“That had been my thought. I’m glad you share it with me.”
“That might explain the swarming.”
“I think it could. Although there are so many factors, so many things of which we have no understanding and perhaps never will.”
“That is true,” said Scratch, “but it’s a good hypothesis. One that could be worked on. You talked with Cuthbert. What had he to say of it?”
“We did not talk about the swarming. At the time I did not know of it and if he did, he did not mention it. I brought up the rejuvenation theory, but he seemed to think little of it. He said the Horde was frightened of something, probably was getting together to move against it, but for some reason had become confused. Tell me something, Scratch. If you were forced to take sides in this matter, if there were no way in which you could avoid taking sides, which side would you choose?”
The demon jiggled his hoof up and down and the chain clanked. “This may sound strange to you,” he said, “but if forced to take a stand I’d stand in with you humans. My heritage may be evil, but it’s a human evil, or at least an earthly evil. I could not stomach associating with an alien evil. I’d not know them and they’d not know me and I’d be uncomfortable with them. Evil may be evil, but there are various kinds of it and they can’t always come together.”
Steps sounded on the stairs coming down from the balcony into the reception hall, and Duncan looked around. Still dressed in her green gown, Diane seemed to be floating down the stairs. Only the tapping of her sandals betrayed her walking.
Duncan got off the bench and Scratch also clambered off to stand stiffly beside him.
“Scratch,” asked Diane, “what are you doing off your pillar?”
“Milady,” Duncan told her, “I asked him to come down and sit with me. It was more comfortable for me. That way I did not need to stand, craning up my head to look at him.”
“Has he been pestering you?”
“Not at all,” said Duncan. “We’ve had a pleasant talk.”
“I suppose,” said Scratch, “I’d best get up again.”
“Wait a second,” Duncan said, “and I’ll lend you a hand.”
He reached down and hoisted the demon so he could catch hold with his crippled hands and scramble back atop the pillar.
“It was good talking with you,” Duncan said. “Thanks for giving me your time.”
“That is gracious of you, my lord. We will talk again?”
“Most assuredly,” said Duncan.
The demon squatted atop the pillar and Duncan turned back to Diane. She was standing in the entrance waiting for him.
“I had thought,” she said, “we might take a turn around the grounds. I’d like to show them to you.”
“I’d be delighted,” said Duncan. “It is kind of you.”
He offered her his arm and they went down the stairs together.
“How is Cuthbert feeling?” Duncan asked.
She shook her head. “Not as well as yesterday. I am worried for him. He seems so irrational. He’s asleep now. I waited to come down until he was asleep.”
“Could my visit with him …”
“Not at all,” she said. “His ailment grows upon him. It progresses day by day. Occasionally he has a good day, but not too often now. Apparently he has not been himself since I left to go in search of Wulfert. I suppose I should not have left him, but he said he’d be all right, that he could get along without me.”
“You have great love of him?”
“You must remember, he has been a father to me. Since the time I was a babe. The two of us are family.”
They reached the bottom of the stairs and now turned to the left to follow a path that led to the back of the castle park. The lawn ran down to just short of the river, fenced in by the ring of standing stones.
“You think, undoubtedly,” she said, “that I am harsh with Scratch.”
“It seems to me you might have been, a little. Certainly he has a right to come down off his pillar and sit upon a bench.”
“But he pesters everyone,” she said. “It is seldom now that we have visitors, but in the olden days there were many who came to the castle, and he always pestered them, wanting to pass the time of day with them, hanging onto them as long as possible to engage them in his silly jabber. Cuthbert felt, and I think the others did as well, that he was an embarrassment.”
“I can see how that might be,” said Duncan, “but he really is all right. I’m not an authority on demons, naturally, so I can’t …”
“Duncan.”
“Yes?”
“Let’s stop all this foolish chatter. There’s something that I have to tell you, and if I don’t tell it to you now, I’ll never have the strength to.”
She had halted at the bending of the path, opposite a large clump of birch and pine. He swung about to confront her and saw that her face was drawn and white.
“There can’t anything be that bad,” he said, startled by the look of her.
“Yes, there can be,” she told him tightly. “You remember just an hour or so ago you said that you must be leaving soon, and I said there was no hurry, that you should stay a while and rest.”
“Yes, I remember that.”
“I should have told you then. But I couldn’t tell you. I simply couldn’t say the words. I had to leave to try to find the courage.”
He started to speak, but she held up a hand to stop him.
“I can’t wait,” she said. “There can be no further talk. I must tell you now. Duncan, it is this: you can’t leave. You can never leave this castle.”
He stood stupid in the path, the words not sinking in, refusing to sink in.
“But that can’t be,” he said. “I don’t …”
“I can’t say it any plainer. There’s no way for you to leave. No one can help you leave. It’s a part of the enchantment. There’s no way to break it …”
“But you were just telling me you had visitors. And you, yourself …”
“It takes magic,” she told him. “Your personal magic, not someone else’s magic. It takes an arcane knowledge that one holds oneself. The visitors have had that kind of knowledge, that kind of magic. Because of that, they could go where no others could. I have some of that knowledge myself, also a special dispensation …”
“You mean because none of us has that knowledge …”
She nodded, tears in her eyes.
“And you can’t help us? The wizard can’t help us?”
“No one can help. The ability must be yours.”
Suddenly anger flared within him, blinding him.
“Goddamn it, then,” he yelled, “why did you tell us to run for the castle? You knew what would happen. You knew we would be trapped. You knew …”
He stopped in mid-sentence, for he doubted she was hearing him. She was weeping openly, head bowed, arms hanging at her side. Just standing there, all alone, and weeping.
She raised a tearstained face to look at him, cringing away from him.
“You would have been killed,” she said. “We broke the Harrier line, but they’d have been back again. It was only a momentary battle lull. They’d have returned and hunted you down, like wild animals.”
She reached out for him. “You understand?” she cried. “Please do understand!”
She took a step toward him and he put his arms around her, drawing her close against him, holding her tightly. She bowed her head against him, weeping convulsively, her body shaking with the sobs.
Her muffled voice said, “I lay awake last night, thinking of it. Wondering how I could have done it, how I’d ever tell you. I thought perhaps I could ask Cuthbert to tell you. But that wouldn’t have been right. I was the one who did it, I should be the one to tell you. And now I have—and now I have …”
24
They sat in silence for a time after Duncan had finished telling them—not so much a shocked silence as a benumbed silence.
Meg was the first to speak, attempting to c
ast a cheerful light on it. “Well, I don’t know,” she said. “It’s not too bad. There are a lot worse places for an old bag such as Meg to live out her final days.”
They disregarded her.
Finally Conrad stirred and said, “You say one has to have some knowledge of the arcane arts. What are the chances that we could acquire that knowledge?”
“I’d say not too good,” said Duncan. “I suspect it would have to be a detailed and specific knowledge, perhaps well backgrounded by even other knowledge. Not all of us could learn these arts, perhaps not any of us. And who is there to teach us? Cuthbert is old and dying. Diane’s knowledge is too small. I gather that it is not the knowledge that she has, but a special dispensation, that enables her to come and go.”
“I suppose that’s right,” said Conrad, “and, anyhow, it would take too long a time. We haven’t got that kind of time.”
“No, we haven’t,” said Duncan. “Two dying men—a dying man here and another one at Oxenford.”
“And what about Tiny? What about Daniel and Beauty? They could not be taught the arts. Even could we go we couldn’t leave them behind. They’re a part of us.”
“Probably we could take them with us,” Duncan said. “I don’t know. There is Diane’s griffin; he can come and go. Certainly he does not know the arts.”
“Even if there is none to teach us,” Andrew said, “there are books. I found the library this morning. A huge room and tons of writing.”
“It would take too long,” objected Duncan. “We’d have to sift through heaps of scrolls and might not recognize what we sought even should we find it. And there’s no one to guide us in our studies. There’d also be the problem of language. Many of the books, I suspect, may be written in ancient tongues that now are little known.”
“For myself,” said Andrew, “for me, personally, this turn of events is no great tragedy. Quite willingly, if there were no other considerations, I could settle down here, for it is a pleasant place and I could carry on my profession here as well as elsewhere. But for the two of you I know it is a matter of great importance to get to Oxenford.”
Conrad pounded the ground with his club. “We have to get to Oxenford. There has to be a way. I, for one, will not give up and say there is no way.”
“Nor will I,” said Duncan.
“I had a premonition of this,” Andrew told them. “Or if not of this, of something very wrong. When I saw the birds and the butterfly …”
“What the hell,” asked Duncan, “have birds and butterflies got to do with it?”
“In the woods,” said Andrew. “In the forest just beyond the standing stones. The birds sit frozen in the branches, not moving, as if they might be dead, but they have a live look to them. And there was a butterfly, a little yellow butterfly sitting on a milkweed pod. Not stirring, not moving. You know the way a butterfly will sit, slowly moving its wings up and down, not very much, but some motion to them. This one did not move at all. I watched for a long time and it did not move. I think I saw, although I could not be sure, a thin film of dust upon it. As if it had been there a long time and dust had collected on it. I think the woods are part of the enchantment, too, that time has stopped there except for the people—and Hubert. Everything else is exactly the same as it was on the day this castle was created by enchantment.”
“The stoppage of time,” said Duncan. “Yes, that could be it. The castle is brand new, so are the standing stones. The chisel marks still fresh upon them, as if they had been carved only yesterday.”
“But outside,” said Conrad, “in that world we left to walk into this world, the castle lies in ruins, the stones have tumbled down. Tell me, m’lord, what do you think is going on?”
“It’s an enchantment,” said Meg. “A very potent one.”
“We’ve beaten enchantments before,” said Conrad. “We beat the enchantment that came upon us as we approached the strand.”
“That was but a feeble spell,” said Meg, “designed only to confuse us, to get us off the track. Not a well-constructed spell, not carefully crafted as this one surely is,”
Duncan knew that what she said was true. Despite all their whistling past the graveyard, despite all of Conrad’s bravado, the firm confidence they showed for one another’s benefit, this was an enchantment they were not about to break.
They sat crouched in a row on the bottom step of the stairway that came down from the entrance. Before them ran the measured velvet of the lawn. Daniel and Beauty were at the foot of the park, near the standing stones, filling their bellies with succulent grass. Hubert, the griffin, still lay where he had been earlier in the day. Grown stiff with age, he did not move around too much.
“Where’s Tiny?” Duncan asked.
“The last I saw of him,” said Conrad, “he was digging out a mouse. He’s around somewhere.”
So here they were, Duncan told himself, caught in as pretty a mousetrap as anyone could want. This way not only would the manuscript never get to Oxenford, but it would be lost to mankind as well. All that would remain would be the two copies made at the abbey’s scriptorium.
His father, at Standish House, and His Grace, at the abbey, would wait for word of him and Conrad, and there would be no word; there never would be word. They would have gone into the Desolated Land and that would be the last of them. Although perhaps, just perhaps, there might be a way for word to be gotten out. Diane could get out, could go out and return. At least, should she be willing, she could carry word to Standish House, perhaps carry the manuscript as well. There still might be time for someone else to get to Oxenford with it. Not through the Desolated Land, for that route had proved too dangerous; the chances of traversing it were slight. Despite the swarming pirates, it might be carried by ship. There still might be enough time left to pull together a fleet of fighting ships, manned by men-at-arms, to get through the pirate packs.
“M’lord,” said Conrad.
“Yes, what is it?”
“A delicate matter.”
“There are no delicate matters between you and me. Speak up. Tell me what you were about to.”
“The Horde,” said Conrad, “does not want us to get to Oxenford—well, maybe not actually to Oxenford, maybe they just don’t want us to get anywhere. They’ve tried to block us at every turn. And now perhaps we’re blocked for good. They’ll have no more trouble from us.”
“That’s true. But what’s your point?”
“The Lady Diane.”
“What about the Lady Diane?”
“Could she be in league with them? Is this but a clever trick?”
Duncan flushed in anger, opened his mouth to speak and then held back the words.
Andrew hurriedly said, “I think not. To me it is inconceivable. Twice she aided us in battle. She would not have done this had she been in league with them.”
“I think you probably are right,” said Conrad. “It’s only that we must consider every angle.”
In the silence that followed, Duncan’s mind went back again to his half-formed plan to get the manuscript to Oxenford by some other route. It wouldn’t work, he knew. Diane, without question, could carry it to Standish House, could acquaint his father with what had happened to him and Conrad, but it seemed hardly likely that the manuscript could be carried to Oxenford by sea. His father and the archbishop had given that possibility full consideration and apparently had decided that it would be impossible. It might be that his father would decide to attempt it by land once again, sending out a small army of men-at-arms, but that sort of venture, it seemed to Duncan, would have little chance of success. The Reaver’s band of thirty men or more had been easily wiped out. That his own small group had gotten as far as it had, he was convinced, was due only to the protection afforded by the talisman.
Or, wait a moment, he told himself. If Diane could take the manuscript to Standish House, she could take it just as easily to Oxenford. At Oxenford she could deliver it by hand to Bishop Wise and wait to bring back the word. br />
But, thinking this, he knew that none of it was possible, knew that he had been doing no more than conjuring up fantasies in a desperate effort to find some solution to his problem.
He could not hand over the manuscript to Diane—nor, perhaps, to any other. He could not give it to someone he could not trust and in this place, other than Conrad, whom could he trust? Diane had lured him and his party into this circle of enchantment. And now she said that she was sorry, had even wept in saying she was sorry. But expressions of sorrow come easily, he told himself, and tears just as easily.
And that was not all. The manuscript had been given into his keeping and it must stay that way. He was the one who had sole responsibility for it; it was a sacred trust he could share with no one else. In his mad groping for some way out of his predicament, he had forgotten, for the moment, the holy vow he implicitly had taken when His Grace had handed him the parchment.
“Another thing,” said Conrad. “Could the demon help us? He might have a trick or two up his sleeve. If we appealed to him, if we were able to offer him the payment of setting him free, if we could …”
“With a demon I’ll not deal,” snapped Andrew. “He is a filthy beast.”
“To me,” said Duncan, “he seems a decent chap.”
“You cannot trust him,” Andrew said. “He would play you false.”
“You said we could not trust Snoopy either,” Conrad reminded him. “Yet if we’d paid attention to Snoopy, we’d not be where we are now. He warned us against the castle. He told us not to go near it.”
“Have it your own way,” whined Andrew, “but leave me out of it. I’ll have no traffic with a demon out of Hell.”
“He might have a way to help us.”
“If he did, there’d be a price attached. Mark my word, there’d be a price to pay.”
“I’d be prepared to pay the price,” said Conrad.