Dave Duncan - Speak to the Devil

Bishop Ugne’s face was now redder than sunset. “He did, and see where it got him! Within a fortnight, he was dead, his son was dead, his wife distracted, and his ancient line extinguished.”

Sir Karolis Kavarskas coughed down a laugh. “The man has a crooked eye, I agree, but does that frighten you? You seriously think he is a Speaker because of that?”

The bishop spluttered. “I think he is a Speaker, yes, but not because of that. Those schismatics are in league with the Father of Evil. Havel was a professed Catholic until recently, when he sent his priest away. Now he is a puppet of the Wends.”

“I think you should go and pray for peace, my lord bishop.”

“You will not admit that heretic priest, Karolis, as you value your soul!” Now the Church’s threat was blatant and the soldier backed down.

“As Your Reverence says.” Kavarskas beckoned over one of the archers and sent him down to the herald at the gate.

“Thank you.” Bishop Ugne turned his back on the constable. “Come, Madlenka, we must go to the cathedral. Nobody can pester you while you are attending Mass. Giedre, you should run and warn your father to arrange a reception for Havel Vranov-but I think it should be a very small one.”

“Wait!” Madlenka shouted. “Constable, when the count and his escort have been admitted, close the gate.”

Kavarskas reddened. Before he could speak, Ekkehardt growled, “This seems a wise precaution.”

“I am the one who makes such decisions!” the constable bellowed.

“Well, I think I agree with the lady and the captain,” the bishop said.

The constable gripped his sword hilt and glared at them all. It was a fine demonstration of how a castle without a keeper resembled a chicken without a head.

“Do it!” Madlenka snapped and headed for the door. The bishop went with her, and Giedre followed.

As they swept along the battlements with the wind at their backs, she said, “The constable has been bribed, hasn’t he?”

“That is a very serious charge, Madlenka.”

“I know. What do you think?”

“Bought, like Judas?” He sighed. “It could be. Or he may just be frightened of the responsibility thrust upon him and hoping to lean on Count Vranov.”

“And the landsknecht?”

“Luitger Ekkehardt is a good Christian, for a soldier, and he obviously does not trust Karolis, but mercenaries usually serve the highest bidder. This fortress would be worth a great deal of money to the duke of Pomerania. We must pray that the Lord will have mercy on us and support his own.”

Wulfgang Magnus had not fallen off a horse since he was six years old, and would not have done so now had he not been seized by a sudden wrenching pain in his gut. He had been unhorsed in jousting often enough-although mainly by Vlad or Otto, only very rarely by Anton-and armor was designed to protect its wearer from just that mishap. In this case it saved him from minor cuts or bruises, but was no help at all right after the jarring impact, because he immediately needed to vomit. For several minutes, he could do nothing but writhe on the turf and retch, racked by appalling belly cramps. It was fortunate that he had not eaten anything that morning.

When he finally managed to lift his head and look, Morningstar was still cavorting around, bucking and kicking in every direction. Sparrow was behaving himself because Anton had refused to tolerate such nonsense. He was now trying to catch the stupid courser before he entangled his feet in the reins. More red hot coals in the stomach…

Anton rode up, leading Morningstar. “What’s wrong?” He sounded more irritated than worried, because he thought a warrior must be wrought of steel. He never displayed weakness or sympathy, especially over other people’s suffering.

“Belly cramps this time.” More heaving.

“Why?”

“Pain is the price we must pay.”

“Who says that?”

“St. Helena.”

“Pay for what?”

The conversation was going nowhere. Wulf wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and tried to sit up. His gut twisted again, doubling him over. At about his third try, he succeeded and was able to inspect the scenery. The stone wall ahead, two stories high and windowless, without doubt belonged to a monastery. It was designed to shut out the lustful, sin-ridden world and protect the holy peace that must reign within. Five years poor Marek had spent in there already; there he would die and be buried.

“Have you any idea where we are?” Anton demanded.

“Koupel. I have to speak with Marek before I decide…” Wulf paused, bracing himself to deal with the pain that would come as soon as he tried to rise. “Before I decide.” He struggled to his knees at the second try, except that he doubled over again. It was several more minutes before he managed to clamber aboard his horse with Anton’s help; he certainly did not leap into the saddle as a good rider should. “I have to speak with Marek.”

“Wulf, they won’t let you! Vlad came by here two years ago, when he rode to the war. He tried to see Marek. He wasn’t allowed in.”

Monks had renounced the world. They did not, like friars, wander through it, doing the Lord’s work, helping the poor and the lame. Monks lived segregated, communal lives devoted to praising God.

Wulf forced a smile. “But you will be. Don your pretty ribbon, my lord. Tuck your baton behind your ear. You are Count Magnus of Cardice. You are rich. You can pay for prayers for your predecessor’s soul.”

Anton chuckled at hearing his title. “At the moment I could afford to buy forgiveness for one lecherous wink, nothing more. But if you really must talk to him, it’s worth a try. You’re not scared that they’ll lock you up, too?”

How stupid could a man be? Anton had told him a thousand times that courage wasn’t absence of fear, it was refusing to give in to it. Vlad had not been allowed in; Wulf’s trouble might be the exact opposite. Certainly some of his belly cramps came from sheer terror.

“Of course not. You need my help, and my Voices told me to come here and ask Marek’s advice before I decide. Now start being a lord and act stupid. Should be easy.”

Anton scowled, having no sense of humor where his own dignity was concerned. They set their horses walking along the dusty trail to the gate. This was Sunday. There would be no one working in the fields, and as few as possible tending livestock. The monks would be at prayer, denying the world, rejecting the flesh and the devil.

Anton must be frightened too, if for different reasons. This situation could only be strange and discomfiting for him. Many times in past generations the family had produced Speakers, able to hear Voices and exercise strange supernatural powers. The curse had struck daughters more often than sons, and most of them had been hastily packed off into nunneries before they lost their immortal souls or the neighbors began to gossip. Others had run away and never been heard from again.

Marek had insisted that his Voices were Heaven-sent, not Satanic, and had demanded a chance to keep his freedom, swearing he would never use his powers for evil. He had used them for good, but word had spread and he had been taken away when he was a month or two older than Wulf was now.

By then young Wulfgang, the baby of the family, had been hearing Voices too. Terrified, he had promised never to use his gift-or give in to his curse, whichever was the correct description. Father had decided that he also deserved a chance and had made the rest of the family swear to keep his secret. They had all held to their side of the bargain, though it had been hard on Wulf. The Voices might speak to him at any time without warning. Marek, before being taken away, had told him that he should run as fast as possible to the church and kneel before the altar, holding a crucifix and repeating Hail Marys until the Voices stopped. That always worked eventually, but Wulf had grown thick calluses on his knees through many long nights and days. In time he had learned enough control that others rarely noticed his distraction.