by A. L. Sirois
Guilhem would have cried out in surprise had he been free. Then a wave of fury engulfed his mind and once more he struggled desperately to move, to leap on this insignificant little mediocrity and beat him senseless—but could not.
Mojmir either didn’t notice Guilhem’s rage and distress or dismissed it. He said, “You might well ask why I was disguised as Sir Onfroi. Simplicity itself: my plan was to fail at breaking into my own fortress, then tell that fool Bořivoj that it was a hopeless task, seeking to discourage him so that he’d give up and leave me alone, allowing me to concentrate on securing the book on my own. Unfortunately, your blundering allowed my ifrit to escape.” He frowned. “Lacking its protective energies, I was forced to flee. Subsequently, to protect myself and reestablish my fortress I needed to regain control of the ifrit. To do that, though, I required the book.” He glanced at the stack of old tomes. “But I couldn’t get to it past Sh’bnagre, because the filthy thing had become too powerful.” He paced back and forth in front of the frozen horses. “Mohammed al-Yngvi is, or was, despite being a Saracen, a masque of some repute among his people. In the same way that you, Duke Guilhem, know of other nobles in your realm and beyond, duke, and as you, Mistress Oriabel, are cognizant of other witches, so am I aware of other wizards. Though modestly referring to himself as a mere librarian, Al-Yngvi had an inflated sense of self-worth. He overestimated his ability to control what he summoned. Sh’bnagre overwhelmed the fool’s defenses and enslaved him.” He shrugged one shoulder. “And you know the rest.
“Now, alas, you two represent loose ends that I must eliminate. Allow me to thank you for the bread, cheese and wine; they were excellent.” He grinned, but this time there was a glitter of malice in his eyes. “I’m a growing lad, you know, and need my nourishment!”
Guilhem struggled against the paralysis gripping him, but he was held fast by the sorcerer’s magic. Only stronger magic would defeat Mojmir’s spell, he knew; and Guilhem was no magician. He and Oriabel were as helpless as flies in a spider’s web. Guilhem watched as Mojmir lifted his arms and opened his mouth to pronounce their doom.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
IN WHICH A VEXING PROBLEM IS SOLVED
Without warning, a bolt of green lightning flashed down from the cloudless sky, striking Mojmir fair in the chest and bowling him over.
A woman’s voice cried out a different incantation and suddenly Guilhem found his limbs free to move. He glanced around to see who had spoken the spell. Atop a nearby boulder sat—
His jaw dropped. “Oriabel? But—” A moment ago, she had been mounted motionless on her horse. Rámon flew down and perched on the pommel of her saddle clapping his beak in amusement at the startled duke. “Surprise!” the bird said, emitting its cold, rippling titter.
“Bu-but... what...?”
Oriabel leaped down from the boulder, a jump that should have broken bones—but she landed lightly on her feet. “Later, my dear duke,” she said, smiling. “We have more urgent business.”
She tilted her head toward the Bohemian magician. Mojmir shook his head as though to clear it, and cursed. “A simple conjurer’s trick,” he said with contempt.
He spat out a potent malediction that launched a spurt of fire toward his adversaries, but Oriabel waved her hand and the fire evaporated into mist.
“Yes, I am little more than that,” she replied without rancor. “But you know, sometimes one only needs simple tricks.” She raised her voice. “Transforma acest baiejel obositoare intro alunita!”
Mojmir promptly vanished.
Guilhem’s jaw dropped. “What? Where did—you destroyed him!” Overjoyed, he laughed out loud.
“Oh, not at all,” she said and walked over to where the wizard had been standing. She stooped over and picked something up off the ground, then walked back to Guilhem and held out her hand. In it was a little mole, its big front feet scrabbling uselessly against her flesh.
“You changed him into—this? Why not just kill him?”
“I decided he could be of more use this way,” she said. “I’ll keep him as a pet. If any nixies turn up on your lands, they can set him to digging tunnels for them.” She grinned. “I think it would be good for him to be useful for a change, don’t you? And he’s been rendered mute, of course. If he cannot speak, he cannot make magic.”
She laughed a tinkling laugh that he had not heard from her before, something so girlish and unmannered that for a moment he could not believe it came from her. “Oh, Guilhem, the look on your face.”
“No doubt! Very well, I can understand wanting to put Mojmir to work. And he deserves it. As to nixies, perish the thought of ever seeing any of them again. But how did you contrive the swap with Rámon?”
She took his arm. “You really are a dunce,” she said, a note of fondness in her voice. “Shall I tell you how it was done?”
He could only nod.
“As soon as I felt the effects of Mojmir’s spell slowing our movements and realized what was happening, I changed places with Rámon. I became him while he became me.” She chuckled. “It’s one of the things you can do when you’re a witch, you know; that’s why we have familiars. I flew off to a safe distance to observe.”
“But—” He stopped. “You are a devious wench,” he said, breaking out in a grin.
She curtsied. “I thank you, my lord.”
“Now that we have rid ourselves of the mage, let us continue our journey,” he said. “I am anxious to confront the ifrit.”
“I am not so anxious as you,” she confessed, depositing the transformed Mojmir into a small pouch hanging from her saddle bags, and retrieving the books where Mojmir had set them and mounting her horse. “However, I believe I have learned a few things from these tomes. With any luck at all, I will be able to see to its banishment.”
“You are indeed a most marvelous witch,” he said in admiration.
“My goodness,” she said, smiling. “You will turn my head.”
He flashed a grin at her. “You know, there is a question I have been pondering.”
“So serious all of a moment. What troubles you?”
“You appeared in my domain quite without warning, from whence I know not. You have mentioned your Romany progenitors, but there were none there to draw you.”
She listened gravely, nodding her head. “I could not previously discuss this with you,” she said. “But the experiences and adventures we have shared have forged a bond between us.”
“Yes, it is odd, but to my surprise I find that we have become friends.”
“Indeed.” She smiled once more. “And it is as a friend that I say this. You know I have some small ability to foresee events through augury and scrying.” They rode on a while in silence. He held his tongue, knowing she would continue in her time. At last she said, “I was led to your realm in the certain belief that if I dwelt there, and made myself a part of it, and came to know you, why then... then I would find my greatest reward.”
Again, she fell silent. Though surprised at her words he said nothing, loath to interrupt her thoughts. Her greatest reward? What could she mean?
“It was... a vision,” she said, “a vision that was at first vague. It began filtering into my awareness years ago, while I was still learning my bit of the Craft from my first teacher.”
“The hedge-wizard.”
“Yes. At first I could apprehend no more than occasional flashes of intuition as I continued my studies and set out to earn my way in the world. Often I was too busy or hungry to pursue them. But over time I found my path leading me toward the Aquitaine. I did not know why, but when you get these messages from...” She waved her hand at the sky. “From wherever, you know; when you get them, well, you must follow them.” She shrugged. “I have described some of this to you before, I believe. Maybe a source of power is calling. Maybe it is destiny. In my case, I am now certain that it was the latter. But when I came to the Aquitaine, I knew I was close. Yet once I arrived, nothing more happened. Nothing more came clear
. The feelings stopped.” She scowled. “So I wondered, was that it? Was the message simply to sit down on my rump in your realm and just be the mid-wife, the dispenser of potions to lovesick maids? It was disappointing; but I soon realized I had no right to expect anything more, and that maybe the powers had led me to a place where I could be safe, and left alone to pursue my studies. Perhaps that was exactly what I needed, never mind what I wanted.”
“What did you want?” he asked after a moment, quietly. He realized that he felt sorry for her.
“If I knew! Before I resigned myself to my little life, I cast about for another place to go. I never loved the place.”
He looked at her in surprise. How could she not? The forests, the fields, the people?
“Oh, I can see it on your face,” she said wearily. “Listen, Guilhem; you were born a nobleman, to a life of privilege. You are a leader, a warrior. It is a full life! I, however, am just a scruffy sleight-of-hand artist. All right, all right; maybe a bit more than that; yet I am no wizard like Mojmir, and in truth have no real wish to be one. But what indeed did I want? So I asked myself this. When had I felt happiest? The answer soon came: I loved traveling, being on the road. Sitting in the village near your castle, I was spending my youth tending to constipated farmwives and contriving spells to make oafish boys fall in love with cross-eyed girls. Little wonder, then, that I sought wine to dull the disappointment.”
“Then why did you not return to the road? Become a wanderer, go from village to village, solve new problems in each, then move on with what you’d learned?”
She nodded as he spoke. “Aye, I could have done, could have. But by the time I thought of that myself—because I did—something else had happened.” She cast a sidewise look at him. “The details were veiled, hidden from me; but I knew, knew without a doubt, that it was you.”
“What? I?”
“You—and your family, your very line, and the duchy itself. Whatever my fate was to be, it was inextricably tied up with you and the Aquitaine. There is history on you, Guilhem, I know not how, but there is. Protecting you and Phillipa, and your children, is particularly important, and not simply to let you maintain your hold on these lands. There is a future—well, there are many, they branch off hither and yon depending on what choices we make in the moment—there is a future in which those who are to come after you will determine the fate of entire nations.
“And mine as well.”
He started to speak, but she wasn’t finished. She said, “Much remains vague to me, I tell you, and I cannot say more. Perhaps later, after I study these books and scrolls we took from the mosque. Who can say? All I know is, we are linked, and I dare not let anything happen to you. It is why I insisted on coming with you on this quest.” She grinned lopsidedly. “In truth, it is why I have come to the Aquitaine in the first place. Plus, I do enjoy a bit of adventure, as I said. But the main thing is, I knew you were heading into danger and would need my help.”
This time they rode on for nearly an hour before he spoke. “It... it doesn’t take a masque such as Mojmir to foresee that there will come pressure from England at some time not far in the future. King Henry will seek to expand his holdings. The only way to confront such aggression is to present a unified front. Is this the future of which you speak?”
“I don’t know. Yes. Maybe. Part of it. I don’t know!” More she would not say despite Guilhem’s repeated entreaties. At last he gave up.
“If you cannot say, you cannot,” he said. “But you have given me much to think on. I will deal with such matters when and if they come to fruition. For now, my primary concern is in the present day, with the stinking ifrit. Let us hasten to Poictiers.”
* * *
At last came the day when Guilhem rode through the gates of his castle to be greeted joyously by his courtiers.
Without bothering to divest himself of his worn and filthy traveling togs, he went in search of Phillipa and kissed her soundly when he found her playing with their son. Leaving her breathless, he hurried to his map room, where he took reports as to the conditions of his estate and lands in his absence. He expected to hear of more horrors perpetrated by the “werewolf,” but to his vast relief there was no mention of the beast. He scarcely listed to the rest of the report. The thing was obviously still asleep in its tower.
Oriabel stood to one side, attending the gathering as an advisor. Guilhem had cautioned her not to utter a word without first being addressed. No one had spoken to her thus far.
“And what is the healer woman doing here?” demanded Sir Edwige, a florid-faced man-at-arms.
Guilhem scowled at him. “She has proved her value during our sojourn in Spain. Without her, I would not have returned with these.” So saying, he reached into a leather bag at his side and withdrew the ancient books of magic. He dropped them on the table with a thud. “They will help us banish the, uh, werewolf from our land.”
The men muttered in astonishment, and several crossed themselves. “These are devilish tomes,” said Edwige, peering at them. “My lord, they are not meant to be meddled with! We should fetch the priest.”
“That we will not. That is why I have brought Oriabel with me to this conclave,” Guilhem said. “She is much learned in the ways of magic.”
“My lord!” protested Piers, the castle seneschal. “She is a simple herbalist, a healer of cuts and bruises!”
“Worse; she’s a woman,” growled one of the other nobles. Several others nodded, muttering their agreement.
Guilhem brought his fist down on the table, making them jump. “Curse you all for a pack of fools! She saved my life on several occasions. The two of us faced the hideous monster of the mosque to obtain these volumes. We sojourned among strange peoples and faced bloodcurdling adversaries. We have journeyed many weary miles to bring relief and succor to these lands. To you, my people! There she stands, and by Heaven, there she remains.” He glared around the table at them. “Accustom yourselves to her presence.” There was some grumbling at his pronouncement but no one dared to put forth further objections.
After an hour of discussion, the nobles adopted a plan. And, although to Guilhem’s secret amusement they did not like having to take suggestions or guidance from Oriabel, in the end they were forced to do so. They had, as Guilhem reminded them with a grim smile on his face, no choice.
* * *
Guilhem, in full armor, polished and buffed until it shone like silver, marched through the forest toward the ruined tower housing the ifrit. Oriabel, muttering to herself, followed a few paces to the rear. She clutched a leather bag stuffed with magical implements.
Spring was now in full flower around them. Birds called to one another in the trees, bluebells twinkled amid the grass, and the forest was susurrant with the murmur of insects and the scurryings of small animals. All in all, it was a splendid day. In the normal course of events he would likely have been out hunting, overseeing his lands, or dawdling with the fair Phillipa, playing the lute and crooning a seductive song.
His mood was therefore dark: partly sour at being forced to forego the delights of a beautiful spring day, partly anxious because he knew not what would obtain from this confrontation with an ill-tempered and demonstrably dangerous supernatural entity, and partly determined because he meant to face down and conquer the evil creature or die trying.
Oriabel took several huge rock crystals from her bag and quickly set them around the tower, muttering spells and cantrips the while. Guilhem watched with growing impatience as she arranged small copper bowls near the tower’s entrance. He took his sword from its scabbard and made several practice swings with it to limber up. In the meantime, she poured variously colored powders into the copper bowls and set them alight.
All this time there was no sound from within the tower, no hint of motion.
“It still sleeps,” she said to Guilhem, who was pacing back and forth, sweating inside his armor. “My preparations are complete. Now I will waken it and we shall see what we shall see.
”
He gripped his sword more tightly. “I am ready. Proceed!”
Oriabel took her athame and sliced it through the air in front of the tower’s entrance. “The binding spell is sundered,” she said. She waved her wand at the tower. “Arise! Come forth!”
Instantly a pillar of dark, greasy-looking smoke drooled out of the doorway and formed itself into the bat-winged ifrit. “Who dares call—oh, it’s you.” It regarded Guilhem with amused contempt. “Fairy friend, and all. Well, what is it you—?”
It broke off, staring around in astonishment. “Wait! By Anubis’s left hind foot! What has happened to the season? It is spring!” It shook its head. “Have I slept?”
Guilhem lifted his sword. “Be not bewildered,” he barked. “Our magic cast you into slumber for lo, these last four months. But fear not—soon you will sleep eternally! I have returned from conquering the foul Sh’bnagre,” he went on in as provoking a voice as he could manage: condescending, insulting, and sneering. “In so doing I have had recourse to call on certain powerful spirits known to you. When I was through rending Sh’bnagre, they deigned to advise me concerning your unwelcome presence here on my land, among my people.”
