Hounds of God

by Tarr, Judith

  “And, no doubt, power in the Papal Curia above the upstart Preachers.”

  “You are a wise child,” he said. “Our Order is older than Domingo’s, its mission more clearly from God; it has been slighted most often and most unjustly. See now, we have it in our power to lay a whole kingdom before Peter’s Throne, to destroy a whole people created by the Devil’s hands.”

  “That’s heresy,” Anna pointed out.

  His eyes glittered. “It is truth. They are evil. They wield the powers of darkness; they enslave men to their will.”

  “You’re one of them.”

  He surged to his feet. “I am the servant of God. He made me to cleanse the world of that inhuman brood.”

  “Witch yourself a mirror. Look at your face; remember Thea’s. Think of the power she has, and of your own. Different in degree, maybe, but clearly of the same kind.”

  “I am not. I belong to God. He set me among men little better than beasts; He tried me and He tempered me, strengthening me in the fire of their hate. Witch, they called me. Monster. Cat-eyes, warlock, devil-brat. They would stone me in the street; they would creep to me in the dark, begging me to wield my power for them. To heal or to harm; to mend a broken pot, to foretell a child’s fate, to lay a curse on an enemy. God moved in me. I did as He commanded and often as they begged. Till the priest, moved by God’s Adversary, thought to come against me. He was a dour old man, a drunkard, a begetter of bastards. He brought his bell and his book and his candle and all his black burden of sin. He had no mercy on a child whose mother was dead, whose father none had ever known. He would have reft my power from me. He would have burned me.”

  Simon shuddered with the memory, yet his gaze was fixed, fearless, terrible. “I burned him. He called me witch and devil; God flamed in me and through me, and I was exalted, and the false priest was consumed.”

  His eyes shifted, blurred. A small sigh escaped him. “I had not known what I could do. Not all of it. Not this. I think I was mad before—certainly there had always been two of me, the weak child who yearned to be human and the self who was all a fire of power. The priest in his dying made the power master. The child had no hope of victory thereafter.

  “The power drove me away from the place where I was born, the small vile town on a rock in Tuscany. It sent me wandering through the world, a careless bedlam creature singing the glory of God. I shunned the Church then, for all I had known of it was that one bad priest. I lived on the fruits of power, save now and again when charity came unasked for or the fire in me saw need of earthly strength. I healed a leper in the City of Flowers. I danced on light above the hills of Lombardy. I grew, and I grew strong, and at last, when I looked into mortal eyes, I knew amazed that I had grown fair.

  “There was a woman. A girl; she was hardly older than I. She labored in the fields as I walked past. Somewhere I had lost my garment; I had made one out of sunlight. She saw and she marveled, and I paused, and she was beautiful, all dark and small and lovely to the lean pallid length of me. It was a great magic, the meeting of our eyes.

  “It was a great sin. We did not know; we were not spared for that. In the night as we damned ourselves with delight, God struck. He wielded my power as He wields the lightning; He struck her down with me beside her. Though I woke in awful agony, she never stirred again.

  “I raged. I cried to Heaven and Hell. I flung myself against the stars; I smote the earth till it shuddered beneath me. And there I lay while the sun wheeled above me with the moon in its train; the stars stared their millionfold stare, unmoved by all my fury. A black dream took me.

  “I wandered in it. Where I went, how long I traveled, I never knew. I know it was both long and far. When I woke I was a stranger to myself, tall, deep-voiced, hard-bodied, with a beard downy-thick on my face. The place wherein I lay had a flavor of nothing I knew, stone and sweetness and a music of many voices.

  “There God spoke to me. I knew that it was He, although He spoke with the tongue and the lips of a man. ‘Wake, my son,’ He commanded me. ‘Wake and be strong. I have a task for you.’

  “I could not speak. I could only stare.

  “God smiled at me through His instrument. ‘Heaven’s own miracle has set you here among Saint Paul’s disciples, child of power that you are. Rise up and give thanks; here at last have you found your destiny. No force of Hell shall prevail against you.’

  “Still I was silent. All words had forsaken me. I knew without comprehension that I had fallen into the arms of the Church; what so long I had evaded had reached out to embrace me. I was too numb to be afraid. But I could move, and I rose from my bed and bowed low.

  “God raised me. Raised me up, exalted me, taught me my purpose. To serve Him; to wield my power in His name.”

  “Not God,” Anna said harshly. “Some venal monk who saw a weapon he could use. Did you kill him, too?”

  He shook his head, neither grieved nor angered. “He is venal, yes, and he uses me, but God has chosen him. His commands arise from the will of the One Who rules him. And,” he added quite calmly, “he has always been too pleased with his own cleverness to be afraid of me.”

  “I’m not afraid, either.”

  “I know.” He smiled his rare smile, unbearably sweet. “She was much like you, the girl from the field. Not so prickly; not so wise. But she was younger, and she didn’t know what I was, except that I was unique in all her world. She thought I was a wonder and a marvel. She never had time to learn to hate me.”

  “I don’t…exactly…hate you.”

  It was true, Anna realized. She did not like it, but she could not avoid it. “I can’t hate someone I know. Just abstractions. War, injustice, corruption. The force that murdered a child simply because he existed.”

  Simon’s face shifted with familiar swiftness. His smile was long dead. His hands tore at flesh that could not be wounded, at cloth that at least stayed torn. Heavy though it was, wool woven thick and strong, it shredded like age-rotted silk. Rough darkness gaped beneath. Of course he would wear a hairshirt, that mad servant of a mad God.

  “Hate!” he cried. “I—hate— I am a horror. With a touch, with a thought, I kill. The priest was not the first, never the first. My mother never wanted me, never wanted to love me, struck me when I cried till I learned not to cry, fed me and cared for me because duty forced her to. She hit me. I would be there where she could see me, and she would take a stick to me. And then it swelled in me, that thing, the other, and it uncoiled and at last it struck. It killed. I only wanted the stick to go away. It would have more. I hate it. I hate—”

  Anna clapped her hands over her ears.

  He was kneeling in front of her. Calm again, gentle again. Her hands were no barrier to his soft voice. “You understand. I have no power over that other. I can only do as I am commanded.”

  “By it or by your Hounds of masters?”

  “By God.” He sat back on his heels, hands resting lightly on his thighs.

  Anna’s own hands fell to her sides. She was very tired. Bored, even, in spite of all his dramatics. It was only the same thing over and over. God and madness and a deep, rankling hatred of himself. Her pity was losing its strength; very soon she would be irritated. Did he think that he alone had ever suffered? Some of the Folk had endured far worse, had come out of it singing. Even she knew anguish; she had not shattered under it. What right had he to rend worlds for his little pain?

  He turned slightly, oblivious it seemed to her anger. After a long moment Anna heard the scraping of bolts.

  Her glance, passing him, caught and held. His face was stiff, set, yet blazing from within with such a mingling of hate and scorn, fear and surrender and something very close to worship, as Anna had never dreamed of. In a moment it had vanished behind the marble mask; Brother Paul filled the doorway.

  Anna had seen him but once, and then only dimly in the reflection of his companion. She had not known that he was so large. He was as tall as Simon, as tall as Alf, and nigh as broad as Father Jeha
n. But he had not the Bishop’s muscular solidity; his flesh swelled into softness. His eyes were as lazy as ever in the full ruddy face, taking in the tableau, Thea curled with the children in a far corner, Anna upright on the pallet, Simon at his ease nearby.

  “Brother?” he inquired of the last.

  Simon straightened. “The woman does not yield.” His voice once more was flat.

  Brother Paul advanced a step or two, folded his arms, looked down at Thea. She did not dignify his presence with a snarl. “Your King and his wild brother have been fighting. They haven’t fought well, I understand. Maybe it troubles them that their sorceries are held in check; that they have to live and fight as simple mortal men. One has even been wounded, I can’t be certain which. They’re so much alike, people say; now and again they exchange blazons. The man who fell fought under the sign of the seabird crowned.”

  Anna’s breath rasped in her throat. Thea seemed unmoved, staring steadily up at the monk.

  He shook his head with feigned sadness. “It would be a grim thing if your King should die. He’s not dead yet, Brother Simon says; he can’t work his magic to heal himself. He hangs between life and death. Now suppose,” he said, “that you were to surrender. Brother Simon works miracles of healing; he could be persuaded to pray for yet another.”

  Thea yawned and said coolly, You’re lying. Even if Simon Magus can pierce Rhiyana’s defenses—and I grant you, he’s strong enough for that—even he can’t overwhelm both Gwydion and Aidan at once. They’re twinborn; they’re far stronger together than the plain sum of their power.

  “So they may be, together. They had no time to prove it. Pain is a great destroyer of the mind’s defenses.”

  If it’s so childishly easy to overcome us, Thea said coolly still, why do you need my submission? Why not just cut us all down at once?

  “It is not easy,” Simon answered tightly. “Your King was open to me, fighting on the edge of his realm, struck with a sudden dart. God guided it and me. In a hunt amid pain like fire and flood, I found the part of him that heals; I sealed it with my seal. Only I can loose the bonds.”

  You are unspeakable. Thea said it without inflection, which was worse in its way than a storm of outrage.

  “I do what I must. No one near your King has any powers of healing, nor can any such come to him unless I will it. He cannot age, but he can die. Would you save him? Surrender now.”

  Thea was perfectly steady. What would be the use of that? If you have your way, he’ll die anyway. This at least is a little quicker.

  “A witch’s heart,” said Brother Paul, “is ice and iron. Never a wife, hardly a mother, now you show yourself a poor vassal besides.”

  What if I do surrender? she flared with sudden heat. What then? I’m dear enough to my lord King, I don’t deny it, but he won’t sacrifice all his people on my say-so. I doubt he’d do that even for his Queen. And you killed his son.

  Simon spoke softly, more to himself than to her. “Our people have tried and condemned a number of heretics in your royal city. Some are guilty of no more than believing their King and his Kin to be children of Heaven rather than of Hell. It’s evil, but it’s rather enviable how loyal your Rhiyanans are. They’re to be burned tomorrow. The Queen has no power to stop it.”

  Nor, it seems, does the Pope’s Legate. You can’t tell me he approves such lunacy.

  “He has power only against your kind. This I tell of is done by command of our Order under His Holiness’ mandate. We winnow your fields, witch; we hunt out mortal prey. Soon they’ll be crying for your blood rather than suffer more on your behalf. Then the Legate will be compelled to perform his duty. He’s already seen enough to condemn you all thrice over—and it was your own lover who betrayed you.”

  Simon’s eyes glittered with contempt. “Oh, yes; he worked magic before the Cardinal’s eyes, and told all your people’s secrets, babbling like a child or a black traitor. Though I would be charitable; I would declare it plain folly and assurance of the power of his own beauty, even over a man who takes enormous pride in his chastity. Such men in the end are easily laid low. He knew. He was one.

  “But the Cardinal has held against him. I’ve seen to it. In a week or a fortnight, the Interdict will fall and the people will rise up.”

  With your aid, I presume. Her mind-voice was rough. Your course is set. You can’t delude me into thinking I can change it, even if I grovel at your feet. I grieve for my King and my kin; I mourn for my country. I won’t submit to you. Nor will any of the rest, however you torment them.

  “They will fall before me. God has said so.”

  She laughed, cold and clear. When you sit your throne over the wasteland you’ve made, look about you and think, and then put a name to the voice that speaks in you. God; or Satan.

  “You are evil.”

  Take care, Brother Magus. It may not be I who break under the weight of truth. It may well be you.

  Simon looked long at her, his eyes almost black, his face corpse-white. “You,” he said at last, “would drive an angel to murder. Yet it is all bravado. I see you now; I see how you tremble deep within, weep for your King and your people, long for your white-eyed paramour. It does not even irk you to be helpless, not in the heart of you. There, you have always been as other women, soft and frail, sorely in need of a man’s strength to rule your waywardness.”

  She laughed again, but freely, with honest mirth. Brother, you have a certain talent, but you’ll never make a torturer. I have a weakness here and there, I know it perfectly well, and the worst of them is my love whom you hate so much and for so little visible cause. But as for the rest of it… Simon Magus, I’m a woman and I’m proud of it, and I’ve worn a man’s body often enough to know I much prefer the one I was born in. It’s infinitely stronger.

  “You pray for a rescue. You dream of a man’s strong hands.”

  Yes, and in such places, doing such things… Why, lad! You’re blushing. Have I shocked you, poor tender creature? Are you wishing someone would sweep you away from all my wickedness?

  Simon bent close to her, even with his flaming cheeks. “Words, words, words. Your strength is all in your tongue. I hear you in the nights. I hear you weeping and crying your lover’s name.”

  I hear you, she shot back, mewling for your mother. But she’s dead. You murdered her. I at least have a living man to yearn for.

  His fist caught her. Flesh thudded sickly on furred flesh; something cracked like bones breaking.

  She fell limp. Anna sprang through a white fog of terror. Thea lay deathly still. No breath stirred her body; no pulse beat for all of Anna’s frantic searching.

  Her mind was extraordinarily calm. It could only think of Alf, how grief would drive him mad. As mad as Simon, at the very least. Then would come such a vengeance as the world had never seen. Let it come soon, she thought as she watched her hands. Foolish things; they tried to smooth Thea’s coat, to settle her limbs more comfortably, as if it could matter.

  Simon’s shadow darkened the world. He was staring at his hand. It looked odd, swollen, a little misshapen. “Ice,” he muttered. “Iron.”

  Thea stirred, tossing. She whimpered softly as with pain. Her eyes blinked open.

  Anna’s cry died unborn. The voice in her mind was most like a fierce whisper, yet with the force of a shout. Now, while he’s lost in his pain—move!

  Simon rocked with it. Paul seemed dazed, unfocused. The door was open behind him. Had it been so from the beginning, all unnoticed?

  Move! Thea willed her.

  She jerked into motion. She could not—Thea must not—

  A force like a hand thrust her sidewise around the two monks, toward the path Thea had opened for her. Suddenly, like a startled rabbit, she leaped for it.

  The passage was long and bleak, a stretch of stone and closed doors, cold as death. She had no thought but flight, yet somewhere in the depths of her raged a fire of protest. Where could she go, what could she do, what would they do to Thea?


  Walls of air closed about her. She struck the foremost with stunning force, reeled and fell, too shocked for despair.

  Simon spoke above her, cool and quiet. “A valiant effort. But not wise.” She heard him step back. “Get up.”

  She would not. Part of it was plain collapse; a goodly part was defiance.

  He lifted her easily and in spite of her struggles. A glance at his face stilled her utterly. It was expressionless, as often, but something in it made her blood run cold.

  He set her in the cell. The door was shut. Thea crouched trembling, eyes clouded. A thin keening whine escaped her.

  Simon’s hands on Anna’s arms were as cruel as shackles. “I am not to be mocked,” he said.

  He flung her down; she gasped as her knees, then her hands, smote stone. But that pain seemed but a light slap, as all her being burst into a white agony. Nor would it end with the mercy of bodily anguish. It went on and on, stretching into eternity.

  And all for so little.

  19.

  Between the rain and the advancing evening, Rome seemed dim, half-real. Nikki picked his way through a waste of ruins and past the dark plumes of cypress, his feet uneasy on the sodden earth. The mist that rose about him held a faint chamel reek, a warning of the fevers that lurked in it.

  If this hunt ever ended, no doubt his mind would still continue it, set in a firm mold of habit. Sometimes he saw himself as a hound weaving through coverts; sometimes he was a cat stalking a prey it could almost see.

  Tonight he was a hawk on the winds of the mind-world, riding them in slow spirals, letting them carry him where they would. Yet he was also, and always, aware of his body, of the cold kiss of fog on his face, of the dampness that worked through his cloak and the growing wetness of his feet. They would be glad to rest by the brazier in Stefania’s house; she would insist that he linger, and old Bianca, recovered now and utterly smitten with his black eyes, would press food and drink upon him, and Uncle Gregorios keep him there with the plain joy of the Greek in exile who had found a countryman.