Secular Wizard

Prologue

The tall roan stallion looked up and nickered. The other horses crowded to the doors of their stalls to watch Accerese the groom as he came into the barn with the bag of oats over his shoulder. A smile banished his moroseness for a few minutes. “Well! At least someone’s glad to see me!” He poured a measure of grain into the trough on the stallion’s door. “At least you eat well, my friends!” He moved on down the line, pouring grain into each manger. “And well-dressed you are, too, not like we who-”

Accerese bit his tongue, remembering that the king or his sorcerers might hear anything, anywhere. “Well, we all have our work to do in this world-though some of us have far less than-” Again he bit his tongue-but on his way out of the third stall he paused to trace the raw red line on the horse’s flank with his finger. “Then again, when you do work, your tasks are even more painful than mine, eh? No, my friends, forgive my complaining.” He opened the door to the fourth stall. “But you, Fandalpi, you are-” He stopped, puzzled. Fandalpi was crowded against the back wall, nostrils flared, the whites showing all around its eyes. “Nay, my friend, what-”

Then Accerese saw the body lying on the floor. He stood frozen in shock for a few minutes, his eyes as wide and white as the horse’s. Then he whirled to the door, panic mov­ing his heels-until he froze with a new fear. Whether he fled or not, he was a dead man-but he might live longer if he reported the death as he should. Galtese the steward’s man would testify that Accerese had taken his load of grain only a few minutes before-so there was always the chance that no one would blame him for the prince’s death. But his stomach felt hollow with fear as he hurried back across the courtyard to the guardroom. There was a chance, yes, but when the corpse was that of the heir apparent, it was a very slim chance indeed. King Maledicto tore his hair, howling in rage. “What cursed fiend has rent my son!?”

But everyone could see that this was not the work of a fiend, or any other of Hell’s minions. The body was not burned or de­filed; the prince’s devotion to God had won him that much protec­tion, at least. The only sign of the Satanic was the obscene carving on the handle of the knife that stuck out of his chest-but every one of the king’s sorcerers had such a knife, and many of the guards besides. Anybody could have stolen one, though not easily. “Foolish boy!” the king bellowed at the corpse. “Did you think your Lord would save you from Hell’s blade? See what all your praying has won you! See what your hymn-singing and charities and forgiveness have brought you! Who will inherit my kingdom now? Who will rule, if I should die? Nay, I’ll be a thousand times more wicked yet! The Devil will keep me alive, if only to bring misery and despair upon this Earth!”

Accerese quaked in his sandals, knowing who was the most likely candidate for despair. He reflected ruefully that no matter how the king had stormed and threatened his son to try to make him forsake his pious ways, the prince had been his assurance that the Devil would make him live-for only if the old king lived could the kingdom of Latruria be held against the wave of goodness that would have flowed from Prince Casudo’s charity. “What do I have left now?” the old king ranted. “Only a single grandson, a puling boy, not even a stripling; a child, an infant! Nay, I must rear him well and wisely in the worship of Satan, or this land will fall to the rule of Virtue!”

What he didn’t dare say, of course, was that if his demonic master knew he was raising little Prince Boncorro any other way, the Devil would rack the king with tortures that Accerese could only imagine-but imagine he did; he shuddered at the very thought. “Fool! Coward! Milksop!” the king raged, and went on and on, ranting and raving at the poor dead body as if by sheer rage he could force it to obey and come alive again. Finally, though, Accerese caught an undertone to the tirade that he thought impos­sible, then realized was really there: The king was afraid! At that, Accerese’s nerve broke. Whatever was bad enough to scare a king who had been a lifelong sorcerer, devoted to Evil and towickedness that was only whispered abroad, never spoken openly-whatever was so horrible as to scare such a king could blast the mind of a poor man who strove to be honest and live rightly in the midst of the cruelty and treachery of a royal court devoted to Evil! Slowly, ever so slowly, Accerese began to edge toward the stable door. No one saw, for everyone was watching the king, pressing away from his royal wrath as much as they dared. Even Chancellor Rebozo cowered, he who had endured King Maledicto’s whims and rages for fifty years.

No one noticed the poor humble groom edge his way out of the door, no one noticed him turn away and pace quickly to the postern gate, no one saw him leap into the water and swim the moat, for even the sentries on the wall were watching the stables with fear and apprehension. But one did notice his swimming-one of the monsters who lived in the moat. A huge scaly bulge broke the surface, oily waters sliding off it; eyes the size of helmets opening, gaze flick­ing here and there until they saw the churning figure. Then the bulge began to move, faster and faster, a V-shaped wake pointing toward the fleeing man. Accerese did not even look behind to see if it was coming; he knew it would, knew also that, fearsome as the monster was, he was terrified more of the king and his master. The bulge swelled as it came up behind the man. Accerese could hear the wash of breaking waters and redoubled his efforts with a last frantic burst of thrashing. The shoreline came closer, closer… But the huge bulge came closer, too, splitting apart to show huge dripping yellow fangs in a maw as dark as midnight. Accerese’s flailing foot struck mud; he threw himself onto the bank and rolled away just as saw-edged teeth clashed shut behind him. He rolled again and again, heart beating loud in his ears, aching to scream but daring not, because of the sentries on the walls. Finally he pushed himself up to his feet and saw the moat, twenty feet behind him, and two huge baleful eyes glaring at him over its brim. Accerese breathed a shuddering gasp of relief, and a prayer of thanks surged upward within him-but he caught it in time, held it back from forming into words, lest the Devil hear him and know he was fleeing. He turned away, scrambling over the brow of the hill and down the talus slope, hoping that God had heard his unvoiced prayer, but that the Hell spawn had not. Heaven preserved him, or perhaps simply good luck, for he reached the base of the plain and raced toward the cover of the woods. Just as Accerese came in under the trees, King Maledicto fi­nally ran out of venom and stood trembling over the corpse of his son, tears of frustration in his eyes. Yes, surely they must have been of frustration. Then, slowly, he turned to his chancellor. “Find the murderer, Rebozo.”

“But Majesty!” Rebozo shrank away. “It might be a demon out of Hell…”

“Would a demon use a knife, fool?” Maledicto roared. “Would a demon leave the body whole? Aye, whole and undefiled? Nay! It is a mortal man you seek, no spawn of Hell! Find him, seek him! Bring the groom who found my son, question him over what he saw!”

“Surely, Majesty!” Rebozo bent in a quick servile bow and turned away. “Let the groom stand forth!”

Everyone was silent, staring about them, wide-eyed. “He was here, against the stall door…” a guardsman ventured. “And you let him flee? Fool! Idiot!” Maledicto roared. He whirled to the other soldiers, pointing at the one who had spoken. “Cut off his head! Not later, now”

The other guardsmen glanced at their mate, taken aback, hesitant. “Will no one obey?” Maledicto bellowed. “Does my weak-kneed son still slacken your loyalty, even in his death? Here, give me!”

He snatched a halberd from the nearest guardsman and swung it high. The other soldiers shouted and dodged even as the blade fell. The luckless man who had seen the groom tried to dodge, but too late-the blade cut through his chest. He screamed once, in terror and in blood; then his eyes rolled up, and his soul was gone where went all those souls who served King Maledicto willingly. “Stupid ass,” Maledicto hissed, glaring at the body. He looked up at the remaining, quaking guardsmen. “When I command, you obey! Now bring me that groom!”

They fled to chase after Accerese. It was the chancellor who found and followed the fugitive’s trail to the postern and down to the water’s edge, the company of guardsmen in his wake. “Thus it ends,” sighed the Captain of the Guard. “None could swim that moat and live.”

But Rebozo glanced back fearfully at the keep, as if hearing some command that the others could not. ‘Take the hound into the boat,“ he ordered. ”Search the other bank.“

They went, quaking, and the dog had to be held tightly, its muzzle bound, for it squirmed and writhed, fearing the smell of the monsters. Several of them lifted huge eyes above the water, hut Rebozo muttered a charm and pointed at each with his wand. The great eyes closed, the scaly bulges slid beneath the oily, stagnant fluid-and the boat came to shore. Wild-eyed, the dog sprang free and would have fled, but the soldiers cuffed it quiet and, as it whined, cringing, made it smell again the feed bag that held Accerese’s scent. It began to quest here and there about the bank, gaining vigor as it moved farther from the water. Its keeper cursed and raised a fist to club it, but Rebozo stayed his hand. “Let it course,” he said. “Give it time.”

Even as he finished, the dog lifted its head with a howl of tri­umph. Off it went after the scent, nearly jerking the keeper’s arm out of its socket, so eager was it to get away from that fell and foul moat. Rebozo shouted commands, and half a dozen soldiers ran off after the hound and its keeper, while a dozen more came riding across the drawbridge with the rest of the pack, led by a minor sorcerer in charcoal robes. Down the talus slope they thundered, away over the plain, catching up with the lead hound, and the whole pack belled as they followed the trace into the woods. They searched all that day and into the night, Rebozo ordering their efforts, Rebozo calling for the dogs, Rebozo leading the guardsmen. It was a long chase and a dark one, for Accerese had the good sense to keep moving, to resist the urge to sleep-or perhaps it was fear itself that kept him going. He doubled back, he waded a hundred yards through a stream, he took to trees and went from branch to branch-but where the hounds could not find his scent, sorcery could, and in the end they brought Accerese, bruised and bleeding, back to the chancellor, who nodded, eyes glowing even as he said, “Put him to the question!”

“No, no!” Accerese screamed, and went on screaming even as they hauled him down to the torture chamber, even as they strapped him to the rack-where the screaming turned quickly into hoarse bellows of agony and fear. Rebozo stood there behind his king, watching and trembling as Maledicto shouted, “Why did you slay my son?”

“I did not! I did never!”

“More,” King Maledicto snapped, and Rebozo, trembling and wide-eyed, nodded to the torturer, who grinned and pressed down with the glowing iron. Accerese screamed and screamed, and fi­nally could turn the sound into words. “I only found him there, I did not kill… AIEEEE!”

“Confess!” the king roared. “We know you did it-why do you deny it?”

“Confess,” Rebozo pleaded, “and the agony will end.”

“But I did not do it!” Accerese wailed. “I only found him… YAAHHHH!”

So it went, on and on, until finally, exhausted and spent, Accerese told them what they wanted to hear. “Yes, yes! I did it, I stole the dagger and slew him, anything, anything! Only let the pain stop!”

“Let the torture continue,” Maledicto commanded, and watched with grim satisfaction as the groom howled and bucked and writhed, listened with glowing eyes as the screams alternated with begging and pleading, shivered with pleasure as the cracked and fading voice still tried to shriek its agony-but when the broken, bleeding body began to gibber and call upon the name of God, Maledicto snarled, “Kill it!”

The blade swung down, and Accerese’s agony was over. King Maledicto stood, glaring down at the remains with fierce elation-then suddenly turned somber. His brows drew down, his face wrinkled into lines of gloom. He turned away, thunderous and brooding. Rebozo stared after him, astounded, then hurried af­ter. When he had seen his royal master slam the door of his private chamber behind him, when his loud-voiced queries brought forth only snarls of rage and demands to go away, Rebozo turned and went with a sigh. There was still another member of the royal family who had to be told about all this. Not Maledicto’s wife, for she had been slain for an adultery she had never committed; not the prince’s wife, for she had died in childbirth; but the prince’s son, Maledicto’s grandson, who was now the heir apparent. Rebozo went to his chambers in a wing on the far side of the castle. There he composed himself, steadying his breathing and striving for the proper combination of sympathy and sternness, of gentleness and gravity. When he thought he had the tone and expression right, he went to tell the boy that he was an orphan. Prince Boncorro wept, of course. He was only ten and could not understand. “But why? Why? Why would God take my father? He was so good, he tried so hard to do what God wanted!”

Rebozo winced, but found words anyway. “There was work for him in Heaven.”

“But there is work for him here, too! Big work, lots of work, and surely it is work that is important to God! Didn’t God think he could do it? Didn’t he try hard enough?”

What could Rebozo say? “Perhaps not, your Highness. Kings must do many things that would be sins, if common folk did them.”

“What manner of things?” The tears dried on the instant, and the little prince glared up at Rebozo as if the man himself were guilty. “Why… killing,” said Rebozo. “Executing, I mean. Executing men who have done horrible, vicious things, such as murdering other people-and who might do them again, if the king let them live. And killing other men, in battle. A king must command such things, Highness, even if he does not do them himself.”

“So.” Boncorro fixed the chancellor with a stare that the old man found very disconcerting. “You mean that my father was too good, too kind, too gentle to be a king?”

Rebozo shrugged and waved a hand in a futile gesture. “I cannot say, Highness. No man can understand these matters-they beyond us.”

The look on the little prince’s face plainly denied the idea- denied it with scorn, too. Rebozo hurried on. “For now, though, your grandfather is in a horrible temper. He has punished the man who murdered your father…”

“Punished?” Prince Boncorro stared. “They caught the man? Why did he do it?”

“Who knows, Highness?” Rebozo said, like a man near the end of his fortitude. “Envy, passion, madness-your grandfather did not wait to hear the reason. The murderer is dead. What else matters?”

“A great deal,” Boncorro said, “to a prince who wishes to live.”

There was something chilling about the way he said it-he seemed so mature, so far beyond his years. But then, an experience like this would mature a boy-instantly. “If you wish to live, Highness,” Rebozo said softly, “it were better if you were not in the castle for some months. Your grandfather has been in a ferocious temper, and now is suddenly sunken in gloom. I cannot guess what he may do next.”

“You do not mean that he is mad!”

“I do not think so,” Rebozo said slowly, “but I do not know. I would feel far safer, your Highness, if you were to go into hid­ing.”

“But… where?” Boncorro looked about him, suddenly help­less and vulnerable. “Where could 1 go?”

In spite of it all, Rebozo could not help a smile. “Not in the wardrobe, Highness, nor beneath your bed. I mean to hide you outside the castle-outside this royal town of Venarra, even. I know a country baron who is kindly and loyal, who would never dream of hurting a prince, and who would see you safely spirited away even if his Majesty were to command your presence. But he will not, for I will see to it that the king does not know where you are.”

Boncorro frowned. “How will you do that?”

“I will lie, your Highness. No, do not look so darkly at me-it will be a lie in a good cause, and is far better than letting you stay here, where your grandfather might lash out at you in his pas­sion.”

Boncorro shuddered; he had seen King Maledicto in a rage. “But he is a sorcerer! Can he not find me whenever he wishes?”

“I am a sorcerer, too,” Rebozo said evenly, “and shall cloud your trail by my arts, so that even he cannot find it. It is my duty to you-and to him.”

“Yes, it is, is it not?” Boncorro nodded judiciously. “How strange that to be loyal, you must lie to him!”

“He will thank me for it one day,” Rebozo assured him. “But come, now, your Highness-there is little time for talk. No one can tell when your grandfather will pass into another fit of rage. We must be away, and quickly, before his thoughts turn to you.”

Prince Boncorro’s eyes widened in fright. “Yes, we must! How, Rebozo?”

“Like this.” Rebozo shook out a voluminous dark cloak he had been carrying and draped it around the boy’s shoulders. “Pull up the cowl now.”

Boncorro pulled the hood over his head and as far forward as it would go. He could only see straight in front of him, but he re­alized that it would be very hard for others to see his face. Rebozo was donning a cloak very much like his. He, too, pulled the cowl over his head. “There, now! Two fugitives dressed alike, eh? And who is to say you are a prince, not the son of a woodcutter wrapped against the night’s chill? Away now, lad! To the postern!” They crossed out over the moat in a small boat that was moored just outside the little gate. Boncorro huddled in on himself, staring at the huge luminous eyes that seemed to appear out the very darkness itself-but Rebozo muttered a spell and pointed his wand, making those huge eyes flutter closed in sleep and sink away. The little boat glided across the oil-slick water with no oars or sail, and Boncorro wondered how the chancellor as making it go. Magic, of course. Boncorro decided he must learn magic, or he would forever be at others’ mercy. But not black magic, no-he would never let Satan have a hold on him, as the Devil did on his grandfather! He would never be so vile, so wicked-for he knew what Rebozo seemed not to: that no matter who had thrust the knife between his father’s ribs, it was King Maledicto who had given the order. Boncorro had no proof, but he didn’t need any-he had heard their fights, heard the old man ranting and raving at the heir, had heard Prince Casudo’s calm, measured answers that sent the king into veritable paroxysms. He had heard Grandfather’s threats and seen him lash out at Casudo in anger. No, he had no need of proof. He had always feared his grandfather and never liked him-but now he hated him, too, and was bound and determined never to be like him. On the other hand, he was determined never to be like his father, either-not now. Prince Casudo had been a good man, a very good man, even saintly-but it was as Chancellor Rebozo had said: that very goodness had made him unfit to be king. It had made him unfit to live, for that matter-unsuspecting, he had been struck down from behind. Boncorro wanted to be a good king, when his time came-but more than anything else, he wanted to. And second only to that, he wanted revenge-on his grandfather. The boat grounded on the bank and Rebozo stepped out, turning back to hold out a hand to steady the prince. There were horses in waiting, tied to a tree branch: black horses that faded into the night. Rebozo boosted the boy into the saddle, then mounted himself and took the reins of Boncorro’s horse. He slapped his own horse’s flank with a small whip, and they moved off quietly into the night, down the slope and across the darkened plain. Only when they came under the leaves did Prince Boncorro feel safe enough to talk again. “Why are you loyal to King Maledicto, Rebozo? Why do you obey him? Do you think the things he commands you to do are right?”

“No,” Rebozo said with a shudder. “He is an evil man, your Highness, and commands me to do wicked deeds. I shall tell you truly that some of them disgust me, even though I can see they are necessary to keep order in the kingdom. But there are other tasks he sets me that frankly horrify me, and in which I can see no use.”

“Then why do you do them? Why do you carry them out?”

“Because I am afraid,” Rebozo said frankly, “afraid of his wrath and his anger, afraid of the tortures he might make me suf­fer if he found that I had disobeyed him-but more than anything else, afraid of the horrors of his evil magic.”

“Can you not become good, as Father was? Will not… no, of course Goodness will not protect you,” Prince Boncorro said bit­terly. “It did not protect Father, did it? In the next life, perhaps, but not in this.”

“Even if it did,” Rebozo said quickly, to divert the boy from such somber thoughts, “it would not protect me-for I have com­mitted many sins, your Highness, in the service of your grandfather-many sins indeed, and most of them vile.”

“But you had no choice!”

“Oh, I did,” Rebozo said softly, “and worse, I knew it, too. I could have said no, I could have refused.”

“If you had, Grandfather would have had you killed! Tortured and killed!”

“He would indeed,” Rebozo confirmed, “and I did not have the courage to face that. No, in my cowardice, I trembled and obeyed him-and doomed my soul to Hell thereby.”

“But Father did not.” Boncorro straightened, eyes wide with sudden understanding. “Father refused to commit an evil act, and Grandfather killed him for it!”

“Highness, what matter?” Rebozo pleaded. “Dead is dead!”

“It matters,” Prince Boncorro said, “because Father’s courage has saved him from Hell-and yours could, too, Rebozo, even now!”

There was something in the way he said it that made Rebozo shiver-but he was shivering anyway, at the thought of the fate the king could visit upon him. Instead, he said, “Your father has gone to a far better place than this, Prince Boncorro.”

“That may be true,” the prince agreed, “but I do not wish to go there any sooner than I must. Why did Father not learn magic?”“Because there is no magic but evil magic, your Highness.”“I do not believe that,” Prince Boncorro said flatly. “Father told me of saints who could work miracles.”“Miracles, yes-and I don’t doubt that your father can work them now, or will soon. But miracles are not magic, your Highness, and it is not the Saints who work them, but the One they worship, who acts through them. Mere goodness is not enough-a man must be truly holy to become such a channel of power.”Prince Boncorro shook his head doggedly. “There must be a way. Chancellor Rebozo. There must be another sort of magic, good magic, or the whole world would have fallen to Evil long ago.”

What makes you think it has not? Rebozo thought, but he bit back the words. Besides, even Prince Boncorro had heard of the good wizards in Merovence, and Chancellor Rebozo did not want him thinking too much about that. What quicker road to death could there be, than to study good magic in a kingdom of evil sorcery? “Will Grandfather ever die?” Boncorro asked. Rebozo shook his head. “Only two know that, Highness-and one of them is the Devil, who keeps the king alive.”

The other, Prince Boncorro guessed, must be God-but he could understand why Rebozo would not want to say that Name aloud. Not here in Latruria-and not considering the current state of his soul. It was half a year before Chancellor Rebozo came to Baron Garchi’s gate again. “Welcome, welcome, Lord Chancellor!” cried the bluff and hearty lord. “Come in and rest yourself! Take a cup of ale!”

“Ale will do.”

The implication was clear, so Garchi sighed and said, “I have wine, if you’d rather.”

“Why, yes,” Rebozo said. “The cool white wine that your country is so famous for, perhaps?”

“The very stuff.” Garchi reached up to clap him on the shoulder, but thought better of it. “Come in out of the sun!” He started to lead the way, then remembered himself and bowed the Lord Chancellor on before him. Rebozo acknowledged the wisdom of the move with a nod, then asked, “How is your charge?”

“Oh, the lad thrives! Our country air is good for him-and it is also good for him to run and play with my own cubs.”

Rebozo fixed him with a steely glare. “They do not mistreat him, I trust?”

“Not a bit,” Garchi assured him. “Oh, there was the beginning round of fights, as there always is with boys…”

“You supervised it carefully, I trust!”

Garchi nodded, a little nettled. “Carefully, but without their knowing. When it got too rough, one of my knights just ‘happened’ to come by.”

“How rough?” Rebozo snapped. “Well, your little wolfling had my middle boy down and was setting in to beat him with a fierceness that took me quite aback, I can tell you. My youngest had already picked a fight with him and been soundly trounced-they’re the same age, I’d guessed- and my eldest was standing by, looking as if he was going to jump in to help his brother, for all I’d told him not to. Lad’s four­teen,” he explained. “But your knight stopped them?”

“Aye, and saved my middle boy a nasty beating, I fancy! Had to take your lad aside and explain to him that fights between boys don’t need to be for life or death, that it’s only a little more se­rious than a game.”

“I’m surprised he believed you.”

“Not sure he did, but he’s been nowhere nearly so vicious since-and they’ve had their dustups, of course, for all they’ve been fast friends from that first day; boys will be boys, y’know.”

“They will,” Rebozo agreed, with the air of one who doesn’t really understand. “Where are they now?”

“Oh, out rabbiting, I expect. Quite taken to hunting, the lad has, though he’s so demmed serious about it that it makes me chill in­side.” He gave the chancellor a keen glance. “Is he really yours? Thought powerful sorcerers like you didn’t indulge.”

“We do not, but you need not concern yourself with whose bas­tard he truly is.”

“Oh, I don’t, I don’t,” Garchi said quickly. “Shall I send for him?”

“No, I’ve time enough to wait an hour or two-and refresh myself. You will have a bath drawn?”

“They’re heating the water now,” said Garchi, who didn’t un­derstand this obsession with washing. “I’ll have the boy sent ‘round to you as soon as he comes in, eh?”

“Oh, let him clean up first. After hunting, I expect he’ll need it.”

It was only an hour later that Boncorro stood before the chancellor-or the other way around, perhaps; Rebozo was amazed at the way the boy made him feel as if it were he who had been summoned. The lad was smiling, though. “It is so good to see you again, my Lord Chancellor!”

“I am sorry that it has been so long, Highness,” Rebozo said. “I had to wait until your grandfather sent me on a tour of the provinces, to remind the lords of the tax they owe him.”

“Of course. I knew I would have to wait long for news of home.”

Rebozo took the hint. “Your grandfather continues in good health, and has somewhat emerged from his gloom. He still lapses into long periods of brooding, though, and gazes out the window at nothing.”

“I should feel sorry for him,” Boncorro conceded. “Yes, perhaps,” Rebozo said, a trifle disconcerted. “And how have you been faring, your Highness?”

“Oh, well enough, though it was somewhat rough at first. I have friends now, or acquaintances, at least.”

“Yes, Lord Garchi tells me you have made companions of his sons, and that you were hunting even now.”

“They are skilled at that.” Actually, the boys had led Boncorro to a knothole they had discovered, where they could peek into the chambermaids’ sleeping quarters. They had taken turns watching the strapping young women disrobe and slip into their beds. Boncorro had dutifully taken his turn, though he couldn’t really understand why his playmates seemed so excited about the whole matter. Way down deep, he had felt some stirring within him as he watched a well-curved peasant lass go through her ablutions, and he had to admit it had been somewhat pleasant-but surely nothing to make such a fuss about. “I remembered it was your birthday soon.” Rebozo drew a package from beneath his robe. “I regret we cannot celebrate it more elaborately-but take this, as a token of good wishes.”

Boncorro took the package, astonished. “Why, thank you, Chancellor! What is it?”

“Well, there would be no surprise if I told you.” Rebozo smiled. “Go ahead, unwrap it.”

Boncorro did, and held the book up, staring. “A book of spells!”

“You had said you meant to learn magic,” Rebozo explained. “They are only simple spells, scarcely more than a village herb wife would use-but enough for a beginning.”

“Yes indeed!” Boncorro stared at it, round-eyed. ‘Thank you, Chancellor! Thank you deeply!“

“Guard it well!” Rebozo raised an admonitory finger. “Simple or not, those spells could cause a great deal of trouble if everyone were to know and use them. Let no one else open it! The first charm inside is one that will keep any but you from opening that cover-learn it at once, and use it often!”

“Lord Chancellor, I will.” Boncorro held the book close to his chest, almost hugging it, and looked up at Rebozo with shining eyes. “Thank you, oh, thank you deeply!”

It was almost a shame, Rebozo thought, that the lad had been born to be a prince. He would have made a fine sorcerer-if he were led down the path… As Rebozo was leaving the next day, Garchi cleared his throat and said, “Understand the boys have been getting up to… to some mischief with the, ah, wenches. I’ll see to it that there’s no more of that sort of thing.”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind!” Rebozo turned to glare at him. “The lad must learn to be a man, Lord Garchi-in all ways!”

“Why, yes, Lord Chancellor,” Garchi muttered, staring in sur­prise, and found himself wondering if the lad might not be Rebozo’s own, after all. Boncorro learned a great deal in the next few years-learned from watching through knotholes, and from reading the book of spells. Some of them seemed anything but harmless, and he re­coiled naturally, but others he learned and practiced avidly. He stayed firmly away from any that invoked Satan, or worked magic by any other name-but that left a great many, and some of them afforded him views that surpassed anything he saw through a knothole. He began to be interested in that, after all. When Re­bozo brought him a thicker book, he was ready for more direct activity in both spheres. As the years went by, he became quit skilled-in all aspects of manhood. Just as Rebozo wanted. The king had lost heart. Oh, it wasn’t in anything he said or did-he kept on extorting taxes from the merchants and noble who respectively gouged their customers and robbed their serfs in order to pay. The king continued to encourage them, just as he kept the taxes low on the brothels and made sure the Watch imprisoned a pimp; he subsidized the gambling dens and kept the tax high on malt and fruit and juice, but low on beer and wine and taverns. In a word, he did all he had ever done to encourage corruption and wickedness and poverty-but he did not think of anything new. More than that-it wasn’t what he did, so much as how he did it. He never ranted and raved any more, even if a courtier disobeyed or sneered. He would bark out a rebuke, yes, and signal to a guardsman to beat the foolish rogue, but he seemed too weary to do anything more. He would snarl at a messenger who brought lid news and signal for the whip, but he never killed one outright with his own hands anymore, nor flew into a towering rage. He seemed to be only a shell of the villain he had once been, and didn’t even seem to listen to his chancellor any longer-he would only gaze into space, nodding automatically as Rebozo spoke. He spent hour after hour alone in his chambers, gazing out the window sipping from a tankard. At first the tankard held brandy-wine, and he would be red-eyed and staggering at dinner-if Rebozo could talk him into coming to dinner. The chancellor was not too concerned, though he had to take more and more of the burden of running the kingdom upon his own shoulders. His only fear was that Maledicto would die before Boncorro came of age-or begin a campaign to ferret out the boy. Indeed, when he was deep in his cups, the king would ramble on about having to see his grandson, finding out where the boy had fled. Rebozo would have to remind him that Boncorro was dead, had died hunting the day after his father’s death. But Maledicto waved him away irritably, as if he knew the truth, but did not particularly re-sent what the chancellor had done. The reason was clear when he was sober, for then he would drop occasional scathing remarks about what little monsters children were, especially ones who thought themselves royal, and how the world would be a better place if there were none of them-but in the evening, drunk and staggering, he would turn maudlin and querulous, wondering aloud if his grandson were well. Then he turned to white wine, though, and his drunkenness lessened. That concerned Rebozo, though not too much-he merely made sure there was always a measure or two of brandy-wine mixed with the white in the king’s jug. But he nearly panicked when the king turned to a brew of herbs boiled in clear water. He was right to be alarmed, for as the king’s sobriety returned, so did his will-or, rather, his resolution. What he was resolved to do, though, he would not say, neither to Rebozo nor to anyone else. Finally, ten years after his son’s death, King Maledicto sent Rebozo on his annual tour of the provincial barons, watched him out of sight, then turned to his court with grim resolution. He summoned Sir Sticchi and Sir Tchalico, ordered them to be ready to ride the next day before dawn, then retired to his bed, where he lay a long time gazing at the canopy-and trembling. Cold or fear notwithstanding, the king arose in the darkness of predawn, dressed himself for a journey, buckled on breastplate and helm, and went out to meet his two knights. They mounted their chargers and rode out across the drawbridge in the eerie light of false dawn. They rode for several hours without a word, but the king seemed never to doubt where he was going. Sir Sticchi and Sir Tchalico exchanged puzzled glances now and then, but neither could enlighten the other at all. They came into a little village, scarcely more than a hamlet gathered around the ruins of a church, and the two knights moved together. “The king has heard of some priest who has gone into hiding,” Sir Sticchi said to his companion, sotto voice. “No doubt he has come only to apprehend the rogue.” But his face was taut and his voice quavered. “If it were only apprehending, why would he come himself?” Sir Tchalico sounded angry in his fear. “He could have sent us alone!”

“We, the only two of his knights who are secretly pious? Oh, do not look so scandalized, Tchalico-I heard it from court gossip; it is widely known, just as I’m sure you must have heard about me.”

“Well-I have,” Tchalico admitted. “I wondered, now and again, why the king let us live, let alone keep our rank.”

“Why, because he had some such use as this in mind for us, no doubt! What shall we do now, Tchalico? He must have brought us here as a test! No doubt he means to torture the poor monk to death, and force us to watch!”

“When he knows we shall not stand idly by,” Sir Tchalico agreed, his face grim, “knows we shall leap to the priest’s defense-whereupon we shall be unmasked, and he shall slay us magical fire or some such torture.” He felt a sudden cold clarity thrill through him, and straightened in his saddle. “It has come, Sticchi-the hour of our martyrdom.”

Fear showed in Sticchi’s eyes, cavernous fear-but it passed in a moment, and the fierce delight of battle burned in its place. “Then let us go to meet our deaths with joy, for tonight we’ll dine in Heaven!”

To Heaven let us sail,“ Sir Tchalico agreed, ”and here is our boatman, though it is doubtless the last thing he intends.“ They drew rein only a few feet behind the king, who had himself stopped in front of a hovel meaner than the rest, so ill-kempt one might think it was vacant, and tumbling with neglect. But the king sat straight and roared out, ”Friar! Monk and shave-pate! Come out to meet your king!“

Eyes watched from huts all about, and a few burly peasant men emerged, fear evident in every line of their bodies, but their faces grim and determined, their fists clenched, sickles and flails in their hands. But the king paid no heed; he only called out again, “Man of the cloth! Man of the clergy! Come forth!”

Still the village sat in silence. The king took a deep breath to call again, but before he did, a peasant came out, one no cleaner than the rest, with a tunic just as patched and frayed as theirs, his hands just as callused from toil-but he wore a hat beneath the sun of June, where the rest of them did not. “Uncover before your king!” Maledicto roared. The peasant raised a trembling hand and took off his hat. The bald spot was too regular, too perfect a circle to be natural; it was a tonsure. Do you deny you are a priest?“ Maledicto demanded. Suddenly, the fear was gone, and the peasant straightened with pride. ”Nay, I will boast of it! I am a priest of the Church, and I serve God and my fellow man!“

Why did the evil king not wince at the holy Name? Why did he not raise his whip to strike, or draw his sword? And why was he kneeling in the dust before the peasant, hands clasped and head bowed, intoning, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned!”

The peasants stared, flabbergasted. “Turn away!” Sir Sticchi barked. “Have you never heard of the seal of the confessional?”

The peasants came to themselves with a start and turned away into their houses. In seconds the village seemed empty. The words came pouring forth from the king’s mouth, the tale and toll of a century of sins; the priest barely had time to whip a worn, threadbare stole from his pocket and yank it around his neck. As he listened to the list of horrors, his face grew haggard and his shoulders slumped. In a few minutes he was kneeling beside the king; in a few more he had clasped the old man’s trembling hands and was listening, nodding, wide-eyed, in encouragement. “It would seem we are not to be martyred after all,” Sir Sticchi said, staring and numb. “Do not believe it for a second,” Sir Tchalico snapped. “I doubt not the Devil heard as soon as the king said ‘Bless me,’ and dispatched a demon before he’d said ‘sinned.’ Sell your life dearly, Brother Sticchi-for the king’s sake, and for the kingdom’s! We will pay with our lives, but we must buy him enough time to-”

Flame erupted not ten yards from them. The priest cried out and shrank away, but King Maledicto held his hands with an iron grip and kept him near enough to hear as the sins poured out of him, so fast as to be scarcely intelligible. It was no demon, but a horrible, glittering serpentine thing that stood on a dozen clawed feet while four more pawed the air. A saddle was fastened between those upper legs, a saddle for a man in a flame-red robe, masked and hooded, nothing showing but his eyes. In his hand swung a battle-axe two feet across, far too big for any mortal man to swing. Sir Sticchi bellowed, “For God and Saint Mark!” and kicked his charger into a gallop. “For the Saints and the Lord!” Sir Tchalico echoed, and came charging after. They careened into the monstrosity before it could take two steps. It screamed and lashed out at them with steel-sharp claws; its rider bellowed rage in a voice that shook the village, and swung his sword. Sir Sticchi shouted in pain as the blade cut through his armor and into his shoulder, but he struck anyway, his sword thrusting into the monster’s chest. It screamed in agony and anger, blasting him with breath that blackened and pitted his helmet.His horse screamed in fright, but the knight held it in place, hewing and hacking and madly singing a battle hymn.Sir Tchalico joined in, striking from the other side, and beast and rider alike howled in pain and rage. Sword and tooth and talon and struck again. Sir Sticchi fell, blood fountaining from a torn throat; his horse screamed and ran. Sir Tchalico howled in agonyas flame enveloped him; then he fell, and the monster stamped down, through his armor, through his chest, and the horse neighed in terror and wheeled to run. But the twisting sword cut it down, and the monster stepped over the bodies, reaching out for the king. “Ego te absolvo!” the priest cried an instant before a huge battle-axe flashed before his face, and the king’s head fell to the ground. A second later, the priest’s head rolled beside it in the dust. The monster screamed in terrible pain, and its rider howled in frustration-for the king was dead, as was the priest who had shriven him, but three souls had gone to Heaven, and one to Purgatory instead of Hell. Satan was cheated, and his minion suffered far more than the victims had. Fire exploded around them, and monster and rider were gone-but the peasants did not come out for the bodies until the smell of brimstone had faded away. No good to see you again, Lord Chancellor!“ Garchi raised a hand to pound the chancellor on the back, then remembered and withdrew the slap. ”Your lad does well, very well indeed.“

“You have followed my instructions, then?”

“We have-but alas, it did no good,” Garchi said with a sigh. “Oh, the lad can wench and swill with the best of them-but he doesn’t. Not all that often, at least. He’ll only bed one wench a night, and not even every night, at that. I’ve never heard one of them complain of his treatment, though.”

Rebozo thought that he might be more reassured if the women had complained-but he had enough tact not to say so. “I regret to hear it; a boy his age ought to enjoy the leisure to play while he can. Should have, I should say-I fear that time is at an end.”

“Oh?” Garchi looked up, alert, but neither sad nor glad. “You’re taking him from us, then?”

“I fear so-he must begin his work in this world. Send him to me, Lord Garchi.”

“When he’s done with… the matter at hand, of course.”

“Of course.”

Garchi didn’t mention that the task at hand was a book in Latin, about the lives of the old emperors. He wasn’t sure Rebozo would be happy about it. Consequently, Rebozo was rather surprised when the servant announced Sir Boncorro only fifteen minutes later. Rebozo did not have to rise, since he was still pacing. The prince came in right behind. “Your pardon for not dressing more elaborately, Lord Chancellor, but I did not wish to keep you waiting… What means this?”

The chancellor had sunk to one knee, bowing his head. “Long live the king!”

For a minute Boncorro stood frozen, as the meaning of the salutation sank in and he adjusted his mind to it. He seemed to stand a little taller, even straighter than he had. “So it has happened. The Devil has tired of my grandfather, has withdrawn the sorcery that kept him alive, and the king is dead.”

“Long live the king,” Rebozo returned. Boncorro stood still a moment longer, to let the shock and numbness pass-and then came the first fierce elation of triumph. Grandfather was dead, and Boncorro was still alive! Then he stepped forward to clasp Rebozo by the shoulders and lift him to his feet. “You must not kneel to me, old friend. You have ever been my companion in adversity, my shield in danger. You shall always stand in my presence, and may sit when I sit.”

“I-I thank your Majesty for this high privilege,” Rebozo stammered. “You have earned it,” Boncorro said simply. The chancellor stood a moment, looking at him. Prince Boncorro had grown into a fine figure of a man-six feet tall, with broad, muscular shoulders and arms, legs that showed as pillars in his tights, but shapely pillars indeed, and a very handsome face, with straight nose, generous mouth, and large blue eyes, beneath a cap of golden hair. It was a face that seemed deceptively frank and open, but Rebozo knew that appearance was mostly illusion. He also knew that of the women who came to Boncorro’s bed, few came reluctantly. “You do not mourn, your Majesty?”

Boncorro permitted himself a smile of amusement. “I shall appear properly grief-stricken in public, Lord Chancellor-but you know better than any man that I rejoice at my grandfather’s death. I feared him and hated him as much as I admired and loved my father-and I have no doubt it was he who gave the order to kill saintly son. Indeed, I charge you with the task of finding the man who struck the blow.”

Rebozo stared. “But-But-it was the groom! The man who found the body!”

Boncorro waved the idea away impatiently. “He discovered the hat is all. There is no reason to believe he thrust the knife himself.”

“He confessed!”

“Under torture. All his confession means is that he wanted the pain to stop.”

Rebozo felt a cold chill enwrap him; the prince-no, king, was showing wisdom far beyond his years. “Then who could have done it?”

“Who gained by it?” King Boncorro fixed the chancellor with a piercing gaze. “Only me-and Hell. I know that I did not slay him.Now how did my grandfather die?”

“Why-beside two knights, his only guards; they were dead, too. And a peasant…”

“How was he slain? With what weapon?”

“His… his head was… he was beheaded, Majesty.”

“Beheaded?”Boncorro frowned.“Were there any other wounds?”

Definitely, he saw too much for a youth of twenty. “There was a dagger-in his back, between the shoulder blades.”

Boncorro’s face lit with keen delight. “Describe the dagger!”

“It… it was-” Chancellor Rebozo paused to picture the dagger in his mind. “-double-edged, the blade sloping straight to the point on both sides… an oval for a hilt… The handle…”

“Say it, man!”

“I cannot!” Rebozo looked away. “It was sculpted, it was…obscene… evil.”

“Like the dagger that slew my father!”

“Very like it,” Rebozo said unwillingly. “A twin.”

“Then the same man did it, or two assassins who served the same lord! Find me the murderer of my grandfather, Rebozo, and I doubt not you shall find me also the murderer of my father!”

The chancellor stared. “Then-you still wish me to serve you, your Majesty?”

“Of course. You saved my life when my father died, you served my grandfather from fear rather than desire, and you have always been gentle and kind to me. I can think of no man more capable, nor one I would more readily trust and wish to have by me. Now make ready for us to go to the capital.”

“Surely, Majesty,” the chancellor said, and turned away, a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. A local bandit was tortured until he confessed to the murder of the king and his knights. Unfortunately, Baron Garchi and his sons were overly zealous, killing the outlaw and his whole band on the spot. None of them owned a dagger with an obscene and horrifying hilt. None of them rode a flame-skinned monster, or carried a battle-axe of any size; they were all archers and swordsmen. But Rebozo was satisfied and reported his results to the king. The king was not convinced. At least Boncorro didn’t start making changes the instant he arrived at the royal castle. He waited until after his coronation-three weeks. That also gave him time to recruit his own bodyguards, and to lay protective spells against them. He also laid protective spells against everyone else, throughout the castle and all around it. They sent Rebozo into constant nervous agitation-wherever he went, the blasted things sent his blood tingling! It was unnerving to know that the king didn’t really trust him-though the chancellor had to admit that Boncorro seemed to trust him more than anyone else. It was even more unnerving to Rebozo to know that the king had learned so much magic-so much that he didn’t really need the protection of his chancellor’s sorcery. That made Rebozo more nervous than anything else-not being needed. He felt as if he stood on sand, and the sands were constantly shifting beneath him. They shifted even more because the young king spent an hour a day in the library, locking the door securely to make sure he would not be disturbed. There were a few old Greek and Roman manuscripts in there, but most of the shelves were filled with books of sorcery. The spells he actually used, though, were scarcely sorcerous at all, such as the ward that held the library doors constantly locked against even Rebozo’s magic when the king was not there. Where had he learned such power? Some of his spells were actually based on Goodness, and gave Rebozo a real shock when he encountered them, a shock that had after-effects of nausea and palpitations that went on for hours. At least the chancellor consoled himself, none of them invoked the power of the Saints or their Master. But that was cold comfort indeed. Where had the son of a sorcerer learned such magic? Surely not in Baron Garchi’s castle-though the country lord was far from the most sinister in the kingdom, too easygoing to be truly evil in any way, he was nonetheless fond of his pleasures, and most of them rather wicked; some were definitely corrupt. He had done his best to raise the boy in debauchery, even as he had raised his own sons-and now look what had happened! Had there been some secret priest among the baron’s servants? Some copy of some holy book that the prince had found? Rebozo resolved to give Garchi and his castle a thorough housecleaning-as soon as King Boncorro allowed him time enough. If ever. The demands were almost constant, first redecorating the castle to Boocorro’s taste, then supervising the strengthening of the defenses of the town and the castle, as well as preparing for the coronation. It was while he was wrapped up in all of this that the king had laid his network of spells in and around the castle, giving Rebozo such a rude shock when he discovered them. He thought he would have some respite after the coronation was over, then Boncorro called him in the very next morning, not long after dawn-and the chancellor was dismayed to see that the young king had obviously been awake for at least an hour already! He sat at a table in his solar, surrounded by books and papers. He looked up as the chancellor entered, and his face lit with a smile. “Ah! Rebozo, old friend!” He stood and came around the desk to clasp the chancellor by the shoulders. “And how are you this morning?”

“Quite well, thank you, your Majesty.” Rebozo reflected sourly that he had felt better before having to confront the young king’s energy and enthusiasm. “Good, good! Then to work, eh?” Boncorro swung around behind the table and sat again. “We must begin new ways today, Rebozo!”

“New ways?” Rebozo felt a chill of apprehension. “What innovations have you planned, your Majesty?”

Boncorro looked down at his papers. “There is a law that any priests who are discovered are to be executed on the spot.”

“Surely your Majesty will not repeal that law!”

“No-but I wish to see that it is no longer enforced.” Boncorro looked up at him. “It is too easy for someone with a grudge against his rival to slay him out of hand, then claim he was a secret priest. Issue commands that no priests are to be slain, or even arrested.”

“But your Majesty! That will mean that people will start flocking to Ma-their M-M-M-”

“To Mass,” Boncorro finished for him. “It would seem I am not so far gone in sorcery as you yourself, Rebozo, for I can still say the word. Yes, people will go to the priests-but only those who wish to. If Grandfather did nothing else, he did at least free the common folk from fear of religion and the tyranny of the clergy-only those who truly believe, or wish to, will go.”

“Satan will scourge the Earth of you!”

“No, he will not,” Boncorro contradicted, “for I am scarcely a saint, Rebozo, and I am not abolishing the law that prohibits the priests, or their services. There is still room for the Devil to think I can be swayed to his service-and more grounds for that than I like to admit.”

“More grounds indeed,” Rebozo said heavily. “You are a young man Majesty, with a young man’s appetites, and a young king’s lust for power.”

“As I am even now showing,” Boncorro agreed “But I am not turning this country toward the powers of Heaven, Lord Chancellor-only toward my own.”

And Rebozo realized that this was true. Somewhat reassured that his young king was not really trying to do good, but only to tighten his hold over his kingdom in a way his grandfather never had, the chancellor went out to give the necessary orders. The king said, “Send word to ail the noblemen that the taxes are being reduced to half of their income.”

Rebozo stared. “To half?”

“Half.” The king turned a sheet of foolscap around so that Rebozo could read it. “I have cast up accounts and found that we can easily maintain this great castle, all our army, and all our servants on half. Indeed, there will remain a substantial sum to squirrel away in the treasury.” He sat back with a sigh, shaking his head. “It is quite empty. I was horrified to discover how Grandfather had spent it all.”

Rebozo was horrified to discover that Boncorro did not approve of the old king’s extravagances and pleasures. “Majesty, it is those luxuries and affairs of state that held the barons’ loyalty!”

“Stuff and nonsense,” said the young king. “It was fear of the royal army and the king’s magic that held them in line, naught else-a royal army that will do quite well without a florin’s worth of ale for each man, for each day. They will fight all the better for being sober.”

“But these are merchants’ tricks!” Rebozo cried. “Where did you learn such lowly notions?”

“From the traders in the fairs, while my foster brothers were learning how to be fleeced by tricksters,” Boncorro replied. “I will not disdain any knowledge, if it is sound and will help me to hold my kingdom.”

“But magic, your Majesty! Sorcery! Virgins cost dearly, and animals for slaughter, and dead bodies! There must he money for my sorcery!”

My magic is far less expensive,“ King Boncorro assured him, but nevertheless effective for all that. Indeed, I look forward to the first baron who seeks to rebel.” His eyes glinted with anticipation. “Once I have settled with him, no others will dare.”

Rebozo stared into the guileless blue eyes and felt his blood run cold. “Tell the barons their taxes are lowered,” Boncorro said softly. “That much of my message they will be glad to hear.”

Rebozo recovered. “Majesty-is it not enough to tell only the dukes? Cannot they send word to their barons, as they always have?”

“They would not; they would continue to draw every groat of the old tax from their vassals, aye, even if it took thumbscrews to draw it I wish to make sure that every lord knows of this news, every knight, every squire-for I also wish you to see to it that their own tax on their serfs is cut by at least a third!”

Rebozo stared, aghast. “Now they will rebel,” he whispered. Boncorro grinned like a wolf. “I await it with eagerness.”

“But Majesty-why?”

“So that I can teach them that I am no less formidable than my grandfather, Rebozo, and my magic no weaker, though nowhere so twisted.”

That, Rebozo doubted-and he had no wish to see the prince he had formed and nurtured drowned under a wave of greedy barons. “Majesty, in this world, you cannot balance yourself between the Deity and the Devil. You must choose one or the other, for every single action is either Good or Evil.”

“Then I shall choose neither, but another source of power altogether.”

“Your Majesty,” Rebozo cried, exasperated, “you cannot! In another world, perhaps, but not in this one! And this is all the world you will ever know! Every single action in this world sends you either one step closer to Hell, or one step closer to Heaven! Every thought you cherish, every breath you draw!”

“Then I shall play one off against the other,” King Boncorro told him, “as good statesmen have ever done with powers that they cannot conquer. Go send my word to the dukes, Chancellor-and to the earls, and the barons.”

Rebozo knew a royal command when he heard one, especially since the young king had addressed him by his title, not his name. He bowed, resigning himself to the worst. “As your Majesty wills. Am I dismissed, or is there more you would tell me?”

“Oh, I think that is quite enough for one morning,” Boncorro said, smiling. “Go do your work, Chancellor, while I think up more troubles for you.”

Rebozo wished he could be sure the young man was joking.