The Spirit Ring

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  Brother Ambrose took a round mirror the size of a platter, framed in wood, from a cupboard and set it on the center table. Beside it he placed a small round tambourine of stretched pale parchment. Monreale cleared away clutter and placed bunches of dried herbs at the cardinal points around the two objects, murmuring under his breath in Latin. Brother Ambrose closed the window shutters, making the plaster-walled room cool and dim. Ambrose gestured for Thur, hanging back in a mixture of politeness and caution, to step up to the table and watch, but put a finger to his lips to enjoin silence.

  From a little blue glass flask, Monreale let one drop of a clear fluid fall to the middle of the mirror; it expanded in a bright blink to the edges. Monreale blew on the surface, and the mirror began to glow with a light that was no reflection of anything in the room. Thur craned his neck to see, barely breathing.

  A dizzy, jerky whirl of colors danced in the glass. Thur squinted, trying to make sense of what appeared at first to be yellow and orange confetti. Then he realized he was looking at tile roofs—looking down from above upon a town. The town turned in the mirror with the inhuman speed of a bird's flight. Yellow stone and brick castle walls arced into view. With a dipping swoop the view sped to the top of a castle tower then, blessedly, stopped for a moment. Thur, engrossed, swallowed a slight nausea. He caught a jerky look down into a courtyard with an elaborate marble staircase, then the tower's twin was framed in the glass.

  Atop it two crossbowmen were cranking their winches, and a thin, dark, clean-shaved man in a red robe leaned on the crenellated yellow brick and pointed. Thur had to quell a startled fear that they were looking straight at him. The slight man shouted, and the crossbowmen took aim and fired. The view jerked, turning again. Another crossbowman, behind the bird on the first tower, was much closer. Thur saw and heard his strings twang with the force of his quarrel's release, then the view in the mirror flared and went dark. Thur realized suddenly that the sound had actually come from the tambourine, but somehow his mind had attached it to the images in the mirror. Monreale grunted, like a man struck in the stomach.

  "No, not another one," groaned Brother Ambrose.

  Monreale's fists clenched, leaning on the tabletop. His lips pinched on words that did not sound quite like prayers. "They were waiting. They were set up and waiting," he said angrily. "Somehow, they must be able to tell my birds from the others." He turned and paced the room with an impatient stride. "Tonight I shall try bats after all. Not even Ferrante has a bowman so quick he can take a bat out of the air in the dark."

  "We’ll see little ourselves, in the dark," said Brother Ambrose dubiously.

  "But hear better."

  "Snores, mostly."

  "Mostly. But if Lord Ferrante is indeed as far up to his neck in black magic as he is accused, night in the castle may be a busier time than we think."

  Brother Ambrose made a wry face, crossed himself, and nodded. He went to open the shutters again.

  Abbot Monreale straightened his sagging shoulders and turned to Thur with a forced smile. Monreale's face was pale and lined, the skin beneath his eyes puffy with fatigue. Thur had slept on straw and stone, and found it a penance. He began to suspect Monreale had not slept at all, and decided not to complain about his bedding.

  "You've plunged me into a real dilemma, boy. You and Fiametta," Monreale observed. "Neither prayer nor reason have yet shown me the way out of it. So I pray more, and seek to give my poor weary reason some new premise to work upon. But as you see, my birds do not come back to me."

  "They are magic spies?" Thur asked. The mirror reflected only the beamed ceiling now.

  "They are supposed to be. They seem to be meeting the fate of spies discovered, certainly." He rubbed the deep crease between his eyes. "Ambrose, did you recognize that man in the red robe on the tower?"

  "No, Father. Did you?"

  "No... that is, I feel I do. But I can't put a name to him. Perhaps I met him in a crowd, or long ago. Ah, well, it will come to me. My poor doves." Monreale turned to Thur. "I need a subtler spy. A human one. I need a volunteer. Someone whose face is not known in Montefoglia."

  Thur glanced around the room. No one here but himself and Ambrose, and somehow he didn't think the abbot was addressing Ambrose.

  "You should know, it's dangerous. My birds were not my only trial. I'm missing a brother."

  Thur swallowed, and spoke up with an effort that sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet chamber. "Father, so am I. What do you want me to do?"

  Monreale smiled and clapped Thur on the shoulder. "Well spoken. Bless you, boy." He cleared his throat. "It's reported that Lord Ferrante's troops are combing Montefoglia for metalworkers, and Ferrante has posted a reward for any foundry master who will come to him at once. Your brother talked of the mines and smelteries of Bruinwald. Do you think you could pass yourself off as a foundryman?"

  "A worker, yes. I don't think I could pass for long as a master."

  "A worker would do. I want this to be as simple as possible. All you need to do is gain entry to the castle. As you move about whatever work you are assigned, look for inconspicuous places to put some small objects I will give to you. Places where men stand to talk—guard posts, the dining hall. If... if you can get to the Duke's study, or whatever rooms Lord Ferrante now frequents, that would be ideal. If you can somehow smuggle one in to Duchess Letitia... well, it's not likely that a foundry worker would be permitted in the prisoners' tower. But if you can, do so."

  "What will these objects be, Father?"

  "I must think on that, and prepare them. We'll let you down over the wall tonight, under the cover of darkness and a spell I will devise. Once you are away from the monastery, enemy troops should be few. You can try to get into Montefoglia when the city gates open at dawn."

  "Why does Lord Ferrante want metalworkers?"

  "I wish I knew. Maybe you can find out, eh? My best guess is that it's to repair some of Duke Sandrino's cannon. There was a cracked bombast that would make short work of poor Saint Jerome, if it could be made sound again. The lighter cannon are all with Sandrino's bastard's mercenary company in Naples, or they would be pounding us now. Who could have foreseen what a bad time this would be to hire out the army? They're farther away than Papal troops right now. Yet Milan was at peace, and Venice too busy with the Turks in the Adriatic to threaten Montefoglia this year, and Losimo was about to be united with ties of blood. I should have..." Monreale trailed off, staring blindly into the infinite regret of the might-have-been. "Ah, well." He shook off the blackness. "What have you to wear, son?"

  Thur turned his palms out. "Just this. I lost my pack last night outside the walls."

  "Hm. Perhaps Brother Ambrose can help you find something less... rural, among the men here. Some clothes to help you look your part. By the way." Monreale paused. "How did you come by that ring?"

  Thur touched the little lion mask. "It's not really mine, Father. It belongs to Madonna Beneforte."

  "Ah! That explains a great deal." Monreale brightened. "Prospero Beneforte's work, is it? I should have realized. I urge you to leave it with Fiametta. It's not the sort of thing a foundryman normally wears. You should do nothing to bring extra attention to yourself, you see."

  "I can't get it off, Father." Thur tugged at it by way of demonstration.

  "Hm?" Monreale took Thur's left hand and bent over it, peering. The shaved part of his scalp around the edge of his tonsure was bristly with new growth, but the center was naturally hairless, smooth and shiny. "Ah, ha! The true love spell of the Master of Cluny, I wager." He straightened, smiling. "And it's working."

  "Oh," said Thur, "You must tell Fiametta. She'll be so pleased. She thought her magic was a failure." He paused. True love spell? What true love spell? "Working how?" Vague fear washed through him. Had his new longings been manipulated by magic? That was an unsettling thought, but no. Real panic came with the notion that Fiametta might somehow be taken from him. But she didn't belong to him. His left hand clenched possessively.


  "Fiametta cast this? Not Master Beneforte? Excuse me, I must have a closer look." He took Thur's hand again, but instead of peering, shut his eyes tightly. Thur's brows wrinkled. Abbot Monreale was silent for a long minute. When he straightened again, opening his eyes, his expression was grave. "Brother Ambrose. Please fetch Fiametta Beneforte."

  Alone with Thur, Monreale crossed his arms and leaned against his worktable. He sucked thoughtfully on his lower lip, gazed at his sandals, then glanced keenly at the young man. "So how do you like the girl, son?"

  "I... like her very well, Father." Thur replied sturdily. "At least... I think I do. I know I do. But what's the ring doing to me?"

  "To you? The ring isn't doing anything to you. You, however, are doing something to it. Completing it, I suppose would be one way of putting it. Cluny's spell is reputed to reveal true love, but that is not perfectly accurate. More precise to say it reveals a true heart." He gave Thur an odd smile, his eyes intent.

  Thur breathed relief. He was not enspelled. Well, he hadn't really thought he was.

  "But are your intentions honorable?" asked Monreale. "Cluny is not always clear on that point."

  "My intentions?" Thur repeated, confused. "What intentions?"

  "Do you think of marriage, or are you in danger of drifting into the sin of lust?" Monreale clarified.

  Marriage? The word had the weight of a rock hammer, swung from behind, meeting his head. Thur blinked. Himself, a husband? Like... like a grown man? A dizzying gulf of maturity yawned before him, quite unexpectedly. "But... I don't... Father, if all had been as it was, as I'd been expecting when my brother's letter fetched me to Montefoglia... Uri had arranged for me to be apprenticed to Master Beneforte, you see. As a poor apprentice, I could not have hoped—not for years, and by then she would have been married off to some rich fellow. Aren't we too far apart? Dare I think I could... have her? It's true, Madonna Beneforte needs someone...." Thur trailed off, his head whirling. Lust? In marriage he could have all the lust he wanted, presumably, and be blessed for it.

  "Given the death of her father, Fiametta needs someone very much," said Monreale. "She has no relatives here. No woman should live alone, with no master to her household. Particularly not a young woman. And Fiametta Beneforte still less. A situation fraught with danger. There is a gap of rank between you, true, but the testimony of this ring is... unusual. What you are, though, is very young and poor to be thinking of setting up a household."

  He hadn't been thinking of it, till Monreale had brought it up.

  "Yet not too young for me to send into a danger I fear could be..." Monreale trailed off. "God help me." That was intoned as a prayer. His voice firmed. "It's a rare and happy man, son, who ever finds his true vocation, his true love, or his true faith." He nodded to the ring. "There is no evil in this for you."

  Footsteps sounded in the outer room, and Brother Ambrose ducked into the inner chamber, followed by Fiametta. Her wildly curling hair was subdued this morning in a thick braid down her back. It made her look serene, older, an effect slightly spoiled by a few stray wisps of straw sticking here and there to her filthy red velvet dress. Thur wanted her to look less tired and worried. She had laughed once, on the road yesterday, at something Thur had said. He wanted her to laugh again. Her laughter had been like water on the hot day. His distress for her weariness and worry became all mixed up in his head with a sudden picture of her, laughing, in a marriage bed, her smooth brown limbs flashing in some froth of nightgown....

  Monreale composed his face into stern lines. He pointed at the lion ring. "Did you make this, Fiametta?"

  She glanced from Monreale's face to Thur's and back again, and said faintly, "Yes, Father."

  "Under your Papa's supervision?"

  She swallowed. "No, Father. Well, yes and no."

  Monreale's gray brows rose. "Which? Yes, or no?"

  "No." Her sculptured chin lifted. "But he knew of it."

  "It seems to be a Beneforte trait, to dabble in questionable rings," said Monreale in a dry tone. “You know Master Beneforte had not licensed you as his apprentice."

  “I've been learning the jeweler's craft for years. You know that, Father Monreale."

  "The metalwork is not my concern."

  "You knew I assisted him in his spells."

  "Such assistance as was proper, under a licensed mage. This, however, is not a work of assistance. Neither is it the work of a clumsy amateur. How came you to know so much?"

  "I often assisted him, Father." After a long, expectant silence, she added reluctantly, "I found the spell written out in one of Papa's books. Investing it in the ring was no problem—I already knew the gold-casting part. I just followed the directions very carefully. There didn't seem to be much to it. No flash. I was disappointed, at first, because I didn't think it had worked, because... because Uri didn't put it on. I tried to give it to him."

  "Ah!" said Monreale in a professionally interested tone, which he converted to a more neutral throat-clearing noise.

  "But then I gradually realized that no one could put it on. That soldier and the thieving innkeeper both tried hard to steal it for its gold, but they couldn't." She glanced covertly at Thur, "Um... is it working, Father?"

  "We will discuss that later. So, you read your Papa's books. With his permission?"

  "Uh... no."

  "Fiametta, that is the sin of disobedience."

  "No, it wasn't! He didn't forbid me. That is... I didn't ask. But I found out later he was watching me all the time, and he didn't stop me. So that's almost like permission, isn't it?"

  Thur could have sworn that Abbot Monreale suppressed a smile at this sophistry, but the flicker of expression in the stern visage was gone again almost at once. "Master Beneforte never applied to me for your license."

  "He was going to. He was just so busy, lately, with the saltcellar and the Perseus and all his other commissions. I'm sure he was going to."

  Monreale raised his brows again.

  "All right," Fiametta sighed, "I'm not sure. But we did talk about it. I begged him to, countless times. Father Monreale, I want to be a mage! I can do good work, I know I can! Better than Teseo. It's not fair!"

  "What it is not, is properly approved," said Monreale. "Not properly supervised. I've seen souls lost to such hubris, Fiametta."

  "So approve me! Papa's not here to ask for me, so I suppose I can ask for myself now. Who else? I want to be good, let me be!"

  Monreale said mildly, "You run ahead of me. First comes contrition, confession, and penance. Then absolution. I haven't even finished my sermon on contrition, yet.”

  Fiametta's brown eyes heated with a sudden glimmer of anticipation, at the leakage of humor and hope from behind Monreale's firm facade. She straightened alertly, almost bouncing. "Oh, get to my penance, Father, quickly!"

  "Your penance will be to go to the altar of Our Lady in the chapel and pray, on your knees, for patience and obedience. When you feel your prayer has been answered, go eat your noon meal, then come back to me here. I urgently need a talented assistant in addition to Brother Ambrose, who is as exhausted as myself. I have a project to complete this afternoon, before Compline."

  "In magic? You're going to let me help you?" Her voice thrilled.

  "Yes, child."

  She danced around him and hugged him hard, habit and all. He fended her off, smiling despite himself. "You must truly compose your mind in prayer first, remember. Demanding, 'Mother Mary, grant me patience and grant it right now!' won't do."

  "How do you know?" Fiametta's eyes sparkled.

  "Hm. Well. You can try it, I suppose. Who am I to say what the Mother of God can't do, in her infinite mercy? The faster she speeds you to patience the sooner I can put you to work. Ah. One other thing, first. I'm sending your friend Thur here on an errand, and I fear that big gold ring would be too conspicuous on his hand. I can draw it off with a little spell, but you can just draw it off."

  "But it's stuck. I saw it. How can I draw i
t off if he can't?"

  "Put simply, he doesn't want to."

  "But I really tried, Father!" Thur said.

  "I know you did. I will discuss the inner structure of the Master of Cluny's spell with you in some less hurried time."

  Frowning in puzzlement, Fiametta turned to Thur. Obediently, he held out his hand. Her tapering brown fingers closed over the lion ring; it returned to her palm as smoothly as if greased. "Oh," she said, startled.

  Monreale handed her a long thong. "I suggest you keep it around your neck, out of sight, Fiametta. Till you come to give it back." He gave her an indecipherable look.

  Thur's finger felt empty, light and cold without his—no, her—ring. He rubbed at the lonely spot, already missing the reassurance that touching the lion had given him.

  The shuffle of sandaled feet came from the outer room; a monk knocked politely on the doorframe, then stuck his head through. "Father? Lord Ferrante's herald is at the outer gate."

  "I come, I come." Monreale waved him out. "Thur, I want you to rest in the afternoon. I'll send a brother to rouse you when it's time. Fiametta, I'll see you here after the noon meal. Go along now." He herded them ahead of him, out through his office, pausing to attend to something at the desk with Brother Ambrose. Thur followed Fiametta down the stairs into the shade of the cloister walk around the courtyard. A few doves paced solemnly about on the lawn in the sunlight, pecking vainly for food bits in the grass.

  Stone benches lined the walkway between the arched stone pillars. Enticed, Thur sat down on one. Fiametta alighted on the other end. Her fingers touched the stiff new leather thong around her neck, faltered to her lips, then settled to the cool stone.

  The sighing of wind in the nearby woods, the low twitter and occasional liquid warble of birdsong, and the muted voices from the monastery gave a temporary illusion of peace. Thur wished it were real. The beauty of the day seemed a cruel hoax. Sweating, grunting, stupid menace of the sort he'd wrestled last night patrolled right outside the stone walls. He wanted to keep that menace far from Fiametta.