me guess." Matt held up a palm. "They're not really dead, nor really alive either, just sort of sleeping in a living death: Right?"

Sir Guy nodded. "Thou hast heard the tale?"

"Well, the plot, anyway. And when Merovence is really in trouble, up against an enemy it can't possibly beat, Hardishane and his knights will waken to save it. Right?"

"In a manner," Sir Guy said slowly. "Yet 'tis not Merovence alone; 'tis all of the Northern Lands; and the Emperor will not waken again till they must all succumb to Evil, or be joined again into Empire."

"Oh." Matt's eyebrows lifted. "That drastic, huh? It'll be either chaos or total system, anarchy or Empire? No middle ground?"

"None. We live now in the middle ground, Lord Wizard. Ibile, in the West, and Allustria, in the East, have fallen to sin and the rule of Evil; but Merovence stands in the gap not yet fallen; and I think it shall not fall in our time."

"Who're you? Chamberlain?"

Sir Guy looked up, startled, almost shocked, and Matt wondered what nerve he'd hit. But Sir Guy recovered, shaking his head. "I am what you see, am I not? A companion to your self and the princess, to restore her to the throne. And I think we shall win. The Emperor may sleep a while yet."

Matt let his eyes stray to Alisande, frowning, lips pursed. "What happened after Hardishane died?"

"Oh, his heirs governed wisely and well; and none sought to rebel against them, for the deathless giant, Colmain, stood there to aid Hardishane's line; nor was there ever a doubt as to who was the true Emperor, for Colmain knew it of a certainty and would kneel only to the eldest of Hardishane's line."

Better than a polygraph. "With a setup like that, how could the Empire fall?"

"For want of an heir. The blood grows weak in the deepness of time and, after five hundred years, the last of Hardishane's line fell to death - though there were rumors.. ."

"Of a child who grew up in a provincial knight's household?"

"Aye, an obscure and unknown knight; none could say who. The child was of the female line, descended from Hardishane's daughter, not from his son; but withal, of Hardishane's blood. And there were rumors, too, of a child reared by peasants. He was of the blood royal, and the male line, too, though of a cadet branch. Yet he was never found, and Colmain would obey no man, but roamed through the land, constantly seeking a man or woman of Hardishane's blood."

Matt had a vision of at least forty feet of blood and bone, ploughing through fields and villages like an unprogrammed robot. "Would I be right in guessing that the country wasn't exactly in fine shape?"

"You would. 'Twas anarchy, in sum-every man's hand was turned against his neighbor. The barons ran riot through the land, each seeking to enlarge his own estates. Ibile and Allustria fell to rules of men that had no scruples and precious little good within them."

"And a fair amount of evil?"

"Aye, though - neither was wholly a tool of Hell. But he who sought to conquer Merovence was such a tool. He was a sorcerer, one Dimethtus, who rose in the West. He bound up a corps of lesser sorcerers and one small army; and with these and much fell magic, he defeated baron after baron; and county by county, the land fell to his rule. Then at last Colmain discovered a king..."

"How much time are we talking about?"

"Some fifteen years. The hidden child had grown to a youth on the verge of manhood, and his name was Kaprin. He was of the line of Hardishane's daughter. Colmain came upon him at a castle in the eastern mountains and knew him straight away. He knelt to the boy, and Kaprin knew all at once who he truly was and what was demanded of him. He commanded the giant to destroy the evil sorcerer. Then Colmain rose up and summoned the creatures who live by stone. Gnomes and dwarves obeyed his summons-yes, even trolls; and with this army and King Kaprin; he marched out against Dimethtus. Men of good heart rallied to King Kaprin's standard, and his army grew with every mile it marched. Then to him came another youth, a scholar from the Northern Isles, a doctor of the Arts, one Conor."

"A saint?" Matt inquired.

"Aye, as the fullness of time showed; but then they knew him only for a most powerful wizard."

"Yes," Matt said slowly, "there would have to be a wizard in there, if they were going up against a sorcerer."

Sir Guy nodded. "Heaven preserves the balance, Lord Wizard-always and ever."

A cold breath fanned Matt's spine and neck. "I do hope you're not trying to tell me I'm supposed to be playing Conor to Malingo's Dimethtus."

The amusement deepened briefly in Sir Guy's eyes; but he ignored the interruption. "The greater part of eastern Merovence quickly swore allegiance to King Kaprin; and he, with Conor's backing and Colmain's arm, marched west, to meet Dimethtus. They met with a clash of arms and howls of war; but Conor countered all Dimethtus's spells; and Kaprin, with the giant Colmain, sent the sorcerer's armies into flight. Thus did Dimethtus begin to believe the old maxim, which says that none can stand against a rightful king."

"He began to believe?"

"Oh, aye. None who hold strong opinions can be quickly swayed. He rallied up his forces and turned to battle Kaprin once again, and again, he lost and fled and rallied; he turned to battle and once more lost and fled and rallied. Thus it went, with Kaprin and his armies marching west, fighting for each mile of ground. At last the sorcerer was caught deep in the western mountains. There Dimethtus turned at bay, to wage a last death-or-victory battle 'gainst King Kaprin."

Sir Guy sighed, flinging his head back. "Great was that battle. Countless deeds of valor did King Kaprin and his knights enact. But in the hour of victory, Dimethtus's spell struck home past Conor's ward and changed the giant Colmain into stone. Yet in the doing, Dimethtus neglected to guard 'gainst Conor, and the wizard froze him in a timeless moment, while Kaprin led his armies raging through Dimethtus's host. At sunset, Kaprin held the field, with all his foemen slain or captured. Only then did Conor loose Dimethtus, and the sorcerer looked upon the field, knew his fate, and pleaded for salvation. Upon the word, demons thronged to claim his soul by his blood-contract. But Saint Conor held them all at bay, while a country priest hearkened to the long and foul tally of a sorcerer's sins. When he pronounced the words of absolution, the demons howled in despair and rage, retreating. Then Kaprin and his men could hang Dimethtus."

"You ... don't say." Matt felt a little dazed. "A ... very interesting story, Sir Guy, but ... what's it got to do with us?"

"Why, our princess." Sir Guy's eyes glittered.

"You don't mean she ... ?" Matt swallowed, turning to look at Alisande, then back to Sir Guy. "Well, well! King Kaprin's dynasty lasted a long time, eh?"

"Three hundred years, or nearly. Our princess's father was---"

"Ho-o-o!"

Their heads snapped around toward the princess' voice.

Alisande had reined in, one hand flung up to signal a halt. Then she beckoned to them, eyes still fixed straight ahead.

Sir Guy touched his heels to his horse's flanks, and the great beast leaped out in a gallop. Stegoman lumbered into a run.

They pulled up next to Alisande, who was pointing ahead, her mouth a thin, hard line. "Behold the fruit of evil kings!"

Matt looked - and saw charred ruins.

It might have been a village, once - maybe only last week. But now it was a jumble of charcoal timber ends, sticking up from ash heaps.

"It is even as she says," Sir Guy said softly. "This is the result of Astaulf's rule. The King is the symbol of the nation; he stands for all the people."

Matt knew the power of symbols in this universe. He nodded. "So whatever the King does, the people do."

Alisande nodded, thunder in her face. "He gained this land by theft; now many of my people live by theft."

"There has been much brigandage this last year," Sir Guy explained, as Matt stared at a blackened roof beam standing out from the rubble. "Troops of bandits roam the land. If the village will not pay tribute in food, gold, and virgins, the bandits howl through the houses like an evil wind, ripping plank from timber, stone from stone, and burning all to ashes."

Matt tried not to look directly at the low, charred, twisted mounds that lay here and there among the embers. It didn't help; he knew they were corpses.

Then something caught the corner of Matt's eye. "Stegoman, off to the left, there ... Let's see it a little closer."

"Wherefore?" the dragon growled; but he waddled forward.

Alisande and Sir Guy looked up, startled. Then they nudged their horses to a walk, following, towing Sayeesa along behind. "What do you seek, Wizard?" the princess demanded.

Matt pointed for an answer.

It poked up out of the rubble - a burned and broken building, but still standing, twice the size of a peasant's hut.

"The church," Sir Guy murmured.

"How come it's still there?"

"The power it served protected it somewhat, Lord Wizard. This was consecrated ground."

Somewhat was right. The walls still stood, but they bore an outer layer of char, and half the roof was gone. The empty windows stared in reproach.

But, desolate as it was, it waked Matt's conscience to uneasy pricking. He had resolved to confess his sins at the first church he found, or to the first priest. Okay, here was the church - but the priest was gone, if he was lucky; crisped, if he wasn't. Of course, if the bandits hadn't hit ...

Matt stiffened, eyes widening. "How long ago would you say the raiders hit?"

The knight pursed his lips. "There's still some warmth ... A day or two, or more. Wherefore?"

"Could it be..." Matt felt his stomach sink. "You don't suppose they could have done this to celebrate our arrival, do you? Or mine, I should say. If Malingo peeked into the future right after we escaped, he could have seen that I just might be passing this way - if I got this far, that is - and that I might be looking for a priest..."

Sir Guy's breath hissed in between his teeth, and Alisande grated, "Aye, most certainly. You have the right of it, Lord Wizard. This is the sorcerer's work."

Matt glowered at the building, feeling the anger and resentment grow. Okay, they'd headed him off - but he could still make the gesture of defiance! He swung his leg over Stegoman's neck and jumped down.

"What dost thou intend?" But from the tone of her voice, Alisande had guessed. "There can be naught within! And the roof could fall, the floorboards crumble! I prithee, Lord Wizard, abandon this folly!"

"Aye, abandon it!" Sayeesa sounded downright scared. "I feel strange forces lowering near that I like not!"

Matt could feel it, too, now that she mentioned it - just barely tingling. It felt like a snowbank ready to fall, a dragnet ready to tighten, just needing a pull on the string. But something tugged at him from the church, and suddenly he was certain that going in was right. "Just a quick look." He started walking.

"Thou hast no need!" Alisande cried.

But Sir Guy held up a gauntlet. "Let be, your Highness. What he must do, let him do."

Matt steped up to the church, kicking chunks of burned timber out of the way. He set a foot on the rough-hewn charcoal that had been a doorstep and leaned his weight on it tentatively, then all the way. It held, and he stepped through the broken bits of door that still hung twisted on the frame and set foot on the church floor, carefully, until he realized it wasn't burned.

Nothing was, inside. The interior of the church was in amazingly good shape, though the roof over the sanctuary was gone. The sunlight streaming in over the altar lent an air of sanctity to the whitewashed walls and rough-hewn pews. Even the confessional stood intact, scarcely more than a wide, upright box with a partition down the middle, its near side curtained; but the homespun curtains weren't even crisped.

Matt looked about him, skin crawling at the nape of his neck. There wasn't a bit of char or fleck of ash to be seen anywhere, and the feel of magic forces was growing stronger, tingling along the strings of his neurons. His muscles tightened, readying for trouble. This wasn't just amazing - it was impossible.

"What seek ye, goodman?"

Matt whirled about, grabbing at his sword hilt.

A friar stood before him, old and bent, in a brown, cowled robe with a white rope for a belt. His hair and close-trimmed beard were white, and he'd once been tall. But he still looked solid, even stocky, and his complexion was ruddy. His eyes were bright, and his voice was deep and resonant. "'Tis not the custom to bring arms within a church, Sir Knight."

"Yeah, well, I'm not a knight." But most of Matt's brain was trying to add up oddball factors. The old man looked normal enough, but there was something about him ... His habit was totally clean, and he looked remarkably cheerful for a priest whose parish had just been wiped out. But there was something else ...

"What seek you in this church?" the friar inquired gently.

Go, something within him urged. Here lies danger.

Matt steeled himself against it. He saw no evil here, only great serenity. And there might be something strange about this strong ancient, but Matt was somehow sure he was a priest and a good man. "My soul is heavy, Father. I must confess."

"Ah." The friar raised his head - that explained everything. He turned away to his confessional, nodding. "Come, then. Speak your sins, and I will hear."

He disappeared behind the homespun curtain at the left-hand side, and Matt's stomach churned as every gland within him urged, Away! He tightened his jaw and stepped firmly into the confessional.

He knelt and slowly, very slowly, made the Sign of the Cross. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been..."

His mouth dried up, tongue cleaving to his hard palate. The words wouldn't come.

"Yes?" the firm old voice urged gently; from the other side of the lattice. "How long since you've been here, my son?"

The question loosed Matt's tongue. "Four years." He swallowed, bending his head, and shifted into overdrive. "I've missed my Easter duty four times, skipped Mass 208 times, mocked my father six times..."

He worked his way through the Commandments, going so fast he could hardly make sense of it himself. Somehow, the sins kept coming to his mind, with a relentlessness that dumfounded him. It almost seemed that something was surrounding him, pushing the tale of his minor iniquities out of his soul like paste from a tube. He couldn't stop until, at last, he found that he'd run dry.

"FortheseandallthesinsthatIcannotremember, Iamverysorry!" he blurted, and collapsed over his white-knuckled hands with a sigh: of relief.

"And there is nothing more?" the friar prodded.

Matt went rigid. He'd forgotten about Sayeesa! ""Uhhh ... Well, you see, Father, it was this way ...

He went on, running through the whole story, until he finally finished with the collapse of the palace. He sagged against the woodwork, breathing deeply.

"And?"

Matt stiffened. Was the old priest a mind reader? He sighed and leaned forward, elbows on the ledge. "All right, Father. After that, the princess and I got into a bit of an argument, and the end of it was that I got up on my high horse and denied the existence of Good, Evil, God, Satan, and sin. And that's it."

"What then changed your mind, that you came here?"

Oh, this guy was good.

He was really good. Matt took a deep breath. "Okay, Father. Let me tell you about this dream I had..

He gave the friar a shortened version, emphasizing the despair, which was a sin, and his illusions, which couldn't exactly be said to be wholesome. When he finished, he waited in apprehension.

But the old friar murmured, "You were fortunate indeed to have a sponsor from the host of Good."

Matt nodded. "Yeah. I've heard that dreams can kill."

"You were dead already." The old man's tone sharpened. "Be sure! You were in Hell. Which was, most surely, penance..." The old man sighed. "But not earthly penance. For your sins, say five rosaries..."

It went on from there, and it went on for a while. Matt absorbed it all, amazed at the devaluation of sin since the Middle Ages.

"And ten Glorias," the old man finished.

"Thank you, Father." Matt started to get up.

"And one thing more."

Matt froze. Here came the goodie!

"For your latter sins," the friar mused, "I charge you with a mission."

"Uh, well, I'm kinda busy just now..."

"'Tis in your path, for your party must needs travel west. This witch, Sayeesa, must go to a certain place, there to atone for her multitude of sins. I charge you with safekeeping of this broken witch, till she comes to her destination."

Matt swallowed. "Anything you say, Father."

"Then go your way, and try to sin no more. In Nomine Patri, et Filio..."

Matt came out of the booth, shaken but resolute. He turned toward the door...

"A moment, my son."

Matt froze. When would he learn to move fast?

He turned slowly. "Uh, you had a postscript, Father?"

The old priest stood in front of the curtain, nodding. "Bring me the witch."

Matt stared.

Then he cleared his throat and said, "Uh, Father-are you sure? I mean, a witch.. ."

"Her power is broken, and you tell me her conscience now troubles her, so much so that she would destroy herself. She is in despair, one of the most insidious of sins. Bring her to me."

"I, uh, don't think she'll be exactly willing.. .

"Did I ask, if she was?" For a humble friar, he had a very commanding, penetrating stare. "Bring her to me."

Matt swallowed and turned away. "Well ... okay. You know what you're doing ... I guess."

Behind him, he heard the whisper of sandaled feet as the friar crossed to the center aisle and strode down toward the altar. In the doorway, Matt glanced back, doubtful, and saw the old man kneeling at the communion rail, head bowed, before the tabernacle. Sunlight struck down through the ruined roof, and a shimmering glow seemed to envelop him, a sort of aura...

Matt turned away, giving his head a quick shake. It must be his imagination. It had been overstimulated recently, no doubt about it.

Alisande stood by her horse, holding its improvised halter, looking worried. She saw Matt and quickly looked angry. "You were in the church overlong, Wizard."

"Sorry." Matt gave her a sickly grin. "Four years of sins take a little time."

"Four years ... ?" Sir Guy's ,eyebrows lifted. "Come, Lord Matthew! Do you mean to say there was a priest in there?"

"Still is." Matt took a deep breath, shaking his head. "Don't ask me how or why - but he's there, all right. And..." He nodded toward Sayeesa. "He wants her."

"Wants ... ?" Sayeesa stared, thunderstruck. "Come, sir - you jest! I, go near a priest? I, a witch? How would I dare?"

"What you would, or wouldn't, doesn't make any difference, apparently." Matt yanked a dagger from Sir Guy's belt and went to Sayeesa's horse. "Hold still, now - I'd rather not see blood for a while."

"But you cannot mean it! Why, I'd ... Aieee!"

"I told you to hold still!" Matt sawed at the knot holding her hands to the saddle horn; the rope parted. He caught her wrists in one hand while he whittled at the rope binding her feet. "You still don't get the message. "You-are-going-to that priest!"

"You can't take me there against my will! What use is a churching, if it's forced? Nay! Leave me be!" She began to twist and thrash her arms. Matt hung onto her wrists for dear life. "Sir Guy! A little help, here!"

Frowning, the Black Knight came slowly over, caught Sayeesa's waist, and dragged her from her horse. She screamed, kicking and writhing. "Nay! You'll not hale me there! I will not!"

"Willing or not, you're going. There's something about this old friar that doesn't brook argument. Come on, lady!" Matt dropped the dagger and flung both arms around her.

"Stand away!" Alisande's face was dark with fury. "Take your hands from her, Lord Wizard. I command you!"

"Glad to comply," Matt ground out, "after she's inside. Let's go, Sir Guy!"

Sayeesa looked from Matt to Sir Guy as they hustled her toward the chapel. "But you are mad! You both have taken leave of your senses! I'll defile that church by my mere presence! Will you take a witch into a church? Bethink you of..." She broke off with a horrified gasp, staring at the inside of the church.

The old friar stood just inside the door, head bowed and shoulders hunched, staring gravely into her eyes.

Sayeesa screamed, and her whole body bucked in a frenzy of anger and terror. Her scream had words, but Matt preferred not to think about their meaning. He just hung on to the wildly whipping body for all he was worth and tried to ignore the feeling of unseen forces thundering in.

The friar's stern old face darkened, grave and somber. He drew a small, round, silver case from the breast of his robe. He opened it and held it up before Sayeesa's eyes.

It was the Host, the consecretated wafer of Communion.

Sayeesa went rigid, her breath rattling in, eyes bulging. Then she gave a hoarse and shrieking wail and went into convulsions.

Matt hung on grimly; so did Sir Guy. Matt felt two unseen wave fronts slam together, one straining towards the church, one away from it, crashing into one another at Sayeesa's body. She tossed and jerked wildly, whipped back and forth by colliding forces.

Matt became aware of another tone underneath her screaming, a strong and steady drone-the friar's voice, chanting Latin. It was beyond the liturgical Latin Matt had picked up at boyhood Masses, and it was taking on a strong and heavy beat. It grew louder and more rhythmic as Sayeesa'a screams weakened, and Matt realized her body had begun to twist in time to the old man's meter. The forces about them were tightening, but pressing against one another to a deadlock, without movement.

The friar's chant thundered to a peak as he thrust the Host up high, looking up toward it, toward Heaven - and Sayeesa screamed, a long, drawn-out shriek, agony from the depths of soul and body, both. Then her voice cut off, and she fell completely limp. The walls of force were gone.

Perspiring and trembling, the old friar slowly closed the viaticum, hiding the Host from sight, and slid it back inside his robe. He turned to Matt, nodding toward the interior of the church. "Bring her in."

Sir Guy swung Sayeesa's arm up over his shoulder and stepped forward; but the priest held up a hand. "Nay. The wizard only."

Sir Guy looked up, startled. Then, slowly, he stepped back, letting go of Sayeesa.

Matt caught the unconscious body, swung an arm under her knees, and hefted her up, staggering. He carried her into the church, slowly and carefully, wondering how such a slender woman could weigh so heavily.

"Lay her down," the friar commanded.

Slowly, Matt knelt, laying Sayeesa gently on the floor.

"Step back." The priest's voice was gentle again. Matt stood and stepped away. The old man knelt beside Sayeesa and began to pat her cheek, murmuring softly, in too low a tone for Matt to hear. The woman stirred, and her lashes fluttered. She looked up, frowning against pain. The friar laid his hand against her brow, still murmuring, and her face relaxed. Slowly, she sat up, looking about her, dazed.

"You are in a church, my daughter," the old man said gravely. "Come." He tucked an arm under her shoulder, turning her toward the confessional. Her eyes widened; then, slowly, she nodded and came to her feet, supported by his arm. The old friar conducted her into the right-hand side of the booth, then looked up at Matt as he lifted the curtain on his own side. "Await her coming. To pass the time - you might say your penance." And he disappeared into the confessional.

Matt had time for most of it - he had a long wait, with a constant, faltering, alto murmuring from the right-hand side of the confessional, occasionally interrupted by a basso from the left.

Finally, the right-hand side quit, and the left-hand started in. It went on for a while, too. Then, at last, both voices stilled, and Sayeesa stepped out, drawn, pale, and shaken - but resolute. She moved past Matt without a glance, hands clasped at her breast, lips a thin, straight thread, and turned down the central aisle, gliding with bowed head to kneel in front of the tabernacle. Matt stared, disconcerted. There was something about her, some sense of presence, dignity, that hadn't been there before.

"Guard her well."

Matt looked up, startled, at the old friar.

"Be mindful of your word, Sir Wizard," the old man reminded him. "Keep her safely till she comes to the place I have sent her. Beware of threats to her - and to yourself."

"Uh, thanks for your concern, Father ... but I can't help thinking you're making a big deal out of a small one."

"Such thoughts trip the unwary, Wizard. You and she both have further parts in this fell pageant." The old man smiled quizzically. "Great deeds are due in this poor land, as Powers clash, and you and this former witch may do them. Your places are greater than you know."

That was not exactly a soothing thought. "Oh, I wouldn't say that, Father. My natural native modesty, no doubt, but--"

"Your native gift for seeing only what you wish, rather." The old man's smile was stern, but also amused. "Bear my words ever in your mind; and swear now to me that you'll guard her, till she's come to her own place."

Matt swore.

"Enough - and good." The priest nodded, smiling again. "And I'll trust you, for I believe you to be a man of honor, despite what you may think. Now here's your charge."

Matt looked up, startled, to see Sayeesa coming down the aisle "Done with her penance? So soon?"

"Her words of prayer were but a prelude," the old man said sternly. "She must atone with her whole life. Escort her now, for she is weakened."

Matt stepped over beside the ex-witch, offering his arm. She glanced up at him, then away, and lifted her head, straightening her shouders. She looked so pale and shaken that Matt could have sworn she was ready to drop; but she made it out the church door and into the sunlight without taking his arm. Matt shook his head in wonder; he turned to thank the old priest...

And saw the interior of the church devastated, with charred and fallen roof beams slanting down to the floor, thrusting into a heap of ash and rubble.

He stared a moment, transfixed; then he let out a shout, and Sir Guy and Alisande were at his side. "What is it, what? What have you seen?"

Matt pointed, backing away from the church. The knight and princess looked in through the church door. Alisande went white as a coronation robe. Sir Guy stepped forward, setting one steel foot inside. The floor groaned and cracked beneath his weight, and he stepped back quickly, looking at either side; wide-eyed and pale. Neither said a word; they just went straight to their horses.

"Hey!" Matt called out. "Hold on!" He ran after them and caught hold of Sir Guy's bridle as the knight mounted his horse. "Come on! What's going on? Who was that man?"

"I think you'd best not ask." Sir Guy pulled on the reins, turning his horse's head to the west. "I shall not, for my part. But I think, friend Matthew, that we have a friend where we do need one most."

He turned away without a further word, riding slowly down the village street toward the west. Alisande and Sayeesa fell in behind him.

"Mount, Lord Wizard," Stegoman rumbled at his elbow. "Do you not wish to stay near your companions?"

"Huh ... ? Oh, yeah!" Matt turned, setting a foot on Stegoman's knee, swinging the other up to the shoulder, then over between two great fins.

"Why dost thou seem so confounded?" the dragon rumbled as he waddled off after the horses. "Why question what has happened? Accept and be thankful."

"No," Matt said slowly, "I'm not built that way. I have to have an answer." He passed a feverish tongue over suddenly dry lips. "But I think I'm going to have to be content with the part of an answer I've got."

"What answer is that?"

"Somebody down here," Matt said, "likes us."