When the King Comes Home

by Caroline Stevermer

  “You don’t have to. What’s going to happen to me in a church?”

  “I’m not leaving you.”

  “Then hush.”

  Amyas’s whisper in my ear was hot with anger. “What’s the matter with you, anyway? Anyone would think you were mad too, the way you follow him around.”

  I whispered back. “Don’t you see it either? Amyas, he’s either Good King Julian or he looks just like him.”

  Amyas closed his mouth and stared at me in disbelieving silence. “That’s right. When the king comes home, brother. I’m staying right here.”

  It seemed a long time before they came back. When they did, Fisher looked gray. He knelt before the altar, praying. The priest looked very white about the mouth. He whispered a lengthy message into the verger’s ear. The verger’s eyebrows climbed, and he left us in haste. The priest turned to Amyas and me.

  “Your friend will be helped. You need not fear for him any longer.”

  “That must have been a remarkable confession.” Amyas’s murmur was faint, but I caught it.

  So did the priest. “It was. I erred before. This is a matter of the most profound urgency. I was a blockhead not to realize it at once. The river could run with milk and I not notice sometimes.”

  Amyas looked surprised. “So you’re going to do it after all? You’ll perform an exorcism?”

  “Not I. Someone more qualified. We will care for him. Thank you for bringing him safely here.”

  That sounded very like a dismissal to me. I crossed my arms. “Will it be done here?”

  “No, no. It will be done somewhere more suitable.”

  “Where, precisely? By whom, precisely?”

  Gentle mockery stirred beneath his words. “You are very protective of this unfortunate soul. You have brought him to safety and you deserve thanks. I can only offer advice, but it is good advice. Don’t linger here.”

  “Do you think he’s dangerous?” Amyas murmured. “Whoever he is, he’s mad as mad can be, but he’s been very quiet with us.”

  I frowned at him. “He isn’t mad.”

  Amyas ignored me and turned back to the priest. “Where have you sent the verger?”

  “He went to fetch help.”

  “Then you do think he’s dangerous?”

  “Without a doubt. But he isn’t mad.”

  I glanced back at the altar, trying to see Fisher as they did. He knelt before the altar as if he were sheltering from a storm, head down, shoulders hunched. The priest’s words made more sense to me than my brother’s. He did look dangerous, yet I was convinced that Fisher was every bit as sane as I. But he was in trouble. “I’m staying with him.”

  Amyas frowned. “I should never have let you leave the raft.”

  I just looked at my brother. Where Amyas gets these ideas about being responsible for me—no, that’s unjust. Father and Mother gave him the ideas. But how he managed to think they were practicable ideas escapes me.

  “If I’m safe there, I’m safe here. And if I’m not safe here, I’m not safe anywhere.”

  “Didn’t you ever listen to Master Nicholas? That’s not remotely logical”

  The priest had been listening for something all this while, and when he straightened and smiled a little as the sound of marching feet approached, I realized what he’d been waiting for. The verger had returned. As Amyas and I turned, ten soldiers joined us, all clad in the gray cloak and green tabard of the prince-bishop’s guard. The tenth, their officer, was not much above middle height and had dark eyes and a stubborn jaw. He brought his soldiers to order and saluted the priest. “Father, we are at your service. Is this the unfortunate we are here to escort?” Ludovic Nallaneen studied me with interest. “Possessed, is she? I’ve often suspected as much.”

  “Good morning, Ludo.” I thought of several pert remarks to add but made none of them. There was the distinct possibility he had come to execute a warrant for my arrest. I could think of worse people to do it. Ludo seemed more tolerant of me than most people ever dreamed of being.

  The priest was impatient. “Here is the unfortunate in need of the prince-bishop’s help.”

  Ludovic paused to study Fisher. When he addressed him, it was with soft-spoken courtesy. “Your pardon, sir, but I must interrupt your devotions. The prince-bishop wishes to see you urgently.” He took off his cloak and offered it to Fisher. “Please wear the hood. It is His Grace’s express wish.”

  I wasn’t the only one to see the resemblance, after all. The hood could only be intended to conceal Fisher’s face from anyone who knew what Good King Julian looked like. Judging from Ludovic’s expression, he remembered Maspero’s medal as well as I did.

  Fisher rose, accepted the cloak, and put up the hood without question. He thanked the priest, thanked Amyas, and took my hand as if to thank me too.

  “No need for that,” I said. “I’m not letting you go off on your own.”

  “Not just yet, at any rate,” said Ludovic. “The prince-bishop wants a few words with you too.”

  My stomach twisted. “About Gabriel Wex? Did I—hit him as hard as that?”

  Ludovic looked intrigued. “You hit Gabriel? Whatever for?”

  “Didn’t he accuse me of murder? Attempted murder, at least? He threatened to accuse me of coining too.”

  “Gabriel reported your truancy to the guild. In leaving the city, you violated the terms of your apprenticeship.”

  “I ran away because he threatened me. He wouldn’t let me go. I only hit him in self-defense.”

  “Strange. No such attack was mentioned.”

  Perhaps Gabriel had been embarrassed that I had knocked him senseless, too embarrassed to tell anyone I had bested him. I was filled with relief at not being guilty of murder, after all.

  “The prince-bishop wishes only to ask you about the circumstances in which you and this gentleman met.” Ludovic turned back to Fisher. “The prince-bishop awaits us.”

  I turned to Amyas. “Tell Father I’ve gone to straighten things out myself.”

  “You can’t be serious. I’m not letting you our of my sight.” Amyas turned to the verger. “If you please, sir, I need to get a message to our father.”

  Fisher and Ludovic set off with the soldiers. They marched away, a small, efficient mob in perfect step, Fisher hooded in their midst. I followed. Amyas followed me, scolding softly all the while.

  SEVEN

  (In which I learn more about Fisher)

  From the Church of St. Peter near the waterfront at Shene to the palace that crowns Aravis as snow crowns the highest mountains is not a long journey, yet in a way it spans the whole world. From the lowest to the highest we walked, from the beggars outside the church, past the boatmen at the waterfront, through Shene gate, upward through the crowded streets to the palace on the heights.

  It took us an hour to cover the distance, for Fisher stopped in his tracks again and again. At first I assumed he was unused to the steepness of the way and stopped to catch his breath. Soon, though, it became clear that he was watching as he went, slowing to take a good look now and then, even stopping to stare. It was the new buildings that seemed to interest him, not the fine old ones. He stood for a long time beside the monument built to honor the relief of the siege of Aravis. I was glad, for that monument, carved with the little ships that had brought the relief, had been designed by Maspero. It seemed fitting that it should be admired properly.

  Once we reached the palace, our progress grew more swift. Ludovic and his men led us by countersign and password through the security measures that guarded the heart of the palace. From there we were taken through the corridors to the prince-bishop’s chambers and into the august presence of the prince-bishop himself.

  I had never seen the man before. The prince-bishop wore black velvet despite the season, and his point lace collar was flat and stiff, yet as graceful as a bird’s wing. His smooth gray hair was dressed severely back beneath his clerical cap. His face was soft: velvety jowls, round cheeks with a flush o
f health and good humor—or heat. His eyes were brown and moved all the time, measuring and memorizing. There was an indefinable softness about that face which had nothing to do with the bones. It was as if he had been ever so lightly powdered. He looked as if he might smell of cloves or lavender, something pleasant.

  The chamber was simple, sparsely furnished, whitewashed walls and ceiling with a floor of chessboard black and white. Afternoon sun came full through the great windows that looked south over a jumble of rooftops from the esplanade to the lower city. It was a peaceful room. I was glad of Amyas at my back. Without him, I would have felt an utter rustic, intruding in something that was no business of mine. With him, I knew there was at least one person in the room who felt more out of place there than I.

  Fisher knelt and kissed the prince-bishop’s ring before Ludovic’s men were at parade rest. Fisher kept his head bowed, and when he spoke I could hardly catch his words, muffled in the prince-bishop’s velvet. “I beg you. An exorcism. Free the unfortunate I’ve been summoned to possess.”

  With the flick of his hand, the prince-bishop summoned his only attendant, a cherubic-looking gentleman, white-haired and simply dressed, from his quiet corner. “Rigo, your counsel, please.”

  The cherubic old man joined the prince-bishop. Gently he pushed back the hood of the cloak and rested his hand on Fisher’s bent head. “You’ve traveled far.”

  Fisher’s shoulders rose and fell with the force of his sigh. “Send me back, I beg you.”

  The old man’s hand soothed him as if he were patting a hound. “That is not in my power. Nor is it in His Grace’s power.” He met the prince-bishop’s piercing gaze and said to him, “This is not a case of possession. Your people know their business, as do you.”

  The prince-bishop’s voice was cold. “What is it, then?”

  “It is not what you fear. I can help a little. Not here though. I’ll use the Archangel Chapel. It’s protected.” Without paying the slightest attention to the rest of us, not even the guards, the old man took Fisher’s hand and helped him rise. Together, they led the way to the Archangel Chapel. We followed in silence, the prince-bishop first, the rest of us trailing after like ducklings.

  At the chapel door, the prince-bishop paused to speak to Ludovic. Half his men were detailed to guard the door from outside. The rest of us were admitted to the chapel. “Rigo likes plenty of witnesses,” the prince-bishop murmured to us.

  Once we were in the chapel, Rigo made Fisher kneel before the altar, then turned back to the prince-bishop. With a touch on his shoulder, he bade him remain with us. “Stay at a distance, Your Grace. Kneel and say the Paternoster. All of you. Keep saying it. We must not be disturbed.”

  “You needn’t tell me when to pray,” said the prince-bishop, but he led us in the prayer without further protest.

  Rigo circled the room, muttering and making small gestures with his gentle hands. He looked like an elderly terrier trying to remember where he’d left a bone. His route brought him steadily closer to Fisher until he was shuffling around him at arm’s length. The muttering had dropped to a barely audible singsong tone, an aimless humming, like a preoccupied bee.

  Rigo paused before Fisher, stared into his face for a moment, then brushed his fingertips from Fisher’s hairline to his chin. I thought I saw something come away in his hands, a soft gray something, like a cobweb. He rubbed it in his fingers, humming all the while, and turned swiftly to the altar. He held it to one of the candles there, and for an instant it was as if a cloud had come over; there was an infinitesimal dimming of the light, not just of the candle, but all the light in the room. Then the whole chapel seemed to brighten, to recover light and color.

  Fisher still knelt, still prayed, even as Rigo turned from the altar candles and came to stand before him again. This time, he put his hands on Fisher’s shoulders as if to steady him. His voice was gentle. “That’s all.”

  Fisher looked up. I could only see his back, the line of his shoulders, the curve of his spine, but I could tell he wanted something more from the old man. I don’t know what it was he needed, but he needed it badly.

  Rigo looked very sad, but he tightened his hands on Fisher’s shoulders and gave him a little shake as if to encourage him, to urge him to brace up. “You’re here. You’re a whole man. That’s more than some of us are given.”

  “I don’t … I don’t want it.”

  “Now, what has that to do with anything?” The words were harsh, but the old man’s voice was kind. He helped Fisher to his feet and steadied him when he seemed about to stagger. “You’re a fine strong fellow. You’ll do well.” He beckoned to us.

  I rose and followed the others toward the altar. When I was nearly there, I stopped and stared. Fisher was standing on his own now, though he seemed reluctant to let the old man go. From where I stood, I could see his profile. I looked from Fisher to the donor panel of the Archangel Nativity. I looked back, blinked hard, and looked again.

  Fisher’s face had changed. I no longer saw any resemblance to the portrait of King Julian IV. The profile that I had seen was gone. But I recognized this one too. Fisher was still there in the donor panel. For the man standing beside Rigo now had a different face, a different profile. His nose was crooked, as if it had been broken in a fight, but crooked in a noble, aquiline fashion. His shoulders sagged and his eyes closed. He looked desperately tired.

  While I stood there gaping, Amyas made a clucking sound of astonishment and grasped my sleeve. “What is this? How did he do that? A mask? I saw him bum something in the candle.” He was far from pleased.

  I pulled free, caught Amyas’s wrist, and brought him with me to the altarpiece, as close to the donor panel as I dared get. “Look.”

  Amyas looked. First at the donor panel, then at me. He said nothing, but his eyes widened and he looked accusingly at me, as if his confusion was somehow my fault. He looked back at the painting.

  Fisher joined us. Before I realized it, he was at my shoulder, staring where Amyas was staring. He reached out to touch the panel and Amyas caught his hand. “Don’t touch it. You’ll mar the glaze. It’s very old.”

  “He can touch it if he wants to,” I snapped, cross although Amyas only parroted the scolding I’d once given him.

  Fisher’s voice was ragged. “How old?”

  “About two hundred years,” I said. Two hundred and fourteen, but I didn’t think it was the moment to be a stickler for accuracy.

  Fisher’s breath caught. He brushed a fingertip across the smooth surface of the panel, just touching King Julian’s crown. His face was full of grief. “So long?”

  The pain in his voice made my throat close up. I knew better than to try to answer. I knew that much, anyway.

  “Are you finished, Rigo?” The prince-bishop asked as he joined us. “No more transformation scenes in this masque?” As we had grown more troubled and confused, he seemed more cheerful. He stood so dose to me that I could tell, far from smelling of cloves or lavender, he smelled faintly of incense and gunpowder.

  “That is his true appearance,” Rigo answered. “There is no more I can do for him. We live in an age of miracles, but this is not the miracle you surmised.”

  “This is no miracle. I am cursed.” Fisher pointed to the donor panel. “I am Istvan Forest. That man in the painting. I was dead and now I am alive.”

  “You have not risen from the dead. Only our blessed Savior has such power over our poor clay.” The prince-bishop folded his hands. “Yet here you are. You are safe. You have witnesses. Speak. Tell us how you came to be here.”

  Istvan Forest let his breath go in a shallow sigh. “It was cold. It was dark. Someone was calling me. I had to answer. I remember pushing pine branches out of my way. I thought I knocked some snow off the boughs—but that was my mistake, because it wasn’t winter. It was a summer night. My head cleared. I was climbing over a windowsill. Explain that to me, sir. I’ll give you as much time as you’d like to think of an explanation.

  “
I was at the top of a flight of stairs. I had to walk down. At first I couldn’t see where I was going. My head was swimming. Winter, summer, awake, dreaming, I wasn’t sure of anything. I came down a step at a time, and as I did my vision began to clear. I could see there was someone at the foot of the stair.

  “It was a woman, and I knew she was the one who was calling me. She had red hair and she wore dark clothes. She was standing in front of something shiny—a shield or a mirror or a window—I couldn’t tell what. It reflected the light from the fireplace. There were no lamps, no candles, no other source of light. She was very quiet. She was looking at the floor, at her feet, as if she was thinking hard about something.

  “I thought it might be warm down there in the firelight. I was cold.

  “I walked down the stairs and stood in front of that woman. When I was in front of her, she looked up at me. Her eyes were green. She stared at me as if she’d never seen anything so wonderful in all her life. She smiled at me. Her smile made me afraid.

  “She didn’t say anything, but I knew she wanted me to come closer. I had come close enough. I didn’t move. I felt her call me closer. I didn’t do anything. She seemed displeased.

  “She said, ‘You heard me.’ She sounded preoccupied, as if she was only picking words with a small part of her attention, while all the rest of her thought was aimed hard at something else. Her voice was a little rough. It made me want to clear my throat. It seemed strange that I’d heard her say so few words aloud. It felt as though we’d been having a longer conversation, none of it spoken until those few words. ‘You heard me.’

  “I wanted to say, ‘I hear you.’ I wanted her to speak again. But instead it came out, ‘I’m here.’ And she said, ‘Come closer.’

  “I looked past her, and I saw we were both reflected in that mirror. Only now my vision—or my mind—had cleared and I saw it wasn’t a mirror at all. It was a window. The firelight inside and the night outside made it a dark mirror. In it I could see my reflection almost hidden by hers. In the mirror, I was looking at myself over her shoulder.