His spirits slumped again and, for the first time in three years, he found himself wishing ardently that he was back in the old, familiar, dead-end college-campus life he'd known before.
I am a man of constant sorrow,
I've seen trouble all my days.
I'm going back to East Virginia,The place where I was born and raised.
The guard turned to him, startled, alarmed. Matt frowned up at him. What was there to be alarmed about?
Matt's going.
Excitement spun through him. The guard had picked up his sadness before—that's why he'd been looking sympathetic. And he was resonating Matt's feelings of longing to go, now!
And why not? Matt had been thinking in verses!
Then why didn't all his thoughts make spells happen?
Because they usually weren't in verse—and when they were, they were fleeting verses like these, all emotion with no action, no imperative!
So if he did silently say a verse with an imperative...
But everyone knew a spell had to be recited aloud.
Sure—but just because everyone knew it, didn't always mean it was true.
Matt set himself and tried to think of the verse that he had used to free himself and Alisande from imprisonment in this very castle, those long three years ago.
I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine.
There shall I fly, to celebrate the light,
Freed in these flowers with dances of delight.
He waited expectantly for the disorientation of physical projection, waiting, waiting...
Disappointed.
He glowered up at the guard, feeling an irrational resentment of the man for still being there. Apparently verses did have to be spoken out loud.
Then a still, small voice seemed to speak within him, encouraging, but with a suspicion that some other power was operating here, that his spells would have to be in harmony with that other power before they could work.
It made sense. He knew very well that he would have gone down in defeat more than once, if his magic hadn't been supported by the spiritual guidance of Saint Moncaire, the patron of Merovence. And if Saint Moncaire had other plans for him right now than just breaking free to go wandering around feeling sorry for himself...
On the other hand, did he really want to do Saint Moncaire's work for him again?
Well, he could at least find out what the contract said before he signed it. He threw himself on the figurative mercies of the angels, asking where they wanted him to go.
The answer welled up in him, feeling uncomfortably like a compulsion. But about all you can do for a geas is go where it tells you, so Matt shrugged in surrender and recited an old, folk hymn:
"Servant, go where I send thee!"
"How shall I send me, Lord?"
"Well, I'm going to send thee one by one,
One for a little bitty baby,
Was born, born, born in Bethle—"
Light glared, and he found himself somewhere else entirely. This time he stayed still, but his stomach flipped over. He staggered, taking a deep breath against nausea, and put out a still-manacled hand to steady himself.
He felt rough bark beneath his palm. He turned, surprised, to see a tree behind him, and decided he wasn't in the dungeon anymore! He was free, in the sunshine and the open air! He took a deep breath of breeze, grinned wide, and looked about him.
Then he saw his surroundings, and his stomach felt a little queasy again.
CHAPTER 3
Forward, Lady!
"Yet there must be some way in which a vow may be revoked, my Lord Archbishop! Can Heaven truly wish a man to act upon words spoken in rash passion?"
"It can," the Archbishop said, with a sad smile. " 'Tis therefore we must be chary of our words, Majesty, and not swear oaths in vain."
They were still in the great hall, the sunlight striking through the stained glass of the western windows in tints of rose and blue, making the flagstones glow—but those colors seemed, to Alisande, to be the embers of her hopes. "But to court death and damnation, Lord Archbishop! Surely Heaven cannot wish a man to do so!"
"As to the danger of death..." The Archbishop turned thoughtful, then slowly nodded. "I can see that Heaven might wish it so—if our good Lord thought the man had some sure chance of succeeding in his holy purpose. We must all do God's work on earth, Majesty, as much as he does want of us, in such fashion as we may. The stronger must do greater tasks—and mayhap this is Lord Matthew's." The "Lord Matthew" stuck in his throat, but he forced it out. "And as to the danger of damnation, why! Does not each of us walk in that danger every moment of our lives, Majesty? And each of us is tempted, but none beyond his strength to resist. Be assured, if God has sent...Lord Matthew into a place of such temptation, He will give your wizard strength enough to resist."
"That is cold comfort," Alisande said, morose—but the Archbishop could see she was at least a little reassured. Then she looked up at him with a scowl. "Yet you have no need to be so cheered at the thought of his absence!"
The anger of a monarch stabbed like a sword; the Archbishop's heart skipped a beat in fright. Nevertheless, he spoke up bravely. "Pardon, Majesty—yet this self-exile is the most hopeful news that I have heard since you came once again to this throne."
"Hopeful!" Alisande spat.
"Hopeful," the Archbishop said firmly, drawing himself up. "That the man who so strongly aided you in casting out the forces of evil from this your kingdom should now be sworn to a quest to overthrow the vile sorcerer-king of Ibile? Aye, 'tis cause for great hope! Nay, I cannot truly be sorrowful to hear such news."
"Nor to think that this candidate for royal consort may soon be dead," Alisande said, acid in her tone.
"Your Majesty truly must make some provision for the succession," the Archbishop answered. "I entreat you! For what should hap to us all if you were to die before your time, without an heir?"
He thought he had done a rather good job of avoiding the question.
The guard heard the boom of imploding air, and turned to stare at the place where Matt had been. The manacles jangled, empty, against the stone. He gazed wide-eyed for a moment, then pushed his jaw back into place, heaved a sigh, and turned away to knock on the wicket and call for the captain of the guard, shaking his head.
The captain of the guard duly reported to the seneschal, who wasn't having any and told him it was his job, so the captain settled his sword belt, squared his shoulders, and turned to face the throne room with a heavy heart, reflecting that he hadn't really thought he was going to get out of it anyway.
"The brightest hope for my providing a succession, has just been cast into my dungeon, Lord Archbishop," Alisande retorted. "An you do wish me to bear an heir, you had best bethink you of ways to assure his return!"
The Archbishop seemed dubious. "Misunderstand me not, Majesty—Matthew Mantrell is a good man and noble. Natheless, he is not of royal blood."
"And is therefore unfit to be consort to a queen," Alisande finished for him. "Yet it is ironic, milord, that though that doubt has lingered in my heart these three years, I find it banished of a sudden—but only by the knowledge that Lord Matthew may be taken from me!"
The Archbishop felt his heart sink.
"Nay," the queen said, "be assured, I'll marry no one else—and surely, his service to the crown, and his finding favor in the eyes of Saint Moncaire, should have made me see his worthiness! He is the hope of Merovence, now and in the future." And of herself, she added silently. "I prithee, Lord Archbishop, tell me this understanding I have gained is the accomplishment God wished, by this vow of Lord Matthew's. There must be some way to negate his oath—for surely, he did not truly intend to take arms against Ibile, alone!"
The Archbishop sighed, with a sad shake of his head. "Majesty, I cannot—for why el
se would a wizard, one who knows the nature of geas and compulsions, have so bound himself?"
"He had forgot the power of words, here in Merovence," Alisande replied, "for they have no such strength in that other world he hails as home. In the heat of his passion and his anger, he thought words to be idle, only an expression of his feelings."
"Would you have me believe that the highest wizard in the land had forgot that what he swore to, in this land of Merovence, he was bound to?"
"Aye." Alisande's smile curdled. "If we had told him so, he would have protested that we did take his words too literally."
The Archbishop nodded, understanding. "Yet on reflection, Majesty, he would know that was the precise nature of the problem."
"Problem!" Alisande looked up, the color coming back into her face. "Why, 'tis but a riddle after all, is't not? And has a solution like to any other!"
"Majesty?" The Archbishop definitely didn't like the sound of what he was hearing.
"He cannot be bound by that oath! For three years ago, he did swear to serve me! How then can he leave my presence, if I do require his service here? For I most earnestly do!"
The Archbishop pursed his lips. "You mean that, at the worst, his two oaths might counter one another?"
"Nay, better—I mean that the second can have no effect, for it cannot displace the first!" Alisande actually smiled. "He cannot undertake a quest unless I command it—and I do not."
But the Archbishop was giving her the sad smile again, and shaking his head. "I regret, but I must inform you, Majesty, that the vow cannot be broken, unless Heaven and the saints really do not wish Lord Matthew to attempt the purification of Ibile. In truth, if God did wish, this later vow would overbear the first—yet I think the occasion does not arise."
Alisande's scowl was enough to make his heart quail. "How so?"
"Why," the Archbishop said, "Ibile has ever been a threat to the welfare of Merovence, to her borders and her people, since ever the first sorcerer Grosso overthrew the rightful king of Ibile and brought the reign of evil down upon the whole kingdom. Nay, Majesty, by seeking to fulfill this oath, Lord Matthew does not only God's work, but yours also!"
"Yet it is not my will!" she cried, as if it were torn out of her.
"It is Heaven's, though." The firmness of authority came back into his voice. "And you are sworn to uphold the will of Heaven, Majesty, so far as God reveals it to you."
Alisande slumped, a moment's despair evident in every line of her body.
The Archbishop acted almost automatically, reaching out to the aid of a soul in need. "Be of good cheer, Majesty. Lord Matthew goes not alone into this kingdom of wickedness—he goes with the might of Heaven to strengthen him. I doubt not that Heaven will give him all the aid it can, of saints and angels, for they must surely want him to erase from Ibile this foul blot of a king, yea, Gordogrosso and all his minions."
"Yet will he prevail?" she moaned. "For Heaven works through us, Lord Archbishop, in this world—but so can Hell, if we wish it to. Has Matthew enough goodness to stand against the sorcerers? For he was never a saint!"
"He may become so, in this striving," the Archbishop pointed out, "or come much closer to Heaven, at least. Besides, Majesty, be mindful—if Matthew Mantrell can topple Gordogrosso and purge the wickedness from Ibile, he will most surely have proved his worthiness to be a lord—and your consort."
Alisande lifted her head, a strange light coming into her eyes. "True," she said, "if he still will love me."
The captain of the guard stepped through the archway, caught her eye, and bowed.
Alisande's mouth went dry; somehow, she knew he had bad news. "Approach, Captain!"
The young knight strode forward, trying not to look for a place to hide.
"What news have you for me?" she demanded.
The Captain bowed, and reported, wooden-faced, "Your Majesty, the Lord Wizard is not in his cell."
Alisande took it well, you had to say that for her—she sat still as a statue for a minute, then asked, "Was he bound?"
"Aye, Majesty."
"And gagged?"
"Aye, Majesty!"
Then Matthew had managed the impossible again, working a spell without speaking it aloud. Admiration for the man welled up within her, with an almost covetous longing for him—but too late, too late. Still, she managed to push the thought aside while she nodded crisply and said, "Thank you, my captain. You may go—and the rest of your guardsmen with you."
"I thank Your Majesty." And the captain meant it, nodding to his soldiers with relief and turning to march out. They followed unhappily, feeling that they should have done something more—but who could have, against the Lord Wizard?
Alisande turned to the Archbishop and inclined her head. "I thank you for your words of comfort, milord. And I will entreat you to pray for Lord Matthew."
"With every Mass." The Archbishop bowed and turned to go—he knew a dismissal when he heard one.
The great doors closed behind him, and Alisande let herself collapse, with the fleeting, vagrant thought that Matthew could at least have waited until after she had dined, so that he wouldn't have spoiled her appetite.
Then the fact of his absence really hit her, and she felt the anger mount. Good, good! It would help her through this, might almost drown the feelings of desertion and remorse...
But what else could she have done? Really? As queen, she was blessed—cursed?—with Divine Right, always knowing which course of action was best for the welfare of her people, and never hesitating to take it—even if any action would prove useless. It was just her bad luck that what had been the best decision for the monarch had been the worst for the woman.
Or was it the other way around?
CHAPTER 4
No Refund, No Return
Matt stared at the unfamiliar landscape around him, stumbled, then caught his balance and managed to right himself. Still agog, he decided he could see why magicians said their spells aloud. It definitely gave better results!
Then it hit him—well or poorly, the spell had worked! Even without reciting it aloud—the gag was still in his mouth. It had worked!
Why?
No time to figure it out now; he filed it away for analysis when there would be a moment of leisure—i.e., one not filled with trying to stay alive—and got down to the serious business of getting that gag out of his mouth.
His hands were chained behind his back, and his mouth was filled with dry cloth. Free his hands, and he could untie the gag—or free his mouth, and he could make up a spell to get rid of the chains. Which to do first?
Make sure there were no enemies about to pounce on him—that did kind of take first priority. "Enemies" included mountain lions, wolves, and other mountain dwellers that might consider him to be just the right snack. He turned around slowly and saw that he was alone on a hillside. He relaxed a little—then realized that he hadn't had any trouble turning. His ankle had been manacled to the wall, but apparently the manacle hadn't come with him.
That made sense—the end of it being attached to the wall, it counted as part of the castle he had been trying to get away from. Therefore, it had stayed behind—but his wrist chains, being attached only to him, had come along.
Well, he was grateful for every little bit of progress. Free feet were better than nothing. Then a light bulb turned on inside his head, showing him a scene of himself as a child playing the old game of trying to step through the circle of his own arms, with his hands clasped together. As he remembered, he'd managed it—but he'd been considerably more agile at ten than he was at twenty-seven.
Or was he? His first few weeks in Merovence had put him back into very good shape, and he hadn't lost much of his muscle tone in the last three years—Alisande had kept him very busy going from place to place in the kingdom, trouble-shooting and wiping out leftover pockets of sorcery. Most of it, he had to admit, had been necessary, at least for the first two years. The third year, though, had been full of make-work erra
nds. The memory galled him, especially since he was pretty sure what had instigated them—Alisande's need to be away from him.
The thought scored his heart, so he thrust it aside and got down to experimenting. Carefully, trying not to lose his balance, he bent his knees, getting his wrists as low as he could and stretching the chain as far as it would go. Then, slowly, he lifted his left foot and tried to push it over the links.
His toe caught.
For a second, he teetered, madly trying to keep his balance, then fell crashing to the ground. He lay still for a second, trying to contain the burst of anger—it wouldn't do any good to let it out at the moment, anyway.
Why not just make up a spell? If he could get out of a prison, he could get out of a chain.
Two reasons. The first was that the transportation spell had worked well enough, but not perfectly. In fact, Matt's spells frequently tended not to have quite the effects he had planned, anyway, and the imperfections that came from reciting the verse silently might have very painful results. The second was that magic had a way of attracting the attention of other magic-workers, and Matt would just as soon have his hands and mouth free before having to try to deal with any wizardly tracers Alisande might manage to have her second-class magicians try on him.
Or any hostile locals, for that matter...
On the other hand, now that he was on the ground, he had no balance to lose. The idea made sense—so much so that he thought he should have tried lying down in the first place. Well, now that he had, voluntarily or not, he could try stepping through the chain with a bit more leisure. He pulled his left foot up, jamming his knee against his chest, and very carefully moved his toes past the chain. Then he straightened the leg—with a feeling of victory. Now, if he could just do it with his right...He rolled over onto his left side and slowly, carefully, raised his knee and pulled his right foot through. Then he sat up, smiling around his gag as he looked down at his hands, there in front of him. He felt an immense sense of accomplishment.
The Oathbound Wizard Page 2
