Three hearts and three lions

15

BESIDES THE NEED for haste, to get expert advice before Morgan le Fay thought up a new devilment, Holger felt embarrassed in Lourville. Yve’s family were grateful and so forth, but they didn’t need further intrusions on their privacy at such a difficult time. The commoners were rather overwhelming; he couldn’t venture out of the house without being mobbed by his admirers. Lady Blancheflor asked that he lay hands on her, and within hours she was on her feet. She’d been due to recover anyway, her influenza past the crisis, but Holger could foresee every case of measles and rheumatism for ten miles around being brought to him.

So, what with one thing and another, he only stayed one day, and made an early start on the next. Sir Yve insisted on presenting Alianora with a horse, and this was welcome. Some money would have been even more welcome, but of course no belted knight could bring up so crass a subject.

The next several days were pleasant. They drifted through hills and valleys and forests, sheltering when it rained, pausing at lakes to fish and swim. Now and then they glimpsed the white shape of a woods-fay, or a griffin hot and golden against the sun; but the Middle Worlders let them alone.

To be sure, Alianora, though a fine and lovely girl, had some drawbacks as a traveling companion. The self-cleaning, self-renewing properties of her swan tunic disconcerted Holger: too much like an actual skin growing on her. Then she peeled it innocently off at the first swimming hole and disconcerted him a good deal more. Her forest friends showed up from time to time, and a squirrel with an offering of fruits was okay; but when a lion stalked into camp and laid a fresh-killed deer at her feet, Holger’s nerves didn’t untwist for half an hour afterward. Worse was the moral necessity of giving her a full and fair account of himself, his origin and intentions. Not that she wasn’t quick to understand—but—

The real trouble was her own attitude toward him. Damn it, he did not want to compromise himself with her. A romp in the hay with someone like Meriven or Morgan was one thing. Alianora was something else. An affair with her wouldn’t be good for either party, when he meant to leave this world the first chance he got. But she made it hard for him to remain a gentleman. She was so shyly and pathetically hoping for an affair.

One evening he drew Hugi aside. He’d just spent an hour kissing Alianora goodnight, and had needed all his willpower—or won’t power—to stop at that and pack her off to sleep. “Look,” he said, “you know what’s going on with me and her.”

“Aye, so I do,” grinned the dwarf. “And a guid thing ’tis. She’s dwelt too long wi’ no near friends save beasties and the wee folk.”

“But... but you warned me to behave myself with her.”

“’That were afore I kenned ye well. Noo methinks ye’re a richt guid man for her; and the lassie needs a man. She and ye could reign o’er us in the woods. We’d be glad o’ ye.”

“Good grief! You’re no help whatsoever.”

“I been as helpfu’ as could be,” said Hugi in an injured tone. “Ye dinna know hoo oft I turned ma face, or wandered into the woods, to leave ye twa alane.”

“That’s not what—Oh, never mind.”

Holger lit his pipe and stared gloomily into the fire. He wasn’t any Don Juan. He couldn’t understand why one woman after another, in this world, should throw herself at him. Meriven and Morgan had had good practical reasons, but he wasn’t too dense to realize they had enjoyed their work more than usual. Alianora had quite simply fallen in love with him. Why? He had no illusions about his own irresistibility.

But of course that alter ego of his could be another story. He imagined that his slow return to forgotten habits showed in numberless subtle ways which transformed the total impression he made. What had he been like, this knight of the hearts and lions?

Well, let’s see. Figure it out on the basis of what had happened hitherto. Obviously a mighty warrior, which was what counted most in this world. A gusty, good-natured bruiser, not especially nimble-witted, but likeable. Something of an idealist, presumably: Morgan had spoken of his defending Law even if he stood to gain more from Chaos. He must have had a way with the ladies, or so wise a jade as she would hardly have taken him off to Avalon. And... and... that seemed to be all he could deduce. Or remember?

No, wait, Avalon. Holger looked at his right hand. That same hand had rested on a balustrade of green malachite, whose top was set with silver figures that had jewels in their centers. He remembered how the sun had fallen on the back of his hand, turning the hair to gold wires against the brown skin, and how the silver under his palm was warmer than the stone, and how the rubies glowed crimson. Straight down below the balustrade tumbled a cliff, which was of glass. From above he could see how the grottos broke light into a million rainbow shards, spraying the light outward again, hot sparks of red and gold and violet. The sea beneath had been so dark it was almost purple, with foam of amazing snowy whiteness where the cliff plowed the water... for Avalon stayed never in one place, the island floated over the western ocean in a haze of its own magic...

No more would come to mind. Holger sighed and composed himself for sleep.

After a week or so—he lost count of days—they left the wilderness and entered lands where the forest was thinned to copses. Grainfields billowed yellow across the hills. Shaggy little horses and cows pastured behind rail fences. The peasant homes grew numerous, mostly of rammed earth in this district, clustered in hamlets amid the cultivated acres. Here and there could be seen a stockaded wooden castle. The up-to-date ones of stone lay westward, where the Holy Empire held full sway. The mountains Holger had crossed, and the Faerie wall of dusk, were quite lost to sight. Northward, however, he saw the dim blue line of a much higher range, three of whose snowpeaks seemed to float pale and disembodied in the sky. Hugi said the Middle World lay beyond those too. No wonder the men hereabouts always went armed, even when working in the fields; no wonder the elaborate hierarchical civilization of the Empire was discarded for a frontier informality. The knights who put the travelers up two evenings in succession were unlettered, rough-fisted Western marshal types, though friendly enough and avid for news.

Toward sunset of their third day in the farmlands they entered Tarnberg, which Alianora said was the nearest thing to a city in the whole eastern half of the duchy. But its castle stood vacant. The baron had fallen with his sons in battle against heathen raiders from the north, his lady had gone west to her Imperial kinfolk, and no successor had yet arrived. It was a part of the general bad luck in the last few years, the radiation of Chaos as the Middle Worlders readied their powers. Now the Tarnberg men posted their own guard on the wooden walls, and governed themselves by an improvised council of estates.

As he rode in Holger saw a cobbled street where children, dogs, and pigs played, winding between half-timbered houses toward a market square where stood a wooden church rather like a Norwegian stave kirk. Papillon stepped through a noisy clutter of workmen and housewives, who gaped, made clumsy bows, but didn’t venture to address him. There was no sense in advertising himself, so he had covered his shield. Alianora, who rode ahead with Hugi, was well known, and Holger heard how they called to her.

“Hoy, there, swan-may, what brings you hither?”

“Who’s the knight?”

“What’s new in the woods, swan-may?”

“What news from Charlemont? Saw you my cousin Hersent?”

“Know you aught of the hosting in Faerie?” An anxious voice, that; folk who heard crossed themselves.

“Is’t a lord you bring to ward us?”

The girl smiled and waved, though not quite happily. She didn’t like so many walls or people around.

She guided Holger to a house even narrower and more irregularly cornered than average. A signboard hung from the gallery, above the door. Holger read the florid script.

MARTINUS TRISMEGISTUS

Magister Magici

Spells, Charms, Prophecies, Healing, Love Potions

Blessings, Curses, Ever-Filled Purses

Special rates for parties

“Hm,” he said. “Looks like an enterprising chap.”

“Och, indeed.” said Alianora. “He’s also Tamberg’s apothecary, dentist, scribe, dowser, and horse doctor.”

She swung lithely down with a flash of long bare legs. Holger followed, looping the reins to a post. A few rough-looking men lounged across the way, their gaze intent on the animals and gear. “Keep an eye on things, Hugi,” he said.

“Why, if any tried to steal Papillon, I’d bewail ’em.” answered the dwarf.

“Ja, that’s what I’m afraid of,” said Holger.

He was doubtful about entrusting his secret, such as it was, to this horse-and-buggy wizard. But Alianora had recommended the fellow highly, and he didn’t know where else to turn.

A bell jangled as they entered the shop. The place was dark and dusty. Shelves and tables were heaped with a jackdaw’s nest of bottles, flasks, mortars, alembics, retorts, huge leather-bound books, skulls, stuffed animals, and Lord knew what else. An owl on a perch hooted, a cat leaped from underfoot.

“Coming, coming, good sir, one moment, please,” called a high thin voice. Master Martinus trotted from the back rooms and rubbed his hands together. He was a small man in a shabby black robe on which the zodiacal symbols had faded from much laundering. His round bald head showed a wispy beard and weak blinking eyes; his smile was timid. “Ah, how do you do, sir, how do you do? What can I do for you?” Peering closer: “Why, it’s the little swan maiden. Come in, my dear, do come in. But of course, you’re already in, are you not? Yes, yes, so you are.”

“We’ve a task for ye, Martinus,” said Alianora. “It may task ye in truth, but we’ve none other wha’ micht help.”

“Well, well, well, I shall do what I can, my dear, and you too, good sir. I shall do what I can. Excuse me.” Martinus wiped the dust off a parchment hung on the wall, which was one way of drawing Holger’s attention to it. The writing thereon declared that whereas Martinus filius Holofii had met the standards set by the examining board, etc., etc., now therefore by virtue of the powers vested in me by the Regents of the University of Rhiannon, I do hereby confer upon him the degree of Magister in the field of Magic, with all privileges and obligations thereunto pertaining, etc., etc.

“I’m afraid I can’t—” Holger was about to explain he had no money, but Alianora dug an elbow in his ribs.

“There be frichtful secrets in this yarn,” she said quickly. “’Tis no for any common hill-wizard to scorch his soul wi’.” She gave the magician such a smile that even Holger, who stood on its fringes, felt sandbagged. “So I brocht the knicht hither to ye.’’

“And very wisely, my girl, very wisely, if I do say so myself. Come in, please, come into my office and we will discuss your problem.” Martinus puttered ahead of them to a cubicle as grimy and cluttered as the shop. He dumped books from chairs, muttering something apologetic about his housekeeper, and piped aloud, “Wine! Bring wine for three.” After a short silence: “Hi, there! I say, do wake up! Wine for three.”

Holger lowered himself into one of the chairs, which creaked alarmingly under his weight. Alianora poised on the edge of another, flickering her eyes about like a snared bird. Martinus found a third seat, crossed his legs, made a bridge of his fingers, and said, “Now, sir, what seems to be your difficulty?”

“Well, uh,” said Holger, “well, it all began back when—oh, hell, I hardly know where to begin.”

“Would you like a couch to lie on?” asked Martinus solicitously.

A bottle and three dirty goblets floated in and landed on the table. “About time,” grumbled the sorcerer. After a moment, when the invisible servant had presumably left, he went on, “I declare, there is no decent help to be had these days. None. That sprite, now, he is quite impossible. Improbable, at least,” he qualified. “Not like when I was a boy. Such classes knew their place then. And as for herbs, and mummy, and powdered toad, why, they just don’t put the sort of stuff into them they used to. And the prices! My dear sir, you’ll scarcely believe it, but only last Michaelmas—”

Alianora coughed. “Oh, pardon me,” said Martinus. “I rambled. Bad habit, rambling. Must make a note not to ramble.” He poured the wine and offered it around. It was drinkable. “Proceed, good sir, I pray you. Say what you will.”

Holger sighed and launched into his story. Martinus surprised him with questions and comments as shrewd as Duke Alfric’s had been. When Holger recounted his stay with Mother Gerd, the wizard shook his head. “I know of her,” he said. “Not a good sort. Not surprising you got into trouble. She traffics with black magic. It’s these unlicensed practitioners who give the whole profession a bad name. But do go on, sir.”

At the end Martinus pursed his lips. “A strange tale,” he said. “Yes I think your supposition is right. You are the crux of a very large matter indeed.”

Holger trembled as he leaned forward. “Who am I?” he asked. “Who bears three hearts and three lions?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know, Sir Holger. I suspect you are, or were, some great man in the western lands, France for example.” Martinus looked pedantic. “Are you familiar with the mystical geography? Well, you see, the world of Law—of man—is hemmed in with strangeness, like an island in the sea of the Middle World. Northward live the giants, southward the dragons. Here in Tarnberg we are close to the eastern edge of human settlement and know a trifle about such kingdoms as Faerie and Trollheim. But news travels slowly and gets dissipated in the process. So we have only vague, distorted rumors of the western realms—not merely the Middle World domains out in the western ocean, like Avalon, Lyonesse, and Huy Braseal, but even the human countries such as France and Spain. Thus, although this knight of hearts and lions, who seems in some manner to be yourself, may be a household name in that part of the world, I cannot identify him. Nor do I think the information is in my books, though I really must catalogue my library one of these days.

“However”—he grew earnest and lost some of his fussiness—”in a general way, I think I can see what has happened. This western knight would have been too great a foe for Chaos to meet. Quite likely he was one of the Chosen, like Carl or Arthur or their greatest paladins. I do not mean a saint, but a warrior whom God gave more than common gifts and then put under a more than common burden. The knights of the Round Table and of Carl’s court are long dead, but another champion may have taken their place. So before Chaos could hope to advance, this man had to be gotten out of the way.

“Morgan may well have done that herself, by burying his past life in him beyond the aid of any ordinary spell, turning him into a child, and projecting him into your other world, in hopes that he would not return until Chaos had irretrievably won. Why she did not merely assassinate him, I cannot say. Perhaps she didn’t have the heart to. Or perhaps, being one of the Chosen, he was shielded by a greater Power than hers.

“In any event, I believe he was returned here at the crucial moment. Direct divine intervention seems unlikely; with all due respect, sir, I doubt if you are quite in a state of grace as yet, and certainly the spell on your mind remains. No, I think Morgan did not realize that unity of creation which you say you speculated about. At the moment of greatest need, the champion had to return. And now the Middle World is using its arts and strength to block him. Or you, as the case may be,” Martinus finished anticlimactically: “This is only a theory, my dear sir. Only a theory. But I flatter myself that it does fit the known facts.”

Holger hunched his shoulders. It was an eerie situation. He didn’t like being a chess piece.

No, he wasn’t that. He was free. Too free. He embodied a power he did not know anything about and could not handle. Oh, blast and damn! Why did this have to happen to him, out of every soul alive?

“Can you send me back?” he asked tautly.

Alianora drew a sharp breath, then looked away. She’d known he wanted to return, thought Holger with a tinge of remorse, but she’d ignored the fact, lived in some kind of dream, until this moment.

Martinus shook his head. “No, sir, I fear the task is too great for me. Most likely too great for anyone, mortal or Middle Wonder. If my guess is correct, then you have not only been caught up in the struggle between Law and Chaos, you are an integral part thereof.”

He sighed. “Perhaps once,” he said, “when I was young and gay and arrogant, I might have tried to oblige you. I’d attempt anything in those days. You have no idea what student pranks can be till you’ve seen a magicians’ college... But I have learned my limitations. I fear I can give you little help, nor even much advice.”

“But what should I do?” asked Holger helplessly. “Where should I go?”

“I cannot tell. And yet—yet there is that item of the sword Cortana. Tales come out of the west, but so unwontedly clear and fulsome that I think the events concerned may have happened rather closer to here. The story is of a sword named Cortana, of the same steel as Joyeuse, Durindal, and Excalibur; and the story is also that a holy man, a veritable saint, laid his blessing upon Cortana, that in the hands of its rightful owner it might bulwark Christendie now that those other great weapons are gone with their masters. But later, the tale says, the sword was stolen away and buried in some distant place by the minions of... Morgan le Fay? You see, they could not destroy it, but with the help of heathen men who could ignore the sacredness, they hid Cortana away lest it be used against them.”

“Should I try to find it, then?”

“A dangerous business, young man. Yet I see nothing else which can long protect you against your foes. Tell you what.” Martinus tapped Holger’s knee. “Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll use my powers, and some have been kind enough to call ’em not inconsiderable, to try and find out who you are and where the sword is hidden. Its aura would make it perceptible to such airy sprites as I can summon. Yes, that seems the best course.”

“Thank ye more than I can tell,” said Alianora. The prospect of danger didn’t seem to bother her, in her relief that Holger wasn’t going to be whisked away the next minute.

“I fear I’ve no guest space,” said Martinus, “but there’s a tavern where you can stay overnight. Tell the landlord I sent you, and—hm, no, I’d forgotten about that bill of his. Well, come back tomorrow... Oh, yes. Would you like a disguise against the Saracen? I have some good disguises, very reasonably priced.”

“The Saracen?” Holger exclaimed.

“What? Didn’t I tell you? Bless my soul, so I didn’t. Clean forgot. Getting absent-minded. Must remember to whip up a memory-strengthening spell. Oh, yes, the Saracen you’d heard was looking for you. He’s in town too.”