CHAPTER 1
Lovers' Quarrel
The horse was steaming, and Matt was fuming. They clattered in over the drawbridge and past the guards with nothing but a perfunctory grunt. They exchanged a glance and shook their heads.
Matt pulled up by the stables and tossed the reins to the first groom who came running, then turned away on his heel, stalking toward the towering bulk of the keep. The groom stared after him, shocked—the Lord Wizard was unfailing in his politeness, with always time for a cheerful word or two.
But Her Majesty's Wizard was anything but cheerful, and in no mood to be polite to anyone, least of all Her Majesty. The fact that he had to ride a mere horse only made things worse. Of course, he had had to be content with ordinary mounts since his dragon friend Stegoman had gone gallivanting off with his other friend Sir Guy on an errand of errantry, a gallant mission to save the kingdom of Ibile from the wretched stew of sorcery it had simmered into over the last two hundred years—and, at the moment, Matt wished most ardently that he had gone with them. The danger seemed of relatively little importance compared to the simple fact of a mission worth undertaking. Not like this last little fracas, which...!
He stormed up to the doors of the royal apartments, but as he laid hold of the handle, a sentry leaped forward, albeit with trepidation. "Nay, my Lord Wizard! Her Majesty hath not given leave!"
"Too right she hasn't!" Matt snarled. Alisande seemed to have developed an aversion to Matt's company lately, probably because every time he saw her, he pressed her to set a date for their wedding: But they had been engaged for three years now, so it wasn't surprising that Matt was getting a little impatient. It was time to have it out with her. He yanked the door open and stormed into the corridor, trailing a howling wake of horrified sentries and servants.
The queen looked up from her writing, blue eyes wide in surprise, then in outrage.
It almost stopped Matt—not her rage, but her beauty. The oval face was framed in a cascade of blond hair, unbound here in her private apartments, and set off perfectly by the mauve of her casual gown.
Almost.
"Why don't you just say you don't want me around anymore?" Matt slapped his gloves down on the table. "That last trip was something any village magician could have taken care of. No, strike that—he would have sent his apprentice!"
"I did not deem a plague of locusts a trivial matter, Lord Wizard!" Alisande said in a voice that would have frozen penguins. "It may be of little moment to you, but the poor peasant folk thereabout thought it disastrous!"
"Sure, because their village magician had dropped dead two years ago, and their baron was too cheap to hire a replacement! And don't tell me you didn't know that!"
"Assuredly, I did—and thought it your office to see to it! What, must I undertake every smallest matter myself? Have I none to aid me?"
"Oh, come off it with the wounded violet routine! You could have told me why the baron didn't have a magician, and I would have sent one out."
Alisande's gaze faltered. "Mayhap, yet still 'twas thy duty to see to his installation."
"And just conveniently put myself out of your way for a fortnight, so you didn't have to worry about my importuning you!"
Alisande tried to bring her gaze back up to his, but didn't quite manage it. "Wherefore ought I find concern..."
"Because I keep pressing you to set the date! Which is scarcely surprising, considering how long we've been engaged! But every time I bring up the subject of marriage, you keep putting me off—and off, and off. Meanwhile, I hang around here like your tame poodle—just another ornament for your palace, never getting to do anything I really want to do!"
"Not what you wish! Pray Heaven any of us could do what we wished! And what is it you wish to do?"
"Marry you!"
Alisande took a deep breath, fighting for patience and trying to still her beating heart. "It shall come some day, Lord Wizard."
"Yes, I understand it will. I seem to remember some sort of promise to that effect..."
"Promise?" Alisande's gaze sharpened "I made no promise!"
"Oh?" Matt cocked his head to the side. "Then what would you call those words we exchanged on Breden Plain?"
"My appeal, and your response. As I mind me, 'twas yourself who did give promise that day, not I—and somewhat unwillingly at that."
"Well, I'm more than willing now!" Matt swallowed down outrage. "And you may not have actually given me a promise, but there certainly seemed to be something implied."
Alisande tossed her head impatiently. "In a moment of weakness, I gave you a kiss, naught more—and, Lord Wizard, a kiss is not a promise."
Matt held his face impassive while he absorbed the hurt. Alisande saw, and quailed within, but met wooden face with flint.
Finally, Matt said, "If that kiss happened in a moment of weakness, then you have a weakness for me—which means that, underneath your mask of duty, you're really in love with me, and hopefully, want to spend your life with me."
Alisande bridled, the more so because it was true. "You overreach yourself, Lord Wizard. Yet whether I love you or not, I may not act upon it."
Matt just stared at her.
Then he said, "Let me get this straight. You love me, but you can't do anything about it?"
Alisande kept her face hard. "You must know that a queen cannot marry for love—but only for the good of the kingdom, using her marriage as a way of forming an alliance, or in other ways benefiting her people."
Matt felt his stomach sink—he did indeed know. So, of course, he tried to fend off the vision of a lifetime of hanging around the court as the bachelor least likely to succeed, by going on the offensive. "That means that if I were the king of some other country, you'd marry me?"
"Aye, if the goodwill of that land were of need to my own."
"Okay—so I'll go win a kingdom." Matt started to turn away.
"Speak not so foolishly, Lord Wizard!" Alisande snapped, with her first hint of real temper. "Kingdoms are not to be had for the asking! To say such is nigh to sacrilege!"
"Oh, come on!" Matt turned back. "There has to be a kingdom somewhere near that has a rotten king, and needs a new one."
"Aye, both Ibile and Allustria—yet I do well but to ward against them, with all my horses and all my men! How should we conquer them?"
"I'll find a way."
"You cannot!"
"I swear to God I will!" Matt shouted. "I'll kick that Ibilian monster-monarch off his throne or die trying!"
Alisande blanched, and the throne room was suddenly as silent as a tomb, even the guards staring in scandalized shock. Matt glanced at them out of the corners of his eyes, and something inside him said, in a very tiny voice, Oh. I should not have said that, should I?
Then Alisande caught her breath and shouted, "Guards! Seize that man! Bind and gag him! Chain him to the thickest wall in my deepest dungeon!"
Matt stared, unbelieving. His one true love? Sending him into solitary?
Then the guards hit, and he believed. Two men hugged his arms and two more his legs, picking him up bodily, ignoring his struggles. He opened his mouth to shout a spell, but somebody's glove jammed in between his teeth. Enraged, he tried to spit it out, but someone else was already wrapping a sash around his face and tying it tight. He couldn't speak, he couldn't gesture!
"Well done," Alisande said, discreetly disregarding the guards' ashen faces. "Now bear him to the dungeons, and chain him to the wall. Then mount guard over him, inside the cell and out—and if he should even attempt to speak, give him so shrewd a knock alongside the head that he loses consciousness again. Oh, be sure, he must not speak! Or he will cast a spell!"
Matt felt his stomach sink, as the guards turned him about and headed for the stairway. Alisande was right, unfortunately—and the guards had hit too fast for him to get his mouth working. He was well and truly trussed this time—and not liable to get out of it.
But his one true love! How could she do such a thing to him? Humiliate him so? Not to mention the discomfort!
Easy—she didn't love him. He'd just been a valuable asset. A heavy mass seemed to weigh down upon his spirits, as the guards hauled him down, down through the keep and into the dark of the dungeon. Dark, yes, but no darker than the mood that descended over his soul.
CHAPTER 2
Free Thinker
The blacksmith finished riveting the manacles chaining Malt's wrists behind him and stepped back with a look of trepidation. "You know we wouldn't have done this on our own, Your Lordship."
Matt glowered at him, but he couldn't keep it up. Reluctantly, he nodded. It wasn't just fear of his magic—the common folk all liked him too well to do anything against him. Most of them, anyway. He gargled something that sounded like grudging acceptance.
Relief washed the smith's face. "Godspeed you, Lord Wizard. Heaven knows, you have served her Majesty too well to deserve such as this!"
" 'Tis not for you to say, Smith!" the captain of the guard snapped. "Out with you, now. 'Tis enough for you to know the Lord Wizard will not seek revenge."
Matt muttered and nodded. He couldn't really blame a man for doing his job properly. He shrugged.
The smith broke into a grateful smile, hoisted his portable anvil, and went out the door.
"We shall leave you now, milord," the captain of the guard said. "Yet I, too, would have you know, 'tis not by my wish you are here."
Matt didn't know whether he was trying to mend his fences, or give support—but again he shrugged the apology away. The man was just doing as he was bound to do, by his oath of service. Alisande was his queen, after all.
The captain seemed faintly relieved. Had he understood Matt's thought so well as that? But no, Matt hadn't recited a telepathy spell. How could he, bound and gagged?
"Even so, I mislike coming between a man and his leman," the other guard growled.
Matt understood—domestic disputes were always rough on the cops. But don't worry, boys, I won't hold it against you, he thought as hard as he could.
Again, the look of relief. "Is there aught to make you comfortable, milord, ere we go?"
Matt nodded, working his mouth around his gag, then miming the act of drinking water.
"Aye." The captain hefted a wineskin. "There must be two of us for when you wish to drink henceforth, must there not? Unstop his mouth, soldier—and stand ready to smite him if he should speak a single word."
The guard nodded as he untied the sash, face hard. "I would I did not have to, Lord Wizard, yet such is the queen's command."
The gag came out, and Matt drew a long breath of clean air with relief. The captain held out the wineskin, and Matt leaned back and drew a long draught. Eyeing his jailers warily, he decided not to try speaking even to thank them, and opened his mouth with a sigh.
It was a new and more comfortable gag they put in—no doubt the captain wanted his glove back—but to say a gag is "more comfortable" is to say a torture is "less painful." Matt resigned himself and slumped back against the wall with a sigh. It was going to be a long existence, with a very dry mouth and aching jaws.
The guard finished tying the gag back in place, Matt sat down with a groan, and the captain nodded, turning to go. "May all be as well for you as it may, Lord Wizard."
The door slammed shut, but there was still a torch, since the remaining guard needed light. After all, there wasn't much point stationing him there with his short cudgel, if he couldn't see whether or not Matt had worked his gag loose.
And Matt was certainly in a mood to try, feeling angry, vengeful, betrayed, rejected, and bewildered. Where had he gone wrong? How had he lost Alisande's love? Or had he ever had it in the first place? Was it class paranoia, the nobleman's antipathy toward the social climber? Or was it just friction between man and mate, telling her what she wanted to hear but in the wrong way?
No, it couldn't be that. He had told her he loved her in fifty different ways, fifty times at least in the last three years, some of them as ardent and romantic as any woman could want—and she had certainly responded; he could have sworn she was burning to answer his fervor with her own. But something had held her back...
Alas, my love, you do me wrong, To treat me so discourteously, When I have loved you oh, so long, Delighting in your company!
She had even worn green sleeves when they were questing together!
The guard shifted nervously and glanced down at Matt, commiserating. Matt felt an irrational flash of gratitude toward the man, and tried to smile reassuringly. But his mind strayed back to Alisande—didn't it always? He tried to pull himself out of the slough of despond, but the betrayal weighed on his spirits too heavily.
What ails thee, captive Knight at arms, Compelled to enforced loitering; Where niter gathers on stone walls, And no birds sing.
I saw pale kings, and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all, Who cried—"La Belle Dame Sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!"
Again, the guard turned to him, and this time his expression would have done credit to a bloodhound. Matt tried to smile bravely, but he wasn't really up to it.
This was ridiculous! Here he was, just making the guard and himself both miserable. He had to jolt himself out of this self-pity and get back in action! It was a time to be doing, not moping!
Do what?
Good question. In Merovence, magic worked by chanting poetry, sometimes reinforced by gestures—and he couldn't chant very well if his mouth was stuffed with a gag. Gesturing was possible with chains on his wrists, but somewhat limited. Besides, gestures couldn't do anything alone.
For a life to dwell In a dungeon cell Growing thin and wizened In a solitary prison...
He broke off with a shudder. He had a momentary vision of his future...
My hair is gray, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night As men's have grown from sudden fears.
The guard sniffed and wiped a tear as he glanced at Matt out of the corner of his eye. Matt plucked up his spirits to wink, and take a playful kick at the man's knee with the ankle that was not fastened to the wall. The guard looked surprised, then grinned down. "Eh, your Lordship! I should ha' known naught would keep 'ee down for long!"
Matt winked again, though he felt like crying, before his attention strayed back to his dilemma. Finally, he began to feel indignant, a very healthy sign. Definitely better than moping. The ignominy of it! He, the topmost wizard in the land—thanks to all the verses he knew that this land had never heard of—chained in dungeon vile and not able to do a thing about it! And all because Alisande had been quick enough to think of a gag before he did! She may have tired of him, but she wasn't about to let him go—oh, no! Salt him away in storage in case he suited her whim again! How like a woman, always to want a new beau for her string!
For a moment, his resentment submerged in admiration of her. What a woman! Such presence of mind, such quickness of wit, to realize in a split second that, gagged, he couldn't work magic, and so couldn't escape. Such determination, such tenacity, such selfishness!
Well, that wasn't really fair. Her kingdom came before herself, in her own mind—that's why she was a good monarch. But could he really manage having a wife who thought her kingdom was more important than her husband?
She appeared again before his mind's eye, and he knew in a moment that he could. After all, that devotion to duty was part of what made her admirable.
But did she always have to be so damned right?
Yes, she did—at least, in public matters. The "Divine Right of Kings" really worked, in this universe. Nice to know he ranked as a public issue. On the other hand, it might have been nice if, to her, he'd been more than a national asset.
Or was he? Come to think of it, if she was in love with him, it was a personal matter—and, in personal matters, her judgment could be flawed.
The old scientific instinct stirred in him. How about the empirical test? After all, who knew for sure that he couldn't escape?
Everyone, that's who. In this universe, magic worked—and it worked by poetry. But a spell had to be recited aloud in order for it to work—everyone knew that!
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 else 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.
...
Januszek66