by Andre Norton
“Think,” I ordered her sharply. “Think of someone you know in this city, on this day!”
The girl gasped, bent low over the table. The disk she gazed upon now supplied a window giving onto the outer street. Its circular frame held a grim picture—one that grew ever sharper as I added my own power to its shaping. On the cobbles lay the maid who had run from the house, clothing torn from a body scarcely out of childhood, blood painting flesh and stone alike.
“Ursilla—oh, gods—”
Just then an armsman rose up between us and the slain servant, mercifully blocking her figure from view. As he turned away, we could see that he had a rainbow-hued scarf wound about his bandoleer.
“He must have been in the house—into my things!” cried Jeseca. “Robyon gave me that scarf on my nameday!”
“Yes,” I said quietly, watching her. The anger was mounting in her eyes like a tinder-fed flame.
The soldier had stopped and was now peering at something low down. Then, across the muddied and gore-streaked stones, there came creeping toward him—and so into the circle of the viewing disk—a child, scarcely more than an infant.
“Minta! No—NO!”
The invader reversed the matchlock he carried, preparing to use the heavy gun as a club. At the same instant, my companion pulled the larger kitchen knife from her belt. As the stock of the weapon swung down toward the child’s skull, the point of the knife hit the mirror.
The explosion of power that followed, released so wildly without my ordering, nearly threw me from the table. The farsight-glass itself cracked down the middle, but we could still see the baby, wailing though unhurt. The musketeer had not fared so well; he appeared, curiously, to have been stabbed through the heart. A moment later he fell in a fountain of blood.
“See!” Jeseca’s voice was a carrion bird’s shriek. “See what I did—and shall do! Let me clear Quirth of all those demons!” Knife still in hand, the girl caught at me, commanding, “Show me more of them, Fossi—now!”
For answer, I lifted a paw toward the blade. Jeseca gave a cry of pain and flung the hilt from her as though it had suddenly become too hot to hold; and indeed, it had left an angry weal on her palm. We faced each other as she nursed her hand against her breast. The redness faded from her skin as the flush of rage paled from her cheeks.
“You hurt me.” The voice was a child’s once more, sullen at a scolding.
I gestured at the glass disk, and the out-sight vanished. “I am sorry, but it was needful. Yes, the Wyse power can do much—very much. But it must only be used with a cool head and a warm heart, for there is this—” Rising, I fixed my eyes on hers and held them there. “Use Wyse-wiles in wrath, for revenge, and in the end the Power will turn upon you.”
My companion blinked in surprise. “But you made me look upon that which would rouse my anger,” she protested.
“Because,” I explained, “your rage unlocked the talent within you, something that had to be done now.”
Her hands curled into fists, though it was plain the right one still pained her. “I will not throw blood-price away—I shall have it for poor Ursilla and for all the other innocents in Quirth.”
“Then learn,” I answered. “The dealing of death is not always the best way to pay a score. A wielder of Power can kill, true, but he—or she—can also heal; and for the truly Wyse, the binding up of the world’s wounds is a far greater task.”
My companion had seated herself again while I was speaking. All the child in her had been burned away by that last flame of heart-heat, and the Jeseca who now faced me was a woman, eager to learn what she could, and should, do.
Then a shadow clouded her bright face. “But what can we do here?” she asked, spreading her hands to indicate the small dingy chamber. “We are trapped.” Her voice trailed away uncertainly.
“Not true!” I returned with feeling. The doubt, so deadly to any Wyse work—or wielder—was stretching out its icy tendrils toward her again. At all costs, she must begin this business by believing in herself; but how to make her do it?
After a pause of thought, I had an answer. “Give me your hands,” I said, extending my paws as I spoke. My companion looked puzzled but held out her hands, palms up, to cup them.
“Only an hour agone,” I began, “I—we—could not have done this, making fur meet flesh in a living touch. At that time, too, you still believed me a small one’s night-friend—and yourself a helpless maid. But in that same turn of the sand-glass, all notions have been shattered, even as that mirror—” I indicated the look-round with a nod of my head, “—was cracked by Power. Out of ‘traps,’ as you would call them, have come freeings: I to my true form and strength, and you to womanhood and knowledge. Littleness and youth are only cocoons, safe places to shelter—like this chamber—till wings are grown.”
My friend’s smile had returned—this time no mere quirking of the lips but a soul-deep joy. And from the years of our association, I knew her mind to be as quick, as open, as her feelings. Praise was in order. “When your wings of learning are full-fledged,” I told her warmly, “who knows to what heights you may—”
“—Wyse?” she finished, and we both laughed. That was my Jeseca. She was, and would be, a familiar beyond price.
Red Cross, White Cross
Knight Fantastic (2002) DAW
The land was the same. Below the hill upon which Michael lay, it stretched golden to the edge of the orchard. He strove to see any evidence of neglect, but none could be sighted from his resting place. Locksley-on-the-Marsh . . . he had worked in its fields during his novitiate, had ridden forth as a squire from the cluster of buildings half-ringed by the arms of an orchard. And here he was once more, spying upon a land that now might well be a trap set to close upon such as he.
Yet he had sworn upon the cross-hilt of a broken sword—a weapon not even his own. Fortunate indeed had been the brethren who had died at Acre in all honor, defending to the last a Christian hold against the infidels in the Lord’s Holy Land. Michael was too late to march in that company, even as the least of fighting men.
The scene that lay before and beneath him wavered as though wrapped in shifting mist. He was feverish—his healer’s training was enough to tell him that. And the pain had been with him always since—Michael forced himself up, nursing his right wrist, its bindings now filthy, against his breast. Wrist? Naught but a crushed stub answered to that description. Right hand—sword hand—wild laughter bubbled to his parched lips, and he held it back only with an effort. A handsome jest they had thought the deed: no sword hand, no sword! But some men in this world wielded blade with the left hand, as well, or even both with equal ease.
How many days had passed since Sir William, Senior Knight Commander of the Convent of Locksley-on-the-Marsh, died in a rough nest of grass among the bushes? Sir William, betrayed by a mob of villeins in a stinking huddle of huts, his white robe with its blood-red cross torn from him. At least the old Templar did not die at the hands of that rabble who shouted for a fire to send to hell such a son of Satan. Those muck-crawlers had thought Michael dead from the wound he now nursed; but his commander’s sword, caught up in his left hand, had driven them off. Then one of the wretches had sighted men-at-arms approaching from the castle, and the rabble had taken to their heels.
Michael had made no move against the soldiers of the castle guard, aware as he was that all hands were now raised against the Templars. Instead—he would never be sure how—he had managed to get Sir William down to the river and into the skiff he had earlier noticed there.
From the boat, the young knight could see the party from the castle heading toward the village and knew that he and his precious charge could be seen in their turn. As he paddled the unsteady craft out into the current, he murmured one of the prayers he had learned from much repetition: a plea for aid. The True God had answered, for the two men had crossed the stream without being sighted. And, once ashore, Sir William had been granted enough strength to work his way into a thi
ck maze of brambles that grew near the water’s edge.
Michael had not dared to try a fire, even when the chill from the river reached them. Fevered by the great gash on his head, Sir William rambled, repeating orders once issued in battle, fragments of the Divine Office, or mere wordless mouthings, and it was necessary at times to lay fingers across his dry lips as he raised his voice. His subordinate could offer no more ease to either of them than to apply crude bandages, torn from their shirts and wetted in the stream, first to his commander’s gaping wound and then to his own wrist, lifting the latter to his teeth for knotting. Michael seriously questioned whether the older knight would ever raise himself out of this hole.
Sir William, standing tall, his hand resting on his sword hilt, the spotless white of his cloak making a frame for the great red cross . . . that was how the young man had seen his superior on the day he took his own vows. The Commander was a man of honor and a mighty fighter, yet at times—even as did the lowliest of the Brotherhood—he had tended the injured and ill, cared for the homeless and poor. To be his squire had been—Michael fought against a darkness that seemed to be rising about them both in spite of the coming dawn. Sir William, who had stood witness in his own hastily-held initiation and had thereafter been as much mentor as master . . . Sir William . . .
As if he had spoken that name aloud, the man he supported spoke, not in a mumble of half-consciousness but with the strength of the past.
“Michael?”
“Brother!”
“You must do it . . .” The voice faded.
“What must be done, sir?” Michael prompted gently when the other did not continue.
“The safekeepings—for others.” Again a pause.
“At Locksley?” Michael guessed.
“Yes—widow of Lord of Lauchon—needs funds. King Philip and Hospitallers must not take—no!” The old knight coughed heavily with his vehemence. “You must get—to Lady Gladden—what is hers.” The next silence was unbroken.
Wordless, too, Michael cradled the cooling body against his own. The Templars had served not infrequently as custodians of the funds of merchants and nobles; in London, they were wardens of even King Edward’s treasures. It was greed that had brought about their destruction—not the knights’ own, but the gold-lust of Philip of France, who wished all the wealth they guarded—as well as their holdings—in his own hands. Vile lies had been fostered to achieve this end, some by the very Church that had once trembled before the Infidel and clamored for aid to the Brotherhood of the Red Cross.
But persecution did not justify the dereliction of duty to God—or men. The Templars had acted as faithful stewards, and such service must continue to be rendered even were the Order to be scourged from the Earth.
Michael’s heart felt numb, but his mind was clear, and so was his way. Groping in the brush, thorns tearing at his flesh, he grasped the broken sword.
“Brother,” he whispered, “it shall be done.” Then he swung its cruciform hilt into the air and, as the morning light blessed it with gold, added fervently, “Upon this Cross I swear it!”
That same oath had brought him here. There had been no reverent burial within the shadow of any Temple for Sir William; maimed as he was, the young Templar could only heap a mass of leaves and drag loose branches over his commander’s body. Prayers—yes, that much else he could do; but he was no priest to give rest to his dead master. Surely, however, that Lord whom both served, knowing the truest treasure coffered in a faithful soul, would accept this warrior long in His service.
Now Michael himself was near the end of his task. Three days it had taken him to reach Locksley since Sir William’s passing. Hunger gnawed him like a beast, its pain near as bad as that tearing ever at his ruined hand. So far he had seen no sign of life below him; the convent might well be deserted. Doubtless—he grimaced at the thought—when the soldiers had swept in to arrest the brothers, they had done some looting. The safe-room, though, was always well hidden. When he had been here with Sir William during the months of danger, he had been shown the secrets.
It was common knowledge that King Edward and those descended from the families who had given rich gifts of land to the Order in the past opposed the Church’s recent command that Templar holdings be yielded up to the Knights Hospitaller. But this convent had been hardly more than a grange, and as such it would be under the care of a custodian who visited it only at intervals.
He knew he must move, and soon, or he would not be able to move at all. Noting ahead the bushes that might afford him cover, Michael started down.
No noise could be heard of cattle or horses, and no watchdog gave tongue in warning. Crouching low, the knight approached the enclosed farmstead. At last he pulled himself to his feet, aided by the gate of the wall that encircled the main buildings.
The door of the inner one facing him had been beaten in, and nothing had been done to repair it. Michael drew a deep breath and lurched forward. Did its damage betoken plundering? He could only believe that it must. But who had wrought the ruin—king’s men, villagers roused by a priest, or mere outlaws emboldened by the news that the Templars were to be taken?
Staggering to the broken door, he worked his way inside. All the simple furniture of the large meeting room had been smashed into kindling, and from the fireplace rose a greasy reek where half-bare bones had been thrown—the remains of a pig’s carcass.
Food—the first in three days! Michael bent to twist free a bone that still held blackened flesh and clutched it possessively. However, the need to discover what had happened in this place was a stronger hunger than an ache in the belly, and, without eating, he moved on to the other rooms.
The chamber where Sir William, nigh on a year ago, had written his reports to the Grand Master had been stripped of all furnishings save a broken chair. Beyond lay quarters for knights or visitors; the dormitory for the sergeants was on the second floor.
At the door that led to the chapel, the young man hesitated. It was closed, and no signs of assault were evident; but creeping from within came a strong and evil odor—the unmistakable stench of death.
Entering, Michael pressed his shoulder against the right wall to steady himself and so made his way into the sacred chamber that was the center of every Templar dwelling. As he reached the altar, he stopped, rooted by shock at what he saw, unable to believe that any born in Christendom had committed such foul sacrilege.
He wheeled around, unable to fight down sickness, but though he heaved, there was nothing left in his stomach to void. Sliding down the wall that had supported him, the knight lay too weak to move, closing his eyes tightly to shut out the abomination around him. Then a deeper darkness mercifully veiled it from him.
“May they be damned into hell for this!”
Sharp as the sword that had severed his hand, the curse cut through the inner night that had held him. Michael was forced to open his eyes. Light from a torch struck them, flaring and fading, but enough to show him two men standing close by and to glimpse others in the shadows behind.
The companion of the torchbearer drew a step closer. Fire glinted on well-kept mail, though much was hidden by an overgarment. A cloak, a cross—not white with a blood-scarlet sign, but rather black with white. Hospitaller! Come to see what the Church had declared now belonged to his Order, was he?
The Templar’s lips flattened against his teeth. Let them cut him down here and now, he thought savagely; to the end he would keep the oath he had taken. And he would not die like a cringing slave. Bracing his arms to raise himself up, he struck his mangled wrist against the floor. Agony lanced through the wound, and he screamed.
In the moment it took for the fiendish torture to subside, Michael found himself fronted by the cloaked knight, who knelt swiftly beside him and steadied him with a strong arm. Then the torchbearer came forward and, in spite of pain-blurred vision, the young man had clear sight of the mail-framed face now close to his own.“Ralf—?”
Perhaps no one heard that whi
sper save himself, or what he saw was but a cruel delusion born of the fever he carried. Yet new-kindled hope made him strive again for an answer:
“Ralf—brother—”
“Michael!”
The arm about the injured man tightened, holding his body more securely than before; but the wave of weakness and relief that washed over him swept his mind away into darkness once again.
“Michael—here!”
A whisper, then a tug at his hand. He was back in the great hall at Colmount, and someone was striving to draw him into the shadows near a tapestry that hung on the wall behind the high table. Ralf, of course.
“What—” he began, realizing as he spoke that a strange glamour seemed to be holding them both. Ralf looked as he had the last time they had been alone together—a boy in a rumpled smock. And he—he was in the same state.
“Be still!” commanded his brother. There was only a year between them, but Michael was the elder and did not take kindly to such orders. He had just opened his mouth to protest when he heard another voice—one he hated. Scowling, he edged still closer to the dais and the tall-backed chairs that held and hid the speakers.
“Have you thought upon Stephen’s advice, my lord?”
“Yes.” The single word was a grunt.
A moment of silence followed. Michael could hear his brother’s quick-drawn breaths as the two rubbed shoulders in the small space.
“You would be choosing well, my lord.” The first speaker’s light voice carried a trace of impatience. “They would bring honor to themselves and their house, and you have another son—”
