Penric's Demon

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  Tigney sat to Pen’s left; the magistrate straightened up and frowned down the table. “This committee is here assembled to inquire into the unfortunate events of last night,” he said, formally. If he’d been trained as a lawyer, Pen suspected he could parse more implications out of that. Not a trial, yet—inquest, was that the term? The magistrate went on, “We have thus far taken the testimony of Learned Tigney and Blessed Broylin of Idau, and the testimony and confession of Dedicat Clee.”

  “Did Clee finally stop lying?” Pen asked Tigney.

  “Mostly,” Tigney grunted. “We think.”

  In his corner, the saint snorted softly, but did not look up.

  “There remain some points of confusion and uncertainty,” the magistrate went on. Pen did not doubt it. “In aid of their resolution, we request that you take oath before the gods of the truth of your tongue, and recount what you experienced for our records.”

  Pen gulped, but, coached through the wording by the Father’s divine, readily did so. He couldn’t think of anything he wanted to lie about anyway. Maybe he was still too tired.

  Under the prodding of the magistrate, Pen repeated his account of the events of the past day, in a deal more detail than his first bald report to Tigney. Quills scratched furiously. Every once in a while, another member of the committee would ask some shrewd or uncomfortable question, by which Pen began to grasp what a gullible idiot he had been. Remembered terror and outrage yielded to some embarrassment.

  At least he was not alone in that last. The magistrate asked Tigney, “Why did you choose to lodge Lord Penric in Dedicat Clee’s room? Was there no other choice?”

  Tigney cleared his throat. “No, but Clee was, I thought, my trusted assistant. The two were of a like age. I thought Clee might keep an eye on his doings, maybe draw him out and find any falsehoods in his tale. And report to me.”

  Pen’s eyebrows scrunched. “You set him to spy on me?”

  “It seemed prudent. Your story was . . . unusual. And as you yourself have found, some men will do questionable things in hopes of gaining a sorcerer’s powers.”

  Pen thought throat-cutting went a bit beyond questionable, but Father’s divine looked up from his note-taking and asked, “If Dedicat Clee had not been placed so close to temptation, do you think he might not have generated his scheme in the first place?”

  Tigney shrank in his seat. After a long pause, he muttered, “I do not know. Maybe not.”

  The woman in silk and linen pursed her lips, her own busy quill pausing. “In all your observations last night, Lord Penric, was there anything to tell you which of the brothers first originated the plan?”

  “I’m . . . not sure,” said Pen. “Up till the castle caught fire, they seemed very united and, um, loyal to each other. Lord Rusillin seemed more willing to abandon the hunt at that point, but then, he thought I was about to drown in the lake. In his, er,”—not defense—“so did I.” Pen blinked. “Is there any word from Castle Martenden today? I mean, apart from Clee. I couldn’t tell if he’d come back because his brother had thrown him out, or to prepare some ground on Rusillin’s behalf.” If the latter, he had certainly failed. Mucked it up beyond all repair, possibly. Pen could hope.

  “That will be another point to clarify,” the woman murmured, her quill scratching again. “Or maybe not.” A slight, strange smile turned her lips. “Dedicat Clee claims the notion was his brother’s, over a dinner with too much wine.”

  “But then, he would,” observed one of the other senior divines. By her slight frown, the woman did not seem to find this helpful.

  “Will Lord Rusillin be arrested, too, like his brother?”

  “We are looking into the practicalities of that,” said the woman.

  Unlike Clee, Lord Rusillin, ensconced in... whatever was left of his stronghold, had his own armed men, which must certainly make the task more challenging to a town constable. Pen didn’t get the idea this disturbed her as much as it did him.

  The committee ran out of questions as Pen ran out of answers, and, sucked dry, he was released.

  Tigney escorted him out. “I have many urgent things to attend to as a result of all this,” he said, waving a hand about a bit randomly, if appropriately. “I should be grateful if you would keep to your room a while longer, Lord Penric. Or at least to this house.”

  “What’s going to happen to me?”

  “That’s one of the things I must attend to.” Tigney sighed, and Pen wondered if he’d had the benefit of a nap this morning. Probably not. “Apparently, you are meant to keep your demon. You might even have been intended to get your demon.” He looked troubled by this thought, not without cause. “Blessed Broylin either would not or could not say.”

  Emboldened, Pen said, “If I am to stay in, can I have Ruchia’s book back? And the run of the library?”

  Tigney began to make his usual negative noises. Pen added, “Because if I don’t have anything to read, and can’t leave the house, I will have no way to pass the time except to experiment with my new powers.”

  Tigney grimaced like a man chewing on an unripe quince, but shortly thereafter Pen, grinning, climbed back to his room with the book clutched firmly in his hand.

  * * *

  He was back reading in the library the next morning when Tigney himself came to find him.

  “Lord Penric. Please dress yourself”—Tigney looked him over—“as best you can, and make ready to accompany me up the hill. Our presence is requested.”

  “Up the hill?” said Penric, confused. Some local argot?

  “At the palace,” Tigney clarified, confirming Pen’s guess and alarming him no little bit.

  He hurried through a better wash from his basin, combed and retied his hair with the blue ribbon, and skinned into the least dire selection of clothing left in his pile. Shortly after, he found himself climbing up the steep street in Tigney’s wake. The divine, typically, did not say much. Pen supposed he would learn all for himself, firsthand, and gritted his teeth in patience.

  The palace, with all its offices, was a rambling structure of rose-colored stone extending over three buildings behind the temple. It was no fortress like grim Castle Martenden; if the city walls did not hold, its own would not slow a determined attack for long. Its upper facades were rich with windows. They were admitted to a side entrance, where a servant in the livery of the princess-and-archdivine escorted them up two flights not to a throne room, but to a workroom reminiscent of Tigney’s, though several times larger. On the lake side, four tall doors set with glass admitted good light, and allowed the exit of occupants onto a narrow balcony. Writing tables and chairs were positioned to catch the best illumination. Several scribes were at work, who looked up curiously as they arrived, then bent their heads again to their quills.

  Pen was not too surprised when the silk-and-linen-clad woman from yesterday’s inquest rose to receive them from the servant at the door. “Five gods give you good day, Lord Penric, Learned. This way, if you please.”

  First, Penric was made to sit down and read through a long copy of his deposition from yesterday, sign it, and have his signature countersigned by Tigney and the woman, whom he finally learned thereby was the princess-archdivine’s own secretary. This was repeated for two more clear copies—some palace scribe had been busy last night. It all seemed tolerably accurate and complete, from a certain point of view.

  Then he was taken to the end of the room, where another aging woman sat at a desk apart, reading through a stack of papers. Her gray hair was more finely dressed, her silks more elaborate than the secretary’s—though Pen was beginning to get the idea that silks were to this palace as cheeses were to Greenwell, locally abundant to the point of surfeit. Time-softened skin, slight body, yet somehow secure within herself—he didn’t need Tigney to knock him on the back of the head in order to bow low when he was presented.

  “Your Grace,” he followed Tigney’s lead in addressing her. She extended her hand in brief formal courtesy, and they each
bent to kiss her archdivine’s ring. She was not wearing the Temple robes of that office today; Pen wondered how she kept track of which personage she spoke for at any given moment. Rather like possessing a demon, that.

  The princess-archdivines of Martensbridge were by three centuries of tradition daughters of the Hallow King of the Weald, called or perhaps assigned to this pocket palatine duty on behalf of their royal parent, though this one was, by the grind of time, now aunt to the present king. Lacking a spare or willing daughter, the office was sometimes filled by a cousin or niece; sometimes elected from the Daughter’s Order. Like all things human, the princesses had varied over time in their abilities, but everything about the orderliness of this place spoke well of its current ruler.

  There was a sad shortage of crowns and robes about the princess-and-archdivine today, to Pen’s disappointment, though she did wear some handsome jewelry. Power without panoply, but he was grateful for the informality when she gestured and her secretary brought two chairs for her guests.

  As they settled themselves, Pen a bit gingerly, she said, “So, this is your problem child, Tigney.” He nodded ruefully. Her shrewd gray-eyed gaze went to Pen. “Learned Ruchia’s demon is now within you?”

  “Yes, Your Grace?” Had she known Ruchia?

  Evidently so, for she sighed and said, “I had once hoped that she would become my court sorceress, but there were other calls upon her skills. And I’m afraid she found my modest court too dull.” Pen wondered if she saw him as a poor exchange, though as her gaze dwelt on him her expression softened.

  Deciding he was addressing the princess, just at the moment, he essayed cautiously, “I am sorry about burning down your castle, Your Grace.”

  Her lips curved up, slyly. “Ah, but Martenden is not my castle. Kin Martenden formerly owed fealty to kin Shrike, who died out heirless a generation ago, leaving Martenden orphaned, or perhaps rogue. A freedom of which the current lord’s father, and Rusillin himself, have taken undue advantage. Four times has that castle blocked or seized traffic on the road and the lake during disputes with the city. The city council has been trying to buy out the lordship for fifteen years, but every time they thought him cornered, he’s turned about, most lately with his mercenary schemes. Stealing young men away from this country, more cruel than any tax he has paid, or more often not paid, to us. Castle Martenden has been a bloody thorn in the side of the royal free city for years.”

  “Oh,” said Pen, beginning to be enlightened.

  “Lord Rusillin is weakened and off balance as never before, and best of all, he did it to himself. This is not an opportunity I or the town mean to let slip away. Nonetheless, the campaign, being tricky, will take a little time and much cooperation.” She grimaced at that last word. “That being so, we think it well for you to be put out of his reach. Rusillin is not a forgiving sort of fellow.”

  “Er?” said Pen. Tigney sighed.

  The princess nodded to Pen. “I understand you took an irregular holy oath yesterday. If you will make it a regular one today, the Temple of Martensbridge will undertake to send you to the white god’s seminary at Rosehall. There you will receive the divine’s training that most Temple sorcerers complete before they are offered the responsibility of a demon. Better late than never, I suppose.”

  Pen gasped. “Rosehall? The Weald city with the university? That’s three hundred years old? The famous one?”

  Tigney cleared his throat. “The seminary, while associated with the university corporation, has its own specialized faculty, one of the very few authorized to oversee the training of Temple sorcerers. Nonetheless, you would be expected to take some lectures from the other body. Since you are starting all askew. I cannot imagine it will be easy. For anyone involved.”

  The princess—or perhaps it was the archdivine—smiled. “If the Bastard’s Order at Rosehall can’t handle a little disorder, they have taken oath to the wrong god. But it will give time for this young man’s superiors to take thought, and judge him fairly.” She considered. “Some prayers for guidance might not be a bad idea, either.”

  Pen wasn’t sure if the tightness in his chest was his own excitement, or Desdemona. He gulped. “Your Grace. Learned. May I—I need to talk with—there are two affected here. May I have leave to go apart, and speak with Desdemona?” He wasn’t sure they could manage silent speech just now, and he had no wish to sound demented in front of this high lady.

  The princess raised her well-groomed eyebrows. “Desdemona?”

  “It’s what he’s named his demon,” Tigney muttered to her.

  “He’s named it?” The eyebrows stayed up. “Unusual. But yes, Lord Penric, if you feel you need to.” She gestured toward the balcony. “Take your time.”

  As Pen slipped through the glassed door and closed it behind him, she and Tigney leaned their heads closer together.

  Pen gripped the carved wooden balustrade and stared out down over the town, the river, the bridges and mills, the long lake. The pale line of the peaks on the farthest horizon.

  “Desdemona!” he nearly squeaked. “Rosehall! The university! Me, to be a learned divine! Can you even imagine it?”

  She said dryly, “All too well. Four of my riders before you have been down that road, although three of them before my time. Thankfully.”

  “Even better! It would be as if I had my own tutor living inside my head! How easy could it be?”

  “Mm, I’m not sure how similar the study in Brajar or Saone is, or was, to Rosehall.”

  “I hear the students at Rosehall have great freedom in the city.”

  “If you like drunken, rowdy parties, I suppose.”

  “And don’t you?”

  He thought she smiled, or might have, had she possessed lips. “Perhaps,” she admitted.

  “I could be the first Learned in my whole family, as far back as I know. D’you think my mother will be pleased?” All right, his imagination was getting a little ahead of events, here. But he would send a letter home with Gans, telling her, since it appeared the Temple was going to send him off posthaste.

  “Mm,” said Desdemona. “While in general mothers are quite happy to brag about their children rising in the Temple, there is a slight problem with those who take oath to the white god. Women fear it might reflect on their own marital fidelity, in the minds of some of their gossips.”

  “Oh,” said Pen, taken aback. “That seems very unfair, given it was my father who—never mind.”

  “Your mother will be pleased for you in her heart,” Desdemona promised him. Somewhat airily, he felt, given that the demon had still been insensate when he’d last seen Lady Jurald. But with good will.

  “Will you—” He stopped. May I go was an absurd question to ask, Will you go with me even more so. He wasn’t back arguing his case with Rolsch or his mother, after all. Habits. “Will you be pleased?”

  “Pen,” she said, in a quiet tone he’d never heard from her before. He stilled, listening.

  “You looked a god in the eyes and bore witness for me, by which alone I am preserved.” She took a deep breath, through his mouth. “You looked a god in the eyes. And spoke for me. There is nothing in my power that I will ever refuse you, after that.”

  He took that in, to his ears and to his heart. Swallowed. Nodded shortly, staring unseeing at the far-distant peaks.

  In a few minutes, when he was composed again, he went back inside to kneel before a princess and pledge his future.

  Author’s Note:

  A Bujold Reading Order Guide

  The Fantasy Novels

  My fantasy novels are not hard to order. Easiest of all is The Spirit Ring, which is a stand-alone, or aquel, as some wag once dubbed books that for some obscure reason failed to spawn a subsequent series. Next easiest are the four volumes of The Sharing Knife—in order, Beguilement, Legacy, Passage, and Horizon—which I broke down and actually numbered, as this was one continuous tale divided into non-wrist-breaking chunks.

  What were called the Chalion
books after the setting of its first two volumes, but which now that the geographic scope has widened I’m dubbing the World of the Five Gods, were written to be stand-alones as part of a larger whole, and can in theory be read in any order. Some readers think the world-building is easier to assimilate when the books are read in publication order, and the second volume certainly contains spoilers for the first (but not the third.) In any case, the publication order is:

  The Curse of Chalion

  Paladin of Souls

  The Hallowed Hunt

  “Penric’s Demon”

  In terms of internal world chronology, The Hallowed Hunt would fall first, the Penric novella perhaps a hundred and fifty years later, and The Curse of Chalion and Paladin of Souls would follow a century or so after that.

  Other Original E-books

  The short story collection Proto Zoa contains five very early tales—three (1980s) contemporary fantasy, two science fiction—all previously published but not in this handy format. The novelette “Dreamweaver’s Dilemma” may be of interest to Vorkosigan completists, as it is the first story in which that proto-universe began, mentioning Beta Colony but before Barrayar was even thought of.

  Sidelines: Talks and Essays is just what it says on the tin—a collection of three decades of my nonfiction writings, including convention speeches, essays, travelogues, introductions, and some less formal pieces. I hope it will prove an interesting companion piece to my fiction.