The Feline Wizard

CHAPTER 28

He hoped Tennyson's ghost wouldn't object. After all, it was in a good cause—clearing living space in a congested area.

The boulder started to vibrate. With sounds like gunshots, cracks appeared at its top, then ran down its sides until the whole mass was segmented like an orange. All at once it fell in on itself with an avalanche's rumble. Where there had been a huge boulder, there was only a heap of tumbled blocks.

The humans poured out of their houses to gaze in amazement.

Lugerin and Ginelur could only stare, thunderstruck.

“Those blocks will need finishing, of course,” Matt said, “but they're basically squared off. Should make fine building stone.”

The two leaders turned to him with awe and fear. Beyond them, their people glanced at the stranger in terror, then looked quickly away.

“So you see, I really am a wizard,” Matt explained. “The young lady who cast the spell that freed your dragons was my apprentice, but she learned everything I could teach her in a year. I'm sure she'd be glad to come back here for a visit if I asked her. So would Stegoman and Dimetrolas, for that matter.”

“How would you know what passes here?” Ginelur asked through stiff lips.

Time to bluff. “I have a dozen ways, of course. I'm sure you've heard of crystal balls and ink pools. Then there are animal sentries, supernatural spies, and … well, I won't bore you with the list.”

They weren't bored. Lugerin glared defiantly, but Matt could see in his eyes the certainty that he was boxed in. Ginelur, on the other hand, was clearly aware that Matt might be bluffing—but it was even more obvious that she didn't dare call him on it.

“Not that my insisting would be necessary, of course,” Matt said. “I'm sure your people will realize the good sense of these ideas. You may have to explain it a bit, but they'll see the wisdom of it.”

“No doubt they shall,” Lugerin said in a monotone. He looked down at Ginelur. “Let us tell them the plan to which our colleague Brongaffer has agreed.”

They went on toward the biggest building, which Matt was more sure than ever was a meeting hall. He smiled to himself as he turned to go back to the young couple.

“You told me a wizard should never make an exhibition of his powers,” Balkis accused as he came up.

“An unnecessary exhibition,” Matt reminded her. “In fact, as I remember it, I said not to be a show-off—don't go working magic without a good reason.”

“And your reason was to make clear to these dragoneers how little choice they had in agreeing to your terms?” Anthony asked.

Matt nodded. “Some people never get beyond thinking that a law only exists if it's enforced. I just showed them that Prester John has a long arm when it comes to his laws.”

Balkis' eyes widened in surprise. “Why, my—” She bit back the word “uncle” and went on. “—emperor has outlawed slavery and banditry, has he not?”

“For a century or more, I'm sure,” Matt said, “and this valley is well within his jurisdiction. They just thought they could do as they pleased because they were so far out of the way from him.”

Anthony's gaze turned distant. “I had not thought of wizards as enforcing laws.”

“Magic can be used for good or for ill,” Matt explained, “and the temptation to use it selfishly is always there, as these bandits demonstrated by enslaving dragons and people with the spells their ancestors' shaman worked out.”

Anthony frowned. “It is well I'm not a wizard, then. I might not prove equal to the temptation.”

“You would use your powers for naught but good.” Balkis clasped his upper arm with both hands. “I can think of few men I would trust with such power as readily as I would you, my love.”

He looked down into her face, drank deeply of the glory of her eyes, and smiled. “With you to strengthen my will, I could.”

“Well, let's find out if you have any power to speak of.” Matt sat down on a big rock, as Balkis moved away, to afford them privacy. “Now, here's a little spell that comes in handy on rainy camping trips; it's for starting a fire …”

Half an hour later Anthony had learned a dozen verses, each on the first try, and was cheerfully making rocks move into fire rings, lighting small blazes, and conjuring up three-foot-wide storm clouds to put them out. Worse, he had managed to come up with improvements on three or four lines in each spell.

“Where did you develop such a quick memory?” Matt asked.

“ Whiling away long winter evenings making up new verses for old stories, with my brothers,” Anthony told him. “The first line I crafted was: 'Thus Alexander's sword swung high to slice the ropes clean through.'”

“Your very first line?” Matt stared. “How old were you at the time?”

“Six, before they let me join the game,” Anthony said, “but I really did very little crafting; I made the line by remembering pieces as my brothers had told them.”

“At six,” Matt echoed, “remembering half a dozen different versions and putting them together.”

“Aye. There was nothing original about it. A year later I improved it to become: ‘His sword swung high to slash the ropes.’ I revised it over the next few years until I made it thus: ‘Then with one blow he cleaved the knot.’ I like that best, but I've had to finish that verse many times since, and had to make the line anew each time. Still, that was the best I phrased it.”

“If you say so,” Matt said. “Do you remember every line you ever made up?”

“I'm sure I have forgotten a few,” Anthony said, “and I only remembered the three or four best versions my brothers crafted of each legend.”

“Oh, is that all.”

“Aye. I fear I have little prominence in memory,” Anthony sighed. “I will remember these verses you have taught me, though.”

“Just use them well,” Matt said. “Tell me, was there a reason why you always made up a variation of the same line?”

“Oh, aye. I am the youngest, so the last line in each verse always fell to me.”

“Seems to me your brothers might have wanted a bit of variety,” Matt said, “though there is something to be said for predictability. Listen, what if somebody shot an arrow at you and you had to make it break before it hit you?”

Anthony frowned in thought. “It would have to be a couplet, for an arrow's flight leaves little time—and iambic or trochaic trimeter, for the same reason.”

“Good thinking,” Matt said. “Give it a try.”

“Why… ‘Arrow, cease your…’ No, that would be to stop it, not to break it.' Snap in flight, arrow of…' No, the meter's wrong. 'Turn and crack, speeding…'No…”

Balkis came back as he was fumbling, growing more red-faced with each failure. Before he started stuttering, she said, “Speeding arrow, break in flight.'”

“Pieces, fall! Begone from sight!” Anthony cried. “You have made the line again, genius of music!”

“I would rather be your genius of love.” Balkis sat down beside him and smiled into his eyes. He gazed back, blissful and speechless, and his hand stole out to cover hers.

Matt coughed delicately. Both of them gave a start and turned to him, abashed.

“I see how it works,” Matt said. “If Anthony can memorize a verse, he can work a spell—but if he has to make one up, he just can't get started.”

“Like to me,” Balkis said, “save that I can begin a verse, but make weak endings, slowly and with difficulty.”

“So he can't make magic on his own,” Matt said, “but he can make yours ten times more effective.” He nodded. “Good basis for a partnership. Better teach him all the magic you know. If he's really going to Maracanda, Prester John will be delighted to meet him.”

“Meet the emperor himself!” Anthony cried, sitting bolt upright.

“Sure,” Matt said. “He needs all the wizards he can find.”

“As to that …” Balkis looked suddenly nervous. She turned to Anthony. “I have given you time alone with my mentor, Anthony. Will you grant me the same privilege?”

“Why … of course, my sweet.” Anthony hid his jealousy with an effort, smiled, then rose and went over toward Stego-man and Dimetrolas, moving warily and timidly.

Dimetrolas noticed and said something to Stegoman, who boomed out, “Welcome, son of the mountains! Have you never seen dragon folk before?”

“Never.” Anthony came forward, though shyly. “Might I speak with you awhile? I am bursting with a thousand questions!”

“I will answer only a hundred,” Stegoman said with a twinkle in his eye. “Ask, mountaineer.”

They settled down to conversation. Balkis glanced at them, then leaned closer to Matt and asked in a low voice, “How is it you searched for me?”

“PresterJohn—”

“Shh! Do not say his name!” Balkis gave a frantic glance over her shoulder at Anthony. “Say rather, ‘my uncle,’ as you did before—and a thousand thanks for that tact.”

“Just good luck,” Matt said. “Okay, ‘my uncle’ sent word that his niece was missing…”

“Oh, be not so silly!”

“Okay, your uncle sent word—and asked me to come find out what had happened to you. We tracked down the sorcerer who had kidnapped you, but he wasn't much help—seems you foiled his transportation spell at the last minute, so he didn't know where you'd gone.”

Balkis smiled with grim satisfaction. “Not where he intended, at least.”

“Yes, and I'm very glad of that.” Matt beamed at her. “Very proud of my pupil. But your uncle did a bit of divination, found out which direction you'd gone, and I started searching. Stegoman insisted on coming along for the ride—or so that I could ride, rather—and we headed south, stopping to ask about you whenever we could.” He spread his hands. “When we found chaos happening, we thought it was worth a look.”

“Praise Heaven that you did! But Pres—my uncle is still seeking me?”

“Not officially,” Matt hedged. “If I can't find you, he'll send his son with a small army to search.”

“Oh, such noise and furor will certainly not affright a kidnapper!”

“Careful, my dear—with your coloring, sarcasm doesn't become you, and I sure hope the converse isn't true. I also hope you're reassured to know your uncle's willing to shake heaven and earth to find you, though.”

“It is a warming thought.” Balkis smiled. “The problem, though, Lord Wizard, is that I would prefer not to be found for a while.”

“Need to cement a new relationship before you jeopardize it by revealing you're a princess?” Matt eyed Anthony, who was in earnest conversation with the two dragons. “You could tell him you're a woodcutter's daughter, you know.”

“I could,” Balkis said, “but would he believe that I could be that and a princess, too?”

“Should be enough old legends around to give him a basis for accepting it,” Matt said, “and as I understand it, he's steeped in them so thoroughly that they've dyed his soul— but why take chances, right?”

“Exactly,” Balkis said. “I wish to journey with him through Prester John's tributaries and his own domain, all the way to Maracanda itself. We should be so firmly bound by then that he will not be affrighted—not if he truly loves me.”

“Assuming he doesn't feel you deceived him, of course.”

“Ridiculous!” Balkis said. “I am myself! Why should it matter whether I am a princess or a beggar?”

“Good point,” Matt said, “but it does matter. Still, it's your play, and I won't try to rewrite it for you.”

“Please do not.” Balkis' face was taut with anxiety. “I am not ready to be a princess again! We have survived dangers and privations on this journey, it is true, but we have also seen wonders, and come to know amazing people. I wish to see the country all the way into the capital itself as ordinary people do, so that I may come to know them better.”

Matt looked into her eyes and drew his own conclusions about which ordinary person she wanted to know better. He smiled, remembering his first few days of rapture, and reached out to pat her hand. “Don't worry, I'll keep quiet about it. Just don't wear out the honeymoon before the wedding, okay?”

Matt took dictation, refereed the disagreements on wording, and kept them from breaking up the newborn alliance, then carved it all into a cliff at the side of the village—magically, of course. The villagers were suitably impressed by the stunt and swore to uphold the treaty, possibly more out of fear of the power that had engraved it than of the threat of civil war that could have resulted from breaking it.

Matt, the two huge dragons, and the young couple stayed on through the celebrations that evening, then slept the sleep of the sober amid a thousand drunks—with one always awake as sentry, of course. The next morning, Anthony got the exhilarating and terrifying experience of a dragon ride, because Matt insisted on seeing his young charges well beyond reach of the dragoneers before he let them go north on their own.

Thirty miles north, Stegoman and Dimetrolas came in for a landing, and Balkis and Anthony slid down, Balkis running to hold Anthony upright while he got his land legs again. He gave her a foolish grin and a sloppy kiss and said, “I wish another such ride someday.”

“I shall give you one,” Stegoman promised, “though you shall have to come to Maracanda to have it.”

“One more reason for traveling north! Many thanks, noble beast! I shall see you in Maracanda!”

“In Maracanda, then,” Stegoman acknowledged, and took off with Matt on his back and Dimetrolas flying convoy.

“You have most amazing friends,” Aiithony informed Balkis.

“I know.” She pressed herself against him and wrapped her arms around his chest. “Though I had hoped you were more than a friend.”

“Far more.” Anthony grinned and kissed her.

They traveled northward for three more days, though they did not exactly hurry. Balkis chafed at Anthony's gallantry in asking nothing of her but kisses, especially since those inflamed her so that her entire body burned to give and demand more—but she remembered what the Lord Wizard had said about not wearing out the honeymoon before the wedding and fancied there might be some truth in it, so she wandered northward arm in arm with her swain and waited for them to happen upon a priest.

Her hopes soared when they came to a crossroads and saw a little chapel glittering in the light of later afternoon. “We can at least give thanks for a safe journey, Anthony.”

“We can indeed,” he said, and together they went to the chapel.

As they came closer, Balkis gasped in wonder. “How marvelous!”

The chapel stood surrounded by trees; its roof reflected the green of their leaves, but with spots of blinding light here and there where the sun's rays came through. It was ornamented with a delicate tracery of leading, and the sides were every color of the rainbow, depicting scenes from he Bible.

“There is Noah,” Balkis breathed, “and there Abraham and Moses!”

“There David fights Goliath,” Anthony said, “and there Esther stands before the king!”

“There Mary and Joseph kneel at the creche,” Balkis said. “The whole church is made of glass!”

“How can it ever stand against a storm?” Anthony wondered.

“There is either magic in it or a genius of an architect,” Balkis answered. “Shall we see more of the Savior's life on the other side, do you think?”

“Let us enter and discover,” Anthony urged.

They went in, and the room was quite full, the congregation standing, but they were so spellbound by the beauty around them, they barely noticed. The glass of the roof was indeed green, dimming the sun so that it did not hurt their eyes—but that same sunshine poured through the western wall, throwing jeweled light upon all the people within. Even on the eastern wall, the windows glowed with the light from outside—and sure enough, it showed scenes from the Savior's life. Wherever they looked, they were surrounded by pictures that almost seemed to breathe with the light that infused them.

But Balkis' gaze went to the man who stood in the pulpit. She was disappointed to see that he wore no chasuble, nor any stole around his neck, only a simple white robe, though it glowed with half a dozen colors from the light that struck through the leaded walls.

“We shall not hear a true Mass,” Anthony said, disappointed, “for if he wears no stole, he is no priest, but only a deacon at best.”

Balkis felt a surge of chagrin and fought to keep it from showing—there was no chance of a wedding here. She tried to be philosophical, telling herself that Anthony had not asked her to marry him in any event.

There were no pews, which was why the people stood to hear the service. Anthony and Balkis edged their way in and stood with their backs against a wall.

It certainly was like no Mass that Balkis had ever attended, but Anthony nodded, smiling, obviously familiar with the words, even speaking them himself when the congregation gave the deacon their ritual response.

Then Balkis stiffened and clutched Anthony's forearm. He turned to her in concern, and she stretched to whisper in his ear, “The wall no longer presses against my back!”

“Surely we have stepped forward.” Anthony turned to look at the people in front of him, then stared. “No, we have not.”

Balkis turned to look, almost afraid of what she might see, and noticed that the wall was a good three feet behind her. She turned back quickly, as though to keep the chapel from hiding its dimensions from her. “Anthony—the roof is a little higher, and all the walls a few feet farther apart than they were when we entered!”

“This cannot be,” Anthony said nervously. He would have explained, but just then some people came in through the doorway behind them. They wore pilgrims' gowns, dusty with travel, and looked wearied, but the beauty of the little chapel seemed to refresh them instantly. The new arrivals filed along the wall behind Anthony and Balkis, then along the wall to the other side of the door—and kept coming. Thirty or forty of them filed in, standing on line behind another—three rows, where there had been only three feet! Moreover, the wall was a foot or two behind the backs of the rearmost line!

Balkis and Anthony looked at one another in amazement. then looked back at the walls, feeling a strange prickling along their backs. Anthony leaned close and whispered, “The deacon will explain it when we are done.”

They listened to the rest of the service in silence, but Balkis had a deal of trouble in keeping her mind on it. Her gaze kept drifting to the walls.

Finally the deacon bade the congregation go, and they filed out of the chapel—or church, for it had grown amazingly in the short time they had been there.

Anthony touched Balkis' arm. “Let us stay behind, so we may talk to the deacon at leisure.”

“Well thought,” Balkis agreed. They drew aside.

A woman in pilgrim's garb stepped up near them. “Is not this a wondrous church?”

“Wondrous indeed,” Balkis agreed and smiled, drawn to the woman even though they were total strangers. She was middle-aged, with a full, kind, smiling face. Her skin was the dark tan of the Afghans, wrinkled with laughter and smiling. Iron-gray curls peeped from under her hood, and although she wore the same dusty cream-colored robe as everyone else, the embroidered cross on her breast was a work of art in five colors. “Have you come far?” Balkis asked.

“From Kashmir, young woman—a land far to the south, glorious with mountains.” She pressed Balkis' hand in greeting. “I live in a little town there; my name is Sikta, and my husband and I grew prosperous from the caravan trade. Now all our children are grown and married, though, so he sold his business, and we have time and money to go to see St. Thomas and the wonders of Maracanda. What of yourselves?”

Balkis was a little taken aback by the woman's openness and friendliness, but Anthony responded to it like a flower turning its face to the sun. “I hail from a farm in the mountains far to the south, good woman, but only a day or two from the caravan route. Belike my father and brothers sold you foodstuffs as you passed.”

“I do seem to remember a man of my own years, with four stalwart sons.” Sikta peered into his face. “Yes, one of them looked much like you—but that was three months ago, and only a few weeks from Kashmir!”

“I had heard of your land,” Anthony said. “You grow sheep whose wool is wondrously soft, do you not?”

“Goats, young man, and yes, the quality of their hair is known far and wide.” Sikta beamed at his knowing of her land. “Are you newlyweds?”

She had her answer in Balkis' lowering of her gaze and her covert blushing glance at Anthony. He pretended not to notice, saying brightly, “No, good Sikta, we have only been traveling companions. I am Anthony, and this is Balkis, stolen from her home by a foul villain. I set out only to escort her, to bring her safely to her homeland and see something of the world along the way—but I have fallen in love with her, and have cause to think that she is not indifferent to my suit.”

“Suit forsooth!” said Balkis. “You have asked me for nothing but a kiss! Well, several… all right, many.”

“And shall ask for many more.” Anthony devoured her eyes with his gaze. “I would ask for your hand, too, and your life with mine, were I certain we could find a priest.”

“Do not let that stop you,” Sikta told him. “Long engagements have their virtues—if you can be virtuously engaged.”

“I could try,” Anthony sighed, “but I fear my own urges.”

Balkis blushed furiously and noticed that the pathway to the church had fascinating brickwork.

“You shall be quite safe if you have an abundance of chap-erones,” Sikta said somewhat primly. “Travel with us, young people, and you may be sure you will be so closely watched that you shall be hard put to sneak a kiss now and again.”

Balkis wasn't sure she liked the sound of that, either, but Anthony leaped at the chance. “Why, how good of you!”

“We are bound to Maracanda,” Balkis admitted. “I have dwelt there with my uncle this last year.”

“Of Maracanda yourself!” Sikta cried. “Why, then, you must journey with us, for you can show us the town!”

Balkis was saved from having to answer immediately, for Anthony said, “The deacon is done with his churchgoers. Let us speak to him before he goes to his home.”

They stepped up and the deacon turned to offer his hand. “Welcome, pilgrims! I regret that we could not offer you the Eucharist, but there is only the one priest for these five parishes. He shall come two Sundays hence. We must fare without him as well as we may, and I can, at least, say vespers.”

“You said them very well, too,” Anthony said. “Tell me, deacon—was it my imagination, or did the chapel truly swell as more and more pilgrims came in?”

“It did indeed, good people! We are singularly blessed, for no matter how many come for our services, there is always room for more. We are overwhelmingly grateful to the good Lord for the favor, for none should be turned away from a church for lack of room.”

“That is fortunate for a chapel on the caravan routes “Anthony said.

“Even as you say—three of the routes converge here to become one broad road leading northward to Maracanda. We frequently have more travelers than parishoners—so we have cultivated the modesty to believe we were given our chapel for pilgrims as well as ourselves. We strive to maintain it as a sacred trust—and the caravans are generous in aiding us.”

Balkis recognized a plea for contributions when she heard one. She elbowed Anthony in the ribs.

He turned to her with a sad smile. “What a pity we have no coins—but when we have sold our wares in Maracanda, we can send money for this church.”

“That would be good of you, young folk, but we do not ask money of those who have little.” The deacon smiled and raised a hand in blessing. “May St. Christopher guard your passage!”

They traveled north with the caravan, enjoying the light-hearted company of the pilgrims and taking their turns telling stories—their own adventures, which everyone agreed were too fabulous to be believed. There was a holiday mood about them, and Balkis studied them, remembering Sikta's tale of being free to go on pilgrimage after a lifetime of earning, and realized that most of them were of her kind—hardworking, devout people who were finally free to travel after a lifetime of toil and responsibility. They were able at last to shed that burden for a while and were enjoying life with the delight of release. They were quite sincere in their religious zeal for witnessing the miracle of St. Thomas, but they were also eager to see something of the world, even as Anthony was, and the wonders of Maracanda. They were on holiday indeed, and meant to enjoy the experience to the fullest. Balkis found them to be wonderful company and listened to their gossip of child-rearing and grandchildren with yearning. She was beginning to realize that she, too, wanted to be a mother some day. She hoped their stories would arouse some stirrings of the same feeling in Anthony. There did seem to be a new quality of longing in his gaze now, but that might simply be due to the plethora of chaperones. As Sikta had promised, it was indeed difficult for them to be alone long enough for a satisfactory kiss.

Thus they wandered northward on a road a good twenty feet wide, passing small towns and prosperous farms, gossiping and singing and resting frequently. Their progress was slow, but Balkis was in no hurry to reach Maracanda and take up again the mantle of princess—and with it, to risk losing Anthony.

Then, after they had been on the road a week, they heard the distant noise of trumpets. Balkis' heart sank, for she recognized the pitch and timbre of the instruments. They blew again and again, coming closer and closer, until two soldiers on horseback shouldered through the crowd with two heralds between them and two trumpeters behind. The heralds cried out, “Make way, make way for the emperor! Clear the road, for Prester John passes!”