Daughter of Magic

by C. Dale Brittain

  Wizards could easily tell the supernatural from the natural forces of magic, I thought somewhat smugly, even if priests could not. The situation did sound nearly as worrisome to me as it apparently did to the bishop, but it was always good to have an excuse to see him. And using my magic to help him would be much better than sitting around Yurt wondering who was going to marry whom. “Of course, Joachim. I can come right away.”

  Even as I spoke it occurred to me that if I had just brought Antonia to Yurt in order to get to know her better, I could not very well abandon her for quick trips to Caelrhon, even if she did seem to be spending more time with the twins than with me. But perhaps now might not be a bad time after all. She was napping anyway, so if I went at once I would miss dinner with her but should be able to solve the cathedral’s problems for them, see Theodora this evening, and still be back first thing in the morning.

  There had been a time, I thought as went to look for the twins to tell them I was leaving Antonia with them, when I could not, as wizard of Yurt, have had anything to do with magical occurrences in the kingdom of Caelrhon. But for the last few years the Royal Wizard of Caelrhon had been a good friend. He lived in the royal castle, not in the cathedral city itself, and he had told me with exasperated firmness that if the cathedral was overrun with nixies he would just as soon have me deal with it myself. I was probably one of the few wizards in the western kingdoms to get along well with a bishop.

  I met Hildegarde in the middle of the courtyard, just coming back from the weapons shop where she told me she had left off a mail shirt for repairs. “Of course, Wizard,” she said casually. “Antonia will have so much fun with us she won’t even realize her uncle is gone.”

  I peeked in a minute at my daughter: sleeping deeply, her cheeks flushed and her doll’s perky face next to hers. Celia sat reading her Bible nearby. A sweet scene, I thought, heading out of the castle for the flight to Caelrhon.

  But Celia caught up with me. “You’re going to see the bishop?” she asked, low and intense. I was startled to see the change in her from the carefree young woman of just a short time earlier. Perhaps there were sides of her that did not come out when Hildegarde was there. “Take me with you, Wizard.”

  It would mean going in the air cart rather than flying myself, which would have been faster, but I couldn’t very well refuse. Hildegarde could certainly watch over my daughter by herself—though I wondered if she might indeed have made her into a warrior by the time I came back. In ten minutes Celia and I were rising above the towers of the royal castle, and the air cart began the steady flapping of wings that would take us to Caelrhon.

  I studied her as we flew. She sat in the skin of a purple flying beast, whipping along a quarter mile above the ground, the wind tugging her midnight hair free of its pins, with no more apparent wonder at the experience than if she had been taking a horse to the cathedral city. She wore a simple dark dress that accented her slimness and her ivory skin, and I thought that it didn’t seem right that someone so young and pretty should be so glum. Her eyes were focused inward, as though concentrating on something she needed to do or say.

  When she spoke it was clear that whatever speech she was preparing was not intended for me. Instead she said, “I gather you and the bishop have always been friends, Wizard?”

  “Most of the time for twenty-five years,” I agreed. “Institutionalized magic and institutionalized religion normally have no use for each other, but Joachim and I have managed to be friends in spite of each thinking that the other one is seriously misguided on certain important points.”

  But Celia was not interested in the millennia-old tensions between wizardry and the church. “All I really need is an introduction,” she said, “a chance, maybe only for a quarter hour, to talk to him directly. I’ve tried reaching him before but have always been put off by one priest or another, who just tell me I’m being silly and shouldn’t bother His Holiness.”

  “And are you being silly?” I asked lightly, trying to take some of the sharp intensity from her face.

  She did not smile. “It’s not silly to know what you want—what you were meant to do. The only trouble is with others who think they can plan your life better than you can for yourself.”

  I nodded, not sure what I was agreeing to but thinking of Paul.

  Celia and I were shown after only a short wait into the bishop’s study. A shaft of late afternoon sunlight lay across the floor. Joachim stepped out of the shadows to meet us, tall and sober in his formal scarlet vestments. He lifted an eyebrow, mildly surprised to see a young woman with me.

  I introduced her. “Forgive me, Celia, for not recognizing you at once,” said the bishop politely. “I am always happy to see any of my spiritual sons and daughters, but I fear I have not spoken with you properly since you were quite a bit younger.”

  She knelt, overcome, to kiss his episcopal ring, something I myself had always been able to justify not doing. “Please, Holy Father,” she said in a low voice, “don’t send me away before hearing me. Don’t leave, Wizard!” as I stepped toward the door, as though frightened of being left alone with the bishop. “I know you have business of your own here, and this—this should only take a minute.”

  Joachim blessed her, his hand resting lightly on her hair. “Rise, my daughter. Sit beside me and tell me what troubles your soul.”

  Celia gave me a quick glance as though for moral support, looked next at the crucifix on the wall as though hoping it would provide the support I clearly would not, gulped twice, and began. “Holy Father, I want to be a priest.”

  This was the same surprise to Joachim it was to me. Fortunately Celia kept her eyes on her folded hands. “When did you make this decision, my daughter?” the bishop asked kindly.

  “I’ve always known it,” she murmured bitterly, as though already hearing rejection in what sounded to me only like friendly interest. “Or, at least I’ve known it for several years. I was meant to serve God. I want to devote my life to bringing the absolute light of good and love to those around me. My parents expect me to get married and become a duchess, but I cannot.”

  “It would be hard for you to be a priest,” said Joachim thoughtfully. “Since the time of Moses and Aaron, the priesthood has been entirely male. There has certainly always been a place in the Church for pious widows and virgins, though they can usually best serve God as cloistered nuns.”

  Celia was no widow, but she was most likely a virgin—though that was not really for me to know.

  “There is,” the bishop continued, “as I am sure you know, a nunnery in the kingdom of Yurt well known for its rigor and purity.”

  “I am not going to be a nun,” said Celia, quietly and distinctly. “I intend to bring God’s message to laymen and women, especially women. They’ll listen to me when they would never listen to some male priest.”

  Joachim looked toward me, eyebrows raised, over her lowered head. I shrugged my shoulders with no idea what to say to her—especially since I thought she had a point.

  “You’re the bishop,” Celia went on when he did not answer at once, determined to get in everything she had come to say. “You’re the supreme religious leader in the area. You can accept whomever you want into the seminary without having to answer to anyone.”

  “It is true that I have no direct superior,” said Joachim, “but that does not mean that I answer to no one. Above all, of course, I answer to God and to the church structure He has ordained, then to my own conscience, and then to all the other bishops in this region of the western kingdoms.”

  “And in none of this—”

  “In none of this,” said the bishop, “do I see women priests.”

  He spoke quietly, gently, but with a firmness that would have kept even me from disagreeing. Celia blinked hard, but no tear escaped her eye. She was, after all, the duchess’s daughter.

  “Then I guess I’ll go see if I can hire a horse to return to Yurt,” she said expressionlessly. “Thanks for the ride, Wizard.”
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  But Joachim put a hand on her arm as she started to rise. “Do not leave spiritually dissatisfied. I need to speak now with the wizard, but you and I can talk more later. You were planning on staying in Caelrhon this evening anyway, weren’t you, Daimbert?” He knew all about me and Theodora, the only person besides the queen of Yurt who did. “If you would like to stay tonight in the cathedral guest house, I am sure it can be arranged,” he added to Celia. “A way should certainly be found for someone who feels herself called by God.”

  She nodded without looking up and let herself be led away by an acolyte.

  “A true daughter of the duchess,” I commented when the door closed. Duchess Diana of Yurt had always done exactly what she liked and had never been comfortable herself with the life of the noble lady. She seemed to have passed on several key personality traits to her daughters.

  IV

  “Now, Joachim,” I said, “tell me about this problem you’re having. Somebody is working miracles, you say?”

  He turned quickly from frowning at the door where Celia had just gone. “Yes,” he said, shifting his attention to me. “And if they are truly miraculous, the man may be a saint. But somehow, something about him does not seem true.”

  I sat down opposite him. “How long has he been here?”

  “Only about two weeks,” said the bishop as though in careful consideration. “Some say he arrived with the Romneys, though no one has seen him with them.” The Romneys wandered from place to place throughout the western kingdoms; I had noticed their caravans and horses outside the city walls as we flew in. “But already he—”

  “Give me an example,” I prompted when he paused.

  “What they are already calling his first miracle,” said the bishop, drawing back so that his eyes were shadowed, “was saving the life of a little dog.”

  “A dog?”

  “It belonged to a boy who lives down in the artisans’ quarter, near the river—that is where this man seems to make his headquarters.”

  That was where Theodora and Antonia lived. Faint unease prickled the hairs on the back of my neck.

  “It had slipped its leash and run right under the wheel of a cart. The carter was very sorry, of course, but there was nothing he could have done. The boy picked up the dog’s body—some say its ribs were crushed, some that it was already dead. But as the boy, sobbing, was carrying his dog home, this man stopped him, very kindly. He took the dog from him, cradled it in his own arms a minute—scores of people claim to have been eyewitnesses—and returned it to the boy alive, unharmed and barking.”

  I shook my head hard. “That’s not magic. Magic’s never had any control over the earth’s natural cycle of life and death. We can prolong life but not restore it when it’s gone.”

  “Yes,” said the bishop quietly. “For that you need the supernatural, the power of the saints—or of a demon.”

  I took a breath and released it slowly. This had suddenly become much more serious. I had imagined someone who had picked up a few scraps of the Hidden Language somewhere, trying to make a living by producing rather pathetic illusions and passing them off on the credulous as miracles. But this person had better be working real miracles. The other possibility was black magic, which meant he had sold his soul to the devil.

  “Listen, Joachim,” I said. “There are a couple of very good demonology experts at the wizards’ school. I’ll telephone them—one will certainly want to come if this man is working with a demon. And that way—”

  “No,” said the bishop, low and firm. “I told you, this man may be a saint. I don’t want him accused of black magic if he is, certainly not by one of the masters of your school, someone with no respect either for religion or the Church. That is why I sent for you.” I had never had a whole lot of respect for the Church either, but I declined to mention this now. “I must find out where he draws his power, but I would not want him falsely accused—even martyred. The truly holy man,” and he paused for a second, looking past me out the window, “must always seem profoundly strange to those caught up in the petty affairs of the world.”

  I considered for a moment, tapping my fingers on the bishop’s desk and making myself stop when I realized what I was doing. I had the spells, of course, to detect the supernatural, but those spells would not by themselves indicate if a supernatural power was demonic or divine. “You must have made inquiries,” I said. “What else have you found out?”

  “I did more than make inquiries. I went down to the artisans’ quarter to see him.”

  “And did you meet him? How old a man is he?”

  “It was hard to tell his age,” said the bishop, his dark eyes distant. “He was tall and gaunt, with a face that looked as though he did not know how to smile.”

  I didn’t like this at all. I had once met a demon taking human form, and this is just what he had looked like.

  “That is,” the bishop continued, “until he did smile and his whole face was transformed by joy and beauty.”

  Not a demon, then, I said as persuasively as I could to the cold sensation at the pit of my stomach. A demon would not smile joyously at meeting a bishop. That is, unless the bishop himself was sunk in sin—a possibility I thought I could safely disregard.

  “I spoke with him for close to an hour,” Joachim went on. “He has something of an accent; at first I thought he might be a Romney but he’s not. He told me he was highly honored that I had come in person to see him, denied any particular merit of his own, and tried to dismiss the whole story of the little dog by saying that he expected the saints had heard the boy’s prayers.”

  This sounded like what a genuine saint would do. I tried to be reassured.

  “So I was reassured,” said Joachim. “He wouldn’t tell me his name, saying it was of no importance, and I did not press him. Instead we spoke of the love of God for all His sons and daughters, even fallen and sunken in sin as we are. He seemed to have thought very little before about religious precepts, considering he told me he had been brought up as a Christian, but he told me he would start attending services at the artisans’ church. In the days since I have heard he has become something a favorite of the children of the quarter.”

  Including Antonia? I wondered in panic. “But something else happened or you wouldn’t have telephoned me.”

  The bishop nodded and his enormous eyes found mine. “The children started bringing him, so the story goes, their broken toys, and he fixed them by passing his hand over them. One girl’s doll had fallen in the fire, and he restored the charred remains to new, and better than new.”

  Could this possibly have been Antonia and her doll?

  “This was not, of course, in the same category as restoring life, even the life of a dog. So I next began to wonder if perhaps he had told me truly, that the dog’s recovery was due to the boy’s prayers and not to this man’s own merits. He could be working magical illusions out of good if mistaken intentions, I thought, restoring the appearance alone of wholeness, knowing the children would be too confused or frightened to accuse him of fraud when their toys became broken again in their hands as the illusion faded. I even thought it might be some kind of magic different from your school magic—the Romneys’ spells, perhaps, or even witchcraft.”

  “The Romneys don’t know any magic,” I objected. “And witchcraft— Have you been talking to Theodora?”

  I must have sounded irritated, because the bishop gave a small smile. “I speak with her often, of course—she is, after all, one of the best seamstresses working for the cathedral—but I would not say anything to her about magic that would sound accusatory without speaking to you first.”

  “So that’s why you called me? To ask me about witchcraft?”

  “No. I called you, Daimbert, to keep me from possibly making a very serious mistake.”

  Dustmotes danced in the horizontal light from the window. The sounds of the city were very far away as I waited for him to continue.

  “Priests—and bishops—deal wit
h good and evil every day,” he said after a long pause. “But rarely do we see absolute good or absolute evil. Instead we see gradations of gray, virtuous paths followed only because they are not very demanding at the moment, sins fallen into because of laziness or a desire for some temporary advantage rather than because of a soul turned to darkness. Young Celia imagines herself a priest moving in a halo of white light. In fact, priests move daily through petty and rather sordid sins: lust, selfishness, lies half-believed by the person who tells them, much of it caused by greed and boredom among the wealthy and by ignorance and misery among the poor. It has come to this, Daimbert,” leaning toward me, “that when I find myself meeting a man who is either very holy or else working with a demon, who represents true good or real evil rather than a gray somewhere between, I no longer trust myself to tell the difference. That is why I called you—you are one of the very few whose judgment I trust.”

  So far I had a king and a bishop trusting my judgment—now all I needed was to do so myself.

  “I had almost persuaded myself,” Joachim went on, “that we were just very blessed in having a holy man here in Caelrhon, when the incident with the frog occurred.”

  It had been over twenty-five years since that transformations practical exam. Most of the time now I was able to discuss frogs without any self-consciousness. But the bishop’s use of the term “incident with the frog” brought back all the embarrassment of that long-ago disaster. Even after all this time, I had never worked myself up to telling him about it.

  “It may not be true,” he continued. “There seem to have been only a few witnesses, and the stories that filtered up to the cathedral do not agree on all points. But in essence— A boy brought a frog, a live frog, to the miracle-worker and asked if he could kill it and then bring it back to life. And the man did so.”