caret Can caret THE-EVERY caret Very was VOLUME
THDEE OF-. 1
  THE HOUNDNTHE FALCON TU-NR caret Very
THE HOME OF THE KINDRED Rhiyana: where
the Fair Folk live in peace with mortals. Where
the White Chancellor, Alt of St. Ruan'seaand
his beautiful witch-mate, Thea Damaskena, have
ended their long exile, to raise their twin babies.
Suddenly a mad sorcerer, striking from across a
continent, murders the Elvenking'sson and kidnaps
Thea and her infants, trapping them in the bodies of
beasts-while a fanatic army besieges
Rhiyana, slaughtering the Fair Ones. Alfred,
the Elven priest, must find his mate, battle a
renegade enchanter's dark powers-and face the final
horror of the Hounds of God. Because the wondrous
Fair Folk have been marked for death by an
adversary more vast and awesome than all the world's
magic... The Church. "Tarr provides loving
detail to each characterization, subplot, image and
interaction-her craft is exceptional."
comFantasy Review

  caret A Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.
Book
  "37145"00350" "Only regard yourself," said
Cardinal Torrino. "You have youth, beauty, great
magic. Anything mere men can do, you can do better.
And you never age or die." He sighed. "By your very
existence you make the world waver. There is no place
for you in our philosophy." "Envy is a deadly
sin," Alf said. "Deadly," the Legate said,
"yes." "No harm befalls Christian souls in
Rhiyana, that their King is the Elvenking." Alf
gripped Tomno's shoulder. "We are not of
mortal kind; we are true and potent witches; but
we do not traffic with Hell." Torrino looked at
him with great and growing sadness. "By your own words are you
betrayed." "Will you call your Hounds upon us, then?"
Alf's smile was gentle, and as terrible as the fire
in his eyes. "Our King will not atone for what is to us
no sin." "Not even for his kingdom's sake?"
"That," said Alf, "is why we will fight."
  THE HOUND-LSLTHE FALCON TRILOGY
  Look for these Tor books by Judith Tarr
  The Hound and the Falcon THE ISLE OF
GLASS THE GOLDEN HORN THE HOUNDS
OF GOD
  A vary an Rising THE HALL OF THE
MOUNTAIN KING (hardcover) THE LADY OF
HAN-GILEN (forthcoming hardcover) A FALL
OF PRINCES (forthcoming hardcover) THE
HOUNDNTHE FALCON TRILOGY
  JUDITH TADG
  TDR ATOM DOHERTYASSO-FLATPS
ROOK This is a work disof fiction. All the characters and
events portrayed in this book are fictional, and
any resemblance to real people or incidents is
purely coincidental. THE HOUNDS OF GOD
Copyright c 1986 by Judith Tan- All rights
reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or
portions thereof in any form. Reprinted by arrangement
with Bluejay Books First Tor printing: May
1987 A TOR Book
  Published by Tom Doherty Associates,
Inc. 49 West 24 Street New York,
N.y. 10010
  Cover art by Kevin Eugene Johnson
  ISBN: 0812556054 C. ED.:

  Printed in the United States of America
  For Wilie and Bonnie For Brett
  And for Jonika
  He knew distinction in three abstractions of
sound, the women's cry under the thong of Lupercal, the
Pope's voice singing the Glory on Lateran, the
howl of a wolf in the coast of Broceliande.
comCharles Williams, Taliessin Througfi
Logres The fire had gone out some rime since.
For all its warmth of carpets and hangings and its
che/l of books, the room was cold; icy. Its
occupant seemed not to notice. He sat in his
plain dark robe that could have been anything, lord's
cotte, scholar's gown, monk's habit, intent
upon a closely written page. His only light was
a stub of candle, the day having died somewhat before the
fire, darkening one of the greater treasures of the
Royal Chancery: the tall glass window that looked
upon the sea. A second treasure lay on the
desk near his hand, the heavy chain and the jeweled seal
of the King's Chancellor, silver and sapphire,
ashimmer in the unsteady light. He shifted
slightly on his tall scribe's stool. The
candle, flaring, turned his hair to silver fire.
He heeded the changing light no more than he had the
cold. Or the one who watched him, silent in the
doorway, almost smiling. As he stirred, she
stirred likewise. Her feet were soundless on the
eastern carpet, her movements fluid, 2 Judith
Tarr graceful. Her eyes glinted golden
bronze. In a moment, perhaps, she would burst
into laughter. Directly behind the Chancellor, she
paused. He did not move. She slid her arms
about him and set her chin upon his shoulder. He neither
started nor recoiled. "Look at this," he said, as
if she had been there reading with him for the past hour and
more. "Every year for the past fifty, the Lord of St.
Dol has taken a half-tariff from every boatload
of fish brought into his demesne; taken it and sold
it and turned a handsome profit. But here you see-the
fishermen are wise. They take care to pause in
certain havens and folds in the coast, and to dispose of
goodly portions of their catches before submitting (he
rest to the lord's inspection, thus turning handsome
profits on their own. So extortion requites
extortion, and everyone knows and no one says a word,
and each party grows gratifyingly rich."
"Very gratifyingly," she said, amused. It was not
easy, shaped as she was now, to stand for long as she
stood; she moved to his side. His arm settled itself
round her swollen middle. She leaned comfortably
against him. "And what will my lord Chancellor do to right this
twofold wrong?"
  Her mockery made him smile. "Wrong, Thea?
The wrong is only this, that the King has no share in
it. I'll give the lord His Majesty's justice:
a half-tariff on his half-tariff. To increase
accordingly if he tries to extort more from his people in order
to keep up his profits." She laughed. "That's
royal justice! And the fishermen?" "What of the
fishermen? They pay their lord duly and properly.
Their share is included in his."
  She shook her head. "You'll spoil them,
Alf. They'll begin to think they can wriggle out of their
taxes else where."
  "They won't," he said, "unless it pleases them
to have their less . . . public transactions
recorded and taxed as well."
  the hounds OF god 3
  Her eyes went wide, mock-astounded. "Why,
Alfred, my saintly love, you're devious!"
  "It comes with the office." His free hand
brushed the chain; paused; gathered it up. It was
heavy. World-heavy. She knew; she had set it on
his shoulders often enough.
  He let it fall again with a cold clashing of
silver. "I didn't want it," he said. "I
didn't want anything except quiet and a book
or two, and you. But Gwydion will never be denied."
  "Maddening, isn't it? There's one man in the world
who's more obstinate than you are. And being King, he can
do proper battle against you."
  "I'm not sure if I'd call it proper. He
knighted me-that was bearable; I earned my spurs
well enough, if not entirely gladly. But the
spurs had titles attached. Lands;
  lordship. I had it all before I even knew it."
  "Baron of the High Council of the Kingdom
ofRhiyana," she said, savoring it. "Warden of the
Wood of Broceliande. Kinsman of the King." "And
what of your own titles, my lady of Careol?"
"They're lovely. But not as lovely as your face
the day Gwydion gave you yonder chain." Her
eyes danced upon it. "What a splendid
spectacle that was! Here was old Bishop
Ogyourselfan, raised up to join Saint Peter's
Chancery, alleluia-where no doubt his
talents would be in great demand. But who would take his
place here below? Some elderly prelate, surely,
as dry as his own ledgers, with an abacus for a brain.
There were one or two very likely candidates. And
Gwydion stood up in court and handed the chain to his
dear kinsman beside him, and said, 'Labor well for
me, my lord Chancellor.""
  "And his kinsman," said Alfred, "stood gawping
like a villein at a fair."
  "Actually," she said, "he looked like a monk
whose abbot has ordered him to embrace a woman.
Shocked;
  indignant; and-buried deep beneath the rest-
deliehted." 4 Judith Tarr
  "That last, I certainly was not. I was appalled.
Everyone knows what I am: a very reluctant
nobleman, and in spite of all your teaching, still one of the
world's innocents. Do you remember how shocked I was
in Constanrinopolis to learn that men are paid to be
healers?" "I remember. I also remember how you
took what Gwydion gave you. Admit it now; you
weren't taken completely by surprise. You'd wander
into the Chancery, maybe to look up a record,
maybe to argue law and Scripture with old
Ogyourselfan, and there'd be some small tangle
somewhere. You'd look, lift that famous eyebrow of
yours, andwitha word or two you'd have it all
unraveled."
  "It was never that simple."
  "Wasn't it?" Thea asked. His hand, forsaking the
chain, had come to rest upon the generous swell of her
belly. Her own settled over it. "You have a
talent' for ordering kingdoms. As for so much else."
Beneath their hands life woke, rolling and kicking, a
prominence that might have been a heel, a tight coil
of body. The sudden light in Alts face made
Thea's breath catch. Her laughter showed it, light,
not entirely steady. "He wears armor, that son of
yours. And spurs." Alf's arms linked behind her;
he smiled his swift brilliant smile. "You
don't mind."
  "Not much, I don't. Once he's born,
I'll give as good as I get." He laughed
softly and laid his cheek where his hand had been. She
looked down upon the top of his head with its thick,
fine, white-fair hair; the pale lashes upon the
pale cheeks, and the lingering curve of his smile. If
she looked very closely in the candle's flicker, she
could discern the thickening of down that might, in time,
become a beard.
  She shook her head wryly. She had never met
a man less vain, or with more reason to be; but
sometimes she caught him dis"her mirror, frowning at
his reflection. It was always the same.
Piercing-fair, luminous-pale, and very young. But the
eyes as he stared into the polished silver, those were not a
boy's at all. the hounds OF god 5
  Nor was his voice, that had the purity of a tenor
bell. "Marry me, Thea," he said.
  That ritual was years old. She completed it as
she always had. "What! and ruin my reputation?"
  "I'm thinking of our children." Which was the new
litany, nearly ten months old.
  "So am I," she said. "They'll be beautiful
little bas tards." He stiffened a little at the word,
relaxing with an effort. "They should not have to be-was
  "It's somewhat too late for that. And what priest
would marry us? I'm a Greek, a schismatic.
1 won't convert to Rome even for you, my love."
"Jehan wouldn't care. He should be here tomorrow- even
today. He'd be more than glad to make us respect
able."
  "Jehan would go to Hell for you if you asked him.
But you won't, nor will you ask him this. I won't
agree to it."
  He raised his head. He was neither hurt nor
angry, only puzzled. "Why?"
  "I love to be a scandal."
  "In this place," he said, "that's not easy."
  "Of course not. There's Prince Aidan-he
wanted a full court wedding. And his bride a
wild Saracen, an honest-to- Heaven Assassin.
It took ten years and five Popes and all his
mighty powers of persuasion, but he had his way. Then
the Archbishop wouldn't say the words, and began a new
battle royal. I have to work to keep up with that."
He sighed; rose and stretched. He was tall; he
could seem frail, with his long limbs and his
moonflower skin. Now and then a stranger would think
him fair prey, a lovely boy as meek as a
girl; would prick him and find the hunting leopard.
It was not for his scholarship, or even for his feats in
Chancery, that the King had dubbed him knight. "I
wish you would see reason," he said.
  She smilffi her mn'ir wipkpri smile "T
cm[*macr] ir nnw Vnii 6 Judith Tarr
  want to keep me to yourself. Fie for shame, sir!
I'm a free woman; I can do as I please."
  His gaze rested upon her, clear as sunlit water
and utterly undismayed. "There are two
edges to that sword, my lady. Fidelity I
gladly meet with fidelity. But if you, being free,
decide to stray ..."
  "You wouldn't."
  He smiled sweetly. "Gwydion's court is
the fairest in the world. No lady in it surpasses
you, but one or two could be your equal." Her teeth
bared; her eyes went narrow and vicious, cat-
wild. "I'll claw her eyes out!"
  Even in his amusement, he reached for her,
afraid, for she shifted and blurred. For an instant
the woman's form wavered behind that of a golden lioness
tensed to spring. But the vision faded. Thea stood in
her own form, glowing in amber silk, crackling with
temper. His hand retreated. He remembered to breathe
again. Her glare seared him. "And well you might
tremble for provoking me so! Or do you want your
son to be born a lion cub?" He met her
fierce witch-eyes. His own were milder but no more
human; he smiled. "I want that for my. son no
more than you want it for your daughter."
  "She might profit from it."
  "Then so might he." Alt took her hands and
kissed them. "My sweet lady, you have no rival
and you know it. And it's only a little longer that
you need suffer confine ment to this single shape. When our
children are born, when you're strong again, we'll run
away for a while. An hour; a day. We'll run
wolf-gray through Broceliande; we'll fly on
falcon-wings. We'll be like young lovers again."
  Her temper was cooling, but it smoldered still. "H
caret , Alf? Are you going to forget your fears at
last and venture the change?" Slowly he nodded.
"I'm ready," he said. "At long last. I
think, with you to share it, I could let go."
  the hounds OF god 7
  "I'll hold you to that, Alfred."
  His smile neither wavered nor weakened, although his
fingers were cold. "I mean you to."
  "Good, because you've left yourself no choice at
all." She tilted her head slightly, looking up
at him, making no secret of the pleasure she took
in it. His hands were warming again to their wonted
fire-heat, that made him impervious to winter's
cold. He had willed his tension away, the old
fear, the deep dread that struck in the midst of the
change, when no part of his body was solid or stable
and all his being threatened to scatter into the wind. But for
all of that fear, he was a very great enchanter, equal
to any of their people; save only, perhaps, the
King.
  "And you," he said softly, caught in her mind as
she was caught in his.
  "In some of the arts," she admitted, "maybe.
In others you pass us all." Her laughter had come
back all at once to ripple over him. "Then,
sir prophet, how is it that you cannot see? Jehan
is here. Has been here this past hour and more."
  "You never--" He broke off. He knew her.
Too well. "Witch! And you've let us dally
here."
  "He's had plenty to do. Gwydion gave him
formal greeting first and a proper welcome after; all
the Folk took it up. The last I saw, he had
Anna on his knee and Nikki leaning on his
shoulder, and he was telling tales to the whole court."
  He took it from her mind, whole and wonderful; with
mirth at the vision of Anna Chrysolora, woman
grown and much upon her dignity, enthroned in the lap
other beloved Father Jehan.
  Bishop Jehan it was now, though that was not immediately
obvious. He wore as always the coarse brown
habit of a monk of Saint Jerome; he seemed
larger than ever, a great Norman tower of a man,
with a strong-boned, broken- nosed.
unabashedly homelv face8 Judith Tarr As it
turned to Alf, it was suddenly, miraculously
beautiful. "Alf!" Jehan laughed for sheer
pleasure as he held his friend at arm's length,
taking him in. "Alfred, you rogue, why didn't
you tell me about Thea?"
  They had all drawn back, the court, the King,
even Thea, watching, smiling. Alf was hardly aware
of them. "I knew you were coming for Christmas Court,"
he answered, "and that was more than time enough. You'll do
the christening, of course."
  "You'd be hard pressed to keep me from it."
Jehan's grin kept escaping, stripping years from
his face, bringing back the bright-eyed boy who had
learned philosophy from a white elf-monk. But
there was a ring on his finger, gold set with a great
amethyst. Alf bent and kissed it.
  "My homage to the Bishop of Sarum," he said.
Jehan bowed in return. "And mine to the Chancellor
of Rhiyana. We've been busy lately, you and
I, rising in the world."
  "Every man receives his just deserts," said Alf. The
young Bishop looked at him-something in any case that
he could never get enough of-and smiled. Alf looked
splendid. Quiet; content. As if he were
home and at ease, and completely at peace with himself
and his world. No troubles, no torments. No yearning
for the cloister he had forsaken.
  "I can hardly go back to it now," he said, reading
Jehan's thoughts with the ease of long friendship.
  Jehan laughed and glanced at Thea. "Hardly
indeed! She'd never allow it."
  "Nor would I. We're having twins, you know.
A son for me, she says. A daughter for herself.
It will only be the second birth among the Kindred
in Rhiyana, the second time two of us together have
made a child." Alf smiled. "Prince Alun is
more excited than I am. At last, while he's still
young enough to enjoy it, he'll have cousins like himself."
  "He's what-eleven?"
  the hounds OF god 9
  "Twelve this past All Hallows. We all
spoil him shame fully, but somehow he manages
to come out unscathed. That bodes well," Alf added,
"for the two who are coming."
  "Love never spoiled anyone," Jehan said with
pontifical surety. He returned to the seat he
had left, a bench set against the tapestried wall.
The court eddied beyond, returned to its own concerns, the
King on his throne with his Queen beside him, the
high ones movingin the ancient pattern of courts,
fixed and formal as a dance. Music had begun
to play softly beneath the murmur of voices. Alt
settled beside Jehan. His eyes, changeful as
water, had warmed to pale gold; he rested his arm
upon the wide shoulders. They had sat just so at their
last meeting-was it five years ago already? And
again, three before that; and three more. The same bench that
first time, the same rich hanging portraying David
with his harp and Jonathan at his feet, tall
white-skinned black-headed youths, each with the same
eagle-proud face. Not that Jehan had noticed
them that time, or troubled to find the models in the King
and his princely brother-his nose had been
new-broken then in celebration of his emergence from two
years' cloistered retreat, and though almost healed, it
ached unbearably when the wind blew cold. Until
Alf touched him with that wondrous healer's touch and
took the pain away, and would have worked full healing if
Jehan had allowed it. "Let be," he had said,
proud young priest- knight on the Pope's errand.
"It's not as if I had any beauty to lose; and I
earned the stroke. Entering a tournament with two
months' practice behind me and two years' softening
in a library, and letting myself be matched with the
best man on the field. It's a wonder he left
my head on my shoulders." Alf had smiled and
let be. But Jehan knew he knew. Helmless,
reeling, half strangling in his own blood, with God
and fate and the champion's arrogance to aid him,
Jehan had struck his adversary to the ground. The
tale had run ahead of him, embroidered already into a
legend. 10 Judith Tarr
  Ladies sighed over him, whose face was all one
hideous bruise from chin to forehead, as if he had
been as beautiful as the man beside him.
  The bruise was long gone, the face neither harmed
nor helped by its broken arch. Soldier's weathering
was proving stronger than the scholar's pallor, the
lines setting firm, the hair beginning to retreat
toward the tonsure. But he still had all his teeth, and
good strong white ones they were; his strength had never
been greater. He drew a lungful of clean
Rhiyanan air overlaid with woodsmoke and fresh
rushes and a hint-a hint only-of humanity. The
last of which, he knew certainly, did not come from his
companion. Alfon shipboard, unbathed for a month
save in sea water and toiling at the oars like any
sailor, had no more scent than a child or a clean
animal. His eyes looked pastjehan,
resting like a caress upon his lady, who held court
near the fire. Lamplight and firelight leached
all the humanity from his stare, turning the great
irises to silvery gold, narrowing the pupils
to slits. So even in the chrysalid child could one mark
his kind, the people called by many names: changelings,
elf-brood, Fair Folk;
  children of the Devil, of the old dead gods, ofthejann;
but in Rhiyana, the Kindred of the King. Though that was
not a kinship the law or the Church would recognize,
of blood and of family, save for the two who were
brothers, twinborn, king and royal prince:
David and Jonathan of the tapestry, Gwydion the
King and Aidan his brother. The rest had come as
Alf had from far countries, brought to this kingdom by the
presence of its King.
  There were perhaps a score of them. They ran tall,
although there were knights of the court who overtopped the
tallest; they were paler of skin than most, although some
were ivory. Man and woman, or rather youth and maid,
for the eldest looked hardly to have passed his twentieth
year, each with the same cast of feature, narrow,
high-cheeked, great-eyed. And the same beauty-a
beauty to launch fleets of ships, to whistle
kingdoms down the the hounds OF god
  wind, fierce and keen and splendid as the light upon
a sword. And as changeable, and as changeless. Just so
had Alf been, monk and master scholar of an abbey
in the west of Anglia, ordained priest long years
before Coeur-de-Lion was born. Just so had he
been in the debacle that was the Crusade against
Byzantium, when the Great City fell and a
Prankish emperor ruled over the ruins. Just so was
he now with king and emperor long in their graves, and so
would he always be. Blade or bolt might end his
life. Age and sickness could not. It should have been
unbearable, Jehan supposed. He found it comforting.
A deep, warm, pagan comfort that his priest's
conscience chose not to acknowledge nor to con demn.
Like the old Pope with his grimoires, who sang
Mass with true devotion and called up his demons
after, the scholar's mind knew its divisions. In
one. God and the Church and all the Canons. In the
other, Alfred and his kin and his high white magic, and
his perfect constancy. Whatever became of the world, he
remained. Would always remain, a bright strong presence
on the edge of Jehan's awareness.
  His physical presence was a rare and precious
thing, to be savored slowly, in silence. But this time the
pleasure could not last. Memory flooded,
cold and deadly. Jehan's muscles knotted.
Alf's grip tightened, though gentle still, a mere
shadow of his strength. He did not speak. A warmth
crept from his arm and hand, soothing, loosening, healing.
  Jehan set his teeth against it. "You're
perilous, you know," he said, trying to be light, "like
lotus flowers, or poppy. Won't you let me
suffer a bit? It's good for my soul."
  "Is it?" Alf asked. "Not that I would know, who
have none." His glance was bright, full of mockery, but
like Jehan's own it had a bitter core. Jehan
flashed out against it. "You know that's not true! You of
all people in the world, who wrote the book for all our
theologians to build on."
  12 Judith Tarr
  "They build on Aristotle now," Alf said,
"and on the Lombard's Sentences. Not on my
Gloria Dei. Which may be almost as great as its
flatterers make it, but it remains in its essence a
testimony to one man's pride. If man you may
call him-and when he wrote it, a beardless
brilliant boy of thirty-three, he knew that he
was not." "You were scrupulous. You defined the soul according
to Plato, Aristotle, Boethius, Martianus.
You quoted Scripture and the Fathers and every
recorded authority all the way to the Lombard
himself. You corrected the philosophers' errors; you
reconciled the canonists' contradictions. But
nowhere," said Jehan, "did you exclude the
possibility that you yourself, in your immortal body,
might not possess an immortal soul."
  "I still had hopes then of my own mortality.
Hopes only, but they were tenacious. They dissolved
long before my vows." Alt smiled with no appearance
of strain. "It rather amuses me now. Arrogant
innocent that I was, embodying all theology in a
single book and sending my first copy direct to the
Pope. As if all the vexed and vexing questions,
answered, could encompass the reality of God-or
even of a woman's smile."
  "God and woman are disgreat mysteries. But there's
some comfort in answered questions, and more in your book, however
you shrug it away." "Not for me. And not for the busy
scribblers in the schools or in the Papal
Curia. They have no love for simple solutions,
nor for my lamentable touch of mysticism. They'll
lock all the world into their Categories; any who
fails to fit them must be anathema." Jehan shuddered
deep and painfully. "You're prophesy ing. Do you
disknow that?"
  "For once," Alf answered, "yes. Tell me
what you have to tell." "What need of that? You know
already."
  "Tell me."
  But Jehan, whose ready tongue was famous, could not
bring himself to begin. "The King-does he-was
  the hounds OF god 13
  "He hears."
  He was on his throne in a circle of nobles,
deep in converse with a portly prelate, the
Archbishop of Caer Gwent. He was the Elvenking.
He could hear what no mere man could. Jehan
drew a slow breath. Foolish, he upbraided
himself. It's nothing so terrible. Tell it and have done!
  His voice went at it cornerwise. "It's been
a bitter year, this past one. John Lackland of
Anglia dead and buried, and a child crowned in
Winchester; though it's a strong regency we'll have,
and I'll see my own country again. Pray God
I can stay in it for more than a month at a time. I
haven't done that since Coeur-de-Lion died,
close on twenty years now. But I'm going back
in fine fettle, with a bishopric to hammer into shape
and a good number of friends at court and in the Church.
I'll do well enough. I could only wish
..."
  "You wish," Alf said for him when he could not, "that
Pope Innocent had not died hard upon the Anglian
King, as if their long struggle for control of the See
of Canterbury, once ended, left nothing for either
to live for. And you wish that Innocent's death hadn't
slipped the muzzles from his Hounds."
  "The Hounds of God." It was a sour taste on
Jehan's tongue. "The Order of Saint Paul
of the Damascus Road. Hunters of the Church's
enemies. Richard threw them out of Anglia for your
sake; John at least had the sense to keep them out,
and the Regents will see that they stay there. They're not
faring so splendidly well elsewhere, either. When the
Cathari in Languedoc murdered the Pope's
legate. Innocent preached a Crusade against all
heretics, and the Paulines swarmed in like Hies to a
carcass. But someone else had got there first: that
Spanish madman, Domingo, and his Preachers. That
was Innocent's doing, who'd never had much use for his
Hounds; he found them intractable. "Now Innocent
is dead and Honorius is Pope, and 14
Judith Tarr
  Domingo's irregulars have been signed, sealed,
and char tered: the Ordo Praedicatorum,
with a particular mission to preach the Gospel to the lost
sheep of Rome. But Honorius is no fool.
He knows he doesn't have Innocent's power, or the
sheer gall, to kennel God's Hounds; and they're
yapping in his ear day and night. Languedoc?
What's Languedoc? A few villages full of
Cathars, and a priest or two with a harem. There's a
better target in the north. Small but fabulously
rich, ruled not by mere mortal heretics but by children of the
Devil himself." "Rhiyana," Alf said calmly.
  "Rhiyana," Jehan echoed him, without the
placidity. "Or Rhiyanon, or Rhiannon.
With such a name, how can it be anything but a lair of
magic? And with such a king. Gwydion makes no
secret of what he is, nor could he. The whole
world knows how long he's held his throne. Four
score years, of which he shows a mere score-and he
was a grown man when he began. Even the Pauline
Father General doesn't try to deny that the throne
came to him from his safely mortal father. His mother was
another matter. A woman of unearthly beauty,
come out of Broceliande to love a young king, bearing his
sons-and a daughter who died as mortal women die,
though no one has much to say of that-and keeping her
loveliness unaltered through long years; and when
her lord died, vanishing away into the secret Wood,
never to be seen again. It's fine fodder for a romance.
It's meat and drink to God's Hounds." Alf was
silent, clear-eyed, unfrightened. Jehan's hands
fisted on his thighs. "Rome has always walked shy
of Rhiyana. It's never submitted to invasion, but
neither has it encroached on its neighbors, nor med
dled-publicly-where it wasn't wanted. Its King
is noted for his singularly harmonious relations with his
clergy, is in fact a most perfectly Christian
monarch, unstinting in either his gifts or his duties
to Mother Church. "True, he's banned the Hounds from
his domains, and he's been strict in enforcing it. But
it's not the Hounds
  the hounds OF god 15
  themselves who make me tremble. It's not even the
fabric of lies and twisted truths that they've woven
around the Pope; they've been weaving it since their
founding." At last he let it go. "They're preaching
a Crusade."
  "Ah," said Alf. "It's no longer a mutter
in the Curia. It's a rumble in the mob."
  "It's more than a rumble. It's a delegation sent
to investigate the Church in the realm, and it's a
gaggle of preachers mustering men in Normandy
and Maine and Anjou. All your neighbors; not your
great allies, but the little men who are their vassals,
the barons with a taste for plunder, the mercenaries with a
taste for blood. And the poor and the pious, who shrink
from slaughtering their fellow man--however doctrinally
misguided--but who would be more than glad to rid the world
of a sorcerer king."
  "The delegation we know of," Alf said. "It's
to arrive by Twelfth Night. A legate from the new
Pope with a train of holy monks. They will. His
Holiness informs us, undertake to ascertain that all is
well with the Church in Rhiyana; that the clergy are
doing their duty and that the King harbors no Jews
nor heretics."
  "God's teeth!" cried Jehan. "How can you be
so calm about it? Even without Gwydion's lineage
blazoned on his face for a blind man to see--even if
the Folk can bottle up their magic and the human
folk resist the Pope's Inquisitors--they'll
all burn for the rest of it. Rabbi Gamaliel in his
synagogue near the schools, the Heresiarchs
debating the divinity of Christ with the Masters of
Theology, and Greeks and Saracens mingling freely
with good Christians in the streets. This kingdom is a
very den of iniquity."
  "Monstrous," Alf agreed. "Like the madman--
heretic surely, and lost to all good doctrine--who
proclaimed:
  "There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is
neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor
female: for ye are all one in Christ
Jesus."" Jehan realized that his mouth was open,
gaping. He closed it with a snap, and suddenly
laughed. "Alf! You're dangerous."
  16 Judith Tarr
  "I can hope so. For so are our enemies.
Deadly dangerous; and for all our power, we of
Gwydion's Kin are very few. If I can hold
off the attack by my wits and my tongue, mark you
well, I will." "But it will come. I'm a mere man
and no prophet, but I know that. I feel it in my
bones."
  Alfsd nothing. His eyes had returned to Thea.
It was as clear as a cry: the love he bore her
and the children she carried; the fear that he would not--could
not--admit. And he was a seer. He knew what would
come.
  Jehan seized him with sudden fierce strength.
"Alt. G. Go soon. Go now. Go where nothing
human can touch you." His heavy hands should have
crushed those fine bones, but they were z.supple as
Damascus steel. "You can," he pressed on in
Alf's silence, easing his grip a little, but not the
intensity of his voice. "You told me years ago,
when Gwydion gave you Broceliande. It's only
half in this world now--the Wood, the lands and the
castles, even that part of the sea. You can close it off
completely behind a wall of magic--" "Power,"
Alf corrected very gently.
  "Isn't it all the same?" Alfs face was
unreadable, his eyes--slightly but clearly, damn
him--amused. Jehan persisted doggedly.
"Gwydion was born in the Wood. He's always
meant to go back; to be King for as long as he's
needed, to withdraw gracefully, to vanish into legend.
It's all very pretty, very noble, and very much like
Gwydion. But even he--he's wise, the wisest
king in the world, but I think he's waited too long.
If he goes now, before the delegation comes--if you
all go--you'll be safe. And Rhiyana won't
suffer."
  "Will it not?"
  "How can it? You'll all have vanished with
perfectly diabolical cowardice. Rhiyana will
be an unimpeachably human kingdom." "And
Rabbi Gamaliel? The Heresiarch Matthias?
Hakim ben All and Demetrios Kantakouzenos
and Jusuf of Haifa? Not to mention my own dear
brother and sister, the last of
  the hounds OF god 17
  House Akestas-what of them? Shall we abandon them
to the Church's tender mercies?"
  Jehan's fear turned to sheer annoyance.
"Don't tell me you haven't found a refuge for
each and every one of them, and all their goods and
chattels."
  "If so," Alf said, unruffled, "it's not this
way that we would go, like a flock of frightened geese."
  "Not even for your children's sake?"
  Alf went stark white. His eyes were truly
uncanny, vague yet piercing, seeing what no
other could see.
  Abruptly they focused. Jehan saw himself
mirrored in them, pale and shocked but set on his
course. "Go," he said. "Take a day if you must,
settle your gaggle of friends and infidels, and leave.
Or do you want to see Rhiyana laid waste around
you, and your people under Interdict, and a stake on a pyre
in every marketplace?" Alf smiled. But the color
had not returned to his face. "Jehan,
my dearest friend and brother, we know exactly what
we do. Trust us. Trust Gwydion at least, who
rules us all. He's known for long and long what
must finally come to be, the payment for all his years of
peace. He will not leave it to his poor people, who
love him and trust him and look to him for protection.
Only when they are truly and finally safe will he
leave them."
  "But he is their danger. You all are. Without
you-was "Without us and with all our infidels gone to haven,
the Crusade loses it target. Or does it? This
is a land of fabled wealth, soft and fat with long
idleness. A splendid prize for an army of
bandits, far more splendid than poor ravaged
Languedoc. Where, I remind you, my lord
Bishop, the Caihari have been the merest of
pretexts." Gently, with no perceptible effort,
Alf freed himself from Jehan's grasp. "I
grant you, the Crusade is our fault, for
existing, for tarrying so long in the mortal world. But
Crusades have a way of outgrowing their makers, like the
demons in the tales, destroying the sorcerers who
invoked them."
  Jehan knew that as well as Alf. He had
been to Constantinople. He had helped
to shatter that city in a war
  18 Judith Tarr
  that had begun in order to free the Holy
Sepulcher; had twisted and knotted and broken,
turning from a Crusade against the Saracen into the gaining
of a throne for an exiled Byzantine prince, and
thence into an outright war of conquest.
  "Yes," Alfsd, following his thoughts. "But this will
be no Byzantium. Not while Gwydion is
King."
  "Or while Alfred is Chancellor." Suddenly
Jehan was very tired. He had ridden all the endless
way from Rome into the teeth of winter, striving
to outrace the Pope's men. He was not old, but neither
was he so very young; and he had a long battle ahead of
him in his own country, a bishopric to claim and
defend, a kingdom to aid in ruling. And this was no land
and no people of his-by his very vows he should have shunned
them.
  And yet, like the great, half-witted,
ridiculously noble fool that he was, he loved
them. Alf, Thea, the two young Greeks they had
brought out of the fallen City; Gwydion and his Queen
and his fiery brother and all his wild magical Kin;
even the land itself, the prosperous towns, the
green burgeoning farmsteads, the woods and the
fields, the windy headlands and the standing stones.
Certainly he was a bad priest and very probably
he was damned, but he could not help it. He could not
even wish to.
  Alt's hands were warm and firm upon him, Alf's
eyes as gentle as they were strange. "God knows,"
he said softly, "and God is merciful. Nor has
He ever condemned love truly and freely given.
To do that would be to deny Himself."
  So wise, he, to look such a boy.
  Alf laughed. Jehan flushed, for that was a thought
he had not meant to be read. "Didn't you,
brother?" The thin strong hands drew him up. "Come.
It's a bed you need now, and a long sleep, and a day
or two of Rhiyana's peace. That much at least
is left to us all."
  It was all silence and a splendor of light. If
Nikki chose, he could enclose it in words. High
cold sun in a blue vault of sky; waves
crashing, sea-blue and sea- white, and the White
Keep glowing upon its headland. But closest, within the
reach of his eyes, the city in festival. Bright as its
houses always were, carved and painted and gilded, they
shone now in the winter sun, hung with
banners, looking down on a vivid spectacle.
Lords and ladies with their trains, mounted or afoot
or borne in litters, brilliant with jewels,
gleaming in precious fabrics; knights in
glittering panoply; burghers robed as splendidly
as princes; free farmfolk in all their finery;
whores dressed as ladies and ladies dressed
well-nigh as shamelessly as whores, laughing at the
cold. Jugglers and tumblers; dancing bears and
dancing dogs and apes that danced for coins; a
rope-dancer on high among the rooftops, actors
mimicking him broadly below; jesters in motley and
friars in rags, and now and then an eddy where a
minstrel sang or a musician played or a
storyteller spun his tales. 10
  20 Judith Tarr
  His nose struggled to match his eyes. Humanity,
yes, from rank villein to rank-sweet noble.
Incense-a proces sion had gone by with a holy
relic, drawing much of the crowd after it until some
new marvel caught their fancy. Perfume and
spices, roasting meat, bread new baked and wine
well aged, and manifold delights from the sweet-
seller's stall a pace or three upwind.
  A hand shook him as if to wake him from
sleep. He looked into a laughing mischievous
face, nearly on a level with his own although it was much
younger: the face of a boy, a page, a tall slight
gangle of a child with hair like ruddy gold. "Dreaming,
Nikephoros?" With the words came understanding, and with under
standing, all in a flood, the clamor of the festival.
Nikki reeled. Alun held him up, still laughing,
but chiding him through the mirth. "You shouldn't do that."
  No, indeed he should not, but the silence made the
rest so wonderful. "Maybe," Alun said,
speculating.
  And Alun should not do it either. Nikki put on his
best and sternest frown. It would have been more effective
if he had been larger or his eyes smaller, or his
mouth less tempted to laughter. At least he had the
advantage of age- a good six years' span-and,
just barely, of wisdom.
  "Just barely." Alun was alight with mockery, but
he was obedient enough. For the moment. He linked arms
with Nikki and drew him forward. "Come, cousin! This
is no day for dreaming. The sun's high and the city's
wild, and Misrule is lord." He leaned close,
laughing, gray eyes dancing. "Why, they say the
King himself has put off his crown and turned
commoner-or maybe that's he in cap and
bells, dispensing judgments from Saint Brendan's
altar."
  Nikki laughed and ran with him, eeling through the
crowd. To watch-that was wonderful. To be in it was sheer
delight. They cheered the rope-dancer on his lofty
thread.
  the hounds OF god 21
  They devoured meat pies-paid forwith kisses because the
buxom seller would not take money from such hand some
lads; and Alun blushed like a girl but paid up man
fully, to Nikki's high amusement. They heard a
minstrel sing mournfully of love and an orator
declaim of war. They whirled into a street dance and
whirled out of it again, breathless, warm as if they had
stood by a fire.
  Near the gate of the cathedral, a conjurer plied his
trade. They watched him critically. Brave
man, Alun said in Nikki's mind, to bring his
trickery here.
  He was very clever, but he had not gathered much of a
crowd. A fool, Nikki decided, to think his
cups and apples and scarves would earn him a living
in the city of the Elvenking. But yes, brave, and
good-natured too, although he looked as if he had not
eaten well in a long while.
  Nikki's eyes slid, to find Alun's sliding
likewise. Should we? . Nikki set his lip between
his teeth. Alf would be appalled. So would Father.
  They stood still. Those were names of power and terror.
And neither would be so unsubtle as to deal out a whipping.
Oh, no. The Chancellor and the King were much more
deadly. They flayed not with the rod but with the mind and the
tongue.
  And yet.
  It was the Feast of Fools. The one day in all the
year when the world turned upside down.
  Alun laughed aloud and Nikki in silence. You
first, the Prince said, magnanimous.
  Nikki bowed assent. The conjurer had not marked
them. They were only a pair of boys amid the
throng, and he was making a scarf vanish into the air.
It was to come back as a sprig of holly. Nikki
began to smile.
  The scarf melted as it was meant to. The man's
hands wove in intricate passes. At the height
of them, Nikki loosed a flicker of power. There in
the man's hand lay a newborn rose, pink as a
maiden's blush. 22 Judith Tarr
  Brave indeed, was that poor conjurer. He paused
only an eyeblink and continued as if nothing
had gone amiss.
  Alun bit down on laughter. The holly--now
a rose-- should become a cup of water. A cup
indeed it was, but it steamed, giving forth a wondrous
fragrance of wine and spices. That attracted a
passerby or three. Particularly when the wine,
cooling, sprouted the leaves of a vine, growing and
twining in the air, blossoming, setting into cascades
of purple grapes.
  The conjurer knew he had gone mad. Knew, and
laughed with the wonder of it.
  The vine faded dreamlike. But the cup was full
of coins. Copper mostly; neither Nikki nor
Alun had gold to spend. Still, it was more than the
mountebank had earned in a month of traveling; and more
had clinked into the bowl at his feet. People in Caer
Gweni knew when they had seen real magic.
  "Was that a sin?" Alun wondered as they drank
hot ale in a tavern beyond the cathedral.
  Nikki shrugged. It had not felt like one. And the
man was happy, and would sleep warm tonight and eat
well;
  maybe he would not drink away all his money at
once. "Someone will tell him what happened," said
Alun. "Someone should have told him before he
came here. But he had quick hands. I wonder if I
could do what he did?"
  It only took practice. Like swordplay,
or writing. Alun nodded. He was adept at
both. "Or like power itself." He wrapped his hands
around the mug, warming them, taking in the tavern with
quicksilver eyes. Most of the people knew who he was,
but out of courtesy they let him be. It pricked him
a little, for he was proud, and yet it pleased him. He
lounged on his stool like a man of the world, or at least
like a squire on holiday. "And soon I shall be
one," he said.
  In a year or two, maybe.
  "That's not long."
  the hounds OF god 23
  Only half an eon.
  Alun made as if to throw his mug at Nikki's
head. "Will you never learn respect?"
  Nikki grinned, thoroughly unrepentant.
  "Insolent Greek." The Prince sighed with great
feeling. "It's the women, surely. They spoil
you, drooping after you and pleading for a glance from your
black eyes. How many conquests now,
Nikephoros?" Nikki's grin began to hurt, but
he kept it staunchly. "Myriads,"
Alun answered himself. "More loves than stars in the
sky; more kisses than--"
  The inn-girl, hastening past with a fi/l of
emptied tankards, stumbled and fell full
into Alun's lap. Without a thought, with the instinct of her
calling, she kissed him soundly and rolled to her
feet again as if she had never paused.
  Nikki applauded, shaping words in his mind as he
seldom troubled to do. Bravo, cousin! At today's
pace, you'll be passing me yet. "Heaven forbid!"
  Nikki laughed his soundless laughter and drained his
tankard. The ale sat well and comfortably in his
stomach;
  the inn was clean and only a little crowded, no tax
upon his senses. And the company . . .
  The King's sole and much beloved son had gone
back to his exploration effaces. Minds, no; that
was the courtesy of the Kindred, strict as any
written law. But they all loved to Study their
shortlived cousins, the other-folk who filled the world
and boasted that they ruled it. They, and they. Nikki
inspected his own hand upon the table. Narrow wiry young
man's hand, brown even in winter, with a white
crisscross of scratches--he had had an argument
with a cat a little while ago. The cat had
repented almost at once. Quick in their tempers,
cats were.
  He was none so slow himself, although people called him
gentle. That was his damnable calf-eyed face, and his
silence. The former he could not help, short of
acquiring
  some frightful and impressive scar. The latter was
more troublesome. His sister raged at him. Anna was
visibly and publicly volatile, and voluble
too. It did little good to shut eyes and mind against
her. She would pummel him until he opened them,
or pursue him until he yielded. "Idiot!"
she cried. "Lazy slouching fool! Open your mouth
and talk!" The half of it that he could do, he would not,
setting his lips together with stubbornness to match her own.
Her eyes snapped with fury. "You could if you would
try. You know how. Alf taught you. Years he
spent, while you sat like a block of wood,
stubborn as a mule and twice as lazy. It's work
to make words, even in your head. Make them aloud?
Who needs them?" His glance echoed her speech. She
struck out at him, almost shouting. "You need them,
Nikephoros Akestas. Look at you! Grown
already and playing kiss-in-corners with every girl in
Caer Gwent, and mute as a fish. The
Kindred don't need to talk, either, but they do. Every
one of them. And they're not even human."
  Am I? It was a gift of sorts although its tone
was bitter, words spoken into her mind.
  "You are!" She seized him. She was very small,
a little brown bird, all bones and temper. "You are
human, Nikephoros. Flesh and blood and
bone-human. You eat and you sleep and you run after
women. If you keep running, one of them will bring you
up short with a bouncing black-eyed bastard as human
as yourself. And when your time comes, you'll stop running
altogether;
  you'll stiffen and you'll age and you'll die."
  Does that make me human?
  "You can't deny your blood."
  He laughed without sound, with a twist that came
close to pain. Blood was one thing. There was also the
brain, and what lay in it. Fine handsome youth that he
was, not an utter disgrace as a squire, making
up somewhat in quick ness for what he lacked in size
and strength; not too ill a
  the hounds OF god 25
  scholar though easily distracted by small things, a
girl, a cat, a new bit of witchery. Who would
believe the truth? Youth and pride and
black eyes and all, he remained a pitiable thing,
a half-made man, a cripple.
  Anna slapped him hard. "You're no more
crippled than I am. Less. I can only hear
sounds. You hear minds. And sounds when it suits you,
whatever your ears may lack."
  He could never hit her back. It was not
chivalry; it was plain cowardice. In his mind where it
mattered, she was still the tall, terrible, omnipotent
elder sister; and he was five years old, a roil
of nameless feelings, a pair of eyes in a world that had
no words-a silence that was a lack, but a lack he
did not recognize. Until that one came. Before
names or words, he was only he, the stranger who
came from the vast world outside the gate, hair more
white than gold round a frightful sun-flayed
face. But he beckoned; he fascinated. He was
not like anything else. And when Nikki ventured near
him, the world reeled and cracked and opened. And there were
words and names, things, actions, ideas to smite him with
their utter abstraction, a whole world focused upon an
alien thing. Sound. Alfgave him words, because it was
Alf's nature to heal and to teach, to open minds and
bodies to all that they could know. But he had not known the
extent of his own power, until
Nikki-human, mortal, utterly earthbound-
waking to words, woke also to what had begotten
  them. Power; witchery. White magic. The
healing, in striving to mend what could not be mended, had
wrought a new sense in place of the lost one.
  The small half-savage child had not even known
what it was. For a little while, in his innocence, he
had even been glad, thinking that now at last he was like
everyone else.
  The young man knew he was like no one at all.
He could not speak. He could not.
  "You won't," Anna said. "It would spoil your
game."
  Sometimes, when he could bear it no longer, he would
26 Judith Tarr
  shout at her. He had a voice, oh yes. A
hideous strangled animal-howl of a voice. It
always drove her away-or himself, driven by her ears'
revolt.
  But she always flung the last of it at him, whether
it was he who fled or she: "They'll go away, all
the Kindred you cling so close to. And then where will you
be?"
  Alun was studying him steadily, without diffidence.
Reading him with ease, head tilted, frowning
a very little. "You're one of us," he said.
  Nikki's fingers knotted. Suddenly he leaped
up; grinned; pulled Alun after him. The innkeeper
caught the coin he flung; bowed and beamed, for it was
silver. He whirled back into the festival.

  The moon was high and white and cold, the wind
wild, shrilling upon the stones. Far below thundered the
sea, casting up great gleaming gouts of spray.
  Alf followed the long line of the battlements,
circling round to that corner which jutted like the prow of a
white ship. The wind whipped the breath from his lungs;
he laughed into it, and stumbled a little. Surprised,
he looked down. His foot had caught upon a
small crumpled shadow:
  cloth, a softness of fur, a heap of garments
abandoned by the parapet. He smiled wryly and
gathered them up, warming them under his cloak. High
above the castle soared a seabird, abroad most
unnaturally in this wind-wild midnight.
  But then, in or about Caer Gwent, nothing was
unnatural. The bird spiraled downward. It
flew well, strong upon the strong wind. Alfs
ears, unhuman-keen, caught a high exultant
cry. His smile warmed and widened.

  Wings beat above his head. Gull's shape, young
gull's plumage, dark in the moon.
  Whiteness blossomed out of it. Toes touched stone
where claws had been; Alun lowered his arms,
breathless, tumble-haired, and naked as a newborn
child.
  He dived into the shelter of Alf's cloak,
clasping him tightly, grinning up at him. "Did
you see, Alf? Did you see what I did?" "I
could hardly avoid it," Alf said dryly. "So
it's a shape- changer you are then. How long?"
  "Ages." Alf's look was stem; Alun
laughed. "Well then, Magister. Since just before my
birthday. October the thirty- first: All
Hallows' Eve." "Of course."
  "Of course! It's been a secret, though Mother
knows. She's been teaching me. She was there when it
happened, you see. We were playing with the wolf cubs,
and I thought, hggw wonderful to be one! and I
was. I was very awkward-and very surprised."
  "I can imagine."
  "I like to be a wolf. But a gull is more
interesting. I think I fly rather well."
  Alf helped him to dress, swiftly, for
he was already blue with cold. When he was well
wrapped in fur and linen and good thick wool, warming
from the skin inward, he returned to AlFs cloak.
"You're always warm," he said. "How do you do it?"
  "How do you fly?"
  Alun considered that and nodded. "I see. Only
I can't . . . quite . . . see."
  "You only have to will it. Warmth like a fire always.
No cold; no discomfort."
  "Not even in summer?"
  Alun's gaze was wide, innocent. Alf cuffed
him lightly. "Imp! In summer you think coolness.
Or you suffer like everyone else." "still do. You never
seem to suffer at all."
  the hounds of god 29
  "It's known as discipline. Which leads me to ask,
are you supposed to be out here at this hour?"
  "Well ..."
  "Well?"
  "Nr' one told me not to." Alun tilted his
head, eyes glinting. "Are you?"
  Alf laughed. "In fact, no. I should be
safe in bed. But I couldn't sleep, and for once
Thea could."
  "It's not easy to have a baby, is it?
Especially toward the end." "No. But she
doesn't complain."
  "She's very proud of herself," Alun said. "And
happy- sometimes I look at her and all I see
is light."
  "I too," Alf said softly.
  "Your children will be very beautiful and very strong and very
wise. Like your lady-like you. Can you see, Alf?
He looks like both of you together, but she has your
face. She's laughing; she has flowers in her
hair. I-was Alun laughed breathlessly. "I think
I'm in love with her. And she isn't even born
yet!"
  Alf looked down at his rapt face, himself with
wonder and a touch of awe. Another seer, with clearer
sight in this than he had ever had. He smoothed the
tousled hair, drawing his cloak tighter round the thin
body. Alun was warm now, growing drowsy as a child
will, all at once, eyes full still of prophecy.
  It could be tantalizing, that gift they both had,
drawing the mind inward, laying bare all that would be.
All the beauty; all the terror. Alf caught his
breath. It was dark. Black dark and bone- cold.
Thank God, sighed a small soundless voice, that
the beauty is his to see, and not-
  He could not see. Could only know as the blind know, in
darkness, the slight boy-shape, all bones and thin
skin, gripping him with sudden strength. "Alf.
Alf, what's wrong?"
  Light grew slowly. Moonlight; cold
starlight; Alun's face, thin and white and very young,
brave against the onslaught of fear. His cheeks were
stiff with cold. "You're seeing again," he said.
"All the bad things. But they'll pass- you'll
see."
  Alf shuddered from deep within. This was not like the rest of
his visions; they were brutally vivid, as dreams can
be, or true Seeing. When his inner eye went blind,
then truly was it time for fear, for his mind would not face
what his power foresaw. Yet Alun saw beyond,
into sunlight.
  He drew a slow breath. Was it his own death then
that he went to? He had never feared it; had longed
for it, prayed for it, through all his long years in the
cloister. How like Heaven to offer it now, when at last
he had something to live for.
  He smiled at Alun, and warmed the frozen
face with his hands. "Yes," he said. "The bad things
will pass. Then there'll be only sunlight, and
flowers in a girl's hair." His smile
went wicked. "I can guess who'll put them there."
  Alun's cheeks flamed hotter even than
Alts palms. But his eyes were steady, bright with
moonlight and mirth. "Will you object?" "Only
if she does."
  "She won't," said Alun with certainty.
  "Check," said Anna.
  "Mate," said the Bishop of Sarum.
  She looked from his endangered king to her own truly
conquered one, and laughed aloud. "Father Jehan! I
almost did it." Her mirth died; her brows met
ominously. "Or did you-was
  He spread his hands, the image of outraged
innocence. "Anna Chrysolora! Would I stoop so
low as to let you win?" "You have before." But she did not
credit it herself. Not this time. She had fought a
battle to tell tales of, and he had-almost-fallen.
She let her grin have its way. "I'll have you
yet," she promised him. He laughed his deep
infectious laugh and saluted her with her own ivory
bishop. "Here's to courage! Another match,
milady?" As she paused, considering, lutestrings
sang across the hall, a melody like the washing of
waves, three notes rising 32 Judith Tarr
  and falling over and over, endlessly. A
recorder wove into it, high and clear and lilting as
birdsong.
  The Queen herself played on the pipe. The
lutenist--'0 rarity!--was the King's own
Chancellor. He was ridiculously shy of playing and
singing in company, but his skill was as precious-rare as
his displaying of it.
  They clustered round him, the court, all the
Kindred: Thea banked in cushions at his feet,
Alun drowsing against her; Nikki with lovely
Tao-Lin in his lap; Gwydion stretched out like a
boy in a bed of hounds and Fair Folk.
  Alf's voice grew out of the music, soft,
achingly pure.
  "Chanson do-lh mot son plan e prim farm
pois que baton oill vim; e Fauzor
  son de color
  de manta flor. . . .
  ""A song I'll make of words both plain and
fine, for the buds are on the bough, and the trees bear the
colors of a mantle of flowers. . . .""
  They gave him their accolade, a full ten
breaths of silence. Thea broke it with laughter both
tender and teasing. "My lord, my lord, you torment
us--such yearning for spring, here in the very heart
of winter."
  His eyes met hers and sparked. "There is
fitness," he said, "and there is fitness. Take this
to heart and mind, milady"--sudden and swift and
fierce, all passion, all mockery:
  "No vuoill de Roma Femperi ni r'om
m'en fassa apostoli, q'en lieis non aia
revert per cm m'art lo cars e-m rima; e
si-l maltraich no-m restaura ab un
baisar am d'annou mi auci e si enfema!
  the hounds OF god 33
  ""I would not wish to be the Emperor of Rome,
nor make me its Pope, that I could not return
to her for whom my heart both burns and breaks; if
she will not restore me from this torment with a kiss before the
new year--then me she slays, herself she sends
to Hell!"" "Bravo!" they all cried as the
lute thundered to a halt. "You heard him, Thea,"
Alun said. "And here it is, almost Twelfth
Night. You'd better do it quickly before his
prophecies come true." But before she could struggle
up, Alf had her, drawing her bulk easily
into his lap. She glowered at him. "Coercion,
this," she said darkly. "Compulsion by poetry.
Cruel, unusual--"
  He sighed, languishing. "Then I am slain,
alas. Or shall I take refuge on Saint
Peter's throne?"
  "I yield, I yield!" And after a goodly
while: "You wouldn't." His eyes were glinting. "Dear
God! I believe you would."
  "Imagine it," saidjehan. "Pope--what?
Innocent? Boniface, with that bonny face of
his? He wouldn't be the first enchanter in the Holy
See, and he's closer to a saint than most who've
sat there."
  Anna's brows went up. "Some would say there's
no "close" about it. Thea for one. Though to my
mind, the distance is just exactly the breadth of her
body."
  That, coming from a woman and one of breeding besides,
disconcerted the Bishop not at all. In face it
delighted him. "Anna my love, we should loose
you on the schools."
  "Don't," she said. "They'd never survive
it."
  "Oh, but what a wonder to watch them fall,
laid low by one woman's wit."
  "Poor proud creatures." She took the
ivory bishop from his hand, returning it to its
home on the board. "I rather pity them. Masters and
scholars, clerics all, professing a
  34 Judith Tarr
  celibacy few care to observe-and they fulminate
at length on the frailty of the female. Should I be
the one to disabuse them?" "It might do them good."
  She shook her head. "No. Let them play.
I've enough to do here with all these wild witch-children."
  "Children!" He laughed. "Some of them are
ancient."
  "Do years matter to them?"
  He looked hard at her. He had a sharp eye,
and a mind sharper still behind the battered soldier's face.
"Anna. Is everything well with you?"
  "Of course." She said it clearly, without
wavering, even with a smile and a glint of mischief.
"Let me guess. You worry. Little Anna's not
so little anymore. And here she is where she's been for the
past dozen years, living in Caer Gwent, studying
what and when it suits her, traveling when the urge
strikes her, lacking for nothing. Except that any
self-respecting woman of her age ought to be
safely married, whether to a suitable man or
to God."
  "Do you want that?" he asked.
  "I never have. I'd like to go on and on as I am.
Except ..." "Except?"
  She shook her head. "Nothing. This is an odd
place to live in, don't you know? All the
magic. All the Folk-the wonders; the
strangenesses. You'd think after more than half my
life here I'd be used to it. But I'm not. I can
remember when I was little, living in the City. Mother,
Father, Irene; Corinna-do you remember her?
Franks killed her. They killed my whole
City. But Alf and Thea took me away, took
me in and brought me up, taught me and tended me and
loved me. They gave me so much; still give it,
unstinting. I don't think anyone has been as
fortunate as I am.
  "But you see, it can't last. Sooner or later
they'll go away. Probably sooner. Then where will
I be?"
  "Where people have always been when they grow up."
  the hounds of god 35
  "Alone."
  "Alone, maybe. But luckier than most. You have
wealth, you have learning; you can live as you please."
  "I can, can't I?" She took his large hand in
her own very small one. "In that case, I
know whom I want for my knight."
  "What! Not one of the handsome fellows here?" "None
of them is also a bishop."
  "You are clever, taking in heaven and earth in one
fell swoop." "Why not, when it's so convenient?"
  He laughed and bowed extravagantly and kissed
her hand. "At your service then, fair lady, and
gladly too." He rose. "Shall we abandon the
chessboard for a turn of the dance?"
  They were dancing indeed, steps and music new from
Paris, with variations that were all Rhiyana. Even the
humans here had an air, a grace that was not quite of
their kind, a hint of magic. It made their court the
fairest in the world; it made their dancing wonderful.
Nikki whirled out of a wild estampie, dropping
to the floor beside Thea, lying for a moment in a simple
ecstasy of stillness. He grinned at her; she
smiled back and patted his cheek. "Handsome boy,"
she said. "When I finish atoning for my last sin, will
you help me commit another?"
  He laughed. His breath was coming back. He sat
up, appropriating a share of her cushions,
settling with the ease and completeness of a cat. The dance
spun on; would spin the night away with hardly a
pause, beating down the old year, pressing
out the new. Thea, bound to earth by the weight of her
body, could only watch. She played with Nikki's
hair, smoothing it, trying to tame it. It curled,
which was fashionable; it curled riotously, which was not.
Women always yearned to stroke it. But only Thea could
do that when and as she pleased.
  He looked at her and stifled a sigh. She was so
very beautiful. They worried a little, Alf, the King;
she was not 36 Judith Tarr
  well made for childbearing, too slight, too
narrow. But she was strong; she had carried well, with
both grace and pride. She had been riding and
dancing right up to Yuletide.
  His teeth clicked together. He examined her more
closely. She was unwontedly sedentary tonight, content
to recline like an eastern queen, gravid, serene.
But Thea was never, ever serene. Was she a little paler
than she should be? Her mind seemed to hold nothing but
pleasure in his presence and intentness on the dance. The
swift drumming of the estample had given way to a
subtler rhythm. Strange, complex: a clatter of
nakers, a beating of drums, a high thin wailing of
pipes. Gwydion had left throne and crown
to tread the new measure; his image whirled beyond him,
gold and scarlet to his white and silver,
dizzying to watch: man and mirror, twin and twin,
king and royal prince caught up in the rhythm of the
dance.
  "They dance for the life of the kingdom," said Thea.
Nikki nodded slowly. He could feel the swift
pulse of it, strong as the beating of the drums, frail
as the wailing of the pipes. They were all in it now
save only she. Even Alf, tall sword-slim
youth with hair flying silver-fair, reticence and
scholarship forgotten, unleashing for this moment his lithe
panther's grace. With each movement he drew
closer to the center, to the King. The pattern shaped and
firmed about him. Wheels wove within wheels.
Human bodies, human wills, human minds
babbled oblivious; but at the heart of them swelled
a mighty magic. Here in the White Keep at the
turning of the year, under the rule of the Elvenking, his
Kindred had raised their power. Power beyond each single
flame of witchery, power to shake the earth or to hold
it on its course; power to sustain their kingdom against
all the forces of the dark.
  Thea tapped Nikki between the shoulders, a slight,
imperative push. "Go on. Help them."
  He hesitated. He-he was not-
  "For me," she said, fierce-eyed.
  the hounds OF god 37
  There was a space, a gap, a weakness in the
pattern. He let it take him.
  A much larger presence took Nikki's place
at Thea's side. Jehan had left Anna with a
crowd of young scholars, all wild and some
brilliant, concealing their awe of the royal court behind
an air of great ennui. The presence of a bishop, a
friend of the Pope himself, had been rather too much for them.
  Thea could remember him as a novice with a
pocketful of stolen figs, reading the Almagestin a
hayloft. She grinned at him; he grinned back.
"There's magic in the air tonight," he said. "Ah,
shame! You've been here a scarce week and already
you're corrupted. You'll be singing spells next."
  "The Mass is quite sufficient for me."
  "And what is that but the very greatest of enchant
ments?" She shifted a little, carefully. With no
apparent haste he was there, supporting her, easing
her awkward weight. His eyes were very, very keen.
Irritably she pushed him away. "I am not
delicate!" she snapped. He was not at all
perturbed, although she could blast him with a thought.
Calmly, boldly, he laid his hands upon her
belly. "Not delicate," he said
cheerfully, "but none too comfortable either. When did it
start?"
  A hot denial flared, died. He was human;
he had no power; but he had never been a fool.
She lowered her eyes. "It's nothing yet. Just a
pang here and there."
  "How long?"
  "Since before dinner."
  His fingers probed gently, unobtrusively, and with
alarm ing skill. He did not say what she knew
as well as he: that one small body was as it should
be, but the other was not, the daughter as willful-contrary
as her mother.
  "You've been shielding," he said.
  "For my own peace of mind. The longer it takes
Alf to start shaking, the better we'll all be."
  38 Judith Tarr
  He shook his head. The humans had fallen one
by one out of the dance. It was all of the Kindred, and
Nikephoros among them, small and dark and solid
but utterly a part of them. The King had left their
center; one spun there alone, all the pattern in his
long white fingers, all the power singing through him, about
him, out of him. If he let go-if he even
slipped-all would shatter, pattern and power
and the minds of those who shaped both.
  Jehan loosed his breath in a long hiss. "But
it's Gwydion who should be-was
  "The King is King of Rhiyana, mortal and
otherwise. That," said Thea, "is the Master of
Broceliande."
  Jehan understood. "God's strong right arm!" he
mut tered. "Our Brother Alf, the master sorcerer
of them all."
  "Exactly. And tonight of all nights, he needs
his full power. No troubles; no distractions."
  "But-was Wisely Jehan set his lips together and
began again. "He's arming the last of your defenses.
But I thought they were all in the Wood."
  "Gwydion won't neglect the whole of his
kingdom. Nor," she added, "will Alfred. Those two
are a perfect pair."
  He did not smile at her mockery. He was still
absorbing what she had told him. "I always knew
he was strong. But as strong as that . . . How did you
ever get him to admit it?"
  "We didn't. He hasn't. He's simply
doing what he has to do." In fire, in splendor;
leaping, whirling, soaring like a falcon, swooping down
to strike the earth itself, strike it and hold it
and guard it, and drive back all who dared to ride
against it. Thea's teeth set. Jehan saw. There was
no shielding from those eyes or those hands. She
gripped him with strength enough to make him wince.
"Don't-don't-was
  It was a gasp, but it was loud, startling. The
music had stopped. The dancers stood poised, their
pattern complete. the hounds OF god 39
  It frayed and shredded. Its center flashed through a
rent, like light, like white fire. Jehan fell
back before him. Thea regarded him without fear, even with
amusement. "Dearest fool," she said, "it's only
childbirth. It happens every day."
  "Not to you." He lifted her. He was breathless, his
hair wild, his face both flushed and pale; he
looked hardly old enough to have fathered a child, let alone
to be the prop and center of all Rhiyana's
magic. But his eyes were still too bright to meet.
"What I should do to you for your deceit-was
  "It served its purpose, didn't it?" She
let her head rest upon his shoulder. "Well, my
love, are we going to make a spectacle of ourselves
here, or would you prefer a little privacy?" For a
moment the flush conquered the pallor. He held her
close, kissed the smooth parting of her
hair, and strode swiftly toward the door. l
caret caret caret frombbbbcaret caret caret
caret caret to caret SR" V caret
,His"'1'caret by 'caret caret 'SS-SII
III caret becaret . sk"...caret becaret caret

  "It's taking a very long time," Alun said. They
had converged upon Jehan's small chamber: Alun,
Nikki, Anna. That it was very close to Thea's
childbed, being the chaplain's cell of the Chancellor's
Tower, had something to do with their presence there, but they
seemed to take comfort in the occupant himself. None of
them had slept much. Alun was owl-eyed but almost
fiercely alert, perched at the end of the hard narrow
bed. "All night it's been," he said. "I
don't like it."
  Anna looked up from the book which she was trying
to read by candlelight. "It often does take a
while, especially with first babies. Your mother was two
days with you."
  "Yes, and it almost killed her!" Nikki drew
him into a quieting embrace; he pulled free.
"We're not like you. We're strong in everything
except this. It's so frighteningly hard even to get
children, and then we can't bear properly. As if
... we weren't meant ..."
  Jehan grasped his shoulders and held him
firmly. "Stop

  the HOUNDS OF god 41
  that now. Alf is there, and your mother, and your father. @u
They won't let anything happen."
  Alun drew together. Too thin, too pale, too
sharp of feature, he had not come yet to the beauty of
his kind; he was all eyes and spidery limbs,
quivering with tension. "Alf is afraid," he said.
To his indignation, Jehan laughed. "Of course
Alts afraid! I've never met a new father who
wasn't. And the more he knows of midwifery, the more
terrified he's apt to be, because he knows every little thing
that can go wrong." The Bishop held out his hands.
"Here, children. Let's sing a Mass for them-and for us, of
course, to keep us from gnawing our nails."
  Alun looked rebellious. Anna frowned.
Nikki tilted his head to one side, and after a
moment, smiled. Why, he said clearly in all their
minds, it's Epiphany. Twelfth Night. We
can ask the Three Kings to help Thea.
  "And the Christ child." Alun leaped up. "They'll
listen to us, I know it. Come, be quick!
We've no time to waste."
  The chapel was small but very beautiful, consecrated
to Saint John, the Evangelist, the prophet, and
incidentally, Jehan's own name-saint. Long ago,
when this had been the Queen's Tower, this chapel had
been hers. Alf had kept the century-old
fittings, adding only new vestments and a new altar
cloth of his own weaving. For that skill too he had,
a rare and wonderful magic, to weave what he saw
into a tangible shape. Snow and moonlight for the
altar, sunlit gold for the chasuble, both on a
weft of silk.
  The children sat close together near the altar, two
dark heads and one red-gold; two wide pairs of
black eyes, the third fully as wide but gray as
rain. Alun, in the middle, held a hand of each of
his friends. Only he sang the responses; Anna
never would and Nikki could not. His voice was almost
frightening, high and achingly pure, soaring up and up and
up, plunging with no warning at all and with perfect
control into a deep contralto. Even in his trouble,
or perhaps because of it, he
  42 Judith Tan-
  took a quiet delight in that skill, smiling
at the man on the altar. Of course,
Jehan thought; the boy was Alf's pupil. Small
wonder that he could sing like an angel--or like a
Jeromite novice. The others were devout enough, but
he was rapt. As if there were more to the rite than words
and gestures, a depth and a meaning, a center that was
all light.
  What priest he would make!
  Jehan sighed a little even in the Mass. What a
priest Alf had made, and he had had to leave it
or go mad. And this was a royal prince, heir by right
to a throne, even without the fact of his strangeness. His
damnation, the Church would decree. Absolute and
irrevocable by his very nature, because he was
witchborn; he would not age, he would not die.
  The Church is a very blind thing.
  Nikephoros" voice, distinct and rather cold.
While Alun made a rippling beauty of the
Agnus Dei, Jehan met the steady black
stare. He did not cry to answer. Nikki had
heard it all, attack and defense, a thousand times
over. And being Greek, tolerant of Rome but never
bound to it, he could judge more calmly than most.
Nor am I . . . quite . . . human. I was
certainly born with a soul; it's a moot point
whether I've lost it since.
  Another of Alf's clever pupils.
  And Thea's. Nikki's head bowed; his eyes
lowered. His whole body spoke a prayer.
  Pain was scarlet and jagged and edged with fire.
Pain was something one watched from a very great distance, and
even admired for its perfect hideousness. But one
did not mock it. Not after so long in its company.
  A most unroyal crew, they were. A slender
child in a smock like a serving maid's, ivory hair
escaping from its plait, lovely flower-face
drawn thin with weariness. A tall young man with his
black brows knit, his shirt of fine linen much
rumpled with long labor. And closest of all
to heart
  the hounds of god 43
  and body, a youth as tall as the other, still in his
cotte of cloth of silver, bending over the focus
of the pain: a body naked and swollen, gone to war with
itself.
  "It was just so with me," said the girl, who was no
girl at all but a queen. "A battle,
Alun's power against my own. And here are two,
stronger still in their minds' bonding, struggling to keep
to the womb."
  No. Thea had no breath to say it aloud,
but her mind had a little strength left. It's not only
that. I'm too small. Fighting myself, too.
Alf, if you need to cut-
  He shook his head, stroking her sweat-sodden
hair out of her face. Anger flared with the pain.
Damn you, Alfred! I'm tired. "Not too tired
to rage at me."
  And he was taking the pain, setting her apart from it.
But she was past repentance. Oashe cried to the center
of the struggle. Out with you!
  It had power, and it was stark with fear, all instinct,
all resistance.
  Alf's hands were on her, startlingly cool.
"Push," he commanded. He reached with his mind, drawing
in the others,. aiming, loosing. A cry tore itself out
of her.
  He was relentless. "Again."
  Oh, she hated him, she hated his will, she hated
the agony he had set in her. She gathered all her
hate and thrust it downward. Maura was there beside
Alf. "Almost, Thea. Once more. Only once."
Liar. There were two of the little horrors. She pushed.
  Something howled.
  Something else tore, battling.
  Little witch-bitch. Kill her mother, would
she? "Turn her." Gwydion, but strange,
breathless. Excited? Afraid? "Alf, turn-was
  Like a blocked calf.
  44 Judith Tarr
  That was Alf's shock and his utterly unwilling
amuse ment. And his power, stretching and curving,
turning- slipping. Strong little witch.
  Holding. Calming. Easing, inch by inch. Down,
round. Ah, God!
  Ou.
  The world had stopped.
  No; only the pain.
  Gwydion was grinning, impossible, wonderful
vision. Alf was far beyond that. He laid a twofold
burden on her emptied body, red and writhing,
hideous, beautiful, and suddenly, blissfully
silent. She met a cloud-blue stare. That was the
little witch. And the little sorcerer without armor or
spurs, only his strong young heels, with dark down
drying on his skull; but his sister had none at all,
poor baby. With great care and no little effort, Thea
touched the damp soft skin. Real, alive, breathing,
and strong. Strong enough to put up a magnificent
fight and almost win it. Tired as she was, she
laughed a little. "Alf, look. See what
we made!"
  If he had shone with joy before when the children moved within
her, now he blazed. His hand brushed them, found their
mother, returned to the small wriggling bodies. They
moved aimlessly, lips working, seeking. He laughed
in his throat, soft and wonderfully deep, and eased
them round, holding them without effort as each found a
brimming breast.
  This too was pain, but sweet, swelling
into pleasure. She curved an arm about each and
realized that she was smiling. Grinning rather, like a very
idiot.
  Gwydion bent and kissed her brow; bent again
to her lips. She tasted the fire that slept in him.
"Now," he said imperiously, "name them for their
King."
  She met Alf's gaze. Her arm tightened about
her daughter. "Liahan, this is."
  "And Cynan," Alf said, cradling his son more
carefully. the HOUNDS OF god 45
  "Good Rhiyanan names," said the Elvenking.
"They're Rhiyanan children." Alfs eyes glinted.
"Whatever their parents may be."
  "A Greek witch and a renegade Saxon
monk. A splendid pedigree." Thea
yawned in spite of herself. Liahan began to fret;
Alf gathered her up deftly, one-handed. Her mother
smiled.
  Within Thea, something shifted like a dam breaking. Her
arms were empty. "The babies--where--" "Maura
has them." Gwydion was death-white, calm again.
Too calm. Alf she could not see. She had lost
her body again. "I want my children. Why did you
take them away? I want my children!" Alf came
back to her mind first, then to her eyes. His hands--
A gust of laughter shook her--hysteria. "Alf!
You've murdered somebody. You're all blood."
She could not see properly. Could not think. Horror
struck deep. "You killed them! You killed--"
Strong hands held her down. She fought.
  Alfs voice lashed out. "Stop it!"
  Gentle Alf, who never shouted, who would never
even quarrel. She lay still, straining to see him.
"Alfred--"
  He spoke quietly again. Very quietly, very
levelly. "Thea. The blood is yours, and only
yours. If you love me--if you love life--you will
let me heal you. Will you, Thea? Can you?" Fear had
gone far away. Alf was a white blur, a babble
of words echoing in her brain. Her power
throbbed like an ache. He was holding back the
flood. Holding, but no more. Her barriers held
too firmly against him.
  He could live in her mind. He could set his seed
in her. He could--not--invade her thus. Reaching
deep into her body, shaping, changing, outsider,
alien, forbidden--
  "Thea!"
  His anguish pierced where reason could not, stabbing
46 Judith Tan- deep and deep. Relief like
pain; the swelling of that most miraculous of his
powers. Slowly she yielded before him.
  Thea slept. Alf wavered on his feet. Even
for one of his kind, he was far too pale.
  Gwydion braced him. He allowed it for a moment
only, drawing himself up, firming his stance. "She'll
live now," he said, little more than a sigh. "My
lord, if you would, I should bathe her; and the bed--the
servants--what Dame Agace will say--"
  "We'll see to it."
  He stiffened. "I can't rest now. The embassy
from Rome--" "Your place," said Maura, "is
here." She extricated him from Gwydion's hands,
drawing him with her. "Here, sit. Water is coming; you
can bathe, too. And eat, and the'n sleep."
  He would take the bath and the food; he could even
let his King and his Queen together clear away the
bloodied sheets and spread fresh ones
sweet-scented with rose petals. But he would not
sleep, nor would he sit by while they tended the
unconscious body of his lady, washed it and clothed
it in a shift and laid it in the clean bed. "If I
need rest," he said rebelliously, "then what of
you?" "We'll snatch an hour," Gwydion
answered, "but only if you rest now." Alts eyes
flashed with rare ill temper. "Blackmail!" The
Queen laughed. "Assuredly. Lie down,
brother. I'll watch over you all and keep the
throngs from the door."
  "And your husband in his bed."
  "That too," she agreed willingly, and laughed
again, for the King's brows had met, his rebellion
risen to match his Chancellor's. But he knew
better than to voice it. Proudly yet obediently
he retreated. The Queen circled the room. Alf
slept twined with his lady in the curtained privacy
of their bed. Their children breathed gently in the cradle that
had been Alun's and bore still in its carvings the
crowned seabird of the King; but the
  the hounds OF god 47
  coverlet was new, embroidered with the falcon of
Broceliande and the white gazehound of Careol.
Maura smoothed it, moving softly, smiling to herself.
Already the children's faces were losing the angry flush of
birth, taking on the pallor of the Kindred. By the
bed's head stood a table laden with books. There were
always books where Alf was; he and Gwydion between
them had made the library of the castle a scholars'
paradise, filling it with the rare and the wonderful.
  She took up a volume of Ovid. It was
intricately and extensively written in, in
Alts clear monkish hand, and now and then Thea's
impatient scribble: glosses, commen tary, and
acerbic observations. Maura sat by the cradle,
rocking it with her foot, and began to read. The door
eased open. She looked up. A head appeared,
eyes widening as they met hers. Alun hesitated,
drew back, slid round the door looking guilty
but determined.
  His mother held out her hand and allowed her smile
to bloom. "You're somewhat late," she said.
  As he came into her embrace, the room seemed
to fill behind him-Anna, Nikki, Jehan looming
over them all. Their expressions mingled joy,
anxiety, and a modicum of respect for the
Queen's majesty. Alun voiced it all in a
breathless rush. "Mother! Are they well?" "All very
well," she answered him. "See."
  The young ones crowded round the cradle, silent,
staring. Jehan waited patiently, but his glance
strayed most often to the bed. "Thea?" he asked very
quietly.
  "Weak, but well." His worry was a tangible
thing; she smiled to ease it.
  He blinked, dazzled, and smiled back. "I
under stand ... it was a battle."
  Alun turned quickly. "And when I wanted to go and
help, you pulled me down and sat on me."
  "So," said Jehan, "I committed a crime.
Lese-majeste."
  48 Judith Tarr
  "That's only for kings." Carefully, almost
timidly, Anna set the cradle to rocking.
"They're beautiful children, these."
  Alun turned back beside her. "They're all
red."
  Nikki grinned. So had Alun been when he was
born, shading to crimson when he howled.
  He glared but did not deign to respond.
Nikki only grinned the wider. Alfs
head appeared from amid the bed curtains, peering out
at the gathering. If it surprised him to see them
all there after Maura's promise, he gave no
sign of it.
  Even so little sleep had brought back his sheen.
He emerged with care lest Thea wake, drawing
everyone at once into his joyous embrace. Even
Jehan-especially Jehan, who had never been one
to stand upon his dignity. "The old Abbot should see you
now," the Bishop said grinning. "He'd be cackling
with glee."
  "Wouldn't he?" Alf laughed for the simple
pleasure of it and stooped to the cradle, raising his
son, setting the blanket-wrapped bundle in
Jehan's arms. But his daughter he gave to Alun
with a little bow. "My lord, your bride."
  Alun held her stiffly, staring at her face within
the blankets. She was awake and a trifle
uncomfortable. He shifted his grip, easing it,
relaxing little by little. She blinked and stirred, but in
comfort, learning this body in this new world, in the cold
and the open and the sudden awesome light.
  "I remember," Alun said slowly. "A long,
long time ago . . . everything was so strange. All
new. As if it had never been before, but now it
was and would always be." He blinked-had he known it,
exactly as Liahan had done-and shook his head.
Alf was smiling at him. "I do remember!"
  "I believe you. My memory goes back not quite
so far, but far enough." "Oh, but you're old!"
  the hounds OF god 49
  Alf laughed. No one had ever heard him laugh
so much. "Old as Methuselah, and happy enough
to sing." "Do that!" cried Anna. "Yes." Thea's
voice brought them all about. It was . somewhat faint
and she was very pale, but she was sitting j bar up,
smiling. "Do that, Alf."
  H His mirth faded. Turned indeed to a frown
as she stood H swaying, as white as her shift.
Swifter than sight he was H beside her, sweeping
her up. "You, my lady, are not to H leave your
bed for a day at least."
  "Indeed, my lord?" She linked her hands about his
neck. "Am I such a weakling then?" "You almost
died."
  "Only almost." She sighed deeply. His stare was
implac able. "Well then. I suppose I can
humor you. If-was "No ifa, Thea."
  "If," she continued undaunted, "you forbear from
fretting over me. Aren't you supposed to be
receiving an embassy?" "You'd send me away now?"
  He looked almost stricken. Her eyes danced.
"Not just now. You can hover over the cradle for a bit.
You can sing for us all. But first and foremost," she said,
drawing his head down, "you can kiss me." 6
  caret caret litix
  f caret caret so caret ,"'eacaret .
  Alf paused just outside the King's solar.
Nikki, in the gray surcoat and falcon blazon
of his squire, straightened the Chancellor's chain of
office and smoothed his cloak of fine wool and
vair. He was oblivious to the service, ears and
mind intent upon what passed beyond the door.
  Nikki smiled wryly. There's one advantage
in being late, he said. You don't have to stand through the
usual round of ceremonies. Alf turned wide
pale eyes upon him. Slowly they came into focus.
"Gwydion is alone in there."
  Alone with half his court.
  "Servants and secretaries."
  And the Bishop of Sarum.
  But none of his Kin. He had commanded it. The
Pope's men could have seen them in the hall, tall
fair people mingling freely with the human folk, but there
would be no closer meetings. Not while the
kingdom's safety rested upon the goodwill of the
embassy.

  the hounds OF god 51
  Abruptly Alf strode forward. Nikki
stretched to keep pace. The guard bowed them through the
door.
  The Pope had chosen his men with great care. The
Legate himself was slightly startling, a young man for a
cardinal, surely no more than forty, lean and dark and
haughty, with a black and penetrating eye. But he was
no fanatic. No; he was something much more deadly.
A true and faithful man of God, deeply
learned in both law and theology, and gifted with a rare
intelligence. It took in the arrivals; absorbed
but did not yet presume to judge, although the kind of the
tall young-faced nobleman was clear to see.
  His attendants were less controlled. Ordinary
men, most of them, uneasy already in the presence of one
of the witch-people. They crossed themselves as Alf passed,
struggling not to stare, fascinated, frightened, but not
openly hostile. But one or two among them struck
Nikki's brain with hate as strong as the blow of a
mace. He staggered under it.
  They never saw. He was only a
servant, human, young and rather small, invisible.
  He firmed his back and raised his chin. He could
see who hated. They looked no different from the
rest, Cistercians by their habits, eyes and faces
carefully matched to their companions'. Only their
sudden hate betrayed them, a hate thickened with
fear. Gwydion seemed undismayed by it, sitting
as he sat when he would be both easy and formal, his
cloak of ermine and velvet cast over his tall
chair but his crown upon his head. He rose to greet
his Chancellor, gesturing the others to remain seated,
holding out his hand. "My lord! How fares your
lady?"
  Alf bowed over the King's hand, as graceful a
player as he, and no less calm. "She is
well. Sire, I thank you for your courtesy." The
King turned to the Legate. "Here is joy, my lord
52 Judith Tarr
  Cardinal. His grace the Chancellor is new come
to father hood: a fine pair of strong children, born on
this very day of Epiphany." Had Nikki been
free, he would have laughed. The poor monks were
appalled. The Hounds in shepherds' habits were
outraged. Benedetto Cardinal Torrino was wryly
and visibly amused. "My felicitations,
my lord," he said, smooth and sweet and impeccably
courteous. Alf bowed. The Cardinal regarded him
under long lids, considered, offered his ring. Devoutly
Alf kissed it. Nikki's mind applauded. The
devotion was real enough, but the drama was splendid.
One good simple monk, chosen for his faith more than
for his erudition, looked to see the Devil's spawn
expire in a storm of brimstone.
  He did not even flinch. The Cardinal smiled.
"So, sir, you are the White Chancellor. Even in
Rome we have heard of your accomplishments." More
even than he knew, Nikki thought.
  "Your Eminence is kind," Alf said with becoming
humility. "I am truthful. You are, so they say,
a man of exceptional talents." The fair young
face was serene, the voice unshaken. "I am no more
than
  God has made me. And," he added, "no
less."
  "The Devil, they say, may quote
Scripture." That was meant to be heard, the speaker
one of those who hated. He stood close behind the
Legate, a man whose face one could forget, whose
mind blurred into a black-red mist.
  Nikki's shields sprang up and
locked. He stood walled in sudden silence. Alf
moved to sit beside the King, not, it seemed, taking
notice. But that mind was wrong. Nothing human should
be all hate. Nothing sane; nothing natural.
  His throat burned with bile. He laid his hand
on Alts shoulder, opening the merest chink of his power.
Through it shone Alts reassurance: He can't touch us
here.
  He had no need to. There was something in him. the
hounds OF god 53
  Something strong. Something with power, but not the power
Alf had, the white wizardry of the Kindred. This was
black and blood-red. You needn't stay, Alf
said.
  Nikki thought refusal, with a touch of temper.
Alf shrugged invisibly against his hand. That choice was
his to make. But let him listen and be firm and not be
afraid. This time the flare of anger made Alf
start. Nikki muted it in sudden shame, but he could
not entirely quell his satisfaction. He was
alarmed, not craven; certainly he was no weakling.
  Alun shook himself hard. His long sleepless
night was creeping up on him. Anna sat where the
Queen had been before, reading the book Maura had
left behind. Thea drowsed in the bed with Cynan
curled against her side. In his own arms, Liahan
hovered on the edge of sleep. By witch-sight she
glowed softly, power as newborn as herself, flickering
a little as he brushed it with his own bright strength.
Sometime very soon, she was going to be hungry. He
could feel it in his own stomach, which in truth was newly
and comfortably filled. He smiled and touched a finger
to the small round belly with its knot of
birth-cord.
  She stirred. She was siartlingly strong, adept
already at kicking off her blankets, as at
objecting when the cold air struck her skin. Her
lungs were even stronger than her legs.
  "Here," Thea said, rousing and holding out her arms,
"let me feed her."
  Alun surrendered her with great reluctance,
to Thea's amusement. Which deepened as he backed
away, blushing furiously, looking anywhere but at the
swell of bare breast, white as its own milk. He
clenched his fists. She was laughing. Of course she
would, who had made an ardent lover of an
Anglian saint. 54 Judith Tarr
  He pushed himself toward her, even to the bed at her
side, where Cynan was waking to his own sudden
hunger.
  "This could get inconvenient," Thea observed as
Alun settled her son into the curve of her free
arm. He banked her with pillows. Twofold mother
though she was, her smile was as wicked as ever.
"Greedy little beasts. No wonder sensible ladies
put their babies out to nurse." He perched on the
bed's edge and tucked up his feet. His blush was
fading. "I think you're sensible. As long as you're
. . . able ... I mean, two of them-was
  "I mean to be able." Her expression was pure
Thea, both tender and fierce. "I went to a great
deal of trouble to have these two little witches. I'm not
about to hand them over to someone else to raise." "You
did it for Alf, didn't you?"
  "I did it for myself." She softened a little.
"Well. For him too. Rather much for him."
  "I remember when he first knew." Alun
grinned. "That was something. The whole castle shook with
it. Drums and trumpets and choruses of
alleluias; you could have lit a chapel with his
smile."
  She laughed. "Only a chapel? No; a whole
cathedral."
  "He's still as happy as he was then," Alun said.
"Happier." "Sometimes I think we're
all too happy." But Anna smiled as she said
it, exchanging her book for a milkily sated
Cynan. "Though I remind myself that bliss is
never unalloyed where there are children. Especially
witch- children."
  "When have there ever been-was Alun stopped and swung
at her, mock-enraged.
  Thea deposited her daughter in his outstretched
arms. "Oh, yes, sir, we all suffered with you.
Now you can pay back the debt. Put her to your
shoulder. Yes, so. And have at her-thus." She
clapped her hands. "Bravo! You'll make a mother
yet."
  Alun rose, wobbling a little. Cynan lay already
in the the hounds OF god 55
  cradle and already asleep. Carefully the Prince
laid Liahan beside him. Her eyes were shut, her
mouth folded into a bud. But her hand, wandering, found his
finger and gripped hard. He looked up into the
women's wide smiles, and down again, smiling himself,
a little rueful, much more than a little smitten. Nor
could all their mockery change a bit of it.
  The Cardinal sipped slowly,
appreciatively. The King's wine was excellent.
He looked over the cup into Gwydion's
face and sidewise to that of the Chancellor. The
Bishop of Sarum had managed to station himself behind the
latter, a formidable bulk with a face set in
granite.
  He set down his cup and folded his hands. They were
the image of amity, all of them, seated round a cable
of ebony inlaid with lapis and silver, flanked
each by his loyal servants. Though to the
Cardinal's lowly monks the witch- lords boasted a
bishop apiece--and for the King besides, the Archbishop of
Caer Gwent, Primate of all Rhiyana.
Who said in the way he had, slow and deliberate,
pondering every word, "My lord Cardinal, you say you come
merely to offer the greetings of the Pope to the King of
Rhiyana. You deny any knowledge of troops gathering
against us, let alone troops who march under the
Cross. And yet, Your Eminence, my priests in
the Marches bring me word of this very thing. Are my
clergy to be accused of falsehood?" The Legate
allowed himself a very small smile. "Certainly not,
my lord Archbishop. Some anxiety would be understandable,
what with the deplorable events in Lan- guedoc; when
one's neighbors arm for war, one naturally fears
first for oneself. Even when that fear is without cause."
  "Is it?" The Archbishop leaned forward.
"Would Your Eminence swear to that on holy relics?"
  "Guilt speaks loudly in its own defense,"
said the monk on the Cardinal's right hand. "Do you
fear because you have reason to fear?" 56 Judith Tarr
  Alf had been silent throughout that long slow hour,
intent on the faces round the table, on the voices
speaking at length of lesser matters, on the
pattern of wood and stone and silver under his fingertip.
Now he raised his eyes. They were quiet, a little
abstracted. "Suppose," he said, "that we declare the
preliminaries ended and come to the point. There is a
Crusade arming against Rhiyana. Its purpose
sits here before you. Your task is to offer the Church's
clemency, to present conditions under which the armies may
be disbanded and the kingdom preserved." He lowered his
gaze and traced the curve of a silver vine. "You
come, in short, to the first cause of the conflict.
Rhiyaria's King."
  "There is no conflict," the Cardinal began.
Again Alf looked up. The Cardinal inhaled
sharply. Great eyes, pale gray as they had
seemed to be-they were not gray at all, but the color
of moonlit gold. And they were no more human than a
cat's. Alf smiled very faintly. "No conflict,
Eminence. No mortal reason to preach a
Crusade. Rhiyana is a peaceful kingdom, as
orthodox as any Pope's heart could desire; its
churches and abbeys are full, its people devout, its
clergy zealous in pursuit of their duties. And
yet, my lord Cardinal. And yet. If there is no
mortal reason, there remains the other. Again, my
King."
  "Not he alone," said the monk who had spoken
before. Alf raised a brow.
  "He has kin," the monk said, "creatures of his
own kind, marked as he is marked. Some even more
clearly than he."
  "Yes, Brother? How so?"
  "Only take up a mirror and see."
  The Chancellor sat back as if at ease.
"Oh, I'm a most egregious monster, I
admit it freely. But he? He is the very image
of his father, or so they tell me; certainly he bears
a close resemblance to his nephews and cousins."
  "Somewhat distant cousins, and great-nephews
thrice over." the hounds OF god 57
  "Ah well. Brother. It's not as if he were
unique in the world. "Adam was one hundred and
thirty years old when he begot a son in his
likeness, after his image; and he named him
Seth. Adam lived eight hundred years after
Seth, and he had other sons and daughters."" was
"The whole lifetime of Adam was nine hundred and
thirty years; then,"" said the monk, ""then he
died.""
  "So he did," Alfsd. "And by that reckoning,
my King has a while yet to live before he is
proven immortal."
  "You mock the word of God."
  "No," Alfsd softly. "That, I do not. Nor
am I mad or possessed or begotten of
demons. No more than is my lord. If he has
ruled long, has he not also ruled well? Has
any son suffered? Has any woman wept or child
died because Gwydion wears Rhiyana's crown?"
"The flesh is dust and ashes, its comfort a lie.
Only the soul can live."
  "As no doubt it lives in Languedoc, its
housing ravaged with war and starvation."
  The monk drew himself up. His face was white, his
cheekbones blotched with scarlet. "Your very existence
is a corruption of all it touches." Alf
contemplated him, head tilted a little to one side.
"You do not think," he said. "You only hate. You,
who profess to serve the God of love.
Enemy though you be, I find I pity you."
  The flare of hate struck Nikki blind.
Sightless, walled in soundlessness, he clutched at
air, wood, firm flesh sheathed in vair. He could
not see, could not hear, could not--
  Alun tensed. The air wavered; the children's faces
blurred. Something reached. Darkness visible. Hate
that groped, seeking, black and crimson,
wolf-jaws wide to seize, to rend, to devour.
Liahan!
  She lay still. Her eyes were open, fixed. He
called on all his power. Somewhere, faint and far,
58 Judith Tarr
  voices cried out to him. No, Alun. This is
too strong for you. Alun! It had Liahan. His
lovely laughing lady with flowers in her hair. It
had her; it gripped her.
  He struck with every ounce of his strength. The
wolf-darkness wavered, startled, turning at bay.
He laughed, for he had marked it, a long
searing-bright wound. Again he struck. The enemy
sprang.
  Anna saw Alun leap erect over the
cradle. His shape blurred and darkened. And yet
he laughed, light and strong and free. The
darkness swelled like smoke; coiled about him; hurled
him down. Behind Anna, Thea cried out, a harsh
inhuman sound, raw with rage. Anna wheeled. The
lady stood by the bed, swaying. Anna caught her.
"Thea, don't, Alf said not--"
  Anna gripped fur round a slash of teeth,
white hound, mad eyes, no Thea left at all.
Grimly she clung. The darkness swooped,
wolf-jawed, hell-eyed. The light whirled away.

  Nikki could see. He must.
  They were all staring. Alf, closest, whose cloak
Nikki clutched--Alf sat bolt upright, white
as death. "No," he whispered. "Oh, no."
Fiercely Nikki shook him. He could not turn
prophet now. The monk's eyes were avid. The
Legate watched with deadly fascination. With infinite
slowness Alf rose. He was lost utterly in
horror only he could see. "Sweet merciful
God--
  "Alun!"
  Not he alone cried out. Gwydion aloud,
Nikephoros in silence: a great howl of anguish.
  Nikki's hands were full of fur, the cloak
empty, people gaping. He saw none of it.
He saw only darkness and light, and Gwydion's
face. It wore no expression at all.
  And the King was gone, the solar erupting in a babble
of voices. Nikki's mind was one great bruise,
all the patterns torn and scattered. He made the
babble stop--willed it, com59
  60 Judith Tarr
  manded it. So many eyes. And he could not vanish
into air. He did not know how.
  With a last wild glance, he spun about and bolted.
Someone pounded after. Father Jehan, miter tucked under
his arm, stiff robes hauled up to his knees.
Behind Nikki's eyes, a small mad creature was
snickering. That great frame had never been made for
racing, least of all in full pontificals.
Nikki whipped round a corner. His lungs had
begun to ache. His feet beat out a grim refrain.
Too late--too late--too late. Alun was
gone. Anna was gone. Thea was gone. The children were
gone. Dead, gone, dead, gone, dead--
  A sob ripped itself from him. He flung himself
forward.
  It was very quiet in the Chancellor's bedchamber.
The bed was tumbled, empty. The cradle rocked
untenanted, the coverlet rent and torn as
if with claws.
  Alf stood over it like a shape of stone. At his
feet crouched Gwydion with a limp and lifeless
body in his arms, his eyes flat, fixed on nothing,
dead.
  The Queen wept, huddled by him, stroking
Alun's hair. The same gesture over and over.
Gwydion had no tears. He had nothing at all.
Nikki tasted blood. Then pain, his own hand
caught in his teeth. It throbbed as he let it
fall, stumbling into the room. The air stung his
nostrils as after lightning, the memory of great power
unleashed and now withdrawn.
  With infinite slowness Alf sank to one knee. His
lips moved, and his hand with them, signing the Cross.
"Kyrie eleison. Christe eleison."
Gwydion turned his head. Nikki, out of range
of his stare, still flinched. Alf met it fully. The
King's voice was as terrible as his eyes, flat and
stark and cold, emptied of all humanity. "God
has no mercy."
  "Kyrie," said Alf, "eleison. Pater
noster, qui es in coelis--" the hounds OF god

  "We have no God. We have no souls.
Only flesh and the black earth."
"comsanctificetur nomen tuum; adveniat
regnum tuum-was "God-damned devil-begotten
renegade priest." In the flint-gray eyes, a
spark had kindled. Rising, swelling, raging, lashing
in his voice. "What is your God that He should
take my son?" The Queen reached for him.
Lightning cracked; she recoiled, hands pressed
to her face. One of them was red, angry, blistering.
Alf reached in his turn to the wounded lady. She
shook him off. Her eyes bled tears, but they were
hard and fearless. "This is not God's
  work. This bears the stench of His Adversary."
  "They are the same." Gwydion rose, the bright
head rolling loosely upon his shoulder. "They must be
the same. Else it would be I who lie here in all
my pride and guilt, and not-was "You in all your
folly." She stood to face him. She was very tall;
she had only to raise her eyes by a little. Yet it
was not to him that she spoke but to the air. "Aidan. Do
what must be done."
  Fire flashed from Gwydion's eyes, sudden as
the light ning. "I have not yet lost my wits!"
  "No," she said. "Only your son."
  He stood very, very still. His face had
gained not a line, yet it showed every moment of his
hundred years. "Only my son," he said
slowly. "Only-was He drew a ragged breath.
"Let me pass."
  She moved aside. He trod forward. Jehan
retreated, leaving him a clear path. He followed
it pace by pace, and the Queen after. Her back was
straight, her head high. Only with power could one know
that, even yet, she wept.
  Nikki ventured cautiously into the room. The
crackle of power was fading, a mingling as distinct
to his senses as scents to the nose of a hound.
Maura, Gwydion-grief and hot iron.
Aidan startlingly, unwontedly cool. Alf
walled in
  62 Judith Tarr
  Stone. And dimmer memories: Alun, Thea, the
faint sweet newness of the children.
  Alfhad risen by the cradle. All the anguish
was locked in his mind behind his frozen face. "They're
gone," he said. "Gone utterly, as if they were
dead-but if Thea had died, so too would I. Ah,
God! How can I live with half my mind torn
away?"
  Jehan thrust past Nikki, dropping
cope and miter, seizing Alf's shoulders. Alf
froze. His eyes were wide and wild, glaring without
recognition. He was as still as a stalking panther, and
fully as dangerous. "I will kill him," he said
without inflection. "Whoever has done this-I will kill
him. Death for death, maiming for maiming-was Jehan
struck him a ringing blow. With a beast-snarl, he
lunged. Jehan fell before the force of him, defending
only, with neither hope nor intention of subduing him.
There was nothing of reason in him, only rage and
bitter loss.
  Nikki's head tossed from side to side. It was
all beating on him. Madness, death; loss and hate
and numbing terror; Alfs mind that, stripped of all
its barriers, was an open wound. were they so weak?
Could they not see? They had played full into their
enemies' hands.
  They rolled on the floor, Bishop and
Chancellor, like hounds quarreling in their kennel.
Fools; children. Nikki made his mind a whip and
lashed them with all the force he had. Be still!
  They fell apart. He was hardly aware of it. The
one scent, the vital one, was well-nigh gone. But
he could follow, must follow, down the long winding
ways of the mind. It was strong, and arrogant
in its strength; it had not shielded itself fully although it
overwhelmed the minds of all its prey together.
  He was close-closer. Walls and sanctity.
Walls, and sanctity. Snake-swift, it
struck.
  Nikki swam up out of night. Alf stooped
over him. The world reeled into focus. Alf was
corpse-pale; a bruise purpled his jaw. But his
eyes were sane.
  the hounds of god 63
  Nikki seized him. still know, he said. still know where
they are. The sanity staggered, steadied. The voice was
soft, but the mind was a great swelling cry. "Where?"
  In Rome. With a power--
  Alfs face shimmered. Nikki snatched with mind
and hand. No! He must not go, not knowing, not seeing--
  Alf was strong. Before that Hell-strong stroke of
power, he kept his consciousness, if little else.
  Nikki glared at the face beside his own. With a
power, he continued grimly, greater than any I've
ever known. It's on guard now; we won't get
closer to it than we have. Not from here, and not with the strength
that's in us.
  Alf sat up with care and pushed his hair out of his
face, holding it there, drawing a shuddering
breath. "In Rome," he muttered. "From Rome,
he--she--whoever, whatever it is--did this." His
eyes closed. "Dear God."
  "Dear God indeed." Jehan knelt stiffly
beside them. For Alfs lone bruise, he had a
dozen; already one eye was swelling shut. "A force that
can reach through all Rhiyana's walls, kill
Alun, take Anna and Thea and the twins, drive you
back--it must be the Devil himself." "Or one of his
minions. Or," Alf said, "one of us."
  Nikki's body knotted with denial, but his mind
spun free of it. Yes. Horrible as that was, it
could well be. It was power he had scented, and power
that had felled him.
  But the Kindred were gentle people. They did not, they
could not hate as that one hated, without measure or
mercy. "No?" Alf smiled with all the sadness in
the world. "Nikephoros my child, you saw me only a
moment ago. And I am one of the gentlest of us
all."
  Nikki groped for his hand and clung with convulsive
strength. As if that one weak mortal grip could
hold him; could unmake it all and bring back the
brightness that had been the world. Thea will be strong. I know
she will. We'll get her back, or
she'll come back herself, hale and whole and spitting
green fire. Why, she could make trembling cowards
out of the very devils in Hell! 64 Judith Tarr
  Alf smiled faintly but truly. "And Heaven
help any mere black sorcerer." He rose,
wavering, steadying. "As for us, for now, we're needed
here."
  That was all Alf and all sanity. Yet they
stared, taken aback. That he could be so calm, so
easy; that he could abandon his sister and his lady and his
children, abruptly and completely, with no visible
qualm. His eyes flickered. Like Gwydion's:
deep water above and fires raging below. Their gazes
dropped.
  "Come," he said. "We have much to do."

  One could forget, for a little while. One could drive
oneself, body and mind, until thought was lost and all
one's being focused on the duty at hand.
  Until one was weary beyond telling, and one reached
for the strong bright other, steeled against her mockery,
bolstered already by the prospect of it--and met
nothingness. She was gone; she was not. There was only the
void, bereft even of pain.
  Alf could not sleep. His bed, his whole
tower, was full of her absence. The cradle tormented
him with its emptiness. He should dispose of that at
least; he could not bear to. As if the act would make
it real and irrevocable. They were gone; they would never
come back.
  No. He would find them. He must. Somehow. If
there was a God. If there was such a thing as hope.
  The chapel was dark and cold. Neither too dark
nor too cold for the Brother Alfred who had been,
but he was dead. Rhiyana's Chancellor found the
stone floor hard, the crucified Christ
impassive.

  66 Judith Tarr
  In shock, in the suddenness of Alun's death, the
priest had stirred in his deep grave. He had
spoken the words for the dead; he had faced unflinching the
terrible grief of the King. He was gone again, as he
must be. Alf sank back upon his heels, eyes
fixed upon the crucifix but focused within. Seeing
Gwydion in the hall, Alun in his arms still, a
blur of people; voices raised in startlement, in
confusion, in piercing lamentation. The men from Rome, at
a loss as were they all, although some rejoiced in secret;
the Cardinal excusing himself with graceful
words, half-heard and half-heeded-but his sorrow,
even to the touch of power, was real. The Archbishop of
Caer Gwent with a following of loyal monks,
weeping unashamedly, begging and cajoling and finally
commanding the King to give his son over for tending.
Prince Aidan as white and still and terrible as his
brother, saying with searing cruelty, "Hold him
then. Hold him till he rots." And in every mind with
power, the brutal vision, swelling and stench, flesh
drop ping from bones, worms- Gwydion had surged
forward, mad-enraged, poised to kill. Gently
Aidan eased the body from his brother's arms and
laid it in the hands of the monks. Gwydion stood
motion less, as if power and strength had deserted him
in that one wild rush. His eyes could not even follow
the Brothers as they bore their burden away. He was
empty; broken.
  The Prince touched his shoulder. His own hand came
up in turn. It was uncanny, like a vision of
mirrors. But one image, the one in well-worn
hunting garb, had let the tears come. The other would
not. Still would not, as Alf would not sleep. The castle
thrummed with it, a tension that would not break, a grief
beyond all bearing. Not for friends or brother or Kin would
Gwydion give way, not even for the Queen
herself.
  He had shut them all away. Maura tossed in
Aidan's bed while the Prince and his Saracen
strove between them to the hounds of god 67
  comfort her. She was not cruel enough to resist, but there was
no easing that suffering, even by the magic of the
Flame-bearer's voice. Alfs head drooped;
he shivered. Half a day and half a night of this
had poisoned the whole castle. Worse yet, a
storm had come up out of the sea, fierce and bitter
cold as the King's own heart. The winds wailed more
heartrendingly than all the women in the city; the
clouds were as black as grief.
  Not a few folk suspected that the storm was the
King's own, called up out of his madness. Was he not
the greatest mage in the world? "It cannot go on."
  Alf started at the sound of his own voice. His
fists had clenched upon his thighs. He regarded them as
if they belonged to a stranger. "It has to stop," he
said to them.
  Granted; and everyone admitted it. But no one
had been able to do a thing about it.
  "Someone has to."
  Aidan himself had tried and failed, and he could
rule his brother where even the Queen could not.
  Alf shook his head. His hair swung, heavy,
half blinding him. It needed cutting. Thea had
meant to do it--before-- His teeth set: He was as mad
as the King, he knew it. But he had learned a
greater skill in concealing it. Maybe that was what
Gwydion needed. A skill. A mask. Enough
to hold his kingdom together before it shattered. Alf was
erect, walking. He let his feet lead him where
they would. Like the Chancellor, the King had his own tower,
set close to the prow of the castle. Light glimmered
in its lofty windows, all but lost in the murk of the
storm.
  Alf climbed the long winding stair. It was
black dark; he walked by the shimmer of power about his
feet. Solid though the stones were, they trembled
faintly in the wind's fury; its shrieking filled his
ears.
  The door of the topmost chamber was shut but not 68
Judith Tarr
  bolted. For a moment Alf hesitated. He was not
afraid; but one did not pass this door lightly.
Common folk whispered that here was the heart of
Gwydion's magic, that it was a place of great
enchantment, full of marvels.
  In truth it was plain enough. A
circular room with tall narrow windows all about it,
and when the sun was high, a splendid prospect of
land and sea. It held a table, a chair or two,
a worn carpet; a chest of books-but not a
grimoire among them-and a writing case, and a
trinket or two. A lamp of bronze, very old;
a silver pitcher in the shape of a lion, its open
mouth the spout; and the only possible instrument of
wizardry, a ball of crystal on a stand of
ebony. The windows glistened blackly in the
lamp's light. Gwydion stood framed in that which
by day looked upon the sea. Tonight, even for
witch-eyes, there was nothing to see; yet he gazed
upon the darkness, erect and very still.
  Alf eased the door shut behind him. Gwydion
spoke, soft and even. "Not a good night for riding,
this."
  "Would you try?" Alf asked with equal calm.
One shoulder lifted. "I did at least once, if
you remember." It was the first Alf had ever seen of
Rhiyana's King. A storm out of Hell, a
weary mare, a rider all blood and filth, beaten,
broken, and yet indomitable.
  The wounds had healed long ago, the bones knit,
even the shattered sword hand learned again its
skill, although to a keen eye it bore a memory of
maiming, a slight twisting, a stiffness when it
flexed. He had never let Alt heal it
properly. Like Jehan, he needed the reminder.
  "And I heed it," he said. He turned. His
face was still; his eyes burned. "I rule myself. I
do not pull down these walls about my head."
  "No. You merely pull down your whole
kingdom."
  The King said nothing. Alf sat near the table and
closed his eyes. Now that he needed most to be
alert-now, by nature's irony, he knew he could
sleep.
  When his eyes opened, Gwydion stood over him.
He let the hounds OF god 69
  his head rest against the chair's high back. "You
can't go on like this," he said. "Mourn, yes; storm
Heaven and Hell; swear eternal vengeance. But not
while Rhiyana needs you." Still no response.
He sighed. "Yes. Alun is dead. Your only
son. As if he were all you could ever beget in all the
eons before you; as if he could have been King after you and not
the mortal cousin to whom the throne should rightly pass.
As if no other man in all the black and bloody
world had ever looked upon the murdered body of
his child-as if God Himself had not known the pain that you know
now, that you thrust upon us all without a thought for our own
grief."
  "If it troubles you," Gwydion said just above a
whisper, "get out of my mind."
  "I can't. You won't let me. You want me
to suffer as you suffer, drop by bitter drop, down to the
very dregs." Alt spread his hands wide. "All
Rhiyana must howl with your agony, though it be
destroyed. The Crusade will enter; the Church will
rule in blood and fire; all you built through your
long kingship will vanish, burned or stolen or
slain. Was one child, however beloved, however
brilliant his promise-was one half-grown boy
worth so much?" "He was my son."
  "He would hate you for this."
  There was a silence full of ice and fire. Alf
let his heavy eyelids fall. "I loved him
too," he said, "and not because he was any prince of
mine, or because he was the son of two whom I love,
friends who are more to me than blood kin. I loved him
because he was himself. And he is dead, foully murdered,
my sister taken, my lady torn from me, my children
slain perhaps as yours was slain. Must I bear all your
burdens besides?" "You do not know that they are
dead."
  "I do not know that they live!" Alf drew himself
into a knot, trembling a little with exhaustion and with
grief. "If you do not school yourself to endurance," he
said carefully 70 Judith Tarr
  lest his voice break, "then I give you fair
warning, I will do all I can to compel you."
  "You would not dare-was
  Alf looked at him. Simply looked. "You
see, Gwydion. Rhiyana, its people, even my
kin-in the end, they matter less than this plain
truth. Your self-indulgence is driving me mad."
  Gwydion stood motionless. They were evenly
matched in body and in mind. But Alt huddled in the
tall chair, and Gwydion poised above him, tensed
as if to spring.
  The King's hands rose. Alf did not flinch.
They caught his face between them; the gray eyes
searched it, searing- cold. Yet colder and more
burning was the voice in his mind. You were always the
perfect cleric. All crawling humility, but beneath
it the pride of Lucifer. Which, said Alf, still have
always and freely admitted. "Bastard." It was a
hiss. "Lowborn, fatherless, whelped in a byre-I
gave you honor. I gave you lordship. I
even gave you the teaching of my son. And for what? That
he should lie dead in defense of your ill-gotten
offspring, and that you should threaten my majesty with force."
  "No majesty now," murmured Alf with banked
heat. He rose, eye to kindled eye. "Have you had
enough? Or do you need to flog me further? You've
yet to castigate all my charlatan's tricks."
His power gathered, coiled. But he spoke as softly
as ever in a tone of quiet scorn, the master weary
at last of his pupil's insolence. "Control yourself
or be controlled. I care little which, so long as I have
peace."
  It was the plain truth. Plain enough for a human
to read, even for the Elvenking in his shell of madness.
He drew a sharp and hurting breath. No one, not
even his brother, had ever faced him so, addressed him
so, looked upon him with such utter disregard for his
royalty. "I curse the day I called you my
kinsman."
  Alfs lips thinned, setting into open contempt.
Gwydion struck them. They bruised and split and
bled. The eyes above them raked him with scorn. No
king, he. Not even a
  the HOUNDS OF god 71
  man, who could not bear a grief any
mortal villein could overcome. He wallowed in
it; he let it master him.
  Weakling. Coward. Fool.
  He whirled away. He was strong. He was King.
He would command--he would compel--
  Alf touched his shoulder. A light touch, almost
tentative, almost like a woman's. Aye; he was as
beautiful as one, with that bruised and beardless face.
Body and brain armed against him. Gently,
persistently, he drew Gwydion about.
"Brother," he said, close to tears. "Oh,
brother, I would give my imagined soul to have him
alive again."
  Gwydion's power reared like a startled colt.
Braced for the whip, it had fallen prey to the silken
halter: that gentle hand, that breaking voice, that
flood of sorrow.
  His body stood rooted. Light hands upon his
shoulders; tears streaming down pale cheeks; great
grieving eyes. They blurred. A spear stabbed; a
dam broke. Somewhere very far away, a voice cried
aloud.
  Gwydion looked once more into Alt's face.
It was as quiet as his own, emptied, serene.
"Bastard," he said to it calmly. Alf
smiled, not easily, for it hurt. Gwydion ran
a finger along his lip, granting ease of the small
pain. "Behold, your beauty saved. It's a great
deal more than you deserve."
  "You're sane enough," Alf said, "though you're
talking like your brother."
  "And why not? I feel like my brother. Angry."
  "Glad." Alfs knees gave way; he sank
down surprised. "Did you fight as hard as that?"
  Gwydion dropped beside the other. As abruptly
as he had wept, he began to laugh. It was laughter
full of pain, but genuine for all that. "Someday, my
friend, you'll meet a man you can't witch to your will."
"There is one woman--" Alf bit his mended lip
and struggled up. "My lord--"
  12 Judith Tarr
  "Now it is "my lord."" Gwydion caught
him and held him. He resisted; the King tightened his
grip. "No, Alfred. Here, one does not heal with
love and hot iron, and walk away with one's own
wounds still bleeding."
  "They are cauterized," Alf said. "Maura's
are not."
  "You are always armed, my knight of
Broceliande." Gwydion let him go and
paused. A gust of grief struck him, shook him,
passed. He swallowed bruising-hard. His voice
when it came seemed hardly his own. "Yes. She
needs me more. At this moment. Later ..."
  "Later will come when it comes."
  "And then we will speak," said the King, still with that edge
of iron, but with eyes cleansed of all his madness.
  Nikki had cried himself to sleep and cried himself
awake again. His eyes burned; his thoat ached. He
felt bruised, mind and body. He drew into a
knot in the center of the bed. His companion stirred and
edged closer, curling warmly against him. She recked
nothing of loss or of sorrow; she knew only that
he had need of her presence. In a little while, when
he lay still, empty, she began to purr. He
stroked the sleek fur. He got on well with
cats; people liked to call this one his familiar, because she
never seemed to be far from him. Sometimes Thea, playing
her witch-tricks, had taken on that sleek black
form with its emerald eyes, and nestled in the curve of
his belly as the true cat did now, and waited
till he wavered on the brink of sleep; and flowed
laughing into her own, bare, supple shape.
  It was only a cat tonight. Thea was gone, Anna was
gone, Cynan and Liahan were lost,
Alun was dead. The world had broken in a single
stroke of power, nor could it ever wholly be mended.
A light weight settled on his bed's edge. He
opened his eyes to Alf's face. It was the same as
always, though tired and drawn, shadow-eyed. It even
smiled a little, in greeting, in comfort. the hounds OF
god 73
  Nikki sat up, suddenly ashamed. It was not as
if he had never known his world to break. It had
shattered utterly when he was very young, sweeping away
his house and his family and all his city; beside that, this was
a small thing.
  "But this is now, and that was long ago." Alf lay
down as if he could not help himself, resting his head in
the crook of his arm. The cat, enchanted, found a
new resting place against his side. Her body shook
with the force of her purring.
  He stroked her idly, his face quiet.
Nikki watched him. He would sleep soon. It was
his own bed he could not bear. "No," he said though he
did not move to rise. "I don't mean to-was still
don't mind, said Nikki.
  Alf flushed faintly. "It's true I'd rather
not-I haven't slept alone since-was
  Since he came to Thea's bed. Nikki
schooled his face to stillness. "It becomes a
habit," Alf said after a little. "A necessity of
sorts. Even-especially-to one like me. I was a
priest so long . . . Do you know, I never knew
what it was to desire a woman until I saw her?
She was the first woman of my own kind that I had ever
seen. The only one who- ever-was
  Nikki held him while he wept. It was not
hard weeping. Most of it was exhaustion, and power
stretched to its limit. Yet it seemed a long
while before he quieted. When Nikki let him go,
he lay back open-eyed. You'll sleep now,
Nikki said. He stiffened. "I can't. I mustn't.
If anything-ifThea-was We're all on guard.
Sleep, Nikki willed him. Sleep and be
strong. Little by little his resistance weakened. His
eyelids drooped; his breathing eased. At last,
all unwilling though he was, he slept. 9
  Benedetto Tbrrino hesitated. The chamber was
tidy, swept and tended and strangely empty. A
fire was laid but not lit, the air cold. Something--
someone--had lived and loved here. Lives had begun;
at least one had ended. But they were all gone. He
shook himself. It was the endless, damnable storm; the
errand he was coming to hate; and the pall of
grief that lay on the whole kingdom. This was only a
room in a tower, rich enough though not opulent, with a
faint scent of flowers. Roses. On the table beside
a heap of books lay a bowl full of petals,
dry and dusty-sweet, a ghost of summer in this bleak
northern winter. His hands were stiff with cold. He
found flint and steel upon the mantel. The fire
smoldered, flickered, flared. He crouched before it,
hands spread, drinking up the heat.
  After a moment he straightened. He had not kindled
his own fire in--how long? Years. That was
servants' work, and he was a prince of the Church.
Kinsman to half a dozen Popes, likely to be
Pope himself one day if he played the

  the hounds OF god 75
  game of courts and kings, outlasted and outwitted the
seething factions of the Curia.
  If he survived this embassy.
  He considered Rhiyana as he had seen it,
riding through it. Not a large kingdom, but a pleasant
one even in winter. Its roads were excellent, and
safe to ride upon. Its people knew how to smile. Had
he been in any other realm in the world or on any
other errand, he might have fancied that he had
come to a country of the blessed, without war or famine,
fire or flood or grim pestilence; a peaceable
kingdom. Under a sorcerer king. Gwydion was that, there
was no doubt of it. He breathed magic. One could
glance at him, see a tall young man, a light,
proud, royal carriage, a pale eagle-face.
But the eyes were ages old and ages deep.
  He was strange; he could be frightening. But he
woke no horror. None of them did. They were
hiding, Torrino knew, as he could guess why;
yet he had seen them here and there at a distance,
tall, pale-skinned, heart-stoppingly fair. They
had mingled with the throng in the guardroom not an hour
past, some close enough to touch, cheering on the two who
locked in fierce mock combat. Anonymous though the
combatants were in mail and helms, they were well enough
known for all that, the Chancellor and the Prince. They were
of a height, of a weight, and nearly of a skill;
light, blindingly swift, with a coiled-steel
strength. Together they were wonderful to see. "Imagine
it," he said aloud to the fire. "A champion born
--he learns his skill, he hones and perfects it,
he ages and he loses it and he dies. But if he
should not age, what limit then to the perfection of his
art?"
  "Why, none at all."
  He turned with commendable coolness. The Chancellor
was still in his heavy glittering hauberk although his helm was
gone, his coif thrust back upon his shoulders. His
cheeks were flushed, his hair damp upon his forehead.
He looked like a tall child, a squire new-come
from arms 76 Judith Tarr
  practice. Even the true squire looked
older, the dark boy Tbrrino had seen before, moving
past Alfwith the sheathed greatsword and the helm, shooting
the Cardinal a black and burning glance. Tbrrino
settled into the single chair. It was not precisely
an insolence. The Chancellor's brow arched, but his
words were light and cool. "Good day, Eminence. If
you will pardon me ..."
  He could not have seen the Legate's gracious
gesture, bent from the waist as he was in the
comic-helpless posture of the knight shedding his mail,
with the squire tugging and himself wriggling, easing out of his
shell of leather and steel. When he straightened in the
padded gambeson, he was breathing quickly; the
gambeson too fell into the dark boy's hands. He
was less slight in his shirt than he had seemed rn
his state robes, less massive than in his mail,
wide in the shoulders and lean in the hips, with
very little flesh to spare. A pair of servants brought
in a large wooden tub; pages followed them bearing
steaming pails. It all had the look of a ritual.
Tbrrino could read the faces: skepticism toward
this odd unhealthy habit; deep respect for its
practitioner, shading into worship in the youngest page.
For him Alfhad a smile and a word or two, nothing
of consequence, but enough to send the child skipping joyfully out
the door. The others followed, save the squire,
who had put away all Alfs panoply and set his
hand to the shirt beneath. The Chancellor let him take
it.
  Tbrrino caught his breath. Someone, somewhere, had
taken a whip to that back. Taken it and all but
flayed him from nape to buttocks, leaving a trail
of white and knotted scars. It was shocking,
appalling-the worse for that, even so marred, it was still as
fair a body as the Legate had ever seen.
  He forced his eyes away from it. He was not like many
in the Curia, or outside of it either. He had
kept his vows; he had refrained from women and disdained
that other
  the hounds OF god 77 expedient, so easy if
one were a cleric, so simple to expl31"
  away' a If The squire's brown
hands moved over the white skin- A" stood still, head
bent as if in weariness, letting the water wash away
the battle.
  "I see," Tbrrino said slowly. "I begin
to see."
  Alf did not move. The squire looked hard
at the Cardinal, who found himself staring back and
shivering. This was a boy in truth, human if
strikingly foreign, dark, slight, quick. Italian,
Greek, Levantine--he had never been born in
this cold and windy country. And yet he had a
look, as if he saw more, or more clearly, than
any rn013aret man should see.
  Tbrrino found himself nodding. "Thereis all the
fear- Not evil, not even witchery. But by your very
existence Y011 make the world waver. There is no
place for you in our philosophy."
  Alf stepped out of the tub and let himself be rubbed
dry- He was indeed too thin. One could count his
ribs, fow caret the tracery of veins beneath the
translucent skin. But there was strength in him, more
visible now than when he wore armor.
  "Only regard yourself," said Torrino. "You have it
altl youth, beauty, great magic. Anything mere
men can d[*oslash]" you can do better.
And you never age or die." He sighed- "Angels
we can bear--they are pure spirits, invisible ana
intangible. Saints we love best if, born
to all huf"311 imperfections, they come through
struggle to their victory- Heroes are best and most
conveniently dead. You caret you are here and solid,
and hence triply bitter to endure- "Envy is a
deadly sin."
  "Deadly," the Legate said, "yes."
  Alf was clad, white shirt, black cotte and
hose, bl33aret 11 hood, somber as a
monk, his face the paler for the starkness of his garb.
"Will you call your Hounds upon us the*1-
  Tbrrino inspected his hands. They were clean,
well kept[*macr] without mark or scar. On
one finger burned the ruby of his 78 Judith Tarr
  rank. "Several of my monks have been . . .
escorted else where. At, I understand, the King's
command."
  "It is contrary to every monastic rule for a monk
to claim a habit other than his own. And," Alf
added coolly, "the King has forbidden his realm to the
Order of Saint Paul."
  "The temporal authorities may not interfere
with the sons of the Church."
  "But the Church may contend with its own, and invite
the secular arm to assist."
  "Or be compelled to do so."
  Alf sat on the hearthstone. His eyes, catching
the fire, burned ember-red. "The Archbishop of
Caer Gwent needed no compulsion. Indeed he had
to be persuaded to leave his captives both alive and
unmaimed." "And unensorceled?"
  Beneath the terrible eyes a smile flickered. "Our
arts leave no trace on the body or on the
soul."
  "You found nothing." Tbrrino's voice was flat,
taking no joy in the knowledge.
  "By then," Alf said, "there was nothing to find."
  "Nor ever had been."
  "No?"
  Tbrrino leaned forward. "I regret deeply the
death of the Prince. He was cut down most cruelly
and most untimely. But, my lord, it is no secret
that he died by sorcery. And Rome has naught to do
with such arts."
  Alf was silent, his gaze steady. A shiver
traced Tbrrino's spine, a sensation like a touch
yet without flesh, brushing him, moth-soft. The
ember-eyes lidded. "It is from Rome that
Prince Alun's death came." "From Rome, it
may be. But not from the Lateran. The Pope does
not oppose sorcery with sorcery."
  "The Pope, perhaps. Elsewhere ... if the end were
good, would not some care little for the means?"
  Carefully Torrino sat back. "It is
possible. I cannot say that it is so."
  Alf turned his face toward the fire, and after a
moment, the hounds OF god 79
  his hands. The flames bent toward his fingers,
licking round them, harmless as sunlight. Gathering a
handful, he plaited it idly, reflectively,
drawing in a skein of shadow, a shiver of coolness.
Tbrrino watched, sitting very still. "Your King has
bidden your people to conceal themselves and by extension their
witcheries. Yet you work open magic. were I
merely clever, I might think that you were the murderer,
intent on Rhiyana's destruction."
  "And on the destruction of my lady, of my
sister, and of my newborn children."
  "Concealment merely, to lend verisimilitude to the
deception." Alf laughed, startling him. "Oh,
clever indeed. Your Eminence! But all your
speculations shatter on a single rock. You do not
know my lady Althea. She could never
vanish even in seeming, and leave me to effect a
knightly rescue."
  "Nor," said the Cardinal, "would you do vile and
secret murder." With a sudden movement Alf rose
and flung his plaited cord into the fire's heart.
"Your false Cistercians knew nothing. Not one
thing. They were blank, innocent, scoured clean. And
yet, when Alun died, I knew the power had used
them as its focus. Listened, spied, and chosen its
target, and struck with deadly force. Leaving its
instru ments as it had found them, mere frightened men,
taught to hate what they could not understand."
  "Were? Could? Are they dead?"
  "No," Alf said. "We sent them away where they
can do no more harm." "You will pardon me if I ask
you where."
  "You will pardon me if I do not tell you. They were
used and discarded. So too might you be; and what you do
not know, you cannot betray."
  80 Judith Tarr
  Pride stiffened the Cardinal's back. "No one
would dare-was "That one has dared to murder a royal
prince."
  "A witch and the son of a witch,"
  Alf bowed with graceful irony.
"Well and swiftly coun tered, Eminence. Yet
if the enemy is of our blood as I fear he must
be, then he is certainly mad, a madness that
cries death on all witches yet despises your
kind as mere and mortal beasts. As easily as he
would destroy me, he would use your eyes and your
brain, nor ever ask your leave." Tbrrino sat
erect and haughty. But horror darkened his mind.
Used, wielded like a club, dropped when the moment
passed- Hands gripped him, bracing him, as the
clear eyes met his and the clear voice shored him
up. "We will do battle as we can, and not only for
ourselves. Believe that. Lord Cardinal. We are not of
mortal kind; we are true and potent witches; but
we do not traffic with Hell. No man or woman
or child in this kingdom shall suffer for what we are."
Tbrrino looked at him with great and growing sadness.
"By your own mouth are you betrayed." He shifted;
Alf let him go. He stood. "When I was sent
here, I had hoped that the tales would be false or
unduly exaggerated, or that you would conceal what must be
concealed for the sake of the peace. But you have been
truthful; you have let me see what you are. You have
left me no choice."
  "Have I?"
  This was the Chancellor's place, his squire at the
door, barring it, hands on the hilt of the sheathed
greatsword. Torrino looked up into Alfs face.
"You do have a path or two of escape. All your
folk may give themselves into our hands to be judged
without harm to the human people of the kingdom; or you may
take flight."
  "And if we stand and fight?"
  "Interdict. With, inevitably, the loosing of the
Crusade." Alf nodded once. "I understand. You
must be bound by the Canons and by His Holiness'
command. Poverty,
  the hounds OF god 81
  cha/y, those fade and are lost. But obedience
holds fast still." "What God commands, man must
perform."
  "God!" Alts voice cracked with sudden
bitter anger. "You obey the Pope, who obeys the
whisperings of fools, men twisted with hate and with lust
for power. There is no God in any of it-unless, as
with Job, He has left His Enemy to work His will."
  "You are not evil," Torrino said steadily, "but
law- Scripture- It may well be that the evil
lies not in you but in what you are and in what you do to us.
The wolf in him self is an innocent
creature, faithful to his nature, which is to hunt
and to kill. Yet when he kills the sheep, so in
turn must he die, lest all the sheep be lost."
The anger was gone, leaving Alf cold and quiet.
"How are Rhiyana's sheep lost? They are all
faithful children of the Church. They confess their sins; they
hear Mass; they are born and they marry and they die
as Christians should. What harm has it done their
souls that their King is the Elvenking?"
  "They suffer a witch to live."
  "They also eat of unclean beasts, travel on the
Sabbath, and forgo the rite of circumcision. Are
we all then to go back to that old and vanished Law?"
Alf laughed without mirth. "But my back
remembers-some laws are more convenient than others.
I was to be burned once, until a certain bishop
recalled that I had a king's favor. So I was
suffered to live, though not with a whole skin."
  Tbrrino struggled to breathe quietly, to be
calm. This- man-had endured much. He must endure
more, because he was what he was. And there was no way .
..
  "If you could swear," the Legate said, "if you
could lay down all your magic arts to remove yourselves
utterly from humanity, to live apart and in
penitence, I would let you live. With no
Interdict; no Crusade."
  Alfs smile was gentle, and as terrible in its
way as the fire in his eyes. "You have a wise and
compassionate spirit. 82 Judith Tarr
  Unfortunately . . . We do intend to withdraw.
Utterly, as you say; finally. Men are no better
for our peace than we are for theirs. But our power, our
pride, those we will not forsake. Our King will not depart
a penitent with ashes in his hair, atoning for what
to him is no sin." "Not even for his kingdom's
sake?" "That," said Alf, "is why we will fight."
"As must we. The Church will not be mocked." "She
too is proud. We are all proud;
intransigent." Alf closed his eyes for a moment.
"Your pardon, Eminence. My wisdom is all
scattered; I have neither the will nor the wit to treat with
you as your office demands. If this can be settled at
all, perhaps . . . You will not immediately pronounce your
sentence?"
  "I must follow the proper procedure," the
Legate answered. "I will not delay it, but neither will
I hasten it."
  Alt nodded. "We can ask no more. Only, for
my King's sake I beg you, allow his
son a Christian burial." "Can 1 prevent
it?" Torrino asked. Their eyes met. Alf bowed
slightly. "For that, Emi nence, my thanks." There
was, thought Tbrrino, very little else that he could be
thanked for. He bowed with respect, with regret, and
turned. The door was open, the squire gone. With
back stiff and head up, he took his leave. 10
  Prince Alun lay in state before the high altar
of Saint Brendan's Cathedral. The light of many
candles caught the broidered silver of his pall,
winked in the jewels of his coronet, turned his
hair to fire-gold.
  Jehan's eyes blurred. He blinked
irritably. There had been tears enough here, a whole
kingdom's worth. He needed to see. A boy
asleep. Not handsome, not sturdy; always too pale,
blue-white now, the bones standing stark beneath the thin
skin. With his quicksilver stilled he was haughty
indeed, his nose like his father's, arched high; his lips
thin and finely molded, closed upon the greatest of all
secrets.
  Slowly Jehan crossed himself and knelt by the
bier. The air was full of chanting, the slow deep
voices of monks, ceaseless as the sea. He let
them shape his prayer for him.
  By day and by night Rhiyana's people kept vigil
over their prince. Women veiled in black, men in
dark hoods, had come to look, to pray, to weep or
to turn quickly away. Fewer came as the night
advanced; of those few, some took

  84 Judith Tarr
  refuge in side chapels, praying as Jehan
prayed, silently, while the monks sang.
  Perhaps he drowsed, arms folded on the bier's
side, head bowed upon them. Stiffly he straightened
his neck.
  Others had come in silence to stand about him, a
circle of hooded shadows, tall and black and
shapeless on the light's edge. The chanting had
paused. The only sound was his own breath, loud and
quick.
  One by one the hoods slipped back. Alf was a
sudden luminous pallor across the bier; Prince
Aidan came to kneel at his side as
Nikephoros knelt at Jehan's. And at
Alun's feet stood the King; at his head the
Queen.
  The monks' voices rolled forth anew.
  "Dirige, Domine, in conspectu tuo
viam meam. Introibo in domum tuam: adorabo
ad templum sanctum tuum in timore tuo.
Domine, deduc me in iustitia tua;
  propter inimiws meos dirige in conspectu
tuo viam meam. ..."
  ""Because of mine enemies . . ."" Alf
spoke softly yet very clearly. "They are many, and
they are one alone who can slay with power." "Perhaps he
did not mean to kill," murmured the Queen.
Aidan's eyes flashed green. "Ah, no; he
meant only to taunt us, to set all our power at
naught, to escape unscathed and unconquered. Who
but a fool would venture so little when there was so much more
to gain?" "Whatever his intent," Alf said, "this he
did. From Rome, all at once, with deadly
ease. I'm proud enough, cousins, but I tell you
freely, I'm afraid."
  "So are we all." Maura's hand rested on
Alun's check, lightly, tenderly. But her eyes
on Alf were level. "God alone knows when he will
strike again, or where, or how."
  "We're ready for him now," Aidan said. "He
struck once through all our ramparts, all unlocked
for. But never again."
  the hounds OF god 85
  "Can we be sure of that?" Alf sounded ineffably
weary. "I've met our enemy. Only from afar and
only for a brief moment, but I tell you, strong as
you all insist that I am, trained and honed in my
power, he is as much stronger than I as the sun is
stronger than the moon. All the careful weavings of
our magic are to him as spider threads, to be
snapped at his pleasure."
  He hates us, Nikki said. still felt that when I
found him. Abomination, he called us.
  Aidan shook his head, sharp with impatience.
"One stroke and you've let him conquer you. He may
be the greatest of all mages, or even Prince
Lucifer himself, but he is one, alone. There are a
full score of us. Surely we can band together against
him."
  "How and when," Alf asked, "and for how long? A
score is a very small number when half of them are
untrained or relatively weak, and one of the very
strongest lost already to that same enemy."
  And if we-you-band together as you say, what happens
to Rhiyana? It needs our bodies now,
preferably in armor, and as much of our minds as we
can spare.
  The prince leaped up and began to prowl,
oblivious to the altar and the holy things save as
obstacles to his passing. They all watched with a
measure of indulgence. He was as changeful as the
fire he was named for, volatile always, in small
calamities as in great ones. Maura even
smiled, as if she took comfort in his restlessness. He
halted in a swirl of cloak. "As to Rhiyana,
some of the Folk are useless in physical combat:
most of the women; Akiva the scholar; our handsome
jongleur. But of these, many are strong in power. Let
them wall themselves in Broceliande. The rest of us,
who fight as well with the body as with the mind, can stand
to Rhiyana's defense." His white teeth bared in
a grin. "We'll see how a rabble of
hedge-knights and hired soldiers will contend with my
lady of the Hashishayun."
  "Not to mention the Flame-bearer himself." Maura's
smile died. "I know how we intend to face the
threat of the
  86 Judith Tarr
  Church and its Crusade; that was settled long
ago. But this new danger may be worse than either.
Our armies can drive back invaders; our clergy
can treat with the Pope's embassy. How must we
face the sorcerer? His body lies in
Rome, long leagues away. His power can strike us
down one by one. In the end, if we are gone, can all
Rhiyana's priests and men-at-arms stand fast?"
"Not under Interdict." Alf bowed his head under all
their stares, and raised it again almost defiantly.
"Why do you stretch your eyes at me? Of course the
Church will use that most persuasive of its weapons.
No Mass, no sacra ments. No offices of the
Church anywhere while the Pope sustains his ban."
  "Without us," Aidan said with a touch of bitterness,
"there would be no such ban."
  "There might," murmured the Queen, "if
rebellion persisted-for pride, for honor.
Remember, brother. Al ways remember
Languedoc." "So," the Prince said, "the sorcerer
threatens us all- then let us do battle with him. Go
to Rome, challenge him, cast him down. Then we can
get to the work of defending our kingdom."
  "It's a month's ride to Rome," Jehan
muttered. Aidan laughed like a whip-crack. "For
us, dear Bishop, a moment's journey at the speed
of a thought."
  That supposes you can find him instantly. Nikki
Hushed a little under the Prince's glare, his own quick
temper rising to march it. He scorns us;
he let me see the shape of his city. But not
precisely where he was, and he doesn't mean us
to find out. And Rome is a big and complicated
place.
  "I could find him," Aidan said.
  Could you destroy him?
  "Peace," the King said. Only that, but in each the
lightnings retreated; Jehan's hackles
settled, caught in the middle as he was, with fire
on either side.
  They looked at Gwydion. Almost they had
forgotten his presence as he had seemed oblivious
to theirs, walled in his private grief. His face was
waxen pale, yet his eyes were
  the hounds OF god 87
  clear and quiet. They rested on each in turn,
and lifted to the altar, to the golden glitter of its
cross. "Those of the Folk who cannot wield a sword
will go to Broceliande. The rest remain here in the world
as we had decided, some to ride with the army to the
Marches, some to guard Caer Gwent under the
Queen's regency." No one spoke, to approve
or to protest. With startling suddenness his glance seized
Alf. "You go to Rome, you and Nikephoros. I
charge you to find your lady and your sister and
your children; to track our enemy to his lair and to dispose
of him however you see fit; and finally to confront His
Holiness the Pope. He let this war begin. Let
him treat with us directly, with no intermediaries, and
let him make an end." "But," Alf said in the
stunned silence, "you need me here. My power, my
sword-was
  The King's gaze was compassionate although his words were
as harsh as stone. "You are of no use to us as you are.
Your sword is skilled enough, to be sure, your
power likewise. A human might almost be deceived.
  "But you are not what you were. Your temper is
uncertain; you struggle to keep your mind clear and your
body strong. You are perilously close to breaking."
  Alf shook his head, mute.
  Gwydion's eyes bound him. "Behind your
shields, half your mind is torn away.
Struggling, enduring, but bleeding to death slowly and
surely. I command you to seek the only possible
healing. Find Althea and the children she bore you. Avenge
them and your sister and my son. And speak for
Rhiyana before the Chair of Peter."
  Or die in the trying. That was in all their minds,
clear as a shout. Slowly Alf shrank, drawing
together, covering his face with his hands. Jehan
noticed as if for the first time how thin those hands were,
thinned to the bone. He was terribly, frighteningly
fragile: he was beginning to break.
  Aidan's every muscle was taut with protest.
Maura was white and silent. Nikki alone seemed
glad. He had been chosen; he could go, he could
act, he could conquer or die.
  88 Judith Tan- He was very and truly young, as
not one of the others could be.
  Alf straightened. His hands lowered; his head came
up. He seemed perceptibly to gain in breadth and
strength--a wonder, a marvel. He met the King's
stare directly and smiled, bright and splendidly
fierce. "Yes," he said in a strong sure
voice. "Yes, Gwydion. In Rome it began,
and in Rome it will end. Alun will have his
blood-price, I my kin. That I promise you,
by my Lord and all His hallows."
  Jehan wanted to hit him. "I know you have to go.
I know you'll be in constant and arcane danger. I
know you'll probably get killed! And I'm.
Going. With you."
  Alfs burst of strength had passed. He lay
on Nikki's bed; Nikki lay beside him, face
to the wall, ears and mind closed, deeply
and blissfully asleep. He himself would have sought the
same blessed oblivion but for Jehan's persistence.
"Jehan," he said with weariness that came close
to desperation, "I love you dearly. You've been a
brother to me; a son. I know you'd happily go
to your death for me, as would I for you. B. This is no
errand for any mortal man, let alone an anointed
bishop. Even if you manage to escape with your
body and your sanity intact, what will become of your
life? You'll be worse than discredited. You'll be
unfrocked; excommunicated. In a word,
destroyed."
  Jehan's jaw set. "I won't be a drag
on you. I know Rome. I lived there off and on for a
good twenty years, remember? I know people, places
--" "We can't use them." Alf sat up and
caught Jehan's wrists. His fingers were
fever-hot. "We have to find the enemy first and in
complete secrecy, or he can simply reach out and
shatter us. If we have you with us, well known as you are
in the city and the Curia,. and without power besides, we'll
be doubly pressed to defend our concealment." "And
what's more invisible in the Eternal City than a
Jeromite monk with a pair of pilgrims in tow?"
  the hounds OF god 89
  "Anything at all, when that monk is the very large,
very famous, and very distinguished young Bishop ofSarum."
  "My size," growled Jehan, "I can't
help. But in a well- worn habit, with a
well-worn beard-was
  AlFs glance was eloquent. Jehan grimaced.
"Well. I've got almost a day's start. With a little
help from you ..."
  With great reluctance Alf laughed. "You ask me
to bebristle your chin when I can't even manage a
beginning on my own?" Jehan's wrists were still
imprisoned, else he would have given Alt a good
shaking. "You could if you would, and you know it. Stop your
nonsense now and think. Who will look after you when
you're in one of your trances?"
  "Nikki-was
  "Nikephoros is a charming boy, an
excellent squire, and a passable scholar. But can
he stand in the market and haggle over the price of a
turnip?"
  "He would never need to-was
  Jehan snorted. "Maybe he wouldn't. Those
eyes of his are lethal to anything female. But he
can't talk, and very likely he'll be in a trance
himself. You need someone without power, to keep
your bodies together while your souls do battle."
  "Y." Alt released him and sighed. "We're
all going to regret this." A grin welled to the
surface. Jehan throttled it. "We never have
before."
  "Thanks to God and Dame Fortune."
  "So we'll say our prayers and do our best
to keep our balance on the Wheel. When do we
leave?"
  Alf shook his head and smiled. "Patience,
patience, my lord Bishop. When Alun is in his
tomb and I have settled my affairs, then we go."
"Two days," Jehan mused. "Three at most.
Good. I'll be ready. And Heaven help you if you
try to leave without me!" caret Afel caret eSo
caret caret you caret caret caret sli caret go
caret becaret caret "caret caret caret A
caret caret caret caret caret like caret
  . . uS82ar caret be%caret to ('Q caret
bebar c@fc bar caret caret
  The light came back slowly. Infinitely
slowly. Its focus was dim, more suggestion than
shape: vaulted arch, loop of chain, clustered shadow
outlined in Hamelight. A lamp-- lamps, set
in a wheel of iron. But only one was
lit, the one directly overhead. Anna blinked.
She did not know that lamp. There was nothing like it in
any room she could have been sleeping in. But then she
seldom woke with hurts in so many places, with a
throbbing in her head to match the throbbing in her hands.
  She raised one. It was stiff, swathed, bandaged.
The sleeve was indubitably her own, the tightness of
her white linen camise, the embroidered edging of her
third-best cotte, gold on russet. Her hand
fell again to a clean rough sheet, a blanket she
did not recognize, heavy and well woven though not
rich. There was a pallet under her, a bare floor,
a wall beside her of smooth pale stone. Four
walls, a heavy door--she did not know any of it.

  the hounds OF god 91
  Something stirred against her foot. She recoiled,
knot ting against the angle of the wall.
  It was only a hound. A white alaunt with ears
more red than brown, crouched at the foot of the pallet
as Anna crouched at its head. A heavy collar
circled its neck, with a chain welded to it and welded
again to a ring in the wall. Even had the beast tried, it
could not have reached Anna;
  the chain was too short.
  Anna's heart slowed its pounding. She was not
afraid of a hound. This one was very beautiful. It-she.
A bitch, her teats swollen with milk, her belly
distended as if she were newly delivered of pups.
Beneath the sheltering body something moved, a tail, the
pink tip of a nose. Two half- blind half-formless
creatures, seeking each the sustenance of a nipple.
One was male, red-eared like its dam. The other,
female, was all silver-white. Or, no; pale,
pale gold. The exact color of- Anna
snapped from her crouch. Bright witch-eyes gleamed
strangely in the beast-faces, Thea's, Cynan's,
Liahan's; Thea's temper snarled in the collared
throat. Those fangs were deadly sharp; Anna's
fingers remembered beneath the bandages.
  Yet she dropped to her knees well within striking
range and gripped the collar. It was massive,
all iron, and welded shut; though not precisely
choking-tight, it gave not an inch to Anna's tugging.
Her fingers found evidence of Thea's own futile
efforts, fur worn and roughened, the beginnings of a
gall.
  Anna could not breathe properly. She found herself
at the door, beating on it, gaining no response.
It was bolted as solidly as a castle
gate; the grille above the level of her eyes
looked out upon darkness. For a long moment she
dangled, clinging to the bars, biting back a howl.
Then she dropped and turned. Thea had not moved.
Her eyes held a glint of mockery. Anna
faced her again. "This is a joke," she said. "The
Folk are playing pranks again. Morgiana-the
things an Assassin will laugh at, even a tame
Assassin-was
  Thea's muzzle wrinkled. Anger, scorn, or
both. "It is a joke," Anna persisted. "It
can't be what it seems to be. We were in the tower, and
Alun was falling hopelessly in love with his own
prophecy, and-was A stab of pain brought her up
short. This time Thea had not broken flesh, only
nipped it scathingly. Anna hit her. Tried to.
One could not hit air and fire. Even air and fire
in an iron collar, with ears pressed flat and
fangs bared. Very slowly Anna sank down,
huddling into her skirts. She was cold, and not only
with the damp chill of stone untapestried and
uncarpeted, with neither hearth nor fire to warm her.
Anger was no help. She had been in the White
Keep, warm and glad, and now she was elsewhere. And
Thea-Thea was a shape-changer, that was her
nature, the white gazehound her most beloved
disguise; but not collared and chained and in visible
discomfort, perhaps even in pain, her children transformed as
was she, not after she had labored so long against her very
nature to bear them in their proper forms.
  "Thea," Anna said as steadily as she could,
"Thea, if this isn't a joke or a game, you had
better put an end to it. Your babies are too young
yet for shape-shifting."
  If Thea's eyes had blazed before, now they
blinded; her snarl had risen to a roar. Anna
caught her before she could lunge-stupid, stupid; but
her hands were tightly bound, protected. At length
Thea quieted. She crouched panting, trem bling,
her short fur bristling. Shakily Anna smoothed
it. "You can't," she translated. She felt weak
and dizzy. The Kindred were powerful, invincible.
Nothing could bind them, nothing compel them. Not
prayers, not cold iron, not any mortal
prison. There was nofAingthey could not do. Thea made a
small bitter sound, half whine, half growl.
"But what? Who? Why?"
  Thea could not answer. She could not even set her
voice the hounds of god 93
  in Anna's mind; and that was worse than
all the rest of it together. Anna had never been a very
womanly woman. In extremity, she did not
weep or storm or otherwise conduct herself as befit
her sex. No; she became very still, and she thought.
Brooded, some might say, except that she did not
let revenge overwhelm her reason. She returned
to the relative comfort of the pallet, spread the
blanket over herself and her companions, and
concentrated upon staying warm, still, and sane. It was
cruelly hard. She kept seeing Alun falling and
Thea changing, melting and dwindling into a maddened beast.
Then darkness, and this. Whatever this might be.
  At first she thought she had imagined it. A
glimmer. A humming. A tensing of the air.
  She had no weapon, not even the little knife she
used for trimming pens. Thea's head was up, ears
pricked, a silent growl stirring her throat.
  Shadows shifted and took substance. Anna stared.
They remained: a bowl, two jars, a plate. The
bowl held meat, blood-raw; the plate a hard
gray loaf and a lump of cheese, an onion and a
handful of olives. One jar sloshed with liquid; the
other was empty, but in shape and size eloquent
enough.
  Anna's body knotted from throat
to thigh. She had not known she could have so many needs all
at once, amid such a nightmare. The air, having
yielded up its burdens, was still. Anna fought
to quell her thudding heart. "What is this? Who
plays these games with us?" Silence. "Where are we?
Who are you who taunt us with your power?"
  Nothing changed. No voice responded. No
figure appeared before her. She had been speaking
Rhiyanan; she shifted to the landed'oeil. Nothing.
"Who?" she demanded in Provencal, in Saxon, in
Latin, and last of all, with fading hope, in
Greek.
  The closed door mocked her despair. She
leaped toward the grille and clung. Without lay
only darkness, and
  94 Judith Tarr
  silence, and empty air. "Damn you!" Anna
screamed at it, still in her own native Greek.
"Who are you?"
  She could as easily have shouted at the stones, or
at Thea, who at least would acknowledge that she
spoke.
  Her hands cried pain; she undamped them,
dropping the handspan to the floor. There was wine in the
smaller jar, sour and much watered but
drinkable. She gulped down a mouthful, two,
three, before she choked. Thea wavered in front of
her. She had a terrible head for wine; she was dizzy
already. She blinked hard. The hound was on her feet,
and the wavering was not entirely in Anna's vision.
Anna picked up the bowl. It was surprisingly good
meat. She set it where Thea could reach it.
  The witch-hound sniffed it, shuddered, turned her
head away. "You have to eat," Anna said.
  Thea's eye was as yellow as a cat's, pupiled
like a cat's, more alien even in that face than in her
own.
  "Eat," Anna commanded her. "You were never so
fastidious before, when you didn't need your strength
except to play. Eat!" Thea did not precisely
obey. Rather, she chose to taste the offering. Anna had
less restraint. She had to struggle not to bolt it
all down at once. Like the wine, like the meat, the
food was inelegant but adequate, far better than
any prison fare she had ever heard of. And it
gave her strength; it brought her to her senses, and
woke her to a quiver of hope. Whatever was to become
of them all, certainly they would not starve.
  Having eaten and drunk and put the chamberpot
to good use, Anna lay on the pallet.
Thea had finished the bowl after all and licked it
until it gleamed dully; she returned to her
whimpering offspring and began to wash them and herself. And
that, reflected Anna, was a tremendous
advantage; she might be condemned to speechlessness,
but she would be clean.
  the hounds OF god 95
  She could also sleep, abmptly and thoroughly, as
Anna could not. Anna stroked her flank, and after a
pause, the small bodies nestled against it. They were
warm and soft and supple, a little damp still from their
cleansing, breathing gently. Very carefully Anna
lifted one, the silver- gilt creature who was
Liahan, cradling her. She fit easily into two
joined hands, who in other shape had made an ample
armful. Anna swallowed hard. The small things were
always the worst to bear. "We'll get out of here," she
whispered into the twitching ear. "Somehow. We'll get
out. I promise you."

  Prior Giacomo was in no very good mood. Never
mind that the day was glorious, bright as a new coin and
touched with a fragile, fugitive, springlike
warmth. Never mind that he was free to enjoy it within
certain easy limits: the Abbot's
dispensation to walk abroad, good company in young
Brother O.one, and an errand smoothly and swiftly
completed, the collection of an annual and strictly
symbolic rent from a house of minor princes.
Crumbling old Rome looked almost fresh although its
green was winter-muted; the Tiber's reek was only
a twitch in the nostrils; the pilgrims were crowding
thickly and some were singing, one or two even on key:
  "0 Roma nobilis, orbis et domina,
cunctarum urbium excellentissima. ..."
  Prior Giacomo snarled and hid his head in his
cowl. Insult to injury--Brother O.one raised his
own voice in an echo as willing as its pitch was
uncertain.

  the hounds OF god 97
  "dis . . Roseo martyrum sanguine rubea,
albis et virgtnum lHiis Candida--"
  "One would think," Giacomo said acidly, "that
after seven years in a monastery, even a cat would
learn to sing on key."
  O.one shut his mouth in mid-note and wilted
visibly. But nothing could quell Brother O.one for
long. After a judicious moment he said, "Brother
Prior, you really shouldn't take it so
hard."
  'Giacomo's scowl, with the brows black and
beetling over a nose as nobly Roman as his
pedigree, would have put the Abbot himself to flight.
O.one met it bravely and with the best will in the world. His
Prior was sorely tempted to strike him.
  But Giacomo had learned discipline. Not
easily, but by now quite thoroughly. He restricted
himself to a growl and a slight speeding of his pace.
No, he should not take it so hard. It was not as if the
world had ended or the barbarians invaded, or his
family lost the last of its sadly eroded
property. So his sister had taken the veil. He
should be rejoicing that another of his blood had found a
vocation-- and his favorite sister besides, his pet,
pretty Fioretta. The veil he could have faced,
if she had not gone mad with it. He would have seen her
into any convent in Rome and made certain that she was
well treated there. He could even have bome her
departing elsewhere, if any Continelli would dream of
forsaking her city, if only she was content.
  But this. Not for Fioretta Saint Benedict's
learned nuns or Saint Anastasia's holy
nurses or the cloistered solitude of Saint
Anthony. No; nothing so simple or so
reassuring. Fioretta had gone with the new
madwomen, Clara and her barefoot sisters, camp
followers of the Friars Minor. Her veil was a
rag and her feet unshod, and when she was not begging on
the highroad she was ministering to those who 98 Judith
Tarr
  were. And she was not content at all. She was
gauntly, luminously, maniacally happy.
  "Plague take the girl!" he burst out. "Why
couldn't she have settled on something less drastic?"
  "But if she had," said O.one with sweet reason,
"she wouldn't be your sister."
  Giacomo had stalked forward another half-dozen
strides before the barb sank in. O.one's face was
all innocence; his eyes were guileless.
  His Prior stopped short. The crowd of
passersby eddied and swirled. Already O.one was almost
swallowed in it, a weedy brown-cowled figure, a
sallow circle of tonsure. With a bark of sudden
laughter, Giacomo pushed in his wake.
  Giacomo, though not tall, was solid, a
respectable weight even against a market-day mob.
O.one had neither height nor girth, and no muscle
at all. Once the current caught him, it swept
him along like flotsam. Giacomo
snatched once, caught the wrong hood, stared
into startled eyes. Female eyes-and male ones beside
them, promising murder. It took him some little time
to extricate himself; when he looked again, O.one was
gone. Half a dozen tonsures bobbed within reach,
and half of those above Jeromite habits, but none was
Brother O.one. Who, besides his body's frailty,
had been known to faint for no reason at all, once
even in the street. But that street had not been so
busy or so full of jostling humanity. Nor had
it been so far from his monastery; and he had a fine
mind and the hand of an artist, but no head at all for
directions.
  There was nothing for it but to go forward as O.one must have
gone, and strain eyes and neck in searching for him.
Pilgrims, monks, matrons, pilgrims,
idlers and marketers and beggars, servants,
pilgrims. No O.one. A princeling and his
bravos; a lady in a litter; a cardinal in
state. Of O.one, not a sign. And all Rome
to be lost in the hounds of god 99
  and a piazza before the seeker, with great ways and
small radiating from it like the spokes of a wheel.
  The people were not so crowded here. The street had confined
them; they had space now to scatter.
Pilgrims clustered round the statue on one edge,
an image out of old Rome: Dionysus in his
robe of fawnskin, crowned with vine leaves, with a
leopard fawning at his feet. Guides always
swore that it was a saint in the arena, taming the beast that
would have slain him. One was swearing it now, loudly, in
bad Norman. Giacomo could understand enough to be sure
of that. No O.one here. These were all hulking
towheaded northerners, with a scatter of stragglers on
their fringes, hawkers of relics and tokens,
beggars, the odd pilgrim. Giacomo skirted
them, mounting above them, for they overflowed the space about
the image and poured up the steps of the little church
called, of course. Saint Bacchus. From the top
he might be able to see his way.
  Intent, peering over heads, he collided with an
unex pected obstacle. It grunted and said in a
familiar tuneless voice, "Prior Giacomo,
look. Just look!"
  Giacomo seized him as if to shake him, half
for relief, half for white rage. All his
anxiety, all his desperation, and O.one was not even
surprised to be found again. He could only gape at
an old statue like half a thousand other statues in
this city of marble and memories, beautiful
maybe, but a beauty grown lusterless with surfeit.
His narrow face was rapt; his sallow cheeks were
flushed. He looked feverish. "Sweet saints,"
he breathed. "I have to paint that face." Giacomo
sighed gustily. "So paint it. Or any one of its
thousand twins."
  That managed to startle O.one, but not enough to free his
eyes from their bondage. "Twins? Brother
Prior, there can be none like it in the world. Only
look at it." O.one caught Giacomo's arm with
amazing force and turned him bodily. "Look!"
  100 Judith Tarr
  There was Saint Bacchus with his ringlets tumbling
down his marble back, no face to be seen. There was the
leopard with its fanged grin. There were the pilgrims,
row on row. Not all after all were Norman. One
stood among them like a child in a field of tall
corn, his black curly head bare to the sun, his
black eyes sparkling with mockery as the guide
rambled on. His face was dark and young and wild, a
deal more handsome than not, and as utterly un- Norman
as any face could be. Levantine, Giacomo would
have said, or Greek. O.one shook his Prior
lightly. "Do you See him now? Have you ever seen his
like?" And losing patience at last, he
pointed. "By all the angels, Brother Prior,
are you blind?"
  His finger pointed directly to the right of the dark
boy, to one of the tall figures that hemmed him in.
That one, Giacomo saw, stood slightly apart,
an inch perhaps, or a world's width. From the steps he
seemed to stand almost face to face with the statue, a
pilgrim clothed like any other, hat and hood,
gown, cloak and scrip and staff. But the face he
lifted as if to exchange stares with the marble god ...
Giacomo swallowed. No one should have a face like
that. White like marble, but living, breathing, tilting over
the boy's head toward one of the brawnier Normans,
smiling a very little and murmuring something far too faint
to be heard.
  "I have to paint him," O.one said. "For my
archangel." He stopped and sucked in his breath.
"Brother Prior! Could he-could he really be-was
"The age of miracles is over." As soon as he
had said it, Giacomo wished that he had not. Not that
he had wounded O.one-the lad was well past it-but that
he might after all have lied. O.one looked fair
to lose himself again, though this time at least he had a
visible destination. Giacomo got a grip on the
back of his cincture. He hardly seemed
to notice the weight he towed behind him. the hounds OF
god 101
  Yet once he had reached his quarry he hung
back. Shy, Giacomo thought, then saw his face.
It wore the same look as when he stood with brush
in hand and model before him, and page or panel
waiting for the first stroke.
  The guide had ended his tale and gathered his
flock, herding them churchward, hangers-on and all.
Only three were not to be moved, the dark youth, the
big Norman with his rough sandy beard, and O.one's
archangel. The boy wandered up to the statue,
exploring its base with quick light fingers. The
Norman, who alone had no hat but only a
hood, let it fall back from a tonsured head and
said in excellent Latin, "Well, brothers, what
now?"
  Neither of his companions responded. The boy
ignored him utterly. The other turned his head from
side to side as if questing. His eyes were
enormous, colorless as water. He should have had a
bleached look, all white as he was; he should have
seemed browless and lashless, naked and unfinished. But
his brows were fine and distinct and set on a definite
tilt, just touched with gold; his lashes were
thick and long; and all his pallor had a sheen like
light caught in alabaster. Beside him the marble
Dionysus was a dull and lifeless thing. The
Norman sighed. "I for one," he said with
elaborate patience, "would like to know where my head will
rest tonight. And how we're going to occupy ourselves
until we get there."
  O.one had found his opening, a sending straight from
heaven. "Why, good pilgrims, if that's your
worry, I know just the place." The big man
looked down in startlement to the voice that chirped
by his elbow. He had a battered soldier's
face, but his eyes were blue as flax flowers. They
took in O.one from crown to toe and back again, not a
long journey at all. Surprise and suspicion
had turned his face to flint; now it softened and his
stare turned quizzical. "Do you. Brother? Where
may that be?"
  "Why," said O.one quickly, "in our own San
Girolamo.
  102 Judith Tarr
  We don't keep a regular hostel, but we have
a guesthouse, small but very comfortable, with its own
garden. And to a brother of our own Order and to his
companions, we can offer a warm
welcome." Giacomo gaped in astonishment. Shy
Brother O.one, diffident well-nigh to tears, not
only stood-up to a man thrice his size; he
offered lodgings on behalf of his whole monastery.
The Norman monk was interested, even a little
amused. "Is that San Gfrolamo near the
Palatine? The one with the lovely campanile?"
"Yes!" cried O.one, delighted. "Brother, you
must come, you and the others. Must they not. Brother
Prior?"
  Now at last he was mindful of his own low
rank-now all his sins were committed. Giacomo
made no effort to smooth his face, although he knew
he looked formidable. "Prior Giacomo," he
named himself with the formality of suspicion, "of San
Girolamo."
  "Brother Jehan," the foreigner responded, "from
Anglia." If Giacomo's manner daunted
him, he gave no sign of it. "For myself, I'd be
glad enough to take your Brother's offer, provided you
approve. My companions I can't speak for."
  Slowly the Strange one turned. His expression
was remote, even cold, but his gaze was clear enough.
As it flickered over Giacomo, the Prior
shivered. It seemed to have substance, a touch
like wind, both burning and cool. "I would be content,"
he said. His Latin was flawless, his voice as
uncanny as his face. "With the Prior's consent."
Giacomo's scowl deepened. O.one was quivering like
a pup before its master, uncertain whether he had
earned a reward or a whipping. The two tall men
waited, the boy coming between them, bright-eyed with
curiosity but offering no word.
  At last Giacomo spoke. "Of course I
consent. It's in the Rule. Hospitality to all
who come, out of Christ's charity. Our Abbot won't
argue with that."
  the hounds OF god 103
  O.one clapped his hands. "Come on then! We're
taking an easy way back; we're at liberty,
you see, and needn't hurry. Are you hungry?
Thirsty? Is there anything you'd like to see?" A grin
transformed Jehan's face, stripping away a
full score of years. "You choose. Brother.
We're even freer than you-at loose ends, for a
fact; we'll follow wherever you lead."
  And lead them O.one did with skill as amazing as
everything he had done since he came to Saint
Bacchus, chattering happily with the Norman monk,
barkened to with silent interest by the young
Greek, and quite undis mayed by his strange one's
abstraction. Giacomo trailed after the oddly
assorted company. After some little time he discovered that
he was matching his pace to that of the white stranger. The
others had drawn somewhat ahead up the remnant of
an old paved way, a road like a green tunnel
through one of Rome's many wildernesses. The sun was
shut out here; the awareness of humanity, of the city, was
dim and distant. Yet O.one was leading them through the
city itself, from the mighty fortress bulk of the
Colosseum toward the Palatine Hill and, past
that, San Girolamo in the hollow of the hill. This
was not true wasteland as Rome knew it, vast
expanses of open field and tangled copse and
malarial marsh strewn as thickly with ruins as a
battlefield with bones, but rather a garden gone wild.
Through the knotted canes peered a pale blurred
face, old god or old Roman set on guard
here and long forgotten. Within reach of the image,
Giacomo's companion slowed. He took off his
hat as if it irked him, and let his hood fall
back, shaking out a remarkable quantity of winter-
gold hair. The gesture struck something in
Giacomo, made him conscious that he had been
seeing no living man at all, but only
an ageless abstract beauty. The beauty had grown
no less, yet something, maybe the green
solitude, had thawed the ice; the marble angel had
become a man, and a
  104 Judith Tarr
  very young one at that, a princely youth who looked
about him with newborn awareness. His eyes had darkened
although they were light still, clear silvery gray, alive
and alert and very, very keen. They found the crumbling
statue, examined it, let it pass in favor of the
living face. Bright though they were, the terrible
brilliance was gone; they saw no more than any eyes
had a right to see. Giacomo began to bristle. He
was not a marble Roman, to be stared at for so long a
count of heartbeats down so elegant a length of
nose. Yet for all its pride, it was not an
arrogant Stare; it had a strange clarity, an
innocence that asked no pardon and never dreamed it
needed any.
  "Well, sir," said the Prior as the silence
stretched, "do you find my face ugly enough to be
fascinating?"
  The pilgrim lowered his eyes. "Your pardon.
Brother Prior. I meant no discourtesy."
  "I suppose I can forgive you. You're
a nobleman at home, aren't you?" He looked almost
dismayed. "Is it so obvious?" "Rather," Giacomo
said.
  "How strange," murmured the pilgrim. He
walked more slowly still, pondering. Giacomo might have
thought him mad, or slow in the wits; the former all but
certainly, if only instinct had not rebelled. There
was something eminently sane about this young man, although it was
not the sanity of the common run of mankind. It was in
fact very like O.one's. Brilliant, narrowly
focused, and generally pre occupied. His focus
shifted abruptly to Giacomo; just as abruptly
he said, "I'm called Alfred, or Alf if you
like. Like my friend, I come from Anglia."
  "So," said Giacomo, "O.one was almost right. Not
an angel after all, but an Angle."
  Alf smiled a little ruefully "I earned that,
didn't I?" And after a moment: "Your face is not
ugly at all, and yet I do find it fascinating."
  the hounds OF god 105
  "All Rome in a nose," Giacomo said,
half annoyed, half amused. "You wouldn't happen
to be an artist too, would you?" Alf shook his head
with a touch of regret. "I'm but a poor student of the
world and its faces. Sometimes, as you've
discovered, to the point of rudeness."
  "It's forgiven," Giacomo said.
  As they hastened to catch the others, now lost
to sight, he realized that all his ill humor had
evaporated. Nor could even O.one's tuneless
singing bring it back.
  "0 Roma nobilis, orbis et domina,
cunctarum urbium excellentissima. ..."
  There was only one reasonable defense. With a
better will than he had ever expected to have, he added
his own rich basso:
  "Roseo martyrum sanguine rubea, albis
et virginum liltis Candida. ..."
  New voices joined them, strong trained
Norman-accented baritone and sudden, piercingly
sweet tenor.
  "Salutem dicimus tibi per omnia, te
benedicimus--salve per saecula!"
  They made quite a passable choir, O.one
notwithstanding. Even as their singing faded into the clamor of
Rome and died, Giacomo discovered that he was
smiling.

  As prisons went, Anna supposed, this one was
quite luxurious. It was clean; if not warm,
it was certainly not too cold to bear, and she had the
blanket; the food was edible though somewhat
monotonous. Her hands were healing well; she had
taken off the bandages some little time since, reckoned
in visits of their unseen jailer. Food appeared
at regular intervals; the chamberpot was never
full, the lamp never empty. It was like a tale out
of Anna's eastern childhood, save that her
nurse had never told her how very frightening it was to be
waited on by unseen hands, watched over by a guard
whom she could not perceive. At first it nearly drove
her mad, not to know who watched, or where, or why. But
with time she calmed. Let him watch, whatever he
was, wizard or demon or renegade of the
Kindred. Let him know all she did, thought, said.
She had nothing to be ashamed of. She huddled at her
end of the pallet, or prowled the cell, or played
with the children. Pups she refused to call them, and she was
adamant. Yet pups they were. Rather dull at

  the hounds OF god 107
  first like all newborn creatures, all their beings
focused on food and sleep. But as time crawled
on, they grew and changed with the swiftness of beastkind.
Their eyes learned to see; they learned
to walk, an awkward big- bellied waddle that
transformed itself into a lolloping run. They found their
voices, and they discovered play in all its myriad
avatars. Only their eyes betrayed their kind,
cat- pupiled blue paling slowly to white-gold,
marked now and then with a sudden uncanny clarity.
  Thea, chained, was nurse and refuge, her temper
held at bay for their sakes. Anna was friend,
playmate, even teacher. For she talked to them. She
talked constantly, and the invisible one be damned. She
told them of their father and their kin and their inheritance of
power; of Rhiyana and Broceliande and the great world;
of magic and the Church, orthodoxy and heresy,
philosophy and theology and all the high learning her
imprisonment denied her.
  "Boredom," she would say while Liahan
dueled with a wickedly snarling Cynan for possession
of her lap. "That is the curse of the prisoner.
Stale air, stale light, unremitting
confinement-what are they to the mind that has work to do?
Nothing at all! But put it in a cell without book
or pen or parchment; without conversation, without games, with
nothing to do but count cracks in the stone, pull straws
out of the pallet, dispute with imaginary
philosophers, and invent progressively
less inventive fantasies; and directly it
rots away. If I didn't have you imps to chase
after, I believe I'd barter my soul for one
glimpse of a book. Or," she added with deep
feeling, "a bath." For that was worst of all, worse
even than the long bookless hours, to be so dismayingly
unkempt, cleaned sketchily and stickily with wine
and the edge of her camise, gaining nothing for her efforts
but a steadily more draggled hem. At least her
courses had not begun, which belied the eternity she
seemed to have been here; she refused to consider what would
happen when they did.
  She was still dreaming of rescues. All the Fair
Folk in a 108 Judith Tarr
  storm of fire. Father Jehan in white armor with a
cross on his breast. Alf walking calmly in and
bidding them be free. She shut her eyes tight, the
better to see his face. He was smiling. His body
gleamed softly as sometimes it did at night, as if
his skin had caught and held the moon. His eyes were
red like coals, like rubies, rimmed with silver
fire;
  about his head shone a white nimbus of power. She
sighed and shifted, and groaned a little. Her neck was
stiff. Unwillingly she opened her eyes.
  He was there. Living, breathing, shining pale, all
in white and gray silver, looking down. Her whole
being gathered to leap into his arms. Knotted.
Cramped. Recoiled.
  It was Alf. It was not. Tall, pale, yes.
Beautiful, ah yes, more beautiful than anyone had
a right to be and still be unmistakably a man. But not
Alf. The face was the merest shade broader. The
hair was merely gilt, with no glimmer of silver.
The eyes were a hard clear gray like flint. And on
the lean young cheek was a distinct shadow of beard.
  She tried to swallow. Her mouth was burning dry.
This not-Alf, this creature as like to him as a brother,
was Brother indeed, severely tonsured,
habited-impossibly, terribly-in gray over
white. A Pauline
  monk, looking not at her at all but at the hound
who lay silent at her feet. Thea was awake,
frozen, every hair erect. From beneath her burst her
son, hurtling upon the stranger with an infant roar.
The monk's eyes flickered. Anne's own
hackles rose as at the passing of lightning.
Cynan ran full into a wall no one could see,
tumbling end over end yet snarling still with
irrepressible fury. His mother's forefoot
pinned him; he struggled wildly beneath it. Thea's
voice rang in Anna's mind. Demon. Coward.
Judas. Bind me, beat me, compass me in the
mind of a hound-whatever betrayal you hunt for, you'll
never get it from me.
  He looked at her, a flat gray stare,
revealing nothing. From behind him came a second
Pauline monk. Quite an
  the hounds OF god 109
  ordinary monk beside that other, a heavy florid
man, unmistakably human. Yet, Anna saw
with bitter clarity, he was no fool. For all their
heavy-lidded languor, his eyes were sharp, gleaming with
amusement. "Spirit," he said in the langue d'oeil,
"is always to be admired, even in your kind. But spirit
can be broken."
  Or killed outright. Thea's quiet was deadly.
You have us, I grant you that, and it's no mean feat.
But for how long? "For as long as we please." The
monk folded his arms and smiled. "Do you care to test
us?"
  Although Thea's eyes burned, her silent voice
was cool. I'm not an utter idiot. Can I say
the same of you? It's clear enough what you holy Hounds
are up to, casting nets to trap witches
in, with your own tame witch to lay the bait. You
caught us in a moment of weakness. You'll catch no
more.
  "We caught three." The pale monk even
sounded like Alf, damn him: clear, light,
melodious. "We killed another. The world sings
to be free of him."
  Anna tasted blood. She had bitten her
tongue. She felt no pain, yet. Alun. Thea
mourned, but in wrath. You murdered him. "Executed
a witch," said the worldly cleric. Murder, Thea
repeated fiercely, her eyes fixed upon the other, the
fair one. He was your own kin!
  "He was an abomination," said that travesty of
AlFs voice, if not his accent at least; this was
strange yet familiar, a softening of the vowels, a
quickening of the words" flow. "A spawn of the Pit, a
child of-was
  Then so are you.
  His eyes focused and began to burn. "He was
foul. He stank to Heaven. I stretched out my hand;
I called on my God; He came and smote him
down."
  You killed him. You killed with power.
  His hand came up as if to strike. Thea
crouched over her children, snarling on a low and deadly
note. "God smote him," he repeated. "God
shall smite you also, who take refuge from righteousness in
the body of a beast."
  "Better that, perhaps, than a glittering travesty
of humankind." The worldly man did not sound as if
he believed it; rather as if it were an idea he toyed
with, testing its weight. He regarded the witch-hound
with a touch of regret and more than a touch of
satisfaction. "You are an attractive creature
as hound bitches go, although your eyes are more than a
little disconcerting. But that, Brother Simon tells
me, should change with time. The mind within that elegant
head is clear enough now, and quite witch enough, if held
most strongly in check. How long before the change
begins? Already I see it in your whelps, who have
forgotten that they ever wore any shape but this. Soon
you shall follow them. Your mind shall begin to darken, the
edges to blur, the higher thoughts to slow;
  the will turn toward the belly; the yellow
demon-eyes grow soft and brown and bestial,
matching at last the inner to the outer being. Witch no
longer, woman-fetch no more, but hound in truth, with
neither memory nor sorcery to free you. Or," he
said after a calculated moment, "your
offspring. Unless, as may well be, it is already
too late for them."
  The hound's head shook with an odd gracelessness,
human gesture fitted ill to inhuman body. But
Thea's eyes were still her own, and they were eloquent.
Never, they flared. Never!
  The monk smiled. "You may defy us as much as you
like. It changes nothing. Rage; threaten; taunt.
Watch your children fall ever deeper into the darkness of the
beast. But"-he leaned forward almost within reach of her
spring-"but. That need not be so. They can be free in their
proper forms, and you with them. Free and at peace."
Dead, Thea said.
  "Not dead. Alive and sane."
  At what price? Murder and mayhem? Mere
treason? "No price. Only acceptance of
God's will. Thus far we have been gentle; we have
simply confined you to the shape you yourself chose, giving you
ample time for
  the hounds OF god still
  reflection. Now you must decide. You may rise
a woman, or you may remain as now you are."
  And if I yield? What am I yielding to?
What happens to my children? "Ah," said the monk,
drawing it out. "Your children. You defend them very
bravely and, I gather, with somewhat more strength than
Brother Simon would have expected. In vain, in the
end. He has no desire to harm them, but so he will
do if you compel him."
  She stood over them, Cynan restrained but
uncowed, Liahan watching with eyes too wide and
too clear for either the infant she was or the pup she
seemed. Touch them, her mother said, even cast a thought
at them, and you will see exactly how strong I am.
"We will have them," Brother Simon said, light and
cool and dispassionate. "Satan's grip on them
is feeble yet. We will bring them to salvation."
  The other nodded with approval more fulsome than
flattering. "Salvation, yes. The light of the true
God. They will live and grow and be as strong as ever you
could wish. Nor need they be torn from you. While they
have need, they may remain with you, provided only that
we have your promise to teach them no black
sorceries. You will be nurse and mother as God has
made you. Others will have their teaching."
  You, said Thea. Simon. Simon Magus,
Simon-pure, Simon the simple. Don't you
think I can guess what you want with us? You have one
tame warlock. Here are two more, firm in your hand,
young enough to mold as you would have them, powerful enough
to make you lord of the world. After, of course, you've
disposed of this minor inconvenience. She grinned a
wide fanged grin. Not so minor after all, am I?
He can't get at my babies while I'm
determined to ward him off, and I'm not such an idiot
as to give way to your persuasion. It's an
impasse. "No," said Brother Simon. "I will
break you if you compel me." He moved swifter
than sieht. swifter even
  112 Judith Tarr
  than Thea's jaws, snatching up the still and staring
Liahan. He held her with gentle competence,
stroking her leaf-thin ears, evading her sudden snap
as easily as he had her mother's. "You can wall her
mind in all your defiance. But can you defend her
body? A chain confines you-was
  Thea leaped, twisted, dropped to a bristling
crouch. The chain hung limp. Her eyes flared
green; the collar dropped with an iron clang.
Her muscles knotted, tensing to spring.
  His calm voice went on with scarcely a
pause. "Attack and I strike. This neck is
delicate; how easy. to break it. And I am
swifter than you."
  Thea sank down, ears flat, eyes
slitted. Give me back my daughter. "Give
me your choice. Your children now and under your care, or
later and in despite of you."
  Anna could endure it no longer. "No!" she
cried. "There's no later. There's only now."
  They stared at her, both the brothers of Saint
Paul, as if she had burst upon them from the empty
air. Maybe to them she had. She was only human,
and they had three witches to burn. She was past
caring. She plunged on recklessly, relegat ing
the fat one to nonexistence, fixing the whole force of
her rage upon the other. "Simon Magus, Simon
traitor, even I can see the truth, lowly
mortal female that I am. You need these children, and you
need them now; and you can't get at them any more than you
can get at Rhiyana. And time's pressing. Any
moment the Pope could call off the Crusade, or the
Fair Folk could find a way to overcome you and
set us free." "God is with His Holiness. Your
fair demons, the dark king, the white one who may
be more than a king-was Simon's face stiffened; his
eyes narrowed. But he laughed, a light terrible
sound out of that face of ice and flint. "That one had his
own splendor of folly. I think I chastened him a
little. All his fire and wrath merely
pricked me. Have your mighty Kindred no more
to send?"
  the hounds OF god 113
  When Anna was afraid, she was also most angry.
"He scared you, didn't he? He wasn't
expecting to clash with real power; he didn't have all
his strength ready. You routed him, but it cost you.
Closed out of Rhiyana, with Thea holding you at
bay here-what's left but a round of pleas disguised
as threats?"
  "I am not held at bay." That was not anger,
certainly. It was more like amusement. Simon set
Liahan at her mother's feet, where she remained,
watching him. "Your kin, little one, have fled within their
walls. Wise creatures. So too would I, if
it were myself I faced," "You'd be gibbering under your bed
behind a barricade of blankets." "You are a
fierce little shrew," observed the florid monk.
Anna smiled sweetly; he returned the smile
with one fully as lethal. "You are of no account.
Flotsam merely, drawn up in the net. And things
of no account are swiftly cast away."
  Thea moved with suppleness more of the cat than of the
hound, setting herself between the monks and the woman. Touch
her, she said very gently, and though I have neither
power nor speed to match with yonder magus, I
assure you I am perfectly capable of tearing out
your fat throat.
  "Only," said the nameless monk, "if yonder
magus permits." She flowed toward him. Her
eyes held his, burning bright. She blurred.
He cried out sharply. She sat at her ease,
licking her lips. From one small prick, a
droplet of blood swelled and burst and broke,
runneling down the thick neck to vanish beneath the cowl.
You taste vile, she said to him.
  But Anna, and perhaps Thea herself, had misjudged
him. The color drained from his face, leaving it
utterly calm. Deep in Anna's mind, a
small separate self observed that he must have been
a strikingly handsome boy. The bones were fine under the
thickened flesh, the forehead broad and clear, the
profile cleanly carved still although it blurred into the
heavy jowled throat.
  "," Judith Tarr
  He looked down at Thea with no expression at
all; and that was less a mask than his joviality had
been. "You did not do as you threatened. I doubt very
much that you can."
  Thea could not be disconcerted. She settled
once more on guard, but easy in it, almost lounging with
her children close against her. To return to the point,
monk, I'm fair enough prey when all's considered,
and we have the matter of the young ones still to settle. My
sister is no part of this. You would do very well to let
her go. The monk smiled. "I think not, milady
witch."
  "Why?" demanded Anna. "Because you think I'm the
closest thing you'll find to a weakness in her?"
  Of course, Thea said, and he can't threaten you or
his own neck is in jeopardy. On the other hand, the
possibility's always there. One never discards even a
potential weapon unless one has to. She tilted
her head, considering him. Weapons, you know, can be
used by either side in a battle. Take care you
don't find yourself on the wrong end of this one.
  "I do not intend to." He examined her again,
deliberate ly, as if he could make her writhe.
She only arched her back and stretched like a cat.
His jaw clenched. "One way or another, we will have
it all: you, your cublings, Rhiyana itself. You may
choose the way of it, whether salvation for your children and a
swift and merciful end for your kind, or a long slow
deadly war fought with the mind as well as with the body.
Brother Simon is a mightier power than
any you can muster, and God is with him; he cannot but
conquer. With your aid he will do
  so quickly and cleanly. Without it, I can promise
only anguish. For you, for your kind, and for your children."
  So that's my choice. Swift death or slow
death. What's the difference, in the end?
  "Pain," said Brother Simon, sudden as a stone
speaking. All the more reason to give my people time to arm
against you. "They cannot. They cannot even find me. But I
find them with perfect ease. Shall I test my power
on them?"
  Thea was on her feet, but the nameless monk stood in
the hounds OF god 115
  her way. "Not yet, witch-lady. You still have a
choice to make. Swiftly now, before we make it for
you."
  She stood erect, at gaze, trembling just
visibly. It is made, said the voice in all their
minds, made thrice over. No, and no, and no.
Better death in this shape than slavery to the likes
of you. "We shall see," he said, "how long this
pretty show of defiance can last." He drew up his
cowl with a ceremonious gesture. "Examine well
your heart, milady witch. If heart indeed you
have."

  At first Thea seemed only glad to be free of
her chain. She whirled round the cell, mocking the
bolted door with every line of her body.
  Yet at length she quieted, dropping panting
to the floor beside the bed. She grinned at Anna, who
stared levelly back and said, "It's no good, is
it? You can't get us out."
  Not yet, Thea said, inspecting each child with care,
washing Liahan all over until the memory of
Simon's touch was scoured away. But he's
cocky. He's leaving me free enough
  inside this place, though every wall is also a wall
of power. He'll learn to regret that.
  "He could be listening to you now."
  7knovs he is. Thea leaped up again, as if
her long captivity in alien shape had left her
sated with stillness. She prowled the cell, coming to a
halt under the lamp cluster. Her eyes sparked. The
lamps burst into a blaze of sudden light. She
  stood beneath them, watching them, while Cynan
stalked her manifold shadow.
  The dislight died. Thea's eyes closed; she
seemed to 116 the hounds OF god 117
  dwindle, to shrink into herself. He's
strong, she said. She sank down slowly.
  There was a little water left. Anna wheedled it
into her. It seemed to strengthen her; she raised her
head, drawing a long breath. I'm not in the best of
condition for this.
  "Is anyone?"
  I plan to be. I won "tgive in to those
cursed Hounds, and I don't intend to die for it.
  "Maybe someone will come," Anna said.
  Thea rounded on her. Pray for it if it suits
you, but don't lie back and wait for it. We're
hidden completely. We're not even in Rhiyana.
Anna had guessed that much. But to hear it spoken
made it real, a knot of pain where her stomach should
be. "Then where-was Rome, Thea answered. Old
Rome itself, that's more than big enough to hide us even if
anyone can track us here. He knows it, that captor
of ours. He's very pleased viith his own cleverness.
"He's a horror. To call himself Simon after the
notorious wizard, the first heretic-was
  Or after the Prince of Apostles, for the matter of
that. No; he's not our captor, he's merely our
jailer. I meant the other. The mastermind in the
guise of a fat fool. Brother Paul as his mind
was trumpeting to me, loudly enough to make it
certain that that's not the name he was christened with. He's
the one to look to. He's the evil genius in this.
  "But he's only human."
  Thea laughed with a bitter edge. Poor Anna!
We've ruined you. All our visible power, our
disgustingly pretty faces, our stubborn refusal
to let time touch us; we've let you think we're
perfection, or as close to it as earth allows.
We've failed completely to teach you something much
truer. No one's only human, Anna. He
might be as ugly as Satan himself; he'It
certainly be dead in a hundred years; he hasn't
a glimmer of our magic. But he has something more
powerful than all the rest. He has a brain. A
thinking brain. Whether by chance or his own black
brilliance, he's caught one of us, trained him
to wwr comw caret was " 118 Judith Tarr
  with all too much success. You can be sure he's
not resting on it. Anna shook her head
obstinately. "The fat one might be giving the
orders, but the other is only letting him. If he
really has that much power--"
  He has more. Do you remember how Alf held
down the dance the night--Thea's mind-voice caught
for the merest shadow of an instant--the night the
babies were born? Do you remember how he was?
Ruler in the circle, master of enchanters--as
Brother Simon himself has said, greater than a king.
Now remember your worst and falsest image of
yourself. That's how much weaker Alf is than this
second Simon Magus.
  "Then how can anyone control him, let alone that
fat lecher of a monk?"
  still don't know, Thea said, but this Paul can. And
does. Now came Anna's time to pace with Cynan
for escort, and Thea's to watch in silence. Except
that Thea gave it up after a turn or two and turned
her attention upon Liahan. The little witch had not
moved since Simon set her down, not even
to protest her rough and thorough cleansing. Her eyes
were wide still, bright and fixed. And yet when Thea nosed
her, they blinked; her tail wagged very slightly in
recognition.
  Anna stopped, alarmed. "What has he done
to her? Has he hurt her?" Thea's response was
slow in coming. No, I don't think . . . he
wouldn't dare . . . Her lip wrinkled. He
wouldn't dare! Anna knelt beside them. Liahan
did not flinch or snap when Anna lifted her.
She felt as she always did, warm and
silken-furred, wriggling a little against Anna's
shoulder. "Her mind," Anna said. "Her wits.
Has he--"
  He can't, Thea snapped. Cynan, jealous,
scrabbled at Anna's knee; his mother caught him
by the scruff of the neck, roughly enough to startle him, and
all but drove him to nurse. Her head whipped
back toward Anna. I'm nothing to that tower of
strength, but I bore these children in my body. While
I have any power at all, he can't touch them. the
hounds OF god 119
  "The other one--Paul--he said--"
  I'm a long way yet from losing my mind.
Liahan-- Thea tossed her head, a very human
gesture, yet also very canine. still can't touch her
mind. It's walled and guarded. But there's no stench
of Simon Magus about it; and yet she's too young.
She can't know how to shield. Not like that. Not from me.
  Anna caressed the hound-child, stroking her
favorite places, behind the ears, along the spine.
She squirmed with pleasure, climbing higher,
burying her cool wet nose in Anna's neck.
"Liahan," Anna said, for what good it could do,
"he's gone. You can open your mind now." Thea made
a small disgusted sound. Talk. As if
she could understand. Anna ignored her.
"Witch-baby, shields are splendidly useful
things and you are a wonder for having made one so young,
but it's making your mother angry. Open a chink at
least and let her in." Liahan stiffened a
fraction. Anna cradled her, holding her face
to face. Her eyes were all gold. Winter-gold like
Alts, shining as his shone when he wielded his power.
"Oh, you are your father's child. Your mother's too,
stubborn as you are and laughing in it. Won't you lower
your shield? Just for the practice?" The little witch
blinked. Anna reeled with sudden dizziness. Those
eyes--
  Liahan! Thea's will cut like a sword, severing the
spell. Yes, Liahan was laughing even now, though
chastened, reaching to lick Anna's cheek, begging to be
set down. Once freed, she set to nursing as if
she had never been more than she seemed, a very small
and very hungry gazehound pup.
  Witch, Thea said, half in exasperation, half in
pride. Born and bred contrary, and determined to stay
that way. I almost pity our poor enemy.
  "Pity thafi" cried Anna.
  That, Thea agreed. She began to bathe her son,
who, 120 Judith Tarr
  sated, lay on the verge of sleep. Anna
watched in silence that stretched into peace.
  The air's singing shattered it. Anna watched the
bowls and cups appear. It was no less uncanny
for that now she knew how they had come, and by whose will.
  One would think . . . Thea mused. She shook
herself. No. "What?" Anna snapped the word
viciously.
  Thea lowered her head to her paws, reflecting.
Simon the Magus is a coincidence. Of course
a man of the Folk, if he were tall and light-eyed
and flaxen-fair, would look uncannily like
Alfred. It's the cast of the face-it's the same in
all of us. But that he should be so very like, and be so
bitterly our enemy . . . that must be God's
black humor.
  "He's not quite . . . right, is he?"
  One could not deceive Thea with an air of indifference.
Not that it mattered. Thea had never weakened anyone's
will with a show of compassion. He's utterly mad.
He's a travesty; a caricature. A
nigfitmare of a might-have-been.
  "He makes me think ofationikki too. Somehow.
In the way he's twisted; in the way he seems
to be missing something. I remember how my
mother used to talk, once in a great while, when she
didn't know I could hear. Before Alfcame and
changed everything. She'd been told to raise my
brother like a colt or a puppy, because that was as
close to a man as he'd ever get; she could train
him, maybe, and she did housebreak him and teach him
to eat decently. But he'd never be properly
human." He would never have been like yonder
creature. "How do you know?" Anna flared at her.
"How can you imagine what he would have grown into? You
know what a brain he has. Alf set it free.
What if Alf had never come?"' Maybe we all
would have died when the City fell. That would have been a
mercy. But if we hadn't, if Nikki had grown
up, trapped, treated the way people never could help but
treat him-all that wit and all that wildness with no
way out of his head and no way in . . ."
  the hounds OF god 121
  I can imagine it.
  Thea's inner voice was so flat that Anna stopped
short. Remembered, and felt the heat rise to burn
her cheeks. Her tongue had run away again. Would
she never learn?
  Thea was choosing not to take offense. Nikephoros
would not have let himself sink into a madman.
No more than Alf did. He'd have raged; he'd have
fought. He would have tried to make something of himself.
"Sometimes I think, if you ever got tired of Alf,
you'd have Nikki in your bed before the hour was out." No.
Anna would never learn. An hour? Thea laughed.
That long? Anna Chrysolora, you credit me with
altogether too much restraint.
  "So that's why you won't marry my elder brother.
You've got your eye on the younger."
  Of course. Would I be myself if I didn't?
In spite of all her troubles and her festering
temper, Anna began to laugh. Thea had the eye and the
tongue of a notorious harlot, but for all of that, her
heart was as fixed and immovable as the roots of
Broceliande. She could look, she could laugh, she
could tease; she could no more turn from her dozen
years" lover than she could make herself a mortal
woman.
  Not, she agreed, at the moment. There's a
significant lack of opportunity here. As for
Brother Magus . . . Have you ever suspected how
very little I like smooth-skinned fair-haired boys?
I'm one for a fine black eye and a warm brown skin
and plenty of curly beard to play with.
  "Nikki doesn't have enough to--"
  He will when he's a little older. No, Anna;
I despise a pale man. You can imagine how
shocked I was when I discovered that I'd fallen in
love with the palest of all pale men. All he had
to commend him was a good breadth of shoulder--which he was
always managing to hide--and a certain indefinable air.
This fetch of his obviously has neither. "How can you
tell under the habit?"
  122 Judith Tarr
  Thea's eyes sparkled wickedly. How could I
tell under Alf's? Sometimes I forget you never
knew him when he was Brother Alfred. He was the
loveliest boy who ever put on a cowl, the
meekest white lamb who ever lay down before an
altar. A more perfect monk never graced an
abbey. But now and then when he was most off guard, I
could catch it. A loot, a word, a hint of something
else. And there were always those shoulders; not to mention
another attribute or two, once I got the
habit off Aim.
  If Brother Simon was listening indeed, this was
surely driving him wild. Anna inspected the
food which Simon's power had left, found it much the
same as ever. She brought the meat to Thea, settling
herself with the rest. Between bites she said
sagely, "Oh, yes. Those attributes."
  Thea nibbled the edge of her portion, her eyes
bright, amused. still admit, though I was expecting more
than a weedy boy, that first good look . . . I was
a hound at the time; he was bathing, and he didn't
even know I was there. Saints and angels! What a
lovely moment that was! Then he saw me, or more
likely heard me panting, and he didn't do any
thing I'd expected, except blush in the most
fascinating places. He just kept on washing,
ignoring me steadfastly and not saying a word. Not
hurrying to hide anything, either. That was when I knew
I had to have him. White skin, white hair, and
all. She sighed, letting the meat fall back
into its bowl. My poor love. Left all alone,
and Mun gone who might as well have been another
son . . . Damn these devils of monks!
  have.

  It was very quiet in San Girolamo.
Strangely, when stopped to think; Jeromite monks
kept no constant vows of silence, and Rome lay
outside with its bells and its clamor. But the
walls were high and thick, the monastery itself set
somewhat apart in the hollow of the hill. From
its tower one could see the loom of the Palatine with its
white ruins; the city sprawling and crowding down to the
river; the bulk of the fallen Circus and the green
waste within, and at its far curved end the battlements
of a castle. But within the abbey's walls one might have
been in a separate country, a kingdom of quiet.
In a round of days marked off by the ringing of bells, the
monks went about their business, soft on sandaled
feet.
  Not that they shuffled and whispered. They spoke and
laughed freely enough; the novices had their moments
of boisterousness, and the Offices were well and heartily
sung. Yet no amount of human uproar seemed
able to shake the calm of the ancient stones. It was
sinking into his bones. He had entered it with

  124 Judith Tan- deep misgivings, even with
fear; castigating himself for a fool--he had grown up
in just such a place and guested in many since, both as
a pilgrim and as a lord of Rhiyana--but trembling
still, because he had left Saint Ruan's far behind but
never quite lost the yearning for it. Yet how easy, after
all, to walk through the gate, to exchange courtesies
with the gentle aging Abbot, to settle into the guesthouse
which was all O.one had promised and more. How
simple after attending Mass as courtesy demanded,
also to take part in the Offices, even those of
midnight and of dawn, for the bells were insistent and
sleep had become a stranger. And if he was there,
he could not but join in the prayers and the singing, stumbling
a little at first but waking soon to memory. Within a day
or two, he never knew exactly how, he found that
he was no longer relegated to the outer reaches of the
chapel with the guests and the pilgrims and the Roman
matrons in their black veils; he had a place
in the choir between Jehan and Brother O.one, with
Prior Giacomo in his stall behind. With the same
invisible ease, he found himself in the refectory with the
Brothers, partaking of the common fare. Jehan,
bishop though he was, was claiming to be but a lowly
monk; he could not in good conscience dine thrice
daily at the Abbot's table. Nor would his
companions partake of fine meats and wine while he
dined on black bread and refectory ale; they
joined him among the monks, taking their frugal
meals in silence to the sound of the reader's voice.
  "You fit with us well," said Prior Giacomo.
After days of rain, the sun had returned at last.
In celebration, O.one had haled Alf off to a
corner of the cloister, set him down, and
begun to sketch him under the Prior's interested eye.
"Just a short time you've been here," Giacomo went
on, "and you've made yourself one of us."
  At O.one's bidding, Alf raised his chin a
little. A vagrant breeze played with his hair.
Although he had gone the hounds OF god 125
  to Brother Tbnsore to have it cut, commanded the man
to have no mercy, he had lost a scarce inch. It was
too handsome, the barber had told him with fine
Italian logic, and he was no monk to have to go about
looking like one.
  With that in his memory and a faint wry smile couching
his lips, he said, "I try to be a good guest."
  "By now," said Giacomo, "you're hardly one at
all. Brother Marco tells me you've been
putting in a good day's work in the scriptorium."
"He seemed to have need of another hand." And it made
the days easier. Nikki did his hunting in body as
well as in mind, roaming the ways of the city with
Jehan at heel like a watchful mastiff. Alf
could not search so. He stumbled; he groped like a blind
man; he forgot to move at all. But in the
scriptorium in the scents of ink and dust and
parchment, where the only sound was the scratching of pens
and the occasional turning of a page, his body
could look after itself. The words flowed from eye to hand
to parchment; the lines stretched out behind, letter after swift
meticulous letter; and his mind ran free, hunting the
coverts of its own strange world. Prior
Giacomo sat on a stone bench, taking care not
to intrude on O.one's light. For all his
brusque air, he was a pleasant presence, a
gleam of friendship. Alf let it ease him. His mind
was still a raw wound; the sun though winter-pale was
strong, his shields against it unsteady. Once long
ago, when after a bitter quarrel Thea had left him
and closed her mind to him, he had let the sun work
its will. It had burned him terribly for his
foolishness. And he had not even been her lover then,
only her friend and her fellow pilgrim. Although this was
not the awful glare of August on the shores of the
Bosporus, yet it was potent enough to touch such a
creature as he. It pressed down upon his head,
deceptively gentle. Shielded, he could meet
its glare, his eyes-night-eyes,
cat-eyes-unwinking. Unshielded- Light stabbed
him to the soul. His shields leaped up and 126
Judith Tarr
  locked, a reflex assure as his eyes'
flinching. Even so brief an instant had
nearly destroyed them; he could feel the tightness of
his skin, the beginnings of pain.
  To the monk and the Prior it was only sunlight,
cool and frail. So must he be to his enemy,
feeble, powerless, unworthy of notice. The Prior
was watching him; he saw himself reflected in the dark
eyes. Other faces, however flawed, at least were
honest, the parade of emotions all open and clear
to see. His own was like a mask, white, perfect,
serene. For a fiery instant he hated" it.
Giacomo was speaking again. He forced himself to make
sense of the words. This was not Caer Gwent, where the
strange moods of the Kindred were known and accepted.
But the man was speaking in the Roman dialect, the
old Latin tongue blurred and softened
into foreignness, and Alt could not make his wandering brain
remember its ways. He could barely even
remember the pure and ordered Latin of the schools.
He must have risen. He did not know if he spoke.
The sun and the cloister were gone; the cool shade had
him, the old, old refuge, the chapel walls.
These were strange and gaudy with their glittering
mosaics, but the altar was still the altar, the Christ
dying still upon his familiar cross. A man dying for
men; what cared he for the anguish of the one who
knelt before him? Anguish born of mortal sin:
sorcery, fornication, abandonment of the vows that had made
him a priest forever.
  Yes. Mortal, in all its senses. All his
being howled in pain, but not the smallest speck of it
knew any repentance. He was not human,
to subject himself co human doctrines of sin and
salvation. Sorcery he was born to; it was his
nature, as much a part of him as his eyes or his
hands. Fornication he might atone for if he had ever
found any foulness in it, if it had ever brought him
aught but joy. For his vows' forsaking he had the
Pope's own dispensation, the hounds of god 127
  signed and sealed and laid away in a coffer in the
House of the Falcon.
  So facilely did a scholar dispose of his sins.
He sank back upon his heels and lowered his face
into his hands. Darkness was no refuge. It
deepened, broadened, gaped to swallow him. Not his
own death but Alun's. Not his body's destruction but
the shattering of his mind. He could not find Thea or his
son or his daughter. For all his power knew of them,
they might never have existed at all. He could not even
sense their nearness-not even the nearness of the power that had
taken them.
  His fingers tensed, clawing. He could not see. He
could not see. All prophecy was gone from him. There
was only the cavernous dark. He thrust against it,
striking it, striving to tear it; raging, half mad and
knowing it and caring not at all.
  He flailed at air and shadow. It yielded,
ungraspable yet deadly as the mists of Rome with
their burden of fever. His mind reeled, toppled,
fell.
  Voices babbled. Light flickered. He
shrank away. Meaning crept through his barriers.
"Signore. Signor' Alfred. Please, are you
sick? Signore!"
  Another voice, deeper and rougher, cut across the
first. "He's taken a fit, I think. Go fetch
Brother Rafaele. I'll look after him." Alf
struggled, snatching at a retreating shadow, pulling
it up short. The shadow gained substance. Brother
O.one gaped down at him, for once far taller;
he was lying on the stone, its cold creeping through his
heavy robe, and in his hand in a death grip, the hem
of the boy's habit. "No," he tried to say.
"I'm not-was O.one's incomprehension stopped him.
His eyes began to blur again. He willed them to be
clear, and his brain with them. He had been
speaking no tongue a Roman would understand, the
Saxon of his childhood.
  He dared not trust his wits with Italian. He
groped for 128 Judith Tarr
  Latin words, found them at last. "Please,
Brother. Don't trouble Brother Rafaele."
  The hands on him were Prior Giacomo's,
holding him down although when he tried to sit up they
shifted to aid him. "We'll trouble the good Brother,
sir, and no argu ments. Whatever it is that knocked
you down, it hasn't let you go yet."
  Alf pulled free, not gently, staggering to his
feet. For no reason at all, he was whitely
angry. "Have you no ears? I do not wish to be
carried off to your infirmary!"
  "So carry yourself," Giacomo said sharply,
meeting glare with glare and temper with temper. "If
you're not sick, Rafaele will say so. If you are,
he'll know what to do about it."
  "Leeches. Purges. Ignorant nonsense."
  "If you know so much better, what were you doing in
convulsions on the chapel floor?"
  Alfs body snapped painfully erect. Rage
tore through it. Blind babbler, mortal fool; how
dared he-
  Convulsions?
  Giacomo had him by the arm. That was ignorance in the
man, to be so utterly fearless. Yet he was walking
obedient ly, strength and power and skill in combat
forgotten, lost like all the rest of his proper self.
  He willed his feet to be still, his frame to stiffen
in resistance, his voice to speak levelly. "There
is nothing any physician can do for me. I know.
I have been one."
  The Prior scowled.
  For the second time Alf freed himself, but smoothly
now, his temper mastered. "Your concern does you
credit, Brother Prior, but my illness can have no
earthly remedy. It's past for the moment; let it
be." Giacomo might have burst out in bitter words.
But O.one, thrust aside and all but forgotten,
leaped eagerly into the gap. "Is it so, signore?
Is that why you came here? For a miracle, to cure
it?" Alf turned, mildly startled. As always,
O.one's thin the hounds OF god 129
  nondescript face warmed something in him; almost
he smiled. "Yes. Yes, that's why I came
to Rome."
  "I'll pray," O.one said. "I'll pray as
hard as I can. God will listen."
  The smile won free. Alf touched the narrow
shoulder lightly. Darkness howled.
  He staggered. Giacomo caught fire with
vindication; Alf fled his hands. For a moment, he had
seen, his power whole and keen and terrible, potent enough
to set him reeling. But there was no joy in that sudden
glorious release. Even for a man, born only
to die, O.one was frail. Death sat like a black
bird on his shoulder. Its servants prowled his
body, haunting the lungs, the laboring heart, the
innocent brilliant brain. They had had a long
lodging in him, from weak and struggling infant to sickly
child to fragile dauntless man. In a little while they
would conquer him.
  Alf shook his head, tossing it. His face was
fixed, frightening, but O.one did not know how to be
afraid. The brown eyes were wide and trusting,
troubled for him, thinking he was perhaps in pain. Death would
abandon no mortal creature, not even at the command
of elvenkind. Death's servants had no such
strength. Alf called on all the singing splendor of
his power. And it came. Limping a little, wounded, yet
it came.
  O.one blinked. Alf undamped his hand from the
monk's shoulder. "Good day. Brother,"
he said. "Pray for me." He bowed to the Prior,
genuflected to the altar, and left them all. "How
strange," O.one murmured. "How very strange."
  Giacomo would have liked to spit. He satisfied
himself with a snarl. "Strange? The man's an utter
lunatic!"
  The other had not even heard him. "I feel warm.
Especially where he touched me. He's amazingly
strong;
  did you notice?" He shook himself slightly.
"I have to get back to my drawing. The look he had
when he touched
  130 Judith Tarr
  me-if I can manage-a line or two, I
think; a touch of light, color-was And he too was
gone, still muttering to himself, leaving Giacomo alone
with the altar and the crucifix and the glittering angels.
"Is it the world that's mad," he demanded of them, "or
is it simply I?" They offered no answer. He
stiffened his back and throttled his bafflement and spun
on his heel, setting off after the others. However far
behind they had left his wits, his body at least could
follow where they led.

  "This is getting us nowhere."
  Jehan stalked from end to end of the room they all
shared in the guesthouse. They had it to themselves; it was
spacious, the walls painted with faded vistas, a
brazier set in the center of it to ward off winter's
chill. Nikki sat crosslegged on the bed
Jehan shared with Alt, mending a rent in his
mantle. Alf sat on a stool near the brazier,
turning the pages of a book he had found in the
library. Both had glanced up as Jehan spoke,
a flash of black and one of silver. He stopped just
short of a peeling pomegranate tree and spun
about. "A full month we've been here. In a little
while it will be Lent. And what do we have to show for it?
One copy of Silvestris' Cosmographia.
Two pairs of blistered feet."
  "Fifteen pages of the Gospels in a slightly
antiquated hand." Alfs irony was not clearly
perceptible. He closed the book and let it lie in
his lap, regarding Jehan with a cool and steady stare.

  132 Judith Tan- The Bishop ofSarum
raked his fingers through his beard. Since its sudden,
uncanny, and fiercely itching birth, it had done
well enough by itself, although he doubted that after all it was much
of a disguise. That he had seen few
familiar faces in all his daily travels, and that
none of those had hailed him by name, was probably due
more to Heaven's good grace than to any deception of his
own. "I know you're doing all you can," he said to both
the waiting gazes, "or at least, all you can think
of. But it's not working." Nikki nodded. It was not.
His mind was as sore as his feet, and he had not found
a trace of the enemy, let alone of the ones he
searched for. He had not even come across a memory of
any of them, a hint in a human brain that their
quarry existed. Rome was large and sprawling,
full of ruins and of churches, with people crowded together round
the foci of the river, the Pope's palace in the
Lateran, the Leonine City beyond Sant'
Angelo. But no Anna, no Thea, no children; no
mad and mighty power.
  "And Rhiyana isn't holding still for us,"
Jehan said. "The Cardinal's investigation grinds
as inexorably as the mills of God, but a great
deal faster. The King's gone to the Marches; the
raiding's begun, and men have been seen wearing the
Cross and crying death to the Witch-king."
  Nikki took up the litany. The Heresiarch in
Caer Gvsent has been taken by the priests. The
Greeks and the Saracens are finding urgent
business at home. A Jewish child has been found
dead out side of one of the churches in the city. His
eyes glittered; he flung down his mended cloak.
There must be something else we can do! "We can go to the
Pope," said Jehan. "I know how to reach him.
We were friends before his elevation; he consecrated me
himself. He won't keep us waiting for an
audience."
  still should like to see the Pope, Nikki said. "We
should have gone to him as soon as we came. This is an
excellent monastery, and by a miracle there's no
one in it who knows me, but we're not finding anything
by staying here."
  the hounds of god 133
  Alfs eyes had followed the debate but had lost
none of their coolness. His voice was cooler still, almost
cold. "We've barely begun to hunt. Would you
start the deer before you've even taken the bow out of its
case? That's what you'll do if you go to the Pope
now. Friend or no, he's in the Hounds' power;
he'll certainly be watched by our enemy. If he
learns of us and our troubles, even if he's disposed
to be lenient, we'll lose our kin in truth; for the
enemy will never relax his vigilance."
  Where I go, Nikki pointed out, no one
with power can follow. What if he is on guard every
instant? He'll never know I'm there to guard against.
  "Nikki can shield His Holiness," Jehan
said, "just as he's shielding us now. The enemy need
never know-and the Pope may well know where the Hounds have
their kennels."
  Alf shook his head once. "He won't know of
this one. And if the enemy is on guard,
invisibility is no use; a wall is
impenetrable whether or not the invader can be seen. He
has to be at ease, to think us all shut behind our own
safe walls in Rhiyana. Then maybe he'll
let slip the bolts on the postern gate."
  "He hasn't done it yet."
  "He hasn't had time."
  "God's bones! It's been a month. Wars have
been won and lost in far less time than that."
  "This war is still in its infancy."
  Jehan's hands knotted into fists; he loomed
over Alf, who merely looked up at him,
unmoved. "Thirty days ago- even seven days
ago-I'd have said you were keeping up your courage
by seeming not to care. But there's a limit to that kind of
courage. I think you've passed it." Alt
stirred by not a hair's breadth. "Oh, you
still care whether your family lives or dies. That's
a torment in the heart of you. You don't care to hunt
anymore. You've given up. You've surrendered.
You've let the enemy have his victory."
  "You have not been listening," Alf said with icy
preci sion. "For the third time, we have only begun
to-was
  134 Judith Tarr
  "We haven't! We've failed in the first sally.
We have no new tactics. And you won't exert that
famous brain of yours to find any." "We need
none. We have only to hunt; to keep our minds open
and invisible; and to wait."
  "Nikki hunts. Nikki keeps us invisible.
You do nothing but wait." Alt rose. He had
never had much flesh to spare, and that was very nearly gone.
Yet to Nikki's eyes he seemed not more frail,
but less, like a blade of steel. "That," he said,
"is known as wisdom." still call it passivity. I
don't mind your cloistering yourself here; you've never
been skilled at walking in a trance. But you can't
lie back and trust to fate. Time doesn't wait.
War won't hold off till your opening presents
itself to you. And, Nikki added grimly, while we
stumble about in the dark. God alone knows
what that madman is doing to his captives.
  "They're alive," Alf said in a flat
voice. "You hope." Jehan struggled to master his
temper, to speak reasonably. "Alf, we can't
continue the way we've been going, following our
noses and hoping we catch wind of something useful.
We need to try another tack. Not the Pope, if
you insist, but there must be some other way to bring this
quarry to earth. Can't you help us find it?" "There
is no need."
  "Alf-was
  And the silent voice: Alf, for the love of
Heaven- He cut them both off. "If you are tired
of this seeming futility, you need not pursue it. I
can hunt alone. My lord Bishop, you have but to say the
word and I can transport you wherever you will, even to your
own see of Sarum. Nikephoros, the King will be
glad of your aid in the war; or you may serve the
Queen or defend the Wood. No compulsion holds
you here."
  They stared at him, speechless. He sounded like a
stranger; he looked like one.
  Yes, Nikki thought. Ever since Thea vanished
with the the hounds OF god 135
  children she had borne him, he had been
changing. His body had passed from thin to gaunt; his
mind had retreated, turning inward upon itself. Above the
hollowed cheeks his eyes were pale, remote; not
hostile, indeed not unfrly, but not at all the eyes
of the one who had loved them both as brothers. "You
may go," he said to them, "without guilt. I'll be
well enough here."
  They glanced at one another. Jehan's eyes were
a little wild. Nikki supposed his own were the same.
He knew he wanted to hit something, but Alt was not
a wise target. Even in this new mood of his,
he was still one of the Kindred, with strength and swiftness
far more of the beast than of the human.
  Nikki watched Jehan's mind turn over
alternatives. It was a very pleasant mind to watch,
quick and clear, honest yet subtle, able at will
to relinquish control to the trained fighter's body.
That body urged him to knock Alf uncon scious,
to hope that such a blow would return him to his proper
senses. But the mind, wiser, held it back. Con
sidered logic, persuasion, pleading, anger.
Settled at last. Unclenched the heavy fists;
drew a deep sigh. "Don't be an idiot,"
Jehan said with weary annoy ance. "I got myself
into this; I'll see it through to its end. With your
help or without it." Alf did not say what he could
have said of Jehan's efficacy as a hunter of
shadows. That was mercy enough for the moment. He returned
to his seat and opened the book again. Jehan drew
back, stood briefly silent, turned away.
  Without him the room seemed much larger yet somehow
more confining. Alf was losing himself, quite deliberately
one might have thought, in the mysteries of the world's
creation. In his drab pilgrim's robe he seemed
much more a monk than the man he had just put
to flight. Nikki could stand it no better than
Jehan had. He sought the same refuge with somewhat
more haste.
  The sun was still high. He blinked in the light of
it, faintly shocked. He had half expected the
sky to be as grim 136 Judith Tan as his
mood, not blue as the Middle Sea with here and there a
fleece of cloud. The air was as warm as
Rhiyanan spring; grass grew green round the
gray walls, sprinkled with small white flowers like
a new fall of snow.
  For an instant his yearning for Rhiyana was as
strong as pain. But that passed; he drew a careful
breath, finding to his surprise that his eyes had
blurred. Was he as tired as that? He
shook himself. It was not only the endless futility of the
search, and not even the bitterness of the quarrel. He was
not made to shut himself up in the walls of an abbey.
Father Jehan had a talent: wherever he found himself,
there for the moment was his element. Alfwas abbey-bred,
more visibly so with each day he spent in San
Girolamo. But Nikephoros Akestas was
completely a creature of the world. Bells and candles
and chanting and incense forged each the links of a chain;
they dragged at him, they sapped his strength. He
found that he was walking very fast, almost running. It was
not fear; it was the swiftness of the hawk cut loose from
its jesses. No one was pursuing him. No one was
setting him to hunt or to do squire service or
to pretend to pray. He was free. He laughed and
danced, stalked a cloud shadow down the empty
street, put to flight a flock of sparrows. But
then, contrite, he called them all back again,
making amends with a bit of bread he found in his
scrip. When the Via di San Girolamo had
given way to the broader, brighter, and far busier
stretch of the Corso, Nikki had relegated all
his ill humor to oblivion. He let his feet
carry him where they would, and let his eyes for once
take in the wonders of this strange
half-ruined half-thriving city. Some of it was new,
and raw with it, a bristle of armed towers, a crowding
of churches and houses and palaces. Most of it was
ancient, much of that built anew with the brick and marble
of old Rome, some even built into the ancient
monuments, people nesting like birds in the caverns of
giants.
  Yet just such people, Alf said, had raised those very the
hounds OF god 137
  monuments. Small dark keen-faced men and women
who reeked of olive oil and garlic, who chattered
incessantly and burst into song at will, and seemed
to live and love and fight and even die in the streets
outside of their patchwork houses. Nikki, wandering
among them, felt as always a little odd. In
Rhiyana he had been branded a foreigner from the first
for his small stature, his dark skin, his big- eyed
Byzantine face. In Rome he was completely
unre markable. Why, he thought with a shiver of
amazement, he was not even particularly small. In
fact, judging from the people he passed and the ones he
knew in San Girolamo, he was somewhat above the
middle height. It was distinctly pleasant to find
himself looking over the heads of grown men. He bought
a hot and savory pie from a vendor and
sat on a step to eat it. The stair was attached to a
very Roman house, a sprawling affair with a facade
of ancient columns, no two alike, and under and
behind them an odd mixture of shops. The one nearest
appeared to be a purveyor of ink and parchment and a
book or two; the next was patently a wineshop.
  The pie was wonderful, eel well spiced with
onion and precious pepper. As he nibbled at it,
he gained a compan ion, a handsome particolored cat
that wove about his ankles, beseeching him with feline
politeness to share his pleasure. In return she
offered him her own sleek presence, curling in his
lap and purring thunderously. That was a fair bargain,
he agreed, dividing the remains of the pasty. If it
surprised his new companion to be addressed so
clearly by a mortal man, she was far too much a
cat to show it; she merely accepted her purchase and
consumed it with dispatch. And having done so, washed with
care while he licked his own fingers clean. What
made him look up, he never knew. His senses were
drawn in upon himself and his contented belly and his sudden
friend; his only further thought had been for a cup of wine
to wash down the eel pie. As he raised his eyes,
even that small bit of sense fled him utterly.
138 Judith Tarr
  He was used to beauty. Sated with it, maybe.
He had grown up with the Fair Folk; nor were the
mortal women of Rhiyana far behind when all was
considered. He had seen nothing in Rome to compare with
either. The girl on the step below him was not outstandingly
beautiful. She had lovely hair, even in a
braid and under a veil. Her face was pleasing,
fine-featured, with eyes the deep and dreaming blue
of the sky at evening. She was very pretty; she was
nothing beside Thea or the Queen, or almond-eyed
Tao-Lin with her flawless gold-white skin. And
yet she stunned him where he sat. It was not the
quantity of her beauty; it was the quality. The way
she stood, the way she tilted her chin, the way she
looked at him under her strong dark brows, all
struck with him with their exact and perfect rightness. Not
too bold, not too demure; clear and level and
keenly intelligent. He rose with the cat in his
arms. It seemed eminently natural to set the beast
down with a courteous pat, to straighten, to relieve the
girl of several of her awkward bundles and
packages. She did not resist him, although she
frowned slightly. He was, after all, a complete
stranger. But he smiled and bowed with a flourish,
burdens and all; she melted. "You're very
kind, sir," she said. He shook his head a little, but
smiling still, stepping back to let her pass. She
paused to greet the cat, which in its feline fashion
was pleased to see her; her eyes danced aside
to meet Nikki's. Well, and he was a stranger,
but already a friend to Arlecchina; a man could have a worse
patron.
  She led him up the stair. Her back was
straight, the braid of her hair swinging thick and
long and lovely below the edge of her veil, just where he
would have liked to set his hand. He stopped almost
gratefully as she set her hand to an ironbound
door. It was latched but not bolted; it opened with
ease upon a small ill-lit passage redolent of
garlic, age, and cats. She turned there, meaning
to thank him kindly and send him away. This time he
did not smile. He knew
  the hounds OF god 139
  what everyone said about his eyes; he wielded them
shamelessly. She stiffened against them. Her thoughts were
trans parent. For all her unchaperoned
solitude, she was neither a whore nor a serving
girl, to play the coquette with a stranger, a
pilgrim from who knew where. No doubt with that face
he had encountered many such, charmed them and
taken them and left them; and she all alone, with the
neighbors at their work and her uncle at his, and
old Bianca deaf as a post and bedbound with the ague,
which was why she had gone to market alone to begin with. Which,
in purest honesty, was why she had gone at all.
She had wanted to go out by herself, to do as she pleased with
no eyes to watch and disapprove.
  The consequence tightened his grip on her
purchases and raised his brows. Madonna, he said
in his clearest mind- voice, still know what you're
thinking. I assure you by any saint you care to name that
I have no designs on your virtue. If you will
let me bear your burdens the rest of the way, I
promise that I won't even assault you with a longing
look.
  His eyes held her; she did not see that his lips
never moved. To her ears his voice was a perfectly
ordinary young man's voice, speaking in the Roman
dialect. She smiled at the words, hardly knowing that
she did, or that her eyes had begun to sparkle.
Her voice made a valiant effort to be stern.
"Sir, you are kind, but I can manage. It's
only a little way, and the servant is waiting for me."
  Nikki smiled. My name is Nikephoros.
I'm a pilgrim, as you can see; I
lodge with the monks in San Girolamo down in the
Velabro. I've never yet seduced a virgin,
let alone raped one; I doubt I'll begin today.
My looks are against me, I know, but can't you find
it in your heart to trust me? Even a little?
  The sparkle was very clear now to see and even to hear.
"You talk exactly the way I was told a young
man would before he began his seduction. As for your
looks ..." Her cheeks flushed; she bit her
lip and went on a little too quickly, "My name is
Stefania. Yours is rather unusual. Are you
Greek?"
  140 Judith Tarr
  He nodded.
  "Then why," she demanded with sudden steel, "are you
a pilgrim to Rome of all unlikely places?"
  May not even a schismatic Byzantine look
on the City of Peter? However regrettable, he
added dryly, may be the delusions of its Bishop.
The blade was not so easily returned to its sheath.
"Your accent is hot Greek."
  still grew up in Rhiyana. My teacher was, and
is, an Anglian. "Now that," she said, "is
preposterous enough to be true. Say something to me in
Norman."
  Nikki choked. Even he could not tell whether it
was laughter or horror. He knew Norman,
bastard dialect of the langue d'oeil that it was;
he could read it and write it. He also knew a little
Saxon. He did not know if he had an accent in
either, since he had never spoken a word in any
mortal tongue.
  She was frowning again. He swallowed and tried his
best. Fair lady without mercy, is it thus you try
all who come to your door? "Only strangers who
chase me through it." She softened just visibly, though
not with repentance. "Have pity on me, sir. Here you
are, a young man, which is danger enough;
  born a Greek, schismatic and noted for
craftiness--which I should know, being half a Greek
myself; raised by one of a race of conquerors in a
country of enchanters. Can you wonder that I test you?"
If you put it that way, he admitted, and once more
she heard him in Italian, no. He sank to one
knee, bundles and all. Beautiful lady, may
I please come in? My solemn vow on it:
  F II preach no heresies, play no
tricks, and make no--unwilling-- conquests.
  "And cast no spells?"
  No spells, he agreed.
  She nodded, gracious as a queen. "Very well.
You may come in." the hounds OF god 141
  Unappealing though the passage had been, the house
proper was very pleasant. There were two stories to it
above the scrivener's shop. "Uncle Gregorios
doesn't sell parchment," she explained. "He
sells what's written on it. He's a public
scribe, a notary; he works here when he can, but
elsewhere most often, writing letters and witnessing deeds
and the like."
  She did not show her guest into the upper story, where
were the bedchambers and a storeroom. Not merely for the
danger of letting a man see where she slept;
Bianca was there, mercifully oblivious to what
passed in the room below. That was a large one with
windows on a courtyard, the shutters flung wide
in the warmth. Behind it lay the kitchen in which, at
Stefania's command, Nikki had deposited most of
his burdens. In it stood a table and a chair or
two, a bench, a chest and a cabinet, and a high
slanted table such as he had seen in the
scriptorium of San Girolamo. A stool was
drawn up to the table; a book lay open on it and a
heap of parchment beside that, folded and ruled and ready
to write on. Nikki craned to see. The
book to be copied was Greek. He moved closer.
Greek indeed, marked as verse, and a fine ringing sound
to the line or two that met his eye. "Pindar,"
Stefania said. "A pagan poet, very great my
uncle says, and very difficult."
  He's copying the book for a client?
  "No," she answered almost sharply. "I am."
  Nikki smiled his warmest smile. She looked
defiant, and surprised. He should have been dismayed,
if not appalled, to have encountered a woman who could
write. More, a woman who could write Greek.
So can I, he pointed out, which makes me a strange
animal, too. "You're a man. You can do as you like.
A learned woman, however," said Stefania with more
than a hint of bitterness, "is an affront to the
vast majority of learned manhood."
  Of course she is. She's usually so much better
at it. Nikki 142 Judith Tarr
  perched on the window ledge between Arlecchina and a great
fragrant bowl of herbs, green and growing in the
sunlight; he folded his arms and considered
Stefania with distinct pleasure. I'm inured to such
blows. My sister is no mere scholar; she's a
philosopher. "No," Stefania said.
  Yes, he shot back. She'd be a
theologian, too, except that there's not much call
for the Greek variety on this side of the world. Besides
which, she likes to add, there's always room for another
natural philosopher; and the world is alt too
full of bickering theologians. Stefania laughed.
"There's a woman after my own heart!" She had
put aside her veil and hung up her cloak.
Her dress was plain to severity, but it was the same
deep blue as her eyes; her body in it was lissome
and yet richly curved. She was very much smaller than
  himself. When they had stood face to face, her head
came just above his chin. Even little Anna was taller
than that. Yet how tall she stood in the plain
comfortable room, her feet firm on the woven mat,
her dress glowing against the whitewashed wall. There was
no doubt of it, she was perfectly to his taste. In
the silence under his steady stare, her assurance wavered.
She moved a little too quickly, spoke in a rush.
"Would you like a cup of wine? It's very good. One of
Uncle's clients trades in it; we get a
cask every year for wages. It's Falernian, as in
the poets." It was strong and red and heavenly fine,
served in a glass cup which must have been the best one
because Stefania herself had one of plain wood. She
only pretended to drink from it. After a sip
or two of his own, Nikki cradled the goblet in his
hands and said, I'm keeping you from your work.
  She did not try to deny it. "I have a page
to copy, and the housekeeping-was
  still know how to sweep, he ventured. still could learn
to scrub. She stared and laughed, amazed. "You are a
natural the hounds OF god 143
  wonder. And generous too, though for nothing. I
swept and scrubbed this morning; it's our supper I
have to think of, and there's all my plunder to put away,
and if I don't pay my respects to Bianca
soon, she'll know I've been waylaid in the
street."
  He nodded slowly. May I come again? Tomorrow,
maybe? You shouldn't go to market alone; and you know how
handy I am at carrying tAtfigs. The sparkle
had come back to her eyes. "You are persistent,
Messer Nikephoros."
  Do you mind?
  She thought about it. "No," she decided, "I
suppose I don't." He gave her the full
court salutation as if she had been the Queen of
Rhiyana, yet his eyes danced. She accepted his
obeisance in the same mirthful earnest. "Why,
sir! Have I overstepped myself? Are you after
all a prince in disguise?"
  Alas, no. Only a very minor nobleman and a very
callow squire. She was not at all dismayed to find
him even as close to royalty as that. "Tomorrow," she
said, light and brisk, both promise and dismissal.
  His answer was a smile, swift, joyous, and
deadly to her hard-won composure.

  They were torturing Thea. Herself Anna never thought
of; she was fed, she was reasonably warm, she was
ignored. Thea was the one who suffered, bound in alien
shape, battling for her will and her sanity, holding
high the shields between her enemy and her children. That was
evil enough. But as the slow hours passed, Simon
began to haunt his prisoners. The more Anna saw of
his face, the less like Alfs it seemed. It was
heavier; it was coarser; now it was shaven smooth, now
it was stubbled with beard. Every time she woke, it seemed
that he was there, at first only peering through the grille,
but advancing after a time or two into the room. He was
always alone, always habited in white and gray. He
always stood still, staring at Thea or at the children,
flat-eyed, expressionless.
  Sometimes he left her to her mind's freedom.
Often he looked and raised his hand, and she
sat or stood or lay mute in mind as in body,
able only to curse him with her eyes. After a moment
or an hour, he would turn his back on her and
leave her. She could move then, speak from mind to

  the hounds OF god 145
  mind, join in the children's playing. She seemed un
daunted, but Anna was afraid for her. Her eyes
burned with a fierce dry heat; her ribs sharpened under
the taut hide. When she was silent, Anna knew
she fought the power that held her prisoner. When she
spoke, it was only a new battle in the war, each
word calculated to cut her jailer to the quick. When she
slept, which was seldom, she slept like the dead.
During one such sleep, while Anna sat by her,
watching over her, the air in the room changed.
Simon stood over them both. For an instant
Anna knew the absolute purity of hate.
"Sathanas!" she hissed. "Get thee behind us."
  He did not move. For him she did not exist.
Only Thea was real, Thea and the children who stared from the
shelter of her side. Slowly he sank to one
knee. Anna tensed to leap at him. But she could not
stir. Could barely even breathe for the mighty and unseen
hand that held her fast.
  With one tentative finger he touched Thea's
flank. She flowed; she melted and changed; she
lay a woman, unconscious, cradling twin
alaunts. His eyes were flat no longer, but flint
and steel. "Evil," he murmured. "Daugh ter of
evil, Lilith, beautiful and damned." The same
finger traced her cheek, almost stroking it. In her
sleep she stirred, turning toward the touch as to her
lover's caress. His fist knotted on his thigh.
"Beautiful, oh. God in heaven, you are
beautiful, and cursed in your beauty. Dreaming of
abominations, the creatures you bore, begot ten in
foulness, brought forth in black sorcery by that one, the
son of Hell, the white demon. Monk he was,
he, priest of God, mocker, blasphemer-was The
mask had fallen; his eyes had caught fire. His
face was contorted with hate. "A priest he dared
to be, standing before the very altar of the Lord, mouthing the holy
words. Oh, horror, horror . . ." He
tossed his head, tearing at it with clawed fingers,
raking it, opening long weals. Yet as each opened,
it closed again, miraculous, terrible. Suddenly he
was still. His hands lowered, clasped. His face calmed.
Anna knew then that he was truly and
  146 Judith Tarr
  irredeemably mad. "I am not a priest,"
he said. "God's servant, I; God's slave.
In His mercy He suffers me. I do not tempt
Him by laying hands on the body of His son."
  "No. Only by slaughtering innocents." Thea was
awake with all her wits about her, and a fire in her
eyes to match that which smoldered behind his.
  "I work God's will," he said.
  "No doubt King Herod thought he did the
same."
  His face tightened. Thea's body blurred, yet
it did not melt. She was white with strain.
  He shook his head as if to clear it. With a sharp
cry Thea crumpled, shifting, struggling, woman
to hound to white wolf to golden lioness. Out of the fading
gold battled a great gyrfalcon, stretching
gull's wings, blooming into such a white beauty as the
world had never known outside of a dream. But the beauty
raged, and the horn was edged bronze, lunging toward the
enemy.
  Simon smote his hands together. Thea fell without
grace as if to grovel at his feet, all naked
save for the cloud of her hair. He regarded her with
cold contempt. "Why do you persist in opposing me?
I cannot be overcome. No power on earth
is greater than mine." She levered herself up on her
stiffened arms. "So you admit it. You are the Lord of the
World. Mere mortals are encouraged to do battle
against you; should I do any less?"
  "Your tongue," he said, "would not shame a viper.
Be caret caret his JiHave one greater-than tnen!
niaich your seeming to the truth of you."
  less-than greater-than f4- caret by 'st II
Thea laughed in his face, a little loudly perhaps, ending
it as a hound's bark. She crouched thus, braced for
combat. But he only looked at her without
expression. At length he said, "So would Brother
Paul have you be. Remember that you chose it of your
own free will."
  He went away for a merciful while. But he
came back as if he could not help himself, standing and
staring, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.
Anna was telling a tale to the children; none of them would
give him the bar bar I satisfaction of
acknowledging his presence, although Anthe hounds of god
147 na's voice faltered now and then. She was in
the midst of the tale of the pagan wanderer Odysseus,
in its own age-old Greek, which no doubt outraged
his fanatical soul.
  The beautiful ancient words rolled on
and on. Anna's mouth had gone dry. Simon
stood like a shadow of death.
  Her throat closed in mid-word, nor would it open
for all her striving. Rage swelled, too great
by far to let in fear. How dared he thrust his power upon
her as if she had been no more than a buzzing
insect? He did not even look at her as he did
it. She doubted that he thought of her, except as an
annoyance, like a crow cawing. She could stand. She
could, she discovered, raise her hand and make a fist.
The absurdity of it flashed through her mind, a small
brown mouse raging and striking at the Devil himself.
She struck as hard as she could, as high as she could.
Not very hard and not very high, but it did its work. He
looked down amazed. It was well past time for her
to be afraid. While he ignored her she had been
safe from the direct lash of his power. She had
sacrificed that. He saw her now; she watched him
take her into account:
  wrath, impotence, and all. She braced herself for the
lightning's fall.
  His brows knit in puzzlement, in a little pain.
"Why, child," he said in a voice so gentle it
froze her where she stood, "what's the trouble? Has
someone hurt you?"
  She blinked. Her mouth gaped open; she forced it
shut. She had to remember that he was mad. Yet he
looked so sane, so kind and so kindly, lowering himself
to one knee to gaze into her face. "What is your
name?" he asked her.
  He had killed Alun, tried to enslave
Liahan and Cynan. He was tormenting Thea.
Anna hated him with an enduring and deadly hate.
Tried to. This too was a spell. A spell of
gentleness worthy of Alf himself. She stiffened her
spine. "You know what my name is, you devil. Just
pick it out of my mind."
  Pain tautened the lines of his face. "You hate
me. You too. They all hate me, all of them.
Why? I never want to hurt anyone. But they hurt
me so much. They tear at me.
  148 Judith Tarr
  Why? God loves. God commands that we love not
only Him, but each other too. Why do you hate
me?"
  He had seized her hand. Her skin crawled at
the touch, but she had no strength to pull free. She
barely had the strength to answer him. "Because you hurt.
Because you destroy. Because you kill." His head tossed
in denial. "It's not I," he cried.
"Not I! It's the other, the one who lives in me,
behind my eyes. The rioting fire. It has its own
will, and strength-dear Lord God, strength to rend worlds.
But no soul; no intelligence to rule it. Mine is
not enough, has never been enough. I try-I fight
it. Sometimes it yields. Sometimes it rages without
me, working its will as it chooses. Making. More often
destroying. is the one who kills. I am left
to suffer for it." He spoke as if it were the truth.
Maybe for him, in that instant, it was. "There is
only one of you," Anna said, cold now and quiet.
"You can't separate power and conscience. Obviously
you've never learned to control either, and that is more than a
tragedy. It's a deadly danger."
  The gray eyes were like a child's, wide and luminous
with tears. "I know. Sweet saints, I know.
All my life I've fought, I fight, but whenever
I think I've gained the mastery, the power swells
and grows and escapes. It's a monster in me, like the
hideous thing, the affliction the doctors call the
crab, that devours all it touches. 0 child with the
beautiful eyes, if you have any wisdom at all,
tell me what I can do to conquer it!"
  Anna had gone beyond astonishment as beyond fear. She
regarded him. Kneeling, he was not quite as
tall as she, his fair face drawn with anguish.
His grip was like a vise, just short of pain; his whole
body beseeched her. He was so like Alf, not the
splendid joyous Lord of Broceliande nor even the
beloved guest of Byzantium, but the Alf Anna
knew only in stories, the monk of Anglia with
all his doubts and torments.
  Once more she stiffened her back. This was not Alf,
unless it were an Alf lacking some vital part. A
strength, a the hounds of god 149
  resilience. A core of steel. This one had
only stone, flint that could chip and shatter, with a heart
of deadly and uncontrollable fire. "I can't
master your power for you," she said. "Only you can do
that." "I'm not strong enough."
  She glared. "Of course you aren't, if you keep
saying so. Whining so, I should say. You're not human
that you can afford either laziness or cowardice. Get
rid of them and you'll have what you're begging me for."
  "No," he said. "Maybe once-before- No.
It's grown too great. I haven't grown with it.
It's my master now, and I its slave."
  "Because you let yourself be."
  His eyes darkened as if a veil had fallen across
them. He let go her hand. "Perhaps. Perhaps
it is God Who is master. He speaks to me like
thunder, like the whisper of wind in the grass. He commands
me: 'Go forth, be strong, conquer in My name. Let
no man stand against Me."" He rose in the
mantle of his madness. "No man, no woman, no
creature of night's creation. I have been shaped in
the forge. I am the hammer of God."
  "You are a madman."
  "Yes," he agreed willingly. "It's God,
you see. He's too strong for flesh to endure. The
old heathens knew. They said it, and I know it for
truth. Whom the gods would take, they first drive
mad." His hand rested lightly, briefly, on her
shoulder. "I would regret it if I could. I
don't like to cause pain, even in God's name."
  Anna shook her head. She could not-would not-
debate with lunacy. He smiled the first smile she
had ever seen on his face. It was sad and very sweet.
She turned her back on it. Well before she moved
again, he had gone.
  To her surprise and much to her dismay, she found that
she was crying. For anger. For weariness. For simple
pity. 18
  "Anna. Anna Chrysolora."
  She opened her eyes, squinting in the
changeless light. Almost she, groaned aloud.
Simon sat by her, saying her name with a soft and almost
witless pleasure.
  She snapped at him, cross with sleep and with the
compassion he forced upon her. Hate was so much
simpler, so much more satisfying. "Don't you have
anything better to do with yourself?" "No," he answered
unruffled.
  "No Masses? No Offices to sing? No other
prisoners to torture?" "It's after Prime. You
know there are no other prisoners here. Only you and
yonder whelps and that other who crouches in a corner
and tries to find a chink in my power. She won't
find one."
  "You are arrogant."
  "I tell the plain truth."
  Anna sat up, knuckling the last grains of
sleep from her

  the hounds OF god 151
  eyes. She felt filthy; she ached. Her
courses were on her at last. God's own curse in
this place, in front of this monster. He clasped his
knees. It was a most unmonstrous posture,
boylike indeed with his clear young face
atop it. "Brother Paul is coming," he said.
"He grows impatient. We gain nothing while
yon witch defies me." "I should think you'd hold
us for ransom. Then you'd have a chance of gaining
something."
  "We have asked. The price, it seems, is too
high."
  Anna swallowed. Suddenly her throat was
dust-dry. He heard the silent question. "We ask
no mere treasure of mint or mine. We will have the
witches, all of them, subject to the justice of the
Church, and Rhiyana ours to lay under the rule of
God." "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 152 Judith Tarr
  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 upon 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 the hounds OF god 153
  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 upon 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
  154 Judith Tarr
  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. would
have more. I hate it. I hate-was 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?"
  the hounds OF Gou 155
  "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 Jehan.
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 156
Judith Tan- 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 un moved, 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 tying. Even if Simon
Magus can pierce Rhiyana's defenses-and'
1grant'you, he's strong enough for that-even he can't
overwhelm both Gwydion and Aldan at
once. They're twinbom; 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."
  Istx'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. the hounds OF
god 157
  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 cha/y. 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 1 grovel at
your feet. I grieve for my King and my kin; I
158 Judith Tarr
  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'II 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'ma 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. the hounds OF god 159
  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 round 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."
  160 Judith Tan- 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.
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  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 upon 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 of 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

  162 Judith Tarr
  the plain joy of the Greek in exile who had found
a countryman. How easily they had taken him in,
though not, to be sure, without suspicion. Even in his
hunting he smiled to remember his first encounter with
Bianca: returning from the market that second day with
Stefania and finding the servant not only up but about,
ancient, gnarled, tiny as old Tithonus who in the
extremity of immortal age shriveled into a
grasshopper. But she had the voice and the will of a
giantess, and for all her ears' lack, her eyes were
piercingly keen. She could see a handsome young man
well enough, and roar at him for a rake and a
corrupter of maidens, and purr when he smiled his
best and whitest smile. Although she trusted nothing that
was both young and male, nor ever would, she had been
heard to admit that that particula. specimen seemed
less dangerous than most. Especially
under her watchful eye.
  He stumbled. His power plummeted in a flurry
of feathers; battled for control; strained upward. A
gust caught it, bore it up, and as it settled
once more into an easy glide, hurled it madly
skyward. Vast wings opened above him. A monstrous
creature filled the sky: an eagle, a roc, a
dragon. Its talons were hooked lightning; its
cry shattered stars.
  It could not see him. That was his single greatest
gift, the one that was his alone, to pass unperceived
by any power. Next to the reading of thoughts, it had been
his first skill; he had never had to learn it, nor had
he ever been able to teach it. While he wielded it
he was safe even from that immeasurable might which loomed
over him, its wings stretching from pole to pole.
  And yet he made himself as small as he might,
small as a merlin, as a sparrow, as a
hummingbird. His body Shuddered with terror; his
brain reeled. If he could only cling close, could
follow, could-- An eye like the moon bent upon him.
Widened and the hounds OF god 163
  fixed; saw. Impossible, impossible. He was
invisible. No one could see him unless he willed
it.
  The cruel beak opened. Laughter shrilled, high
and cold and cruel. The talons struck.
  Full between them Nikki flew, seared by the heat of
their nearness, racked with the pain of it. But free and
fleeing to sanctuary, the high-walled refuge of his
mind.
  It was deathly quiet. The world was like an image in
a glass, clear and present yet remote, even the
rain and the cold touching him only distantly. He
floated through it with little care for where he went; he could
not make his thoughts come clear. When he tried, he
found only the memory of alien laughter.
  Stefania was determined not to fret. She was a
woman of both wit and wisdom; she had every intention
of becoming a philosopher, whatever the world and the
Church had to say. And a true philosopher should not
care whether, or when, a pretty lad chose
to favor her with his presence. Even when he had
promised to come before dark, and the hourglass had
emptied once already since the last gray light
failed. Even though he had never before failed
to appear precisely when he said he would. What
did she know of him, after all? Maybe he had found
another and prettier girl to call on.
  Bianca had cursed him, exonerated
him, and fretted over him. Now at last she had
vanished into the kitchen to raise a mighty clatter.
Uncle Gregorios was gone, called away on
some urgent business. Stefania had only herself,
half a page of Pindar, and a blot on the vellum
that she could only stare at helplessly. He was only
a boy. A friend, maybe. Amusing; pleasant
to look at; useful for carrying packages and
scraping parchment and arguing theology. He listened
wonderfully and never showed the least sign of shock at
anything she said, although she shocked herself sometimes with how
much she told him. Even her dream, outrageous and
lunatic as it was and probably heretical, to have a
house that 164 Judith Tarr
  was all her own with no man the lord of it, and a
company of women like herself, women who had a little
learning and wanted more. Like nuns, maybe, but neither
cloistered nor under vows, brides not of Christ but of
philosophy, each prepared to teach the others what
she knew.
  Nikephoros had not even smiled at that wild
fancy. Of course, he had said; it would be like any
other school, except that both masters and students were
women. Nor had he been mocking her as far as she
could see. And that was rather far; he was
marvelously easy to read. She thrust book and
copy aside and stood. He was not coming. He was a
guest in a monastery; he had companions who might
have kept him with them. His brother was ill, she seemed
to remember; maybe there had been a crisis.
  He could have sent a message.
  She shook herself. This was disgraceful. An hour's
wait for a stranger she had known a scarce fortnight,
and she was good for nothing but to pace the floor.
  Her cloak found its way about her shoulders. She
snatched up her hood and strode for the door.
  She had not so far to go after all. Arlecchina cried
on the stair above the street, her coat dappled with the
flicker of the wineshop's torches. Something dark
moved beyond her, swaying, turning. Stefania tensed.
A drunkard or a footpad, and she unarmed and the
door open behind her.
  The shadow flung out a hand. In the near-dark she
knew it as much by its movement as by its shape.
Nikki's face followed it, his hood and hat
fallen back, his eyes enormous. His weight
bore her backward. Somehow she got both of them
up the steps and through the door. He was conscious,
breathing loud and harsh, stumbling drunkenly. Yet
she caught no reek of wine.
  Warmth and lamplight seemed to revive him a
little. He pulled free and half sat, half fell
into Uncle Gregorios' chair. He was wet through,
shivering in spasms, his face green-pallid.
Stefania wrestled with the clasp of his mantle. He
did the hounds OF god 165
  nothing to help her. His hands were slack; his eyes
stared blankly, drained of intelligence.
  The clasp sprang free. The cloak dropped.
She coaxed and pulled him out of his gown, his sodden
boots, and after three breaths' hesitation, his shirt.
He was well made, she could not help but notice,
with the merest pleasant hint of boyish awkwardness.
Quickly she wrapped her own mantle about him and
heaped coals on the brazier, reckless with fear for
him. There was no mark on him, she had seen more than
enough to be sure; he had not been attacked or beaten,
not by any of Rome's bravos. He was sick, then.
He had taken a fever. Except . . .
  "What is this?" shrilled Bianca. "What is
this? Where's the boy been? Sweeping up the plague,
I can see with my own eyes. Don't cry on him,
child, he's wet enough without. You make sure he's
dry; I'll make him a posset. Fools of
pilgrims, they should know the air's got
demons in it, thick as Hies around the Curia."
  Stefania was not crying. Not that she was far from it.
Bianca renewed her clatter in the kitchen, to good
purpose now and with suspicious relish. "Old
ghoul," muttered Stefania.
  Nikki huddled in her cloak. His trembling had
stopped. "Nikephoros," she said, "you should never have
come here with a fever." He did not respond.
  She frowned. "I know. You thought it was nothing. Just
a touch of the winter chill. So you came out and you went
all light-headed and maybe you got lost. It's
God's good fortune you wandered in the right direction."
She touched his hair, which had begun to dry. He
started violently to his feet, nearly oversetting
her. His eyes were wide and wild, and they knew her;
he reached almost blindly. She must have done the same.
Hand met hand and gripped hard. His fingers were warm but
not fever-warm.
  166 Judith Tan- The green tinge had faded
from his face. He looked almost like his proper self;
he even tried to smile. He had let the cloak
fall. She looked; she was no saint to resist such
a temptation. Yes, he was comely all over, slim
and olive-smooth, his only blemish a red-brown
stain on the point of his shoulder. It looked
like a star, or like a small splayed hand. It begged
her to set her lips to it. His skin was silken, but
firm beneath, with nothing in it of the woman or the child. She
rested her cheek against it. "You frightened me," she
said. "In a little while I think I'll be angry.
If you don't fall down in a fit first."
  She stepped back a little too quickly. He did
not try to stop her. She reached for the cloak, shook
her head, took Uncle Gregorios' housegown
from its peg. It was warm and soft and only a little too
short. She did not know whether she was glad or
sorry to see him covered, seated again and submitting
meekly to Bianca's fussing, even forbearing
to grimace at the taste of the posset. His hair,
drying, was a riot of curls; she wanted to stroke
them.
  Bianca babbled interminably, hobbling about,
bringing food and drink, poking at the coals.
Nikki ate willingly enough, even hungrily, to the
old woman's open satisfac tion. "There now,
nothing wrong with you but rain and cold and monastery
food- Pah! Food they call it, no better
than offal, fit to starve any healthy young lad.
No wonder you fainted on our doorstep."
  Stefania swallowed a thoroughly
unphilosophical giggle. It was that or scream.
A fortnight's acquaintance and a night's anxiety,
and it seemed that she was lost. Just like the wise
Heloise away in Francia, all her learning
set at naught by a fine black eye. She glanced
at him, pretending to sip Bianca's fragrant
spiced wine. He was a little drawn still, a little grim
as he gazed into his own cup. Concern touched her.
"Tell me what's wrong," she said. He was not
listening. She reined in her temper, reached the hounds
OF god 167
  for the jar, filled his cup. He looked up then.
"Tell me," she said again.
  She watched the spasm cross his face. Pain;
frustration; a sudden and rending despair. He shook
his head hard, harder, and pulled himself up. His lips
moved clumsily, without sound. "I-I must-was
"You'll wait till your clothes dry. All night
if need be." He shook his head again. His shirt was
in his hand, the borrowed gown cast off. He dressed
swiftly, fumbling with haste, but he did not
precisely run away. In the moment before he
left, he paused. He regarded Stefania; he
bent, taking her hands. In each trembling palm he
set a kiss. Promising nothing.
Promising everything. Fools, they were. Both of
them.

  In the depths of Broceliande even the sunlight
was strange, enchanted, more mist than light. It lay
soft on Alfs bare skin, with but a shadow of its
true and searing power;
  warmth but no heat, sinking deep into his
winter-wearied bones. He stretched like a cat, long
and lazy and sinuous, inhaling the crushed sweetness of
grass and fern.
  A light hand ran down his body. He caret
turned to meet Thea's laughing eyes. His joy
leaped sun-high; fear crippled it. His hand shook
as he touched her. She was real, solid. His fingers
remembered every supple line of her; his lips traced
the swoop of cheek and neck and shoulder, lingered upon the
rich curve of her breasts, savored their brimming
sweetness. Slowly, tenderly, he left them,
seeking out the arch of her ribs, the subtle curve
other hips, the hills and hollows of her belly,
coming to rest at last in the meeting of her thighs. He
raised his head, drunk with fire and sweetness. She
slid down to match her body to his. Her fingers
roved over the webwork of scars that was his
back, traced the patterns
  the hounds OF god 169
  time and love had found there, waked the shiver of
pleasure that dwelt along his spine. His every nerve and
sinew sang.
  Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my
spouse; thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine
eyes, with one chain of thy neck. How fair is my
love, my sister, my spouse! how much better is
thy love than wine! and the smell of thine ointments
than all spices!
  Musk and silk, sun and salt and the sweet
sharpness of fern. Her eyes were burning gold yet
soft, as always--and only--for his loving. Heart and
body opened to enfold him.
  Love and light shattered together. He lay in
darkness, shuddering with the last spasms of his passion.
No sun shone down; no leaves whispered; no warm
woman-shape filled his arms. There was only dark and
stone and a memory of incense.
  San Girolamo. The name brought back all the
rest, with a remnant of sight, enough to see the shape of the
room and the huddle of shadow that was Nikki on his
pallet. The ample warmth at his back was
Jehan, deep asleep and snoring
gently.
  Alf sat up. He had fouled himself like any
callow boy dreaming fruitlessly of desire. He
rose, sick and sickened, powerless to stop his shaking.
Never in his life--never--
  First there had been his vows, and his body never yet
wakened to passion. Then there had been Thea. First
innocence, then sweet and constant knowledge. Never this
crawling shame. Mingled most horribly with grief
for her loss, and anger at his weakness, and the languor
thai came always after love.
  Thea would have braced him with mockery. The words of the
great Song lilted incongruously in his brain:
Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I
am sick of love.
  "Solomon," he said, "Solomon, if you could
have known no Judith Tarr
  what manner of creature your words would drive
mad . . ." His voice rang loud in the gloom.
Neither of his companions stirred. Jehan, alone in
the bed, had sprawled across the whole of it. A
splendid figure of a man, maned and pelted like a
lion; his dreams were like a child's, blameless,
sunlit.
  Alt backed away from them. With water
from the basin he washed himself, scouring brutally as if
that small pain could punish his body's betrayal.
Now indeed he could see why so many saints had
mortified their flesh. Hated it;
  beaten and starved it until its bestial instincts
should be slain. He had been a bit of an
ascetic. Was still, for the matter of that. But not for any
great sanctity; it was only carelessness and a body that
bore easily the burdens of fasting and sleeplessness,
cold and rough garments and long enforced silences. He
had never had to wage true war with it, nor ever yet
let it fall into proper saintly squalor.
  His head came up sharply. And should he now? No
vows bound him. He was a man of the world, a lord of
wealth and power, with no fear of death to drive him
into penitence. No Heaven to strive for, no Hell but
this earth in the wreck of all his joy. If she was
dead and both hope and hunt no more than a mourner's
madness, then he would know there was no God for his kind;
it was as the Hounds clamored, that they were the Devil's
own.
  No. He could not believe that his people belonged to the
Evil One. Not Thea. Not gentle childlike
Maura with her core of tempered steel. Not
Gwydion-Gwydion who lay wounded beyond
anyone's power to heal, forbidding Alt's coming with
indomitable will, commanding the army from his bed and from the mouth
of his brother. Aidan would have given more, would have
dwelt in the broken body and surrendered his own
full strength for Gwydion's sake, a selflessness
as pure as any mortal saint's.
  Still wet from his washing, Alt wandered into the
courtyard. The air was raw and cold, he knew as
one knows
  the hounds OF god 171
  beneath a heavy swathing of garments. Soon now the
bell would ring for the Night Office. The monks would
stumble blinking and yawning from their beds; some would sleep
upright through the rite, trusting for concealment to the dimness
and to their superior's own drowsiness. Alf had never
had that most useful of monastic arts. He had never
needed it.
  He was shivering. Why, he thought surprised,
I'm cold. he reached for a handful of shadow,
paused, stretched out his mind for an honest mortal
garment. Without shirt or trews the rough wool of the
pilgrim's robe galled almost like a hairshirt, as
well he knew who had worn thus the habit of a
Jeromite monk.
  He was sliding back into it. Jehan
noticed and worried. Nikki liked it not at all.
"They don't understand," he said. "I am God's
paradox. Child of the world's children, raised for Heaven;
given the world and all its delights, only to see them
reft away in a night and myself cast back into the
cloister in which I began. My body was never meant
for that, meekly though it submitted. My spirit . . .
Dear Lord God, but for a single earthly love I have
never been aught but Yours. And she, for all her
mockery, is part of Y; the love between us is Your
own although the Church would call it heresy. Yours
even-what sent me from my bed. Even that."
  And if she was dead, what then? Himself, alone.
Without her, without Liahan and Cynan, with the whole of
an immortal lifetime before him, vast and empty, more
bitter than any torments of the mortal Hell.
Yet if they lived-if he had them back again-nothing
could be as it was before. With Thea's aid he had schooled
himself to forget what he was. No longer. Her
lover, the father of her children. And a priest forever.
  The truth racked him with its force, sent him
reeling to the ground. God's truth; God's hand.
God's bitter jest, a laughter even his ears could
hear. Priest of what? A Church that had been
raised up for humankind and never for his
  172 Judith Tarr
  own; a rite and a dogma that had no place in it
for those whose bodies would not die, and that condemned all
his gifts as blackest sorcery. Blackest
ignorance.
  "Paul," he said, "whose monks have hounded us so
far and so fiercely, is called the Apostle of the
Gentiles. What then am I? I'm neither saint
nor evangelist. Only a reed in the wind of
God." And such a reed. Barefoot, beltless and
hatless, wandering down an empty street with no
memory of his passage from San Girolamo's
courtyard to this unfamiliar place. The sun was coming.
He could feel it, a tingle in his blood, a shrinking
of his skin.
  Prophets were mad. It was their nature. He was
a seer although the sight had been lost to him since before
his kin were taken-since he stood with Alun atop the
White Keep. Blinded, he remained a madman
and a mystic.
  The narrow street stretched wide. A piazza,
the Romans would say: a square with its inevitable
church. No marble Bacchus here, no throngs of
pilgrims in this black hour before dawn, no
Brother O.one seeing in mere fleshly
beauty the image of divinity. If he thought he had
it, would he worship it so ardently? He could not see
his own soul; he could not know what a singing splendor was
in it. The church was still and silent. It was very old, very
plain. Its distinction was the glory of gold and
crystal beneath the altar, encasing a strange relic,
the coldness of iron, the harshness of chains. Once
they had bound Peter himself, the fisherman who became
Prince of Apostles. Another paradox; another
who had lived in torment, betrayer and chief defender
of his Christ. "The world is a paradox," Alfsd,
"and men are lost in it. What is philosophy but a
struggle to make order of chaos? What is theology
but a child's groping in the dark? Jesu, Maria,
God in high Heaven, what are you to me or to my
kin?"
  The echoes died slowly. He expected no
answer. Perhaps there was none. the hounds OF god

  He sank to his knees on the stone. "My
Lord," he said reasonably, as to any man, "the
worid is Yours in its fullest measure. I see
You in it, albeit dimly, with eyes never made for
such vision. I know I come from Y; You shine in my
people. And yet, my Lord, and yet, if I
am to serve You before them, how can I do it? The Church
staggers under the weight of its humanity. Its
heretics offer only a stricter law, a harsher
road to Heaven. Moses, Mohammed, Gautama,
all the gods and prophets, have no help for us. For
me. I stand alone." The word shuddered in his throat.
"Alone. Shall we all die then? Have You looked upon
us and found us evil, and set Your Hounds to sweep us
away? We are poor things, neither men nor
angels, neither spirit nor true earthly flesh. And
yet we live; we serve You as best we can. Must
we pay for it with our destruction?"
  He shook his head. "No. That's despair.
We're being tested. Winnowed; shown our proper
path. But ah, dear God, the testing is bitter and the
winnowing relentless, and the path ... I can see but little
of that, and that darkly, and I am afraid."
  Out of the shadows a voice spoke. It was quiet,
a little diffident; it seemed honestly concerned. "But,
brother, you're supposed to be afraid."
  Alf whipped about. He knew he moved like an
animal, startling to human eyes, but these showed neither
fear nor recoil. Their owner was a man neither
tall'nor short, frail and sallow and gaunt
to starvation, his eyes dark and gently
humorous between neglected beard and much neglected
tonsure. A beggar surely, a mendicant
friar, ragged and long unwashed but extraordinarily
clear of gaze and wit. He took in Alf's
face and form, and smiled with a wondrous sweetness.
"Brother, you are a joy to see, even in your
sorrow. Can you pardon me for having listened to it? I
was saying my prayers in the chapel yonder when your
voice came to me like a cry from Heaven." "Or
to it," Alf said. This man was no great delight to the
174 Judith Tarr
  eye or to the nose, and yet he lightened even
Alfs spirit with his simple presence. He had a
power; a gift of joy. "To Heaven, yes," he
responded. "Would any good man cry to Hell?"
"He might if he were desperate."
  "I think," said the stranger, "that in such a case.
God would hear. You agree, surely, or it's
Hell you would have been calling to." Alfs mouth
twisted wryly. "I'm desperate, but I remain
a creature of reason. It's one of my curses."
  "You have more than one?"
  "What earthly being does not?"
  "None. But one should never keep count. Blessings,
now; those I love to number. Brother sun
and sister moon;
  mother earth and all her seasons, her fruits and her
creatures, even her human folk. Especially
they. So much in them is hideous, but how much more is
beautiful, if only one knows how to see."
  Alf nodded once, twice. "I'll never
dispute that. Nor do I take pleasure in
reckoning up my ill fortune, but it has to be
done, else I'll suffer all the more for my
heedlessness. God does not permit any creature
to be too constantly happy."
  "Of course not. Happiness needs sadness to set
it off. Would you want to live solely on honey?"
  "No more than I'd prefer a diet of gall.
I've gorged on sweetness, you see; now I'm
deluged with bitterness."
  The stranger squatted beside him. "Are you that?
I'm sorry for it. I suppose it's no great
comfort that the gladness will come back." "It's not."
Alfs head bent; he sat upon his heels, weary
beyond telling. "If I could see it, if I could know,
I'd be stronger." "No man may know what will come.
He can only hope, and trust in God."
"Once," Alf said, "I knew. The gift has
left me. Time was when I would have sung my
joy to be free of it; but
  the hounds OF god 775
  flesh is never content. I don't want it
back, you understand. Not the strokes of vision that fell
me in my tracks; not the forewarnings of wars and
plagues and calamities. Not even the few
glimpses of light, paid for as they are in such cruel
coin. I could only wish for a single image.
Sunlight, warmth, a child's laughter. Only that.
Then I would have the will to go on."
  "That will be as God wills," said the stranger.
"He's very strong in you, did you know that? You shine like
the moon."
  Alt flung up his head. "It is not God."
  "Why, of course it is," said the mild musical
voice. "I'm sure you're one of His dearer children.
He wouldn't test you so fiercely if He didn't
love you exceedingly."
  "That is not the orthodox position, Brother."
  "It's the truth."
  Alf laughed sharply. "What is truth?
By Church law I was damned from my conception."
  "No, brother. Someone has taught you wrongly.
No man can be-was "But I am not a man."
  The beggar-friar blinked at him.
  "I am not a man," Alf repeated. "I am
neither human nor mortal. The doctrine holds that
I have neither soul nor hope of salvation. Not a
pleasant thought at the best of times, to the most
irreligious of us. Which this is not, and which I am most
certainly not. And I think-I know that I am
called. A daimon with a vocation; an elvenlord who
was born to be a priest. Can't you sense God's
high amuse ment?" "God's laughter is never
cruel," the other said. Alf could find in him no
sign of either surprise or disbelief. "I knew
you were from Rhiyana; your face is unmistakable.
So it's true what's being said of your people."
  "Most of it. All, maybe, if you would make us
the Devil's brood." The dark eyes measured
him. "I would not. Mother 176 Judith Tarr
  Church isn't remarkably fond of me either, you
know; she finds me difficult to manage. I tell
the truth as I can see it, and it's not always her
truth, and I think too much of the Lord Jesus and
too little of the Canons. She does what she can
to keep me in order, and I try to obey her. But
when truth stands on one side and the Church on the
other, it's hard indeed to know what I should do."
  "It's worse than hard. It's
well-nigh impossible. One can only shut one's
eyes and pray for guidance, and do as one's heart
dictates." "My heart tells me that I see you
truly. Your trouble is the Crusade, isn't it?
War is no way to spread the Faith. Very much the
opposite." "My people have no need of conversion. Our
enemies know that. They intend to destroy us. For the
greater glory of God."
  "I would go," said the friar. "I would teach the
Faith to those who have never professed it. The
Saracens, the people afar in the silk countries-a whole
world has no knowledge of truth. I would go to it and leave you
in God's peace."
  "But you are not permitted."
  "I have been. I shall be again, though perhaps not soon.
His Holiness is most kind, but the world besets him;
the Church grows too great, and she grows haughty in
her greatness. Sometimes-this is not charitable, brother, but
sometimes I think we need the Lord Jesus to come again
and scourge this temple reared up in his name." "Is
that not what you are doing?"
  The friar sighed. "I have no skill in scourging
temples. Even when forced to it, I do it badly.
I would much rather be doing God's gentler works.
Healing, teaching, minister ing to the poor."
He sighed again, and coughed hard enough to rattle his
fragile bones. "But one does what one must.
Sometimes one escapes and tries to heal oneself in
solitude."
  "I too," Alfsd. He realized that he was
smiling faintly, the hounds OF god 177
  a little painfully. "You've healed me a little.
You've taught me something."
  "Have I?" asked the other, surprised. "I
wasn't trying to. I've done little but chatter about
myself."
  Alts smile deepened. "That's one excellent
way to teach." The friar looked at him, smiling
himself with such warm delight that Alt felt it like an
open fire. "And doesn't misery love company?"
He sobered suddenly. "I only fear ... I
never wanted it to go this far. It was only myself and
God. Then my brothers came to share God with me
and to help me with His work; only a few at first, but
the word got out, and to keep them all in order I
needed some sort of rule, and everyone said the Pope
himself should sanction it. And suddenly we were an Order
like the Benedictines or the Jeromites, and we had
to be sealed with the tonsure and the threefold vows.
To keep us safe. His Holiness said.
To mark us for what we were, servants of the Church.
And all I wanted was to live in peace in our
Lord's poverty, carrying out his commands as best I
knew how. What is there in the world that destroys all
simplicity?"
  "Human nature," Alf answered gently.
"But there's much good your brothers can do as they are, they
and their sisters. The temple will be scourged. The
Church will cleanse itself. Though it will be long, long
..."
  He had the man's hands in his own. They were stick-
thin, wrapped in bandages that though bloody were somewhat
cleaner than the rest of him. Alf caught his breath
at the festering pain as at the rush of sight.
"Giovanni Bernardone, when you stand by the throne of
God, will you spare a word for my people?"
  "I don't think," said the friar, "that you need
even my poor intercession. But for your sake, if
I get so far, I'll do as you ask." He looked
down at his hands, at Alfs cradling them like marble
round clay. "Your touch is peace."
  The pain was terrible. Nails piercing his hands,
trans fixing his feet. And his side beneath his heart-like
a spear, 178 Judith Tarr
  like a sword. How could the man walk,
talk, smile, even laugh, when every movement
crucified his body?
  For this there could be no earthly healing. Alf bowed
low and low. caret Sanctissime. Most holy
father."
  Fra Giovanni pulled him up, dismayed.
"Please don't. No one's supposed to know about
it. I can't have them all bowing and treating me like a
saint. Least of all you, who truly are one."
  Alts incredulity struck him mute. There was
holiness, to be so utterly oblivious to itself, even
with the great seal it bore. Five wounds. Five
stigmata. And he had thought that he knew pain. He
brought his head up and mustered all his calmness.
"God brought us together here to mend and to be mended. For
what they arc worth, I give you my thanks and my
blessing."
  "They are worth more than kingdoms." The
impossibly sweet smile returned although the dark
eyes were sad. "Go with God, brother. May He
shelter all your people and preserve them from harm, and bring
them to Himself at last."

  Anna could move, if she was very careful. She
did not know that she wanted to. Even her
eyelids throbbed and burned; she could see only through
a blood-red mist.
  Simon's voice spoke. It seemed to come from
everywhere at once, soft as a whisper yet echoing
deep in her brain. "See, woman. See what
your folly has bought you."
  It was like a dream, and it was not. It was too clear,
too distinct, too grimly relentless. It seemed
that she stood under the open sky, immeasurably vast
after the walls which had enclosed her for so long, and the
sun was shining and the gulls were crying. Beneath them like a
carpet spread the kingdom of Rhiyana. Dun and
gray and brown, white with snow and green with pine and
fir, hatched with roads that seemed all to run toward
the white pearl of Caer Gwent and the blue glitter
of the sea. That seemed safe, serene, overlaid with a
faint golden shimmer, but the borders seethed and
smoldered. The shimmer there was dark and shot through with
flame, and yet something in it put her in mind of
Simon's eyes.

  180 Judith Tarr
  The land swelled and stretched and grew clear before
her. She could have been a gull or a falcon
hovering over the untidy circle of a town.
Ants swarmed in it, men shrunken with distance and
height, brandishing weapons surely too tiny to be
deadly. Swords, spears-no. Staves and
cudgels, rakes, scythes, here and there a rusted
pike. Something fled before them, a small ragged
scrambling figure, white hair thin and wild,
weak eyes staring out of the tangle, blood-scarlet and
mad with terror. The mob bayed at it. "Witch!
Witch! Demon's get, sorcerer. God's
curse-was
  Anna struggled to cry out. But as in a dream, she
was voiceless, powerless. The poor pallid creature
stumbled and fell. The mob sprang upon it. A thin
shriek mounted to Heaven. Hoofs thundered. A strong
clear voice lashed above the growls of men turned
beasts. A company of knights and sergeants clove
through the mob, and at their head a flame of scarlet.
Anna could have sung for joy. He rode armored, the
Prince Aidan, but for haste or for recklessness he
had disdained both helm and mail-coif. His raven
head was bare, his face stark white with wrath; he
laid about him with the flat of his sword.
  At the eye of the storm was stillness. The wretched
albino lay twisted impossibly, his colorless
hair stained crimson. The Prince
sprang down beside him, knelt, brushed the broken
body with a gentle hand. His steel-gray glance
swept the gathered faces. "That," he said with deadly
softness, "was no more a witch than any of you."
He rose. Although one or two came near his
height, he towered over them; they flinched and cowered.
"Yes," he purred, "be afraid. Such return
you give your King for all his years of care for you; such
a gift do you give him, this roil of fear and
hate."
  Anna felt it. He could not. Not all his
pallor was anger; he was sustaining himself by sheer force
of will, and no power. He could not sense the gathering, the
focusing, the the hounds OF god 181
  sudden bitter loosing. Stone and hate struck him
together. His eyes went wide, astonished. He
reeled.
  He did not fall. Blood streamed down his
face, blinding him. He paid it no heed. His hand
stretched out. His mind reached, clawing, slipping,
failing. The mob closed in for the kill.
  Anna's throat was raw with outrage. She
flung herself at Simon; he held her away with
contemptuous ease. "Two," he said, "are
mastered. A third comes to my hand. S."
  She struggled; she fought; she willed her eyes
to be blind. No use. Rhiyana unfurled before her,
sweeping closer and closer, until Caer Gwent
itself grew about her. The streets were crowded though it was
the fallow time of Lent, as if lords and commons
alike had chosen to take refuge far from the
Crusade. Merchants did a brisk trade in
dainties as in necessities. Singers sang;
players plied their trade in front of the cathedral.
But the clamor of the schools was muted, the gate of the
synagogue barricaded shut, the austere houses of the
Heresiarch's flock empty and silent. Only one
man dared preach from the porch of one of the lesser
churches, and he was a friar, a Minorite in
tattered gray who proclaimed the poverty of
Christ. There were white habits and gray cowls
everywhere. How had so many come so deep into Rhiyana
in defiance of the ban? How dared they? They walked like
lords, secure in their power. People gave way before them.
Anna plunged past them with stomach-churning speed and
swooped toward the castle. Abruptly she was within
it. Its familiarity tore at her heart. There was
the Chancellor's Tower where she had lived whenever she
was in Caer Gwent. There was the stable where champed her
fiery little gelding, Alfs gift to her
only this past name-day. And there was the Queen's
garden, so wrought that it seemed far larger within than
without, touched with her magic. Roses bloomed;
small bright birds sang spring songs without care
for the beasts which lazed on the ground
  182 Judith Tarr
  below. Some were gifts from far countries, such of them
as chose to sacrifice freedom and homeland for
love of the Queen. Some had come of their own accord,
a white hind and her red fawn, a sow and her
piglets, badgers and coneys and sleek red
foxes. And the wolves. Not gray wolves of the
wood but white wolves of the Wood, great as
mastiffs, he and she, and their boisterous half-grown
cubs. The Queen sat on the grass with the
she-wolfs head in her lap. They were wonderfully
alike, the lady in her white gown with her ivory
skin and her ivory hair and her eyes the color of
amber, the wolf all white and golden-eyed.
"Sister," said the light childlike voice of the
lady, "you are not being wise. The rest of the
wildfolk will go back to their proper places with the
next sunrise. You must not linger, not you of them all,
whom humans call my kin and my familiars. They
will destroy you as gladly as they destroy
me, and no whit less cruelly." Anna heard the
response as a voice, husky like a man's yet
somehow distinctly feminine. We came when you came.
We go when you go. "Then your children at least-was
  They stay.
  Maura's fingers buried themselves in the thick
ruff. Her eyes had the hard glitter of one who
refuses to weep. "Do you remember," she
murmured, "when Alun was playing just where your cubs
play now? And when we looked, the three young
wolves were four and my son nowhere to be seen, but the
largest and most awkward cub looked at us with
startled gray eyes. He had that gift from me, the
wolf- shape, yet his talent was greater. Like
Thea's, limited only by his knowledge." She shook her
head and mustered a smile. "Such mischief it led
him into. When he walked as a cat and he met a
she-cat in heat ... his wounds were nothing, but his shock
was all-encompassing. Cats, after all, are
creatures of Venus, and when one takes a shape
one takes on its nature as well."
  the hounds OF god 183
  The wolfs gaze was wise and strangely
compassionate. He hunted well. We mourn Aim
under the moon.
  "I mourn him always. Always. But I must be
strong. I must hold up my head under the crown. It
is so heavy, sister. So monstrously heavy." She
drooped even in speaking of it, but stiffened with a visible
effort of will, rising to her feet. Her heavy braid
uncoiled to her heels, rich as cream; she took
up the somber pelisson she had discarded, the
wimple and veil suited to a matron and a queen.
Slowly she put on the dark overgown with its lining of
marten fur. As she began to fold the wimple, a
disturbance brought her about. The animals were
agitated, the more timid already hidden, the hunters
alert, growling softly. Yet even without them she would
have known that human feet had trodden in her garden.
The Pope's Legate walked among the roses,
vivid in the scarlet of his rank. He moved
slowly, breathing deep of the cool clear air, but under
the joyous peace of the garden his face was grim.
  As he saw the Queen, both joy and grimness
deepened. He bowed low before her. She bent her head
to him, all queenly. "Eminence," she acknowledged
him.
  "Your Majesty," he responded. He looked
about him as if he could not help it, his eyes coming
to rest where they had begun, upon her. The
grimness filled his face, yet he spoke gently.
"Majesty, I beg you to pardon my intrusion."
  "It is pardoned." She sounded cool and
remote, unmoved by any trouble. Silence stretched.
The beasts had settled; the wolves sat or lay in
a broad circle about the Cardinal and the Queen,
even the cubs still, watchful.
  Benedetto Tbrrino sighed faintly. "I know
how few are your moments of peace," he said. "The
crown is heavy even for one well fit to bear it; and
what we have brought into this kingdom . . . Lady, I
regret that we have caused you suffering and must cause you
more."
  "Must, Lord Cardinal? Is it the law of God
that the Church must hound us to death and our realm to ruin?"
  184 Judith Tarr
  "It is the law of the world that a will to good must often
rum all to evil. His Holiness wishes only that the
world be cleansed of stain and brought back to its God.
His servants labor to work his will, and His will, as best
they may."
  She laughed, cold and clear. "You believe that?
Then you are an innocent. We suffer and we die so
that one small circle of venal men may hold more
power in the Curia than any of their
rivals." "Not entirely, Lady. Not
entirely."
  "Enough." The wimple was crushed in her hand; she
let it fall. "I am weary. Lord Cardinal, and
it seems I am to have no rest even here where none but
my dearest kin may come. Why have you braved the wards
and the ban?"
  "I had no choice." From his sleeve Tbrrino
took a folded parchment. "This has come to me. I
think you should know of it."
  She held it, looking at it. Her fingers
tightened. She opened the missive, read slowly.
Nothing changed in her face or her bearing, yet the
air darkened and stilled as before thunder. She looked
up. Her eyes were the color of sulfur. "Your
embassy is ended forthwith. You are to return
to Rome. A man of firmer will and greater devotion
to God and to Mother Church will fill your place. He
will, of course, be a monk of Saint Paul."
  "That is not the ... precise . . . wording of the
letter." "That is its import." She turned it in her
hands. "Pope Honorius never saw this."
  "He signed it. There is the seal."
  "And its secret mark, the exact number of
points in Saint Peter's beard." She
shook her head slightly, almost amused. "My lord,
there is an old, old trick. A heap of
documents, a high lord in haste, the crucial and
betraying writ so concealed that only its margin is
visible, ready to be signed. Men have been done
to death in that fashion, as we may well be. For I
have little doubt that with this His Holiness
  THE hounds OF god 185
  signed another addressed to the new Legate,
granting God's Hounds full power and full
discretion in the har rowing of Rhiyana." "I cannot
believe-was Tbrrino broke off. More slowly, more
softly, he said, "I can. God help me; God
help us all."
  "You move too slowly to sate the bloodthirst
of a Hound. You have not even lowered the Interdict; not
by your command have innocent folk been burned in the
markets and before the churches. The Hounds and the
Crusade have advanced without you."
  "I have made no effort to stop them." Tbrrino's
voice was harsh. "You have been powerless. So too have
I. Did I enforce the ban when the gray cowls
appeared all at once and with brazen boldness in every
hamlet, even in my own city?"
  "But not in your hall or before your court."
  "They will not defile their sanctity with my
presence. Not until they come triumphant to demand
my life."
  "Lady," he said. "Lady, believe. I
came armed with righteousness to search out a tribe of
devils. I found order and peace, a just king, a people
no more evil than any other in this world. I do not
believe that you have deceived me, or that I have deceived
myself. Your sorceries, the infidels among you . .
. they have not earned death or even Interdict, least of
all without proper trial. I would have your people tried,
given time to speak in their own defense, dealt with
thereafter singly and with justice, without peril to your
kingdom." "What one would have and what one will have do not
often meet. Will you obey your false orders, my
lord?"
  He took them from her hand. With a sudden fierce
movement he tore the sheet asunder. The shards
rattled like leaves as they fell. But he said
calmly, "I may have no choice, although I shall
fight with what skill I have. Letters can be delayed
or mislaid; the kingdom is in chaos, the roads
beset with mud and brigands."
  186 Judith Tarr
  "As they have not been since my King was
young." Her fierceness like his was a flash of blade from
the sheath, but she held it so, drawn and glittering.
"Benedetto Cardinal Tbrrino, you know that your very
presence here is a betrayal of your office."
  "My office is that of judge and emissary; my
calling is that of a priest of Christ. I will not
surrender it all for a lie." "The lie may be in
us."
  He regarded her. She stood as tall as he, but
slender as a child, with the face of a young maiden. Her
eyes, unveiled, were utterly inhuman. "And
yet," he whispered, "not evil. Never so."
  "They will say I have ensorceled you."
  "Perhaps you have. You are all beautiful, you Kindred
of the Elvenking, but you most of all. Lady and
Queen. I have never seen a woman fairer than
you."
  "The White Chancellor surpasses me. Lord
Cardinal, and well I know it."
  He smiled with surprising warmth. "But, Lady,
he is a man; and even at that I would not set him
above you. I grieve that we meet only now and
amid such havoc, but I cannot regret that we have
met."
  "Nor," she mused, "after all, can
I." Her smile nearly felled him. He
reeled; she caught him in great dismay. "My lord,
pardon, I took no thought-was His
  The Queen had gone. In her place stood the
maid who had loved two princes, but who had chosen
the one for his gentleness-not knowing then that he would be King.
But the Queen knew what the maiden had never
suspected, that her face itself was an enchantment and her
smile laden with power. She looked on this newest
victim in visible distress, holding him by his two
hands as if the body's strength alone could undo what
she had done.
  He steadied quickly enough. He was a strong-willed
man; his vows protected him after a fashion. But
he remained a man. He swallowed hard. "Your
Majesty, I must go."
  the hounds OF god 187
  "Yes," she said, "you must."
  They both looked down. Their hands were locked
together. Neither could find the power to let go.
  "Your King--" It was a gasp. "Your husband.
He is mending, I have heard; one of your Kindred--
she told me where you were--I thank God that he,
will not die."
  "It is not yet certain that he will live.
But we pray. He will allow no more. Even I--he
will not let me come to him, and I cannot go as our people go.
And there is the throne to hold for him. Ah, God,
I hate these shackles of queenship!"
  "You love him."
  "Most sinfully, with body and soul." At last
she could loose one hand, only to touch his pectoral
cross. "I have never felt it as a sin. I gave
him the only child I could give;
  I would joyfully give him another, a pair, a
dozen. As he would give me--but wounded, walled
against me--I fear that he is hiding--that he may be
--"
  His arms closed about her, inevitable as the tides
of the sea. "He took an arrow in the thigh, but not so
high and not so dreadful as you fear. I have it from
witnesses; I know it for truth. He may come back
lame, but he will come back a man."
  "Or dead." Her head drooped upon his shoulder;
he clasped her close. His face was rapt,
brilliant, a little mad. He buried it in the
silken masses of her hair.
  "Three," Simon said, "or more likely, four.
Who would have dreamed that a prince of the Church would
fall so easily? I hardly needed
to bait the trap."
  Anna did not know how she could hate him, pity
him, fear him, scorn him, all utterly, all at
once. It choked the breath from her; it left her
blank and staring, shaking her head slowly, unable
to stop. He had no eyes for her. Thea lay
flattened at his feet, hackles abristle, lips
wrinkled in a snarl. "The world shall be clean of all
your kind," he said. "One by one they shall 188
Judith Tarr
  fall. Even those you deem safe in your forest-I
have counted them; my power has marked each one. It
grows, you see. With use, with mastery, its strength
waxes ever greater. No wall may hold it away,
no magic stand against it, no power overcome it."
He reached as for something he could touch, smiling with
terrible gentleness. "How beau tiful, like a tower of
light. How fragile; how easy to cast down."
Thea tensed as if to spring. He raised his hand. She
froze. Her snarl died. The blaze of her eyes
died into ashes. She shrank down and down. "Your
demon lover," he said, "is dead. He dared
advance against me; I struck, and cast him down.
He lingered for a little while; he struggled; he
betrayed your people to the Pope's Legate.
But at last he fell into the darkness that waits for those
who have no souls." "No," Anna whispered.
"No."
  Simon turned to her. "Yes. Great prince of
devils that he was, masked in piety, he was no
match for me. The world is free of him." "No,"
she repeated. "He can't be dead. He promised
me. A long time ago in Constantine's city, he
promised. As long as I needed him, he wouldn't-was
She could not finish. Not for grief, not yet; for
rage. She faced her jailer in a white fire of
it. "How dared he die? How dared you murder him?"
  He fell back. She did not deign to be
astonished. "Damn you. Damn you, Simon
Magus. What right have you to make us suffer? Who
gave you the power to ordain life and death? How dared
you kill my brother?" "God," he gasped.
"God-was
  "God damns you, you hound of Hell. Murderer,
your power is so mighty-raise our dead. Do yourself
to death in their places." "It is forbidden. God
forbids-was
  "He who lives by the sword shall die by the sword.
Who the hounds OF god 189
  slays with power must die of it. That is the
law of your kind." "No law binds me but
God's."
  "Just so." Anna raised her clenched fists. "I
curse you, Simon Magus. I curse you by your
own power."
  He backed away. "No. No, I beg, I
command-was "Monster. Coward. You dread death. You know
what waits for you. Hellmouth. The Lord Satan.
The fires unending. If," she said, "if you have a
soul."
  He struck at her feebly, white with terror,
all the glory gone and only the craven madness
left to rule him. Until he paused; his hands
froze, warding. His eyes blazed with sudden
lightnings. Again he struck, a great sweeping blow
that hurled her from her feet. 22
  The fall was endless, eternal. Thea flashed past;
Anna snatched at her, caught her. Eye met
eye. Thea's were dull, quenched, dim brown
beast-eyes. Yet for the briefest of instants they
flared green. Her body was gone, twin small
bodies in its place, filling Anna's arms.
One slipped free, or was torn free. The other
she clasped strangling-close, falling down and
down, whirling into nothingness. She struck
stone. It was wet; it was cold. Something whined and
pushed against her. With a small gasp she thrust herself
up on her arms. She nearly fell again. Cynan
huddled beneath her, bedraggled and shivering, but it was not the
cold that shook his every bone. There were no walls. No
walls. A green tangle, a worn pale
pavement, a blazing-bright arch of sky.
  It wavered. She tried to fight the tears, but they
only came the harder.
  Needle-sharp teeth closed, but gently, gently,
on her hand. Cynan released it, wobbling on his
feet, meeting her stare. Stronger than terror was his
determination. Somethe hounds OF god 191 thing
nudged her, but not upon her flesh; within, like a memory
struggling to the surface. A word or a wish. Up.
And, G. He too had his father's eyes, silvered
gold. His father- A howl welled up from the bottom
of her soul. She locked her jaw against it. She
struggled to an ungainly crouch, aware as one is
amid a nightmare, of her filthy clothes, her
rank body, her hair straggling over her face and
shoulders and down her back. "Your father," her mouth
said, "is dead. Alun is dead, and we-was Cynan
caught the trailing edge of her sleeve and tugged.
Go, he willed her. Go!
  Her body was beyond her mind's control. "I loved
him. I loved him. And he promised-he
promised-was
  Pain shocked her into sanity. Cynan crouched
flat, snarling, within easy reach other torn hand.
She staggered up. He did not rejoice, not yet. He
nipped her hem. She tottered forward; he rose and
followed. Slowly her steps steadied, her mind
cleared. Though valiant, Cynan was very young still; she
scooped him up before he could tire. His weight was like
a shield, a ward against panic. It was real, this
road, this air, this sky. She was free. She had
driven Simon to the edge, and he had not slain her;
he had flung her away. Liahan, Thea- With
all her strength she mastered herself. She had
Cynan, and he was thoroughly hale. Where they were,
that must come next. Surely, despite its
wildness, this was no wilderness; the road was clear of
greenery, the greenery itself held just short of conquest
amid a scattering of flowers. Something white
glimmered through them. She let her breath out slowly.
The face was marble, crumbling and streaked with moss, the
body beneath it draped modestly enough in a mantle of
laurel. She made her way past it, stretching
into a freer stride. Her heart slowed its
pounding. No walls sprang up about her, no
Simon came to bar her way. The road turned
sharolv. The trees ooened. A whole 192
Judith Tarr
  world stretched before her. A city of hills and
marshes and a broad arch of river, walled and towered
among the works of giants. Her knees loosened.
She fought to stiffen them. After all her dread and her
refusal to think of the choices, she had not been sent
far at all. She was still in Rome.
  A month's journey from Rhiyana on
horseback with ample provision. Knowing not a soul
here, looking like a beggar, with neither money nor food
to sustain her. And for company an unweaned pup.
Cynan objected to that with body and mind. He had
been trying himself at his mother's ration of meat. And he
was a witch born; he had power. He could help
her.
  A smile felt strange upon her face. "You
can," she said. "Unless-was She shut her mouth. One
did not name xhe Devil. If she was to go on at
all, she must go on as if she were truly free.
She had her wits and her companion, and no one had
taken her small wealth, the rings of gold in her
ears. Surely those would buy her food,
shelter, and maybe-she trembled at the mere
prospect of it-a bath. The sun had been middling
low when she began; as she walked, it rose. Its
arc was much higher than she remem bered, the arc of
winter turning toward spring, the air wonderfully
warm. Even so, she was grateful for the furred lining of
her cotte. Her soft shoes, never made for much
walking, were wet through from the puddled road; she would not
think of the growing soreness of her feet. How huge
Rome was. How terrifying with its crush of people, and
yet how frightening in the wastes where people were not. She
felt as glaringly conspicuous as a goosegirl in a
king's hall, clad as she was for a Rhiyanan
castle but draggled like a gutter rat, with a very young
alaunt in her arms. He was stiff with fear, yet
he stared in wide-eyed fascination, taking it all
in, who had never known aught but the quiet of a
prison cell.
  She dared not let him walk lest she lose him.
He did not ask more than once. There were too many
feet, and too
  the hounds OF god 193
  many dogs, whip-thin vicious creatures who
looked starved for just such a tender morsel as he. But
the one that ventured too close nearly lost
a portion of its nose; the rest, beasts and men
alike, kept their distance.
  Anna knew she should try to find a place
to walk to. A goldsmith or a pawnbroker who
might give fair return for her earrings; a
hostel where she might rest, gather her wits, find
a way home. But the thought of closing herself within
walls again, even walls with an open gate, made
her shudder.
  The sun, having won the zenith, began to fall
toward evening. Cynan's weight dragged at
Anna's arms. And he was growing hungry. She could
fast if she must, however unpleasant it might be,
but he was far too young for that.
  She paused at last by a small oddity of a
fountain set into a wall. From the mouth of an
age-smoothed lion-face poured a thin stream,
gathering into a long narrow basin. The water was cold
and sweet. She plunged her face into it, briefly
oblivious to aught but her senses" delight.
  Cynan, set on the basin's edge, lapped
thirstily. When Anna emerged, gasping and
spluttering, he was gone. She looked about at first
without undue concern. The street was relatively
uncrowded; she had been lost to the world for no
more than a moment or two. It should not be difficult
to catch sight of a white alaunt pup. It should not;
it was. He had vanished.
  She stood, still dripping, warmed by an uprush of
sheer fury. "Damn all witches," she gritted.
"Damn them, damn them, damn them!" A flash of
white caught her eye. She spun toward it. Under
a cart redolent of fish, a small shape stirred.
A cat. Anna walked because she could think of nothing
else to do, calling Cynan's name without much hope,
cursing him in Greek and with some invention. People stared at
her. She looked like a lunatic, and she felt like
one.
  Her hem caught. She tugged at it. It tugged
back. She 194 Judith Tarr
  whipped about. Cynan grinned, tongue lolling,
tail a blur. She shook her fist at him. "You
imp! Where were you?" He ran ahead a pace or
two, ran back again. Come, he commanded. See.
Anna groaned aloud. "See what? Aren't you
hungry? Don't you want to eat? Sleep? Be
clean?"
  He gripped her gown again. Seel
  With a deep sigh she let him lead her. He
was, after all, a witchling. She hoped it
was his power that guided him. They passed the fountain.
They passed the fish-peddler. They passed a
goldsmith's shop, but Cynan would not let her
stop. The narrow street opened upon another somewhat
wider and somewhat more crowded. People milled about a long
double row of stalls which seemed to offer anything one could
ask for. The scent of grilling fish, of spices, of
bread just baked, knotted Anna's stomach with sudden
pain. Cynan drew her onward. He must have been
tiring, although he showed no sign of it.
  At last he stopped. They stood between the baker's
stall and one heaped high with books. That for Anna was
another sort of pain, an urge to snatch the first
dusty binding and plunge into an ecstasy of words.
Cynan seemed bent on doing just that, in a
completely literal sense. He bounded into the open
shop, Anna following perforce, her temper held
on a right leash.
  It was dim within after the brilliance of sunlight.
Anna discerned the shadows of books, a scribe's
table, a man bent over it intent on his work. The
bookseller, he would be, vouchsafing Anna one
measuring glance before he returned to his page. His
only patron was mildly startling, a girl younger
than Anna and exceedingly pretty,
dressed becomingly but very plainly. A basket lay
forgotten at her feet, overflowing with the fruits of a
day's marketing, while she leafed through a closely
written codex.
  Cynan arrowed straight toward her, gamboling about
her, tueeing the cloth covering from her basket and
tangling the hounds OF god 195
  himself in it until he could do no more than wriggle
and grin. The girl left her book before his antics
had well begun. When she laughed, the whole crowded
space seemed to sparkle. She swept up the
bundle Cynan had made of himself and kissed his
pointed muzzle, not entirely to his delight.
"Ah, little monster," she teased him, "back
to torment me again, are you? Or is it the fish in my
basket?" He struggled. She unwound him and set
him down. He returned to Anna, looking
extremely pleased with himself. See, he said.
Food and a friend. Love me, Anna?
  She shook him. She hugged him. She met the
girl's gaze with one as bold as she could manage,
but with a judicious touch of apology. "Your
pardon," she said in Latin, "if this imp has been
troubling you." "He's yours then?" The stranger
took her in without visible distaste, even
smiling a little.
  "He's mine," answered Anna, "to look after.
God help me." The girl laughed. "He's a
terror, isn't he? He's beautieaful." She
fondled his ears, her eyes on Anna's face.
"Your Latin is marvelous. Can it be that you're a
marvel yourself? An educated woman?" "I'm
reckoned so," Anne said slowly.
  "Would you know dialectics? Have you ever read the
philosophers? Do you know Aristotle? Plato?
Epicurus?" She caught herself, giggling like any
featherhead of a girl. "I'm getting above myself!
It's just, hearing you speak Latin, and so well--my
wishes ran away with me." Cynan was radiating
satisfaction. Witch-brat, Anna thought at him,
to no perceptible effect. She discovered that she was
smiling. "Anna Chrysolora," she named herself.
  "Stefania da Ravenna." Her own smile was
radiant. "Would you be Greek? My mother was.
My uncle is. If you asked him, he'd call
me Stefania Makaria."
  "I was born in Constanrinopolis."
  196 Judith Tarr
  "And I in Ravenna. Are you here as a
pilgrim? Or do you live here?" "A
Byzantine pilgrim in Rome?"
  For a moment Stefania's face darkened. "I know
one. I knew-was She shook herself firmly. "Of
course not. But if you live here ..." Anna
looked down at her own disarray and up into the clear
eyes. They were as blue as evening, as the field of
Gwydion's banner, as the sapphire in his crown.
"I don't live here." The walls were closing in.
Or was it only her sight's failing? "I have nowhere
to rest my head. The world was walled and barred, and he
cast me out because I dared to tell the truth. He
said-he said my brother was-was The rest was a blur.
Anna walked, she knew that. Stefania had the
basket. Cynan rode on top of it. Wizard-
imp; he had plotted this. He could not be two
months old. He could not be very much more than one.
  Precocious. Maybe she called him that. She
was in the street; she was on a stair, struggling not
to fall; she was in a warm bright room, facing wrath
in the shape of an ancient crone. "Filthy!" it
shrilled. "Stinking! Water, Stefania. Soap.
Towels. Out of the way, puppy!" A bath.
Bliss unalloyed. Clean hair, clean body,
clean shift somewhat too short, a bed and a
blanket, Cynan's warm full-fed
presence, sleep and peace at last. She embraced
them all with joyous fervor. 23
  Nikki paced from end to end of San
Girolamo's cloister. The monks were singing the
Office of Nones, Alf and Father Jehan among
them. He had the cloister to himself with its ornate
columns and its carefully tended grass, starred with
windflowers about the grave of some forgotten abbot.
  Somewhere in the night, his power had come back. He
could hear again, if he wished to. At the moment he
did not. He was born to silence, to the prison of his
mind. His eyes were windows only, granting vision but
no understanding.
  Stefania did not know. She could not even guess.
Oh, to be sure, he had been clever, keeping her
eyes anywhere but on his motionless lips, speaking always
and with care in words, never in his private language of
face and body and will. She thought he was a man like
any other. She thought she loved him.
  She loved a lie. The truth would stun her, with
disbelief at first, then with fear. Then, and worst of
all, with pity. For

  198 Judith Tarr
  without the armor of his power he was a poor
creature, mute and walled in silence.
  He could read, he could write. He was not without
hope. He was not a proper man.
  Well? Need she ever know? He had been a
fool to seek her out after the enemy's attack; he
had been half out of his wits, he had not known what
he did until it was done. He had never wanted
any woman as he wanted her. She was made for
him; she was perfection. Maybe ... it could very well
be that he loved her.
  She had by far the keener mind. Not that he had ever
pretended to be even a scholar, let alone a
philosopher. He learned easily enough, and with
Alf for a teacher he could not help but pass for an
educated man, but his wits had neither depth nor
brilliance. Where she led, he could only follow at
a distance.
  She knew that; she did not care. She loved his
face and what wit he had and, quite frankly, his
body: the totality of him as she knew it. She must
know. He could not keep up this deception. If he
lost her- His strides lengthened and quickened. His fingers
worked, knotting, unknotting. He was supposed to be
hunting for Anna, Thea, the twins. Not sighing after a
lovely half-Greek philosopher.
He stopped short. He would tell her. Now.
Today. Maybe it would not matter to her.
  Maybe, by the same miracle, he would learn
to speak. He turned, and leaped back startled.
Prior Giacomo was standing not a yard away, wearing
his customary formidable scowl. His lips moved; with a
wrenching effort Nikki made himself hear. "dis . .
troubled. Is there any help I can give you?"
  Nikki stared. He almost laughed. Help? What
mortal man could help any of them? A born
witch and a made witch and a man mad enough to love them
both; this
  the hounds OF god 199
  excellent monk could not conceive of the troubles that beset
them. Prior Giacomo bridled a little. He did
not know that he understood Nikki's wordless speech; he
thought he was reading the boy's face, finding there the
despair that was real and the scorn that was his own
misunderstanding. "I know I presume," he said
stiffly, "but I can't help my concern for the welfare
of a guest."
  Nikki shook his head from side to side. His
lips were set, locked in silence. He could not tell
the whole of it for Giacomo's soul's sake. His
own small part meant nothing. He was in
love, he should not be, he must not be. What was that
to the enormities that had brought him here?
  He watched awareness dawn in the Prior's
eyes. "I've never heard you speak," Giacomo
muttered. He looked hard at Nikki. "You
can't, can you? And I was demanding answers. I
deserve a whipping." Nikki's power sharpened almost
into pain, casting him headlong into Giacomo's mind.
A flood of annoyance and of self-recrimination; of
interest, and of guilt for it; of compassion. Nothing as
ghastly as pity. "I don't suppose you can tell
me why."
  Nikki touched his ear. Giacomo glared. "You
aren't." He paused. "Maybe. I knew a
woman once, a cousin of my mother's. She went
deaf as a child; she taught herself to read lips and
faces. It was uncanny, sometimes, how much she could
see."
  He was not comfortable with his discovery, however much he
berated himself for a fool. Now they all make me
uneasy, he thought just short of speech. He
detested uneasiness; it infected his whole spirit. But
there was something distinctly odd about these pilgrims who
had stayed so long in Rome nor shown any sign of
departing. His jaw tightened. No use
to interrogate the boy. The other lad, the one whose
face was taking luminous shape on O.one's
panels, would be no better, dreamer and mystic that
he was, and more than half mad. Which left the
monk;
  200 Judith Tarr
  and that one, beside those others, was too perfectly
sane for belief. Nikki edged away. Giacomo
took no notice. He was well if not
auspiciously distracted.
  Brother Jehan was not difficult to find. He
was, however, engaged, and not pleasantly from the look
of it. One of the Curia's innumerable functionaries
had taken it into his head to call on his uncle the
Abbot; having heard the Office with visible
impatience and a widely roving eye, he had
attached himself to the Norman. They were still in the nave
of the chapel, the lion and the tomcat; Archdeacon
Giambattista was in full and indignant voice.
"But, Brother, I could swear you're the very image
of--"
  Jehan's courtesy had worn threadbare.
"To be sure, sir, all of us Normans look
alike."
  "As like as this? Brother, your very voices
are the same." Giambattista caught sight of
Giacomo. "Brother Prior, would you believe it,
I know this face as well as I know my own. But the
last time I saw it, it belonged to a bishop."
  "The poor man," Jehan said with clenched-teeth
lightness. "Has he found a cure for it?"
  Giambattista seemed not to have heard. "The
voice, the bulk, the nose. The nose is
incontestable. Why, I remember the very day it
happened, that godless tournament in Milano--"
  "The Abbot will see you now," Giacomo said
abruptly, in a tone that brought the babbler up short
and drove him into rapid retreat. It seemed to be
Giacomo's day for putting young pups to flight.
There was a moment of blessed silence. "I confess,"
Jehan said at length, "to an appalling lapse in
Christian charity."
  "If I were your confessor, I'd give you
prompt absolution. That boy was a pestilence in the
cradle."
  "From which, no doubt, he observed the tournament in
Milan." the hounds of god 201
  "He's not that young." After a moment Giacomo
added, "If you're thinking of the same tournament I
am. It can't have been more than ten years
ago."
  "Eleven. You were there?"
  "I've heard about it. From Giambattista. At
interminable length. The victor was his first living,
breathing hero."
  Jehan rubbed his battered nose. Catching
Giacomo's eye, he lowered his hand.
  "The victor," said Giacomo, "was a young
giant, a Norman. He won against all hope,
and after a blow that shattered a nose almost as imposing
as mine. Or so Giambattista has always declared.
The knight was also a priest, one of Pope
Innocent's prodigies, guard and friend and messenger
and privy secretary all in one. He's prospered
since, I understand. The last I heard, he'd been
named Bishop of some unpronounceable see on the
edge of the world."
  "Even the edge of the world may have a thing or two
to commend it," Jehan said.
  "It's not Rome." Giacomo clasped his hands
within his sleeves, looking up at the expressionless
face. Its eyes gazed down, ice-blue.
Simple monk or anointed bishop, this was not a
man to trifle with. They walked side by side,
Giacomo stretching his strides, Jehan
shortening his to an endurable mean. Bright daylight
washed them; they turned toward the guesthouse.
"Amazing," mused the Prior, "how you knew
exactly what the archdeacon meant. I don't
suppose you'd care to speculate further.
Imagine a bishop who wants to be looked on as
a simple Brother of Saint Jerome. It's much
easier to get about; no one stands in awe of rank or
holiness, no one tries to encompass every hour with
ceremony. And with luck, no one even guesses the
truth." "Interesting," Jehan conceded, "but why would
he want so much not to be recognized?"
  "Who knows? Maybe he has an errand he'd
prefer no one knew of. Maybe he has
comoanions who might need a bit
  202 Judith Tarr
  of explaining. Maybe he's simply trying
to escape the attention of Giambattista and his
ilk."
  jehan laughed without effort. "If so, he
certainly settled on the wrong place to hide. The
story will be all over the Curia in an hour." The
door of the guesthouse was ajar, the house empty; at
the moment, apart from its most puzzling guests, it
sheltered no one. Giacomo accepted a
seat by the brazier, glancing about at the room the
pilgrims shared. It was scrupulously tidy,
uncluttered by any personal possessions except
the staffs propped together in a corner and the cloak
folded at the foot of the bed, a single small
bundle atop it. They had traveled light, these
oddly assorted companions. Giacomo warmed his
hands over the coals. "This time of year I'm always
cold."
  "It's Lent. Penance is a chilly occupation."
  "How not, when we're forced to eat nothing but fish?"
Giacomo's humor was a flicker, swiftly
gone. He fixed Jehan with a cool and steady stare.
"Mind you," he said, "I don't make a
practice of invading my guests' privacy. But
sometimes the circumstances would seem to demand it."
  The Norman loomed like a tower, but with a face of
polite attention. His hands were invisible behind him.
Perhaps they were fists. The Prior went on doggedly.
"Your conduct here has been exemplary. I can say
truthfully that San Girolamo has been the
better-thus far-for your presence in it. As to what
may happen later, I admit to some concern. Not that
you may be a rather famous and rather exalted lord of the
Church; I can believe it, and I can't
censure an honest act of humility. But your friends
are beginning to alarm me."
  "How so?"
  That was not the tone of a humble monk. Giacomo
allowed himself a small tight smile. "I can't
prove anything. I can only say that I'm
uneasy. A Byzantine and a-Saxon? Boys of
an age, it seems, a frail monkish scholar and a
* bright-eyed worldling, poles apart but as close as
brothers.
  the hounds OF god 203
  The Saxon is prone to a sort of falling
sickness. The Greek is mute and deaf, though he
doesn't seem much the worse for it. Neither has
shown the least sign of haunting shrines in search of a
miracle." "Because," said a low clear voice, "the
miracle is not to be found among the dusty relics
and the sepulchers of saints. I doubt the Church would
sanction it at all."
  Alf came to jehan's side, standing shoulder
to shoulder. The contrast was not as striking as Giacomo
might have expected. The white boy was a shade the
shorter with scarce a third the girth, attenuated as
a painted angel, and yet he stood like a sword
beside a great iron club. Less
massive, more subtly lethal.
  "Good day, signore," Giacomo said calmly.
Alf bowed his head a precise degree. "Good
day. Brother Prior. I regret that our presence
troubles you. If you wish, we can find lodgings
elsewhere."
  Giacomo's head Hew up, nostrils flared.
"We go to war for insults here, sir pilgrim."
  "Even before God?" demanded Jehan.
  "Before God we stand on our honor. There'll be
no more talk of leaving."
  Alf raised a fine brow. "Are we
prisoners?" "You know you're not. All I ask is
a simple assurance. If you're seeking
sanctuary, or if you expect to need it, you'll
tell us truthfully. We can give you God's
protection, but only if we're asked."
  "Against the very Devil himself?" Alf did not wait
for an answer. He seemed to gather himself, to make a
sudden painful choice. "Brother Prior, we need
no more than we've been given, which itself is far more
than we ever looked for. Our crime is our plain
existence; for that there is no refuge. Our miracle
is pre-eminently earthly and much out of the sphere of
your abbey: We have an enemy who hates us
with the bitterest of hates. By his strength and our
negligence he seized our kin. My sister, my
lady; my newborn children."
  204 Judith Tarr
  Giacomo was full of words, but not one could fit
itself to his tongue. "My children," Alf repeated
levelly. "He has taken them; we've pursued
him as far as this city. He is here, we're certain
of that, but he has hidden himself and his captives beyond
our skill to find them. That is the miracle we
pray for. That is the cause of my sickness."
"Then," said Giacomo, "it may be I can help.
What is this enemy? If he's a lord or a
prince, my family may know him. If he's a
churchman, I think I can find him."
  Alf shook his head. "No. Thank you, no. The
man is mad. If he knows we hunt him, he will
certainly destroy his prisoners. He's already cut
down one who tried to stop him, an unarmed child;
he'll have no mercy on women and babes."
  "They may already be dead. Even if they aren't,
he has to be found and punished."
  Alts eyes burned white-hot. "They live.
But not for long if he catches our scent. You're
generous. Brother Prior, and braver than
you know, but I beg you to say no more of this. We will
find him. We will see that he pays the full and
proper price."
  "Three of you?"
  "Three will be enough, or far too many. Does not
one God suffice for all vengeance?"
  "That's a trifle blasphemous."
  "No doubt. My existence itself, for that matter,
could be reckoned a blasphemy." Alf moved
toward the warmth of the brazier, stirring the coals
to new life, adding a fresh handful. The ruddy light
limned his face, deepening the hollows beneath eye and
cheekbone, turning the smooth youthful features to an
ageless mask. "You may still ask us to leave, and
we'll go without complaint. We never meant
to presume so long on your hospitality."
  "I told you not to talk about it. Besides, if you
left, Brother O.one would be prostrated. He
wants to do a statue next, I think. Saint
Raphael the Healer."
  the hounds OF god 205
  Alf smiled almost invisibly. "Maybe I'll
be its first miracle." "Not likely. O.one is
claiming that honor for himself. He swears he
hasn't had a cough or a shiver since
Saint Benedict's Day." "I'm glad of that.
You should cherish him. Brother Prior; he has a
rare and wonderful talent. Nor will he live long,
even with Saint Raphael's help. God's hand
is on him."
  "I call it consumption," Giacomo said
harshly, "and I'm anything but blind to it. The truth is
that O.one says you cured him. He's convinced that
you're an archangel in disguise."
  Alf laughed with genuine mirth. For an instant
he looked a boy again, the shadows held at bay in
the deep places of his eyes. "Brother, you ease
me, you and your beloved artist." From the bed he took
what apparently had brought him there, the folded
cloak. He bowed to Giacomo, smiled at
Jehan, and turned to go. The Prior held up a
hand. Alf paused, brow lifted. With a scowl of
frustration Giacomo waved him away.

  Now he would do it. Now he would tell her. Now
she would know what he was.
  Nikki made a litany of it, striding blindly
through streets grown familiar, as oblivious to both
marvels and commonplaces as any Roman born.
His nose and his feet between them took him
past the tavern to the scrivener's shop. There his feet
would go no farther. He could not mount the stair. He
could only stare into the shop, realizing very slowly that the
pale gleam within was a candle on Uncle
Gregorios' bald head. The scribe was at work
over a heap of documents. "Behind again," he said
by way of greeting, "thanks to all the uproar with the
marriage contracts. Did you hear? No?
Herminia Capelli was to marry Pietro
Brenrano, which was much to the advantage of both
families, and which was very much to the taste of the bridal
couple. But she was a widow with a young son, and there were
properties settled on her on the boy's behalf;
and someone somewhere had found an irregularity in the
contract of that first marriage, the hounds of god 207
  which affected the inheritance and possibly the
legitimacy of the union itself. Now if the marriage
was improperly sealed and the boy improperly conceived
..."
  Gregorios' words washed over Nikki, sharp
yet soothing, demanding nothing but a nod now and then.
Nikki moved about the cramped confines of the shop,
attacked a sheet of parchment with pumice until it
took on the sheen of raw silk, trimmed the pens
laid in a box for the purpose, scraped
smooth the wax tablets Gregorios used for
jottings and for teaching the pupils who came to him in the
mornings to learn a little Greek. One tablet bore
nothing but row on row of staggering alphas; in spite
of himself Nikki smiled. New pupil, surely.
He almost regretted the stroke that smoothed the tablet
into waxy anonymity. The voice had stopped.
Gregorios, with his usual finesse, had ended tale
and document together; he held a stick of wax to the
candle's flame, gathering each scarlet droplet
upon the bottom of the parchment. Nikki set in his hand
the heavy notary's seal; he nodded his thanks. There
was little in his face to suggest his kinship with Stefania.
He was a little shorter than Nikki, neither fat nor
thin, with a square-cut face and a strong blunt
nose. As if to make up for the bareness of his head, his
brows were thick and black and long enough to curl,
beetling over the sudden blue gleam of his eyes; and
his beard, though sheared short, sprang forth with a will and a
vigor all its own. He looked mildly alarming,
yet somehow, like Stefania, he struck Nikki with
his perfect rightness. He could not be other than he
was.
  For a witch's fosterling, Nikki was dismayingly
forgetful of the power of names. Even as he
named her in his mind she was there, holding back the
curtain that concealed the inner stair, regarding them with a
total lack of surprise. But her relief was an
undertaste as sweet as honey, a deep swelling joy
to see Nikephoros there, healthy, holding her
uncle's seal. Where he belonged, she almost thought.
But not quite.
  208 Judith Tan- He could have cried aloud.
He should have fled. Gregorios muttered something about
supper, and was it that late already? He squeezed past
Stefania, trudging up the steep narrow steps.
  She poised, alert, ready to bolt. A blush
came and went in her cheeks. Her voice was more
trustworthy; she kept it light and easy. "You
look well, Nikephoros. You'll stay for
supper, of course; even if Uncle could forgive you
for refusing, Bianca never would."
  He stepped toward her. She held her ground.
He set his hands on her shoulders. Did she
tremble? He was frightening her; she thought he might,
after all, be ill.
  No, he said. No, Stefania.
  She was scaring directly at him. She did not
see. He kissed the lid of each beautiful blind
eye. Very gently he set his lips to her
forehead. Milady philosopher, I fear, I very
much fear-- "Love is natural and inevitable."
She said it a little quickly, a little breathlessly.
  On whose great authority do you make that
pronouncement? "My own." Her fingers tangled
themselves in his hair. She envied what she saw as his
wry calm. "No doubt you've often found it so.
Natural; inescapable."
  He shook his head slowly, not denying anything,
struggling to do what he must do and say what he must
say It was all framed and ready. Stefania
Makaria, you can't love me. You don't know what
I am. I'm a liar; I've deceived you. These very
words are false, not words at all but purest
witchery. I'm a witch, an enchanter, a shaper of
spells. I was born a cripple, deaf and mute,
and so in spite of my sorceries do I remain.
I'm never the lover you deserve. He got only as
far as her name. Stefania-- She pulled free from
him, but far more from a swelling desire. To kiss him
there, where one black curl fell just athwart his
forehead. To kiss him there, where hair mingled with young
downy beard, curling against the arch of his ear.
  the hounds OF god 209
  And to kiss him there on the fine modeling
of his mouth, just where he would be warmest, except for--
  Where did a maiden ever learn such things?
Surely not in Aristotle! She thought she had
spoken unawares, he in response. Her cheeks
were scarlet. "Come up to supper," she said, "before it
gets cold." He reached again. His hand fell
short. Wait, yes, and tell them all, test them
all, take all the pain at once and have it over.
He snuffed the candle and followed her out of the shop.
Bianca was full of senile nonsense. Stefania
was chattering incessantly and to no perceptible
purpose. Gregorios overrode them both at
intervals with words that meant nothing. Nikki must have
nodded, smiled, responded properly; no one
seemed concerned. His body fed itself hungrily enough
to satisfy Bianca. He tasted nothing. Maybe
  he grew a little drunk. They had brought out the
Falemian for him, and his cup was always full.
  The pup appeared somewhere between the serving of the fish and the
consumption of its last morsel. For that final bit was
cooling in Nikki's fingers and the needle-teeth were
disposing of it with a good will, their owner curled comfortably
in Nikki's lap. He seemed to have been there for a
goodly while. A handsome pup; a thoroughbred, or
Nikki had never learned his way round a
kennel. Except for the eyes. There was something wrong
with them. They could see very well indeed, no doubt of
that. They were bright with intelligence, alert to every
movement.
  They were silver. They were gold. They were pupiled
like a cat's. Like a cats.
  Nikki gripped the wriggling shape. Where did you
get this Pup? he demanded across the currents of
conversation. Where did it come from? His tone brought them
all round upon him, amazed. "Why," Stefania
said, "he came to us. Haven't you been
  210 Judith Tarr
  listening? He found me, or more properly my
basket, in the market. He introduced me to his
companion. Poor woman, she looked as if she'd
been locked in someone's dungeon and then turned
loose to beg, but she spoke to me in Latin, and it
turned out that she was a philosopher too. She
came home with me, she and the imp; she's very ill or
she'd be down here to--" Nikki never heard the
rest. He was already gone.
  The bed was Stefania's, demure in its blue
coverlet. Anna lay in it in the deep sleep of
exhaustion. She was a little thinner than he
remembered, maybe; not that she had ever had
any more flesh than a bird. Her skin had the
sallow tinge it always had when she stayed too long out
of the sun. Even in sleep her mouth was set tight.
The pup scrambled out of his slackened grip and onto
the bed. Unlike any other young creature Nikki
had ever known of, he did not pummel Anna
into wakefulness; he met Nikki's stare and said very
clearly. You are my uncle. Mother told me. I
saw you in her thoughts--the one with the basket and the fish.
She's full of you. You, said Nikki, could never be
anything but Alf's son and Thea's. What are you
doing in that body?
  He inspected each paw, his belly, his back
and the white whip of his tail. It's my body.
  You don't remember-- Nikki broke off.
Cynan's puzzlement was transparent. Nikki's
throat swelled shut. His cool curiosity had
shattered over the roil of his emotions. Alf, he
said faintly. Alf. For God's love, Alf!
His cry echoed in the void, unheard, unanswered.
The room flooded with unbearable brightness. Nikki
flung up his hand against it. "What are you doing, standing
here in the dark?" demanded Stefania. She set the
lamp on the table by the bed, gathering Cynan to her and
scratching his ears until he groaned with
pleasure. "Do you know this woman?"
  Yes. Nikki was curt, lest he break and
scream aloud. This is my sister. The one I told
you of.
  the hounds OF god 211
  She blinked. "Are you sure?"
  I know my own Inn! He snatched Cynan and
set him down with force enough to stagger him. Where were they when
you found them? "I was over by Sant' Angelo in
Pescheria when the pup started following me and begging
me to notice him. Then he ran away and I went
to Rocco's to see if he'd found any new books,
and the imp came back with Anna. I've told you the
rest."
  I found her, said Cynan. Stop thinkingi'm too
young. I've got power. Then tell me how, where,
when-- Nikki shook with eagerness, with fear. This could
be a trap. Or an illusion; or a dream on the
verge of becoming nightmare.
  Cynan crouched on the coverlet near Anna's
hand, ears flat to his head. still can't tell, he said
in a very small voice. He won't let me.
Who?
  I can't tell. Mother told me to, but he's
too strong. He laughed when he let me
go. Cynan snapped viciously at air. still hate
him! That was all he would say, for all Nikki's
pressing. He bristled and cowered; he warded himself with
both strength and skill, fierce in his terror.
  Nikki could not torment him so. He cradled the
small beast-body with its great fire of power, thinking
calm and ease and freedom from fear. But behind it
echoed a constant cry: Alf! Why won't you come?
I have. It rang in the room, strong and sweet as the
note of a bell. The door was too low for Alfs
height; he stooped to pass it. Stefania's eyes
went wide as she looked up and up. Her breath
caught once for the height of him; once again,
sharply, for his face. He did not even see her.
  Anna sat up with a high sharp cry. Cynan
lunged savagely, slashing at the hand that stretched
to him. Nikki swayed toward the witch-child, swayed
back toward his sister, seizing her, shaking her as
hard as he could bear to. She would not stop babbling.
"I won't go back. I won't, I won't!"
  212 Judith Tarr
  Anna, Nikki willed her. Anna, it's
Nikki. You're free. Alf is here, see, he
won't let you go away.
  "Not Alf. Simon, Simon
Magus, I can't bear--" Alf shook her far
harder than Nikki had, ruthless in his strength.
"Look at me, Anna. Look at me!"
  She had no choice but to obey. Her eyes
glittered in the lamplight. Her face worked. "You
--you aren't--you can't be. You're deadFrom "Only
half," he said without humor. "Anna, is Thea--
was "Alive."
  "Alive," he repeated, soft as a prayer.
He drew a long breath. "Thank God. When
Nikki called me, when I knew--I thought it was
ended. She was dead. My son, my daughter--"
  "Cynan is here." Rigid on the floor, staring
as if he could not stop, beginning to tremble.
  Alf approached him slowly. He flattened.
But he let Alf gather him up, the thin hands not quite
steady themselves, the face and the voice carefully
quiet. "Ah, child, are you afraid of me?"
Cynan moved within the curve of AlFs arm, still
staring. still remember, he said. still remember. He
tried to make me forget. Quickly, with utterly
unwonted timidity, he thrust his nose into Alts
hand. You were there when the world was born.
  Alf had had almost all he could bear. Nikki
moved before he could break, too intent to be
afraid, reaching to shake the steel-hard shoulder.
You've got him back, he said forcefully. And
Anna. The others are alive. We'll find them
soon. I know it. "You'd better," Anna said.
Bold though her words were, her hands faltered,
reaching for Alf as if her touch would dissolve him
into air. "It's you. It is you. What are you doing in
Rome?" "Looking for you."
  She surged up outraged. "You left
Rhiyana? You abandoned it when it needed you so much?
Gwydion could be
  Af-caret A r right-brace from right-brace
Aistcaret an ic rlf*ar1 Anrl vmi*vp
hppn----" the hounds OF god 213
  Aidan is dead? Nikki seized her again, this
time with real force, and no compassion at all for her
bruised shoulders. Hold do you know? "She
doesn't," Alt said. He sounded weary but
calm, in full control of himself. He would pay for that
later, but for now Nikki was glad. "Your captor
mistook my vanishing under Nikki's shields for
my death. Perhaps Aidan found a way to deceive him
likewise."
  "I saw it. I saw him fall. Why weren't you
there?" "I was commanded. I was given no
choice."
  She turned her back on him.
  Nikki could have hit her. She could be
unreasonable- she had been in prison, she had
suffered, she did not know truly what she did. But
this was cruel.
  He settled for harsh words, driving each through the
stony hardness of her mind. Gwydion sent him here.
Now there's no going back. The walls are too
high and too hard, and that one waits between. She
whirled to face him. "What do you know of that
horror?" I've fought him.
  That surprised her. "You?"
  still. His temper seethed in his eyes, about the edges
of his words. still know what his power is like. What of the
man? Anna began to shake. She could not stop herself.
"I-I can't-was She smote her hands together in a
passion of frustration. As if a spell had broken,
the words flooded forth. "His name is Simon.
He's a monk of Saint Paul. He could be
Alf's brother, the two are so like; but his power is
beyond anyone's measuring, and it's mastered him. Is it
true-did he kill Alun?"
  Alf nodded once.
  "I haven't wept for him yet," she
said. "I wouldn't give our jailers the
satisfaction. There was another, a fat one, all
complacent and cruel. Thea said he was the mind;
Simon was only the hand." 214 Judith Tarr
  Alf sat on the bed, settled Cynan in his
lap, reached for her hands. They came of their own
accord, clasping hard, defying the set courage of
her face. "Will you let me see?" he asked her.
She hesitated. It was Alf who asked. Alf.
And yet . . . "Yes," she gasped. "Quick.
While I can still bear it."
  He took her face in his hands. His touch was
light, his gaze steady, clear as water. She leaned
toward it; it closed over her head. Fear vanished.
Grief swelled, broke, faded. Anger shrank
to an ember. Too late she remembered. She did
not want him to see- His face filled the world. She
had forgotten how young it was. She had never seen it
so thin. Gaunt. Frightening, now that she had the wits
to see. Her finger traced his hollowed cheek; she
pursed her lips. "Thea will be furious when she
sees you like this."
  "As furious as you?"
  He was mocking her, but gently, to make her
smile. She caught a lock of his hair
and tugged until he winced. "You're too pretty,
you know. Even with nothing on your bones but skin. Much
prettier," she added, "than Simon Magus."
All at once, with no warning at all, she burst
into tears.
  He gathered her into his lap, ousting Cynan,
rocking her as if she were still a child. As to him, she
knew in the perfection of despair, she would always
be. He had not seen what was there in her mind to see;
he had no eyes for anything so ridiculous as
unrequited passion. He looked on her with deep
and purely fraternal concern, soothed her and healed
her as he would any creature in need of his care.
Cynan offered no less, licking her hand and willing
her to be comforted. She pulled the witch-child into her own
lap, dividing her tears between his flank and Alfs
shoulder. Her despair was seeping away. It was
almost pleasant to let her body have its will, to let the
tears fall where they pleased, with no care
  friend greater-than rather hgg*r nridt"
  the hounds OF god 215
  Nikki came to close the circle, walling out the
world. He was brotherly indeed, a mingling of annoyance
and compassion; he braced her, he strengthened her.
She straightened shakily. Both her
brothers eased their grips. Cynan's tail
slapped her thigh. Still streaming tears, she laughed and
hugged the damp wriggle of him. "You men; don't you
know enough to let a woman cry herself out?" It's wet,
Cynan observed.
  "So it is, imp. And so are you." Anna freed
herself from all the hands and rose with Cynan, reaching for a
corner of the sheet to dry him.
  Stefania had not understooda word of it. It was almost
as if--somehow--there were four people talking. But it was
only the three and the pup. And what they spoke of
made no sense at all. Something to do with
Rhiyana, with the Church, with prisons and madness and
death; yet they could smile, laugh, jest through tears.
There was nothing like them in her philosophy.
  The fair one, the one they called Alf, had
taken the pup from Anna and commanded her to lie down
again. After a moment's rebellion she obeyed. He
was absorbed already in the young alaunt, regarding it as
if he himself would have liked to weep, speaking to it not in
Greek as he had since he appeared in the
doorway but in some other, stranger tongue, both
harsh and melodious. She recognized only the name,
Cynan, and the tone, gentle yet stern.
  Nikephoros blocked her vision, mere
familiar humanity beside that shining wonder. For an
instant she could only wish him gone. Her mind
cleared. He had seen; his brows were knit, his jaw
set. She flung her arms about him.
  For a long moment she feared that he would pull away
His rigidity eased; he completed the embrace. His
sigh was loud in her ears, his voice soft. still think
we had better go.
  She drew back to see his face. For once she
could not 216 Judith Tarr
  read it at all. "Why? Is there something I'm not
supposed to see?" She had come close, she could
tell by the flicker of his eyes, the quickness of his
response. still can't explain now. Can you trust me,
Stefania? For a while?
  Her brows drew together. He did not seem to be
mocking her. "You know how I treat mysteries," she
said. "I solve them."
  I'll tell you, I promise. But not nova.
He drew her with him away from the others.
  She considered escape. She did stiffen and
refuse to move. "Who is that man? Can you tell
me that much?"
  He's my brother.
  That silenced her completely. She was on
the stair before she knew it, walking without thinking,
struggling to imagine those two in the same family.
Even without the beauty, that other was no more a Greek
than he was an Ethiop. She stopped in mid-step,
bringing Nikki up short behind her. "He's not," she
said.
  It was too dark for her to see Nikki's
expression, but his voice had a smile in it, a
hint of wickedness. My father said he was, and I
wasn't in a position to argue. It was a perfectly
legal adoption. Stefania hit him. He
laughed. She hit him again, but somehow she had his head
in her hands and her lips upon his. It stopped the
laughter at least.
  She pushed him away, not hard. "You're
insufferable, do you know that? Is he real?"
  I've always thought so.
  He was not as lighthearted as he pretended.
Jealous? She decided not. It was something deeper.
Something to do with Anna, and with the conversation she had not under
stood.
  And with you. She could barely hear him. And how could
he have said anything? She certainly had not.
  She had imagined it. She turned and made her
way down the stair, surefonted in the
dark.

  "I can't do it," Alf said.
  Jehan thought they had settled it, and with no help
from himself. Anna was still with the people who had taken her in,
who by God's own fortune were' well known
to Nikephoros; though that lad was no more a toy of
chance than any of Gwydion's true Kindred,
particularly where a woman was concerned. Cynan was
here in San Girolamo, sound asleep in his father's
lap, curled nose to tail and most comfortable. He
had been there since Alf brought him in, wide
awake at first, greeting Jehan with admirable
courtesy and an even more admirable vocabulary. But
of course, he had said when Jehan was amazed. Mother
taught me. It was a secret. He was to think us
witless. He knew how to laugh as Nikki did, in
his mind; it emerged as a broad fanged grin.
Hedid, too. So did Anna. Sstie was
surprised when I started to talk. Not much, Nikki
observed, rather uncannily when Jehan stopped
to think. Neither of them could or would utter a spoken
word. She knows Thea.
  It was Nikki who had told it all, with a little
help from "n
  218 Judith Tarr
  Cynan until sleep claimed him. Alfhad
been silent, remote as he often was in council or
in company, stroking the beast who was his son. He
spoke at last when Nikki was done, breaking into a
brief stillness. Nikki was feeding the brazier; he
paused in mid-movement. Jehan, who had begun
to ponder the whole strange tale, looked up
sharply, "I can't do it," Alf repeated.
"Cynan won't change. His mind is safe enough
thanks to my lady's power, but his body remembers
no shape but this. It won't return to the one it was
born to." He laughed shortly, painfully.
"He's certainly my child. I won't shape-change
either, even to save my life. Though I promised
her-when she was strong again-was He was closer to breaking
even than he had been before Alun's bier, when
Gwydion laid this labor on him. Jehan tried
to ease him. "Does it matter so much? You've got
him back, and he looks sound enough except for this.
When you find Thea, she can certainly-was Alt
raised his head. His eyes were wide, flaring blood-
red. "Thea had no part in this. It was the enemy; then
he had no need. Cynan holds to the form he
considers his own, nor will he alter it even
for force. If he keeps to it, however keen his wits
or great his power, he'll end as the enemy desires,
a mere beast. A mere, mortal beast."
  "But-was
  "The longer we wait, the harder the change will be.
This is not a six-weeks' infant. This is a
weanling pup. In a year he'll be grown and in a
decade he'll die. But he'll have lost his power
long before then. He'll have lost it before he's even
grown. Time moves so fast for you, who a moment ago
were a novice befriending a certain ill-made
monk, and now are an anointed bishop. How much
faster must it pass for a hound?"
  Jehan spoke with care, considering each word before
he spoke it. "You're saying that there's no time
to lose. That Cynan has to change back now or not
at all. But if that's true, then Liahan, even
Thea-was He broke off. "Alf, what have you
tried?" the hounds OF god 219
  "Persuasion. Pleading. Compulsion. He'll let
me into his mind willingly, gladly. He'll
give his very soul into my keeping. But his body will not
yield."
  Maybe, said Nikki, its your own fear that gets
in the way. If you would change, it would
convince him to do the same. Alf moved not a
muscle, but Cynan started awake, snarling. With
utmost gentleness his father stroked him into silence. But
he did not go back to sleep. He watched them
all, eyes gleaming as Alfs gleamed, fire and
silver.
  He let Jehan touch him. More surprisingly
by far, Alf let Jehan take him and hold him.
Over his head the Bishop said, "Nikki may be
right. Not that I know much about it, but Thea's always
insisted that you've got her gift if you'd only use
it. Of course you can speed up the hunt and find her
before it's too late for everyone, and she can change
both children back again."
  "I'm going to find her. I must. But she has the
skill to keep the mind whole in the altered body.
I don't. Already I can feel the hound-brain
closing, the beast-thoughts gathering. I don't know how
to stop them." "You must!" Jehan burst out. "You're
the strongest power in Rhiyana, bar none. Thea
told me that herself. And she's not given to blind worship
of her beloved."
  Nikki's amused agreement was meant to ease the
tension. It wavered and vanished in the blaze of
Alfs denial. "Brute power means
nothing. It's not a wall I have to batter down; it's
a single thread in a weaving of utmost delicacy, that
must be spun and colored and woven in one way and no
other, or all the fabric frays and scatters."
  "So learn how," said Jehan.
  Alf rose. Jehan braced himself. Small
comfort that he had Cynan for a shield; that was all too
easily remedied, even if the little warlock did not
choose to fight for his father.
  Neither blows nor lightnings fell. Alf
circled the room slowly, looking at none of them.
Strange how seldom one noticed, how very feline
his movements were. The grace, yes, that was
inescapable, but it was the grace of the
  Qt-caret IL'-IR caret friend ,caret comcaret
Like-
  220 . Judith Tarr
  It was his face. He always looked so young and so
gentle. Meek as a maid, people said. He was not
meek now. His jaw had set, his nostrils flared,
his eyes widened and fixed. He stopped and wheeled.
"If I fail in forcing the change, I'll destroy
him."
  You won't, Nikki said. You'll have destroyed
yourself first. Terribly, in a mindless,
shapeless horror. Jehan did not know whose image
that was; he cried out against it.
  Alf was smiling. His smile had the exact
curve of a scimitar. "So I will, Nikephoros.
My thanks; I had forgotten. And you'll remain,
who've hunted to so much better purpose than I.
Maybe, after all, there's nothing to lose."
  "There certainly is," Jehan grated, "if you
go into it with suicide in mind."
  Alts smile warmed and softened, became his own
again. But his eyes were diamond hard. "Jehan my
dearest friend, there is no other way to begin. Not for
me. My power will only grow on the cutting edge of
death." "Now I know for certain. You revel in it."
"How not? I cut my teeth on the lives of the
martyrs." Cynan yawned noisily My teeth
would cut meat if I had any. Alf swept him
up. "You'll have some soon enough, if you're still in
condition to want it."
  "You're going to do it now?" Jehan cried. "Shall
I wait for my courage to fail?" Alfs glance
allowed no answer. He set Cynan upon the bed and
paused, drawing a long breath. "Nikephoros, you
had better stand guard. Jehan, you need not watch.
Not that there will be much to see, until the end.
One way or another. If you wish, I can set a
sleep on you."
  "I'll watch," Jehan said almost angrily.
Alf opened his mouth, closed it, shrugged slightly.
"Stay well apart then. And whatever happens,
don't touch me. Promise me."
  "By my vows," Jehan said, crossing himself.
Alf caret caret AA-NA Also,-dis.caret
[*macrgg'ful,. to -" "comI,-.,.,,,,! I-con.,
C-concomcom-J. :.--.- -- the HOUNDS OF god

  abruptly he let go, thrusting Jehan away
beyond the glow of the brazier. "Remember," he said.
  Cynan was waiting, expectant, firm and
unafraid. But under the boldness, just within Alfs ken,
hovered the faintest of apprehensions. Will it hurt?
  "Not while I have power to prevent it," Alt
said, his own fear walled in adamant. He dropped
his robe, aware of Nikki's studied nonchalance,
Jehan's sharply drawn breath;
  glancing down and then up again quickly. He had not
realized that he was as thin as that.
  He felt well enough. He lay beside Cynan,
composing himself as if for sleep, not quite touching the sleek
furred body. He allowed himself one
brief brush of the hand over his son's ears; no more.
Resolutely he closed his eyes.
  With the sight of the body shut away, the sight of the
mind took on a fierce clarity. Jehan was a
banked fire, a glow of will and love and intelligence
shot through with anxiety. Nikki was a white flame
of power, man-shaped yet with wide wings enfolding them
all, closing out the powers of the dark. Alf paused
to wonder at him. This was born human, mortal,
blind to his own great strength. His mind touched Alfs
briefly; his power reached as Alt had reached
to Cynan, for reassurance, for love. As he
withdrew, his fire brightened to blinding, deepened and
widened and vanished. The shields were complete.
While they stood firm, no enemy could come near.
Alt lay englobed in crystal. His body was far
away, that thing of flesh and blood and bone laid
naked upon a bed, warm in winter's cold. It
breathed; it would have been hungry if he had allowed
it. He drew a deep, illusory, swimmer's
breath, and dived into it. Its lungs roared with the winds
of worlds; its heart beat with a mighty and ceaseless
rhythm; its blood surged like the sea. He
plunged down and down, straight as a stone, down through
the wind, through the tide, through the levin-fires
of the brain into a region of stillness. Here was the
core of his self. Here was the eye of his POW-ER.
Frnm hstcaret ra r-caret caret a comtion
i-con- ---- --comi i--- ---- -- i 222
Judith Tarr
  healing, the seeing, the weaving and the mind-speaking and the
myriad lesser witcheries. And here was a ragged
center of darkness. Once Thea had filled it, Thea
and the growing presence of his children. Cynan's return,
his presence so close, was but a waver on the edges.
The darkness was more than absence. It was fear. Behind it,
or within it, glimmered a single spark. The art of
shape-shifting, which was Thea's great art, in him was but a
might-have-been. The flicker that was Cynan began
to dim and shrink, falling toward the heart of the
blackness. He snatched wildly, uselessly. He
had no hands. No fingers to grasp, no feet to bear
him where his son had gone. Nothing. He had not the
power. It was lost, wasted, abandoned to terror.
  Mortal. Mortal sin. Witch, demon,
were-creature, child of the night. The darkness spun.
He saw light. Dim and distant yet utterly
distinct, an image in a glass: gray walls and
gray mist, the hunched shadow of a thorn tree, the
loom of a tor. Names rang through them all.
Saint Ruan's Abbey upon Ynys Witrin in the
kingdom of Anglia. He had lived there for the whole
of a mortal lifetime, cloistered and holy, going
quietly, imperceptibly mad.
  The sun was young, the mist like gray glass, thinning
and melting to reveal a green undulation of fen and
copse. Men were brown-robed giants, kind or
stern or indifferent to the youngest of the abbey's
orphans, the one who was all limbs and eyes and
questions. Too old now for a wetnurse, too young for the
schoolmaster, he had no certain place in the
scheme of things; he was as free as he had ever been,
as free perhaps as he would ever be. Free and
strange, but he was not truly aware of either. He
knew only that some people shrank from him, their thoughts
darkening and twisting when he was near. But others saw
him simply as a young creature, a potential
noise, an irrelevance; and a precious few were like
warmth and music and green silences, and those set all
the rest at naught.
  He was warchinp Brother Radhnd Rmrhpr
Radhnd was the hounds of god 223
  one of the warm ones, a dark pockmarked man whose
eyes were always sore, but who was the finest
illuminator in the abbey. He was setting
gold leaf upon an intricately decorated page,
fleck by precious fleck, creating a wonder of
gold upon the painted wonders of blue and green and
scarlet, white and yellow and royal purple. He
was aware of his audience but not distracted by it, even
though it was almost in his lap, watching and playing. The
game was a new one, better even than calling
clouds and making it rain, or walking up ladders of
moonlight, or talking to the cows. Alf would look
at one of the twining creatures on the page, or at
one of the manifold shapes of leaves and vines, and his
thoughts would turn and stretch and flex, so, and the hand on
his knee would be a claw or a paw or a curling
tendril. The tendril was strangest; it had its own
will, and that was to reach for the light. With some small
regret, he turned the flexing upon itself. The
tendril shrank and broadened and divided into a hand.
It was odd to feel skin and bone again, the coolness of
air, the warmth of blood. He watched Brother
Radbod's swift sure fingers. They were setting
spots in a leopard's flank, while Brother
Radbod filled his mind with leopards. He had
seen one once, somewhere warm and far away, a
splendid dappled creature, somnolent upon a
chain yet alive with power and menace.
  It was far easier to change completely than
to change a mere hand. The image set, so; the will
flexed; the world shifted. Everything was larger. Sight
was dim, all grays and blacks; sensation came
muffled through thick fur. But sounds and scents burst
in a flood, more intoxicating even than when, having
played inside Brother Aimery's mind, he
returned to his own; all his senses then had been
dizzyingly keen, though Brother Aimery was young and
strong and reckoned uncommonly sharp of ear and
nose and eye. Yet even Alts ears and nose could
not compare with those of a young leopard. He flf-Ypr)
hbbc finrroro (""Inure. disT-caret have
caret rl C caret More-k feacaret
[*thorn] fkn diseacaret 1,,... 224
Judith Tarr
  paw. His ears could move, cupping sound; he
flicked his tail and stretched every fierce singing
muscle. His murmur of pleasure came forth as a
purring growl.
  Brother Radbod turned. To leopard-eyes he
was a shadow and a rustle, a quickening of heartbeat, a
sudden sharp scent. Alf coughed at its pungency.
His back prickled; his body begged to spring. His
throat craved warm thirst-stanching blood,
welling thick and sweet from a torn throat.
  Brother Radbod was standing, hugely tall. k
right-brace flexed and the world was itself again, except that
he had lost his tunic somewhere. Brother Radbod's
face was yellow-green; he crossed himself and backed
away. Even Alf's dulled nose caught his
rankness. Alts mind, reaching in bafflement, found
no warmth at all. No love, no indulgence, no
quiet pleasure in his presence. Only a winter
blast of horror. Mortal. Mortal sin.
Witch, demon, were-beast, child of darkness. Alf
tried to embrace him, to make him stop. He
recoiled with searing violence. "Abomination!
Hell-spawn, get thee hence, in nomine
Patris, in nomine Filii, in nomine Spiritus
Sancti . . . Angels and saints. Saint
Michael Defender, Saint Martin, Saint
George, 0 blessed Christ, if ever I have loved
you--"
  Mortal, mortal sin. Hate it, drive it
away, wall it and bar it and ban it forever. But
Brother Radbod would hear neither pleas nor
promises. He would never be warm again.
  "I remember," Alf cried, or gasped. "I
remember." The window was dark, the vision
gone. But the memory was there. The image, the
precise turning of power about its center. It
struggled, slipped, began to fade. He was letting
it go. Yes; let it. It held only pain, a
rejection as deep as Hell. He was monster enough.
He need not be more. Cynan. The name stabbed like a
needle. Cynan--for Cynan. I-tilde if*
horl tfriend it iifif nfi caret [*macrgg'fl
caret rather still-[*reggg'in less-than
[*macrgg'c"'st-mrtr liletter caret a n
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st[*reg]
  the hounds OF god 225
  grimoire clutched in his hand. He could read it
even thus. He could not will it to be. Even the thought was
a tearing agony. Cynan.
  Thea. Thea in a blur of shapes: wolf,
alaunt, lioness, lapcat; falcon and dove,
mare and dolphin and Varangian of Byzantium.
Always, regardless of outer semblance, she remained
herself, without either sin or guilt, nor ever a hint of
fear.
  He had promised her. They would be wolves in
Broceliande, falcons above the House of the
Falcon.
  He could not.
  Cynan.
  He could--so.
  He opened his eyes. The world was gray, all its
colors poured into scent and sound. His body pulsed
with a hotter and fiercer life than ever it was born
to. When he stretched an arm it moved strangely,
flexing claws.
  He blinked. Knowledge woke from he knew not where. A
half-turn of thought, a flexing of his will; he saw as
he had always seen, but from the same unfamiliar
angle. His arm, become a foreleg, was white yet
dappled with shadow and silver. He raised his head.
They were staring, all three, in wonder and a touch of
awe. He gathered his new body and flowed from the bed,
testing his skill. He glimpsed himself in Jehan's
open mind, a great leopard as pale as the moon,
with the eyes of an enchanter.
  As knowledge had swelled, so now swelled joy. So
simple, so wonderful, to be his own soul's
creature. The other, his blazon-- He laughed, and
it was a hawk's cry, his wings stretching wide,
exultant. A flick of power; his voice was his own
again. He lowered his arms and turned. "See," he
said to his son. "As easy as that. Come; will
you not play the game with me?" Brave child; he
laughed behind the hound's face and 226 Judith Tarr
  he needed little of that. He was as strong as he was
valiant. Together they found the center. The wall had
gained a gate, and the gate was opening slowly.
Cynan hesitated the briefest of instants. Then
he loosed what lay within.
  Alf looked down. A stranger looked up, a
manchild of two summers or perhaps a little less.
His hair was long and straight and fine, the color of
chestnuts; his eyes were silvered gold. Even so
young, he had Thea's pointed face and her wicked
smile. Do you like me better now. Father?
  "I could never like you better than I. do," Alf
answered as steadily as he could, "but I'm more than
glad to see your proper face again." I feel
odd, Cynan said. He moved, exploring the ways
of this new shape. It was clumsy; it was vaguely
repulsive, smooth and all but hairless as it was.
But its hands were purest fascination. He persuaded
one to reach up, to touch his father's face. His lips
stretched again into that strange ness called a smile,
his tongue pausing to explore the broad blunt
teeth. His other hand followed its mate to clasp
Alts neck; he rose dizzily
to Alf-height, secure within the circling arms.
  Alf wept, and yet he laughed. "Oh, yes,
I like you very much this way. But even as a hound pup you
can hardly be as old as this."
  I don't want to be too little. Cynan
wriggled, for the feel of it. May I eat now?
  Hungry though he was, he could not help but
play with the cheese and the bread soaked in milk, that
Jehan brought and Alf fed him. Food was different
to this body, richer and more savory, and his hands could
grasp it in so many fascinating ways. Hands, he
thought, made all the rest worth bearing.
  He fell asleep with a crust clutched in his
fist. He did not heed the closing of the shields about
his mind, nor see them all gathered to stare, even,
hesitantly, to touch. But even in sleep he heard
his father's soft voice murmuring words of guard and
comfort. He smiled and held the crust

  Stefania knew that she was dreaming. She was lying
in her own familiar bed, bare as always under the
coverlet her mother had made for her, with Anna
breathing gently beside her and Bianca snoring beyond. The
candle was lit, although she remembered distinctly that she
had snuffed it as soon as she said her
prayers. But surest proof of the dream was
Nikephoros, who bent over her. Quite apart from the
impossibility of his presence, he did not wear the
pilgrim's mantle she had always seen him in, but
the full finery of a northern nobleman. He looked
splendid in scarlet.
  She stretched out her hand to feel its richness. He
bent lower still. His black curls, falling forward,
brushed her cheeks. She pulled him down the last
crucial inch. Since this was a dream, she could be as
bold as ever she had yearned to be. She could--why,
she could be frankly wanton.
  How real this was. The coverlet was down round her
waist, her skin reveling in the caress of silk with the
young 228 Judith Tarr
  man's body behind it. His cheek pricked a little
where it was shaven, tasting of salt and cleanness. His
lips burned as she found them again.
  At last she let him go. He hung above her,
braced on his hands. The candle, flaring, made his
eyes glitter. She blinked and peered. His
brilliant cotte had vanished. He was a
pilgrim again, and she was cold, but she was fiery
hot. Her breasts had forgotten silk; they
remembered the harsh pricking of wool.
  She snatched wildly, clutching blankets,
recoiling as far as she and the bed's head would allow.
She was very wide awake and he was very solidly
present, and it was abundantly clear that she had not
dreamed the rest of it. Except the cotte. Small
comfort that was; would she ever survive the shame?
  Her mouth opened. His hand covered it. He glanced
wamingly at her companions, who had not moved through
all of it; his free hand held up the dark limpness
of her nightrobe. She snatched it and pulled it
on, rising to finish, framing a scolding. His fingers,
closing over her wrist, held it back once again.
  By the time he had led her down to the lower room,
lit a lamp, and stirred up the brazier, she had
cooled con siderably. It was not he, after all,
who had played the wanton. In fact, as she
remembered it, his eyes had widened when first she
touched him. He had not been reluctant in the least,
but he had certainly been surprised. Well then,
it was done, and there was no calling it back again. She
called her thoughts to order and faced this welcome but
utterly improper guest. "Has anyone ever told
you, Messer Nikephoros, that a young man has no
business rousing a respectable maiden from her bed?"
He smiled slightly, hardly more than a
flicker. He had that look again, fey, a little
wild. I had to see you, he said. still couldn't stand it.
  "Restraint is the first virtue of the
philosopher."
  the hounds OF god 229
  at me, Stefania. Stop thinking I'm just
another rutting male. I want you and I'll always
want you, but I can't bear- "There now," she said.
He trembled under her hands, as only that evening she
had trembled under his. Had he felt so powerful
then, so piercingly tender? Sweet saints, she
thought, and she was never sure that it was not a prayer, still
love this silly beauty of a boy. Aloud she said
again, "There now, caro mio, what's not to be borne?
You've loved women before, I know, which sets you well
in advance of me; and don't tell me it's never
been like this."
  It hasn't! he cried. He pulled back.
They knew-they didn't think I was- They knew
the truth.
  "What truth is that? That you're younger than I?
I know it; you told me. That you're higher born that
you pretend? I guessed that long since."
  He seized her. Look at me, Stefania.
Look at me! That was never difficult
to do. She brushed the errant lock from his forehead. His
eyes blazed. Look, he repeated. See. See
how I speak to you. Open your eyes; stop denying it.
See. She went very still. No. Oh, surely, no.
His lips had moved, of course they had. What
mountebank's trick was this that he played on her?
He forced her hands up, one to the motionless mouth, one
to the still throat. still don't speak as men speak. I
can't. I was born half-formed, good enough to look on but
without ears to hear. "But you are-was
  still told you I grew up in Rhiyana. Don't
you know what that means? I'm one of them. A witch,
a sorcerer. I'm reckoned quite skillful. I can
make you think I'm a man like any other. I can
walk in your mind. I can set myself in your dreams.
  She shook her head. "No. It's not possible.
Reason, logic-was Reason and logic have no
place among my kind. Haven't you been wondering
why neither Bianca nor your uncle said a word about
my brother?
  "He came in and out through the back, by the court
yard." 230 Judith Tan- He came in and out
by magic. The little hound that he grieved over, that was his
son. He's a very great enchanter, Stefania. He
taught me; he made me what I am.
I'm not of the true blood, you see. Mine is as
human as yours; or was, before he changed me.
Without him I'd have been nothing, a deaf-mute like those
poor creatures who beg in the market, an
animal in the shape of a man. Strange how one could
grow accustomed to things. A minute or two of the
impossible and it was no longer impossible; it became
a fact, like the existence of God. She had found
logical arguments for the nonexistence of witches, had
based a whole and yet unwritten treatise on
them, contending that observation revealed the world thus, and
thus, and thus. No doubt in due time she would have
argued that God Himself was a creature of man's
overly fertile mind, and then she would have gone to the
fire for heresy. Rightfully; for if a witch could
be, then so could God.
  No, she rebuked herself. That was all folly.
She had played with such arguments for the sake of playing
with them, but never given them credit. In strict
truth, she did not want to believe that this particular
witch existed. This witch per rem, perspeciem; this
boy who had appeared on her doorstep and stolen her
heart. Witched it away beyond any hope of
recovery.
  Thaf-was the impossibility. That he
was one of the Devil's children, lost and damned, fair
prey for any faithful son of the Church. He could not
be a black sorcerer. Not Nikephoros. She
felt his pain as if it had been her own, touched with a
faint, bitter amusement. There at least you see
clearly, my poor love. I'm not that kind of
witch. I'm of the other faction, a white enchanter.
Not that the Church cares. I'm still anathema. "Damn
the Church!"
  He shook his head, tossing it, his black brows
meeting over his black eyes. He did not
look-he seemed-
  He had let go her hands. She caught his cheeks
between t-h[*macrgg'[*macrgg'm Couldf caret
that-r caret mhi caret rl. hut- r*rtf
ii7*ment-h ff caret friend
[*reggg'@u[*macrgg'less-than com**@u
r[*macrgg'r**steaio*[*macrgg'ful
caret rather Tfriend rr[*reggg'ic*
  the hounds of god 231
  far too late for that, or far too early.
Especially when, caught off guard by her sudden
swooping kiss, he responded with undisguised
passion.
  Only for a moment. He tore free.
It's not only that, Stefania. I lied. I let
you think I was a whole man.
  Her eyes ran over him, halting midway.
"Aren't you?" He actually blushed. But his mouth was
grim. I pretended that I belonged to your world. I
don't. I can't. The stroke of God tstlowed me,
the stroke of witchery that mended me, between them have set
me apart. I'll never be human as you are human.
I can't even-truly-wish to be. She had neither need
nor time to voice her denial; he plunged over it.
You saw how I was that night when I frightened you so
much. I'd lost my power then. I was going mad in the
silence. I couldn "t endure to live so, always,
even for love of you. "Do you think I'd ever force that
on you?" Do you think you could live out your life in the
knowledge of what I am? My children could be like me. Could you
bear that? "I have no trouble enduring you."
  What of'your uncle"...OfBiancaf'Of'your kin,
your friends, the people you meet and speak to on the street?
What would they say if they knew? "Need they ever
know?"
  You're not thinking. You're just loving me. "Of
course. It's the only reasonable thing to do."
  He grasped her, shook her. Stefania
Makaria, do you mean that?
"Absolutely."
  Then, he said, come with me. One of my friends is a
bishop. He'll marry us tonight. We only have to go
to him and ask. She backed away a step or two.
She gathered her robe about her, shivering, realizing that
she was barefoot and the floor was cold. That cold part
of her mind which he was trying to wake, the clever thinker,
the philosopher, was saying exactly what he
wanted it to say He tested her;
  rightly. He was not what she had thought him. If he
could walk through her mind. seeine God knew what
secrets, it
  232 Judith Tan- stood to reason that he could
do much more, some of it even less appealing. And the
natural man, if man she could call him, was
sadly flawed.
  On the other hand, if he had meant her ill, he
could have overcome her long since and without this harrowing
confession. He could have seized her, subdued her mind
with her body, taken her, discarded her. Such, in
tales, had always been the conduct of wizards. But
then perhaps this was a subtler torment, a more
necromantically satisfying conquest.
  However-
  She hurled down her damnable logic and
set her foot on it. "You know full well,
Nikephoros, that if either of us is ready to marry,
it's not likely to be tonight. For one thing, we have
families, and these would prefer to be consulted. For
another, we are in no condition of mind or body
to be making a decision as serious as that." Say it!
he cried. Say that you won't have such a horror as
I am. Her chin came up. She knew her eyes
were snapping; she felt the heat in them.
"Nikephoros Akestas, what do you take me
for?"
  An eminently sensible woman. Damn it,
Stefania, I'm an honest-to-heaven, utterly
unrepentant, practicing sorcerer. "You certainly
look like one, with yesterday's razor-cut on your
chin. And your hem is torn again. What do you do with
it? Take it for walks through thornbrakes?"
  Ah no; she had misjudged. He was too far
gone to soften into laughter. Or was it that he persisted
in seeing in her what-perhaps-she was adamantly
refusing to see? He smote his hands together, and she
heard it as thunder. Lightning leaped from his lifted
palms. It coiled about him, hissing, spawning
snakeleis of fire, while he stood whole and
fearless in its center. Surely it was only
a seeming; just as surely, illusion or not, it
raised every hair on her body. *c Wst1/
Ktttf caret im caret that backslash from caret
coirl less-than ir tVery right-brace e* r
greater-than that caret 11/10 h*c hif it-
nfrto THE hounds OF god 233
  not, soft and inward, distant yet intimately
close. He tucked his legs beneath him; he sac in
comfort, cushioned on air. The lightning faded. Or
perhaps it had entered him. He glowed softly like a
lamp sheathed in parchment, light that shone through his heavy
robe, leaving little to be imagined.
  "What happens when you get angry?" she asked
him. I'm trained not to lose control. Even now he
seemed proud of that. We're not like the sorcerers in the
stories. In many ways we're stronger. We're
also more restrained. More ethical, you would say. He
tossed back his unruly hair; his brows met in a
single black line. You're not supposed to be so
cool about this! "Very well, I'm not. Shall I have
hysterics? Would it do any good?" would save you from
me.
  "It seems to me," she said, "that if you really
wanted to do anything of the sort, you'd have left me on
my doorstep that very first day. Or told me
the truth then and there, before I formed an unshakable
opinion of you."
  What-
  "I think you're a perfectly ethical witch,
who also happens to be a very young and rather foolish boy.
It doesn't matter, Nikephoros. Won't you
accept that?"
  He moved swifter than sight. Caught her.
Held her prisoner. And she shrank; she shuddered,
soul-deep. He felt no different. And yet- As
swiftly as he had come, he was gone. His eyes
tore at her soul. Wide, clear, unspeakably
bitter. doesn't matter, he said in his voice that
was no voice at all. Of course not. You can force
yourself to touch me, for proof. But if I touch you . .
. "You startled me," she said sharply.
  He could laugh. Only the sound of it was illusion,
the roughness that was pain.
  She hit him hard. And as he rocked with the blow,
she seized him, but gently, running her hands along
his knotted shoulders. Her mind was a roil. She
wanted him; she hated
  him for his lonCT f right-brace from-rf caret
That right-brace that right-brace not Child caret
that-hrnnLike- friend caret more h.o
c-t-ysti rather. rra 234 Judith Tarr
  ness; she wanted him fiercely enough to weaken her
knees. He was warm under her hands, solid,
human, no lingering crackle of lightning. But it was
there. She saw it in his eyes. Quiescent though he
was, he was not harmless, no more than a young wolf
trained to hand. And that in itself was fascination. To know that
power dwelt in him, power tamed to an arcane law;
to know it would not wound her. Yes. She knew. "Are
you telling me," she asked him slowly, "that I can
trust you?"
  The flash of his eyes made her breath catch.
Perilous, beautiful. Ineffably tender. She could
trust him. Implicitly. But always with that spice,
the knowledge of what he could do. Well; that was true of any
man. It was true of her own body. Which, if she
did not soon call it to order, would be taking
matters into its own hands. She was naked under her
gown, and she knew what lay under his, and they were
all alone. His witchery could make sure they stayed
so.
  He moved before she did, standing away from her, although
he spoiled it by taking her hands. Stefania. His
lips followed the syllables, not too badly. What
do we do now?
  "I can't take it in all at once. I have
to think. It's all changed. What I thought you were;
what I thought the world was. I only know ... I
think ... I still love you." She looked at him,
drinking him in. "But for now, we should sleep. I in
my bed, you in yours." Yes. Yes, I should go. But
he stood still. Stefania . . . She waited. He
shook his head, all words lost to him; he bent and
kissed her, gently, but with fire in it. She wanted
to cling; she wanted to hurl herself away in a madness
of revulsion. She moved not at all, but stood like a
woman of stone, marble veined with ice and fire. With
infinite reluctance he let her go, turned, began
to draw away. Her hand rose then, but whether
to beckon or repel, even she the hounds OF god

  ***
  Alf knew when Nikki rose, dressed, and
slipped away. The boy's trouble was as distinct as a
bruise. There was little Alf could do for it, and Nikki
would not have welcomed that little. The Akestas were most
damnably independent.
  Alf stopped trying either to force or to feign
sleep. He felt strange to himself, his new power
shifting within hm[*macr] begging to be
freed again. Just for a moment; just for its pleasure. He
almost smiled. That was the first danger any of his kind
learned to face, the first bright wonder of a new art,
when any small pretext seemed enough for its use.
Late as he had come to his people, strong as he had
been even then, and wise as the long years had made
him, he was no more immune than any child to this elation of
newborn magic. But a child had inborn defenses
lost to the man grown: he tired swiftly, and he
slept as now Cynan slept, all his fires
banked and guarded. Alf raised himself on one
elbow. Jehan was snoring gently. Cynan curled
like the pup he had been, back to the warmth. His thumb
had worked its way into his mouth.
  Love indeed could pierce like a sword, and its
other edge was loss. The winning of his son only
made the keener the absence of his lady and his daughter.
It shore away the armor he had forged so carefully
of hope and patience; it thrust deep into the soft
heart beneath. Hope and patience had gained him something.
He had Anna; he had Cynan. The madman's
caprice had cast them out as easily as it snatched
them away. And Simon Magus did not know that his
strongest enemy lived. He thought he had no
opponent now, no one who could thwart him,
only toys to be tormented as a cat torments a
mouse. But Thea had been able to hold him off. She
had failed to trick him inffdiscarding both her children.
What now would he do to her? More: What would he do
to Liahan?
  Alt was on his feet. Four feet. The power,
in the mnm[*macrgg'[*macrgg'rn- reaence
be[*macr]?--"?."-"--"dis.com--be-- l
--i i- --i .------- t'i-- 236 Judith
Tarr
  leopard's muscles drove him round the room in
a restless prowl; the leopard's instincts cried to him
to begin the hunt in earnest. But where? demanded the
enchanter's brain. Neither Anna nor Cynan
knew where they had been held prisoner. There could be
no scent to follow, no spoor to lead him to his
prey. Or could there? He returned to the bed,
setting his chin on its edge, measuring its occupants
with his eyes. Cynan greeted the touch of his power with the
faintest quiver of gladness, welcoming him into a
dream of warmth and peace; his fetch filled it already,
a towering shape armed and armored with light. Very gently
he freed himself from the dream and advanced beyond it. The
path he had taken before was blazed for him, but only for
him. Once he sensed an intruder, a
stab of something alien, repulsed too quickly for
recognition. It might have been Simon Magus.
It might have been merely a fugitive human thought
loosed unwittingly in sleep.
  Deeper and deeper. There waited the young alaunt,
shifting as he approached, blurring into a
multitude of forms. Carefully he skirted it.
It tried to follow, but could not keep pace with his
smooth leopard's stalk. With visible regret it
turned back. He had not far to go now. Deeper
than this and he would be trapped, bound forever within
Cynan's brain, or else repulsed with force enough
to destroy them both. He must hold to the line, narrow
as a sword's edge, tracing it with utmost care.
Somewhere, if knowledge and instinct guided him truly, was a
thread. A link like a birth-cord, tenuous as woven
moonlight but strong as steel. Alun had had it.
Gwydion, Aidan--they had it although time had thinned
and faded it, the bond of a child borne in the body of
an elf- woman, conceived and carried in power. Thea
would have made it stronger in defending her children against the
enemy, and perhaps Simon would not have known of it. It
  lav tT[*macrgg'tion dpf*tion anrf
[*reg)'bbtThat caret t'phggcaret rl run rhin
fnr pfl less-than bev findirnr
[*reggg'bledcaret
  the hounds OF god 237
  There. Moonlight and steel, yes; a glint of
bronze. An essence that was Thea, maddeningly faint.
  He wavered on the sword's edge, rocked with
longing for her. Grimly he willed himself to be still.
One foot slipped. He clawed for safety.
Caught the thread itself; clung. It began to bend.
With all his inner strength, he flung himself back and
out, but never letting go the bond. It was finer than
thread, finer than hair, finer than spider silk.
One slip and it was lost, irrecoverable. He had
it. The alaunt's form flashed past. The levels of
Cynan's mind flickered, higher and higher, growing
brighter and shallower as he ascended. On the edge of
Cynan's dream he forced a halt. Carefully,
delicately, he wound the strand about his body. Then
at last he flowed from spirit into altered flesh.
  Exhaustion bowed him down. Urgency raised
him, drove him toward the door. It was not latched;
he nosed it open. Man-scent filled his
nostrils. His hackles rose; his lips wrinkled.
Dimly he knew he should retreat, take his own
shape. But the leopard's body had already borne him
into the courtyard, oozing from shadow to shadow.
His will sufficed only to drive it into a deeper
shadow, the postern of the chapel. Someone had left the
door propped ajar, whether for laziness or for some
tryst. Warily he peered round the panel. The
whole world stank of man and of incense. He saw no
one, heard nothing. Inch by inch he insinuated himself
into a niche, an angle of wall between the foremost
stall and the first step of the altar dais. Instinct as
deep as the beast's caution bade him stop here,
pray, seek Heaven's sanction for his hunt. None
but God need ever know in what form he did it.
  He moved into the light of the vigil lamp. The
beast's mind screamed danger; the monk that was grew
all the stronger for it, all the more determined
to sanctify the hunt with holy words. He bowed as
best he could, crouching
  With his hear! hf*rigg'l73aret caret not hie
frtr caret nawc backslash friend right-brace ti
hie 238 Judith Tarr
  crucifix. It glimmered like the thread he must
follow. Let me find her, he beseeched it.
Help me.
  O.one woke too early for the Night Office, but
with no desire to lie abed. He rose and put on
his habit, and went to the chapel to meditate
until the rest of the Brothers should come. One, it
seemed, was there already, a pale blur in front of the
altar. But the Jeromite habit was brown. And this was
not quite-- He narrowed his weak eyes; he drew
closer to it. No, it did not look like a man. Not
at all. It looked like--
  His breath hissed loud in the silence. The
creature whipped about all of a piece, as a cat
would. A cat as big as a mastiff, dappled white
and silver like the moon.
  O.one was much too astounded to be afraid. One
heard of saints who found creatures of the wood
worshipping at their altars, particularly on
Christmas night. But not in Lent and not in Rome,
and certainly not any creature as uncanny as this.
It must have been a leopard, if any leopard could be
so huge and so very pale. He crossed himself slowly,
in large part to see what would happen. The beast did
not burst in a shower of sparks. Not that he had
honestly expected it to. He was sure it had been
praying. It did not attack. It watched him, in
fact, if not with benevolence--those eyes were far too
fierce for that--at least without hostility. He knelt
with considerable care, as close as he dared, and
crossed himself again. Bowing his head, he
gathered his wits. He had come after all to pray, not
to stare at a prodigy. His wits, gathered, kept
scattering. The leopard bulked huge in the middle
of them. His throat knew exactly where its fangs
would close, if it decided rather to be a good leopard
than a good Christian. He was not the stuff of which
saints were made, secure in the knowledge of God's
orotection: his reason knew it. to be sure. but his
instincts the hounds OF god 239
  could not so easily be persuaded. His eyes opened
of themselves and shot a glance sidewise.
  No leopard. No-
  A man. He sat on his heels as if
exhausted, head and shoulders bowed, long pale hair
hiding his face. Not that O.one needed to see it, or
knew surprise when it lifted to reveal itself.
"Signer* Alfred," he said quite calmly.
  "Brother," was the calm response. Alf
crossed himself, bowed low to the altar, flowed and
melted. His eyes, O.one noticed, were the same in
the beast as in the man. They lidded; the great strange
creature turned and lost itself in darkness. O.one
sent a prayer after it, for charity.

  The earth quaked. Towers fell;
mountains split and belched forth fire. "Jehan!"
they roared. "Father Jehan, for God's sake!"
He tumbled into wakefulness, heart thudding with
urgency, body half erect. The world was quite
solidly still; the bed had stopped its rocking. Anna
looked ready to begin again, with ample help from a
wild-eyed Nikki; he saw someone else behind them,
a girl he did not know, who looked a little weary and
more than a little troubled, but considerably saner than the
rest. He addressed her with all the politeness he
could muster this close to sleep. "Your pardon,
demoiselle, but what exactly is the trouble?"
She understood his langue d'oeil, but she answered
in Latin. "I'm not sure I know, Father. We were
in my house talking, and Nikephoros went all
wild; he pulled Anna out of bed and ran here."
  Nikki's impatience was as fierce as a slap.
It's Alf. He's gone. Vanished. Lost. I
can't find him in my mind at all. Jehan looked
about somewhat stupidly. "He's not here. the hounds
OF god 241
  Where-was His brain caught up with his tongue at
last. He shook his sleep-sodden head and yawned
until his jaw cracked. "Gone, you say? What do
you mean?"
  He's always in my mind, Nikki said, on the
edges, like a wall. But suddenly, a little while
ago, he dropped away. Just like that. Completely.
  "He was here." Jehan started to rise, paused.
Mutely Anna handed him his shirt. He pulled it
over his head, and stood to put on his habit. The
stranger, who must have been Nikki's Stefania,
regarded his bulk with a great deal of respect, but she
answered his smile with one both fine and fearless.
"Maybe he's just gone to the chapel. It's almost time
for Night Office; and you know how absolutely he
can concentrate on his prayers."
  "We looked," Anna said flatly "He's not
there."
  And when he prays, he's more there than ever.
Nikki's mind- voice snapped out with sudden force.
Cynan! Where is your father? Bright eyes peered from
amid a nest of blankets. There was no sleep in
them, nor any alarm. Gone, Cynan answered.
He's lookingstor Mother. Jehan caught Nikki
before he could bolt, and held him fast. The boy was as
quick as a cat, but he was no match for sheer Norman
muscle. "Calm down, lad. You're not going
to get him back with your temper." When Nikki had
held still for a long count of breaths, Jehan
set him down. The look he shot from beneath his lowered
brows promised dire vengeance. But not quite yet.
Deliberately, carefully, he said. My brother
has gone stark raving mad. Even if he can find
Thea, even if the trail is no delusion, the enemy
willsurely know he hunts. He doesn't have
me, and he doesn't have my art. He can't make
himself invisible.
  "He seems to have done just that," Jehan pointed
out. "Then Simon Magus has him." Anna
sank down to the tumbled bed, nibbing her temples as
if they ached. "I was afraid of this. We were let go
too easily. We were bait, 1 think Or
rVnor. ,1,00 was 242 Judith Tan- He
appeared beside her on all fours and climbed into her
lap. Clumsily he patted her cheek. Don't
cry, Anna. He's strong. He won't let the
other one win.
  He won't have any choice, Nikki said
bitterly. Stefania went to him in silence. He
hid his face in her hair.
  A new voice broke the tableau, a faint
tuneless voice, trembling with shyness. "Please,"
it said. "Brother Jehan, please, I-was O.one
looked like a frightened rabbit, shocked
into immobility by the sight of two strangers. Two
women, here, staring at him until he could hardly
think. But he had his own kind of courage. He
repeated Jehan's name, albeit in a dying fall.
  "Brother O.one." Jehan spoke gently as
to an animal, careful to betray neither surprise
nor dismay. God alone knew what the man had
heard, and God knew what he thought of it. "Come
in. Brother, don't be afraid. This is
Nikephoros' sister, and this is his good friend, a
lady of your own city. They've brought news that
couldn't wait for morning."
  As if Jehan's words had been beckoning hands,
O.one ventured into the room. A step, two,
three. A deep breath;
  he plunged the full distance, all the way to the
brazier with the women on the other side of it. The
color came and went in his face. He kept his
eyes fixed on Jehan, who was solid, male, and
blessedly familiar. "'Brother, I heard what you
were saying. About-about the Lord Alfred. How he
hunts. I saw him when he went."
  Nikki started forward. Stefania caught him.
He stood stock-still. The monk blinked. His weak
eyes looked dazzled; he smiled,
remembering. "He was a wonder to see. He
prayed, and I know God heard him. I saw him
change. Is his the sort of quarry that were better
hunted by a leopard?"
  "A what"...1 Jehan burst out before he thought.
"A leopard," O.one repeated patiently. "I
saw a right-brace from caret rather right-brace rrA
nr*ain rhf* r'hir-i caret like
T'h/gg*macrgg'tion it- right-brace xstoc
Qicrnnr* A rf caret that right-brace the hounds
OF god 243
  then it was a leopard again. He looked deeply
troubled, but I think God comforted him a little."
  "But Alf can't-was Anna began.
  He can now. Nikki chewed his lip. He seemed
a little calmer. might have worked. It just might.
  "What?" Jehan spoke for all of them.
  Nikki shook his head, clearing it. If a
person-if a witch changes shape, sometimes, with
care, he can seem a beast to the mind as to the eye.
It's not invisibility, but it's close enough. His
face tightened again. But it can't work. A leopard
prowling Rome-why couldn't he have had the sense to be
an ordinary cat?
  A cat is too small, said Cynan.
  A leopard is too damnably big.
Especially that one. All but albino in the middle
of the night, terrorizing the city . . . Damn him
for a lovestruck fool.
  "The city isn't terrorized yet, is it?"
Jehan had to be reasonable. Otherwise he would
lie down and howl.
  Nikki sat beside his sister. Dropped, in truth,
as if he could no longer muster the strength to stand. Is
that the way we'll all go? One by one, without hope
or help. Maybe I should simply turn myself
in. Simon won't touch the rest of you, I don't
think. It's witches he wants.
  Jehan scowled, pulling at his beard. Even
Cynan seemed to have caught Nikki's despair,
drooping in Anna's lap, shivering slightly. She
gathered her cloak about him with absencminded competence.
"This," Stefania said clearly, "has gone far
enough. Not that I understand precisely what's
happening, but it seems to me that you aren't trying very
hard to fight back."
  We can't, Nikki muttered.
  "Have you tried?" She rounded on Jehan. "Father,
will you tell me what all of this is supposed
to mean?"
  Jehan hesitated only briefly. She knew
too much as it was; the rest could not hurt. It might
even help. She looked like an extraordinarily
intelligent woman. Swiftly and succinctly he
told the tale; when he had gone as far as he could,
Anna rook his place. None of it seemed to shock
  her- hur rhon oho [*macrgg'A
f[*macrgg'caret [*macr)'eaA greater-than
i-caret was,?-was. caret rather :. i-j-. 244
Judith Tarr
  She had sat down while they spoke, taking
Alts customary chair by the brazier. She remained
there after they finished. Her eyes when she pondered were
the deepest of blues, almost black; she would have
looked forbidding if she had not nibbled, childlike,
on the end of her braid. "This Simon," she said
slowly. "Anna, did you ever see anyone else but
him and his master? No one ever looked in, or
seemed to be outside when the others were with you?"
  "No," Anna answered. "No." The second
time she was less firm. "I never saw anyone
else."
  Stefania frowned. "That's very odd, you know. They
held you prisoner for so long even before they let you
see them, and then Simon at least was there
almost constantly. But you weren't held in a hut
somewhere apart from the world. You say the passage was long
and full of doors." "Andwitha door at the end."
  "Open?"
  "Open." That struck Anna; she sat up
straighter, her brow wrinkling as she called back the
memory. "I saw light beyond. It looked like
daylight, though it was dim. We couldn't have been in a
deep dungeon. But I don't see how--"
  "The other doors. What were they like?"
  "Doors. All on one side, the same side
as ours. Only ours had a bolt. The rest were
simply latched. They didn't look as if anyone
ever used them."
  "You were on the edge of--something. Where no one else
seemed to go." "A fortress," Jehan said.
  "Or a ruin." Anna frowned. "It did look
old. But not decrepit. You'll bear in mind that the
one time I escaped, I wasn't noticing much, and the
light was bad. And Rome is full of
well-preserved relics." Stefania nodded. "So
it is. But no relic in that state of repair can be
unclaimed. If we can learn where the Paulines the
hounds OF god 245
  "It need not be a Pauline
possession," Jehan pointed out. "The Order has
a number of powerful friends. But we've been
exploring every possible avenue for weeks now. If
any human being knew where our people are, if any
prince or prelate had given our enemies leave
to keep prisoners in his domain, we'd have known it
long since." Unless Simon prevented it.
Nikki straightened. Isn't any of you taking time
to wonder what sent Alf out so suddenly, without even
calling me to help? He wouldn't have gone blindly.
He must have known where he was going.
  "Simon let him catch a glimpse of Thea,"
Anna suggested. "Simon hates him, you know.
Maybe because they're so much alike. Could they be
brothers, Father Jehan? Alts never known either of his
parents, and Simon never knew his father."
  Jehan shuddered. Somehow he could not face the
prospect of a renegade enchanter roaming the world and
begetting sons and never tarrying to see what became of
them. Even if one had grown into Alf. It was too
heedless. Too inhuman.
  Nikki's eye caught him. Inhuman? How many
mortal lords did just that? Not to mention legions of
soldiers and wanderers and clerics. God's bones,
Jehan thought. A wandering wizard-monk
without morals or scruples--now there was a vision
to make a strong man quake. "And it's useless,"
he said roughly. "Wherever they came from, we've got
the grown men to contend with, and I think we can assume
that they're about to come face to face if they haven't
already. So what's to be done? How did Alf know
where to go?"
  He's in me, Cynan said. As they all turned
upon him, he flinched, baring his teeth like the hound he
had been. He follows the birth-bond. The thread
that ties me to my mother. You're not to go after him, and you
can't find the bond. It's down too deep
audit's much too thin. He says you have to wait here
and be f caret stIfipnt stT.mst7 , *-,
caret caret comcaret still- ..--. ..--disgreater-than
A--,246 Judith Tan- He says? H e
commands? caret 'f caret 3 own lips had drawn
back. What does he think we are?
  Human. Cynan said it without scorn, but without
gent leness. It was a plain fact. Don't think
things at me. It won't help. Won't it?
  Jehan came between them, bulking large. "Leave
the boy alone, Nikephoros. He's only
obeying his father. As, it seems, the rest of us will have
to do. While we wait, I suppose we
can pray."
  We can always pray, Nikki growled, but he let
Cynan be. We've talked straight throufsft
your damned Night Office. Are you going to drag us
all to Matins?
  "Only those who want or need it," Jehan
responded, unperturbed. "Brother O.one, I'm
sorry we've kept you here."
  The monk's eyes were shrinking at last to their
normal dimensions; he even smiled. "Oh, no.
Brother, it's my fault. I heard the bell, but
it was all so fascinating . . . Do you mind if I
stay a little longer? I'd like to see what happens,
if I can."
  "Stay and welcome," Jehan said. He meant
it, which surprised him a little. The man was frail, and
mortal, and probably in great peril of his vows if
not of his immortal soul. But there was an obscure
comfort in the presence of another habit among these
Greeks and witches. It was a talisman of
sorts. A shield against the uncanny. Or at the
very least, someone to talk to while Nikki brooded and
Cynan drowsed and the women whispered and giggled about-of
all things-Pliny the Elder. Not that Jehan was either
averse to or ignorant of natural
philosophy, but not in the dark before dawn, with Alf
gone and no present hope of getting him back again.
O.one's gentle chatter was a rest and a relief, and
in this black hour, more blessed than sleep. 28
  Alf, hoc on the scent, was aware of little else.
As in the scriptorium, he let his body do as it
willed, which was to hunt in the manner of a great cat,
flowing from shadow to shadow, silent itself as a shadow.
If anyone saw him, his observer thought him a
dream, or else fled in superstitious terror. The
leopard would have delighted in a kill, if not of a
man then of the donkey that brayed and fought and
overturned its cart, or of one of the dogs that ran
yelping from his path; but the enchanter promised sweeter
prey at the end of the hunt. The thread had grown
till it was as wide as a road, as blindingly
brilliant as a bolt of lightning. Even had he
wished to, he could not turn away from it. Thea. Her
name sang in his bones. Thea Damaskena. Soon
he would have her. Soon his power would be whole again.
He would be healed, strong, made anew. Then let
the Magus do what he would. His body was running
easily, exulting in its smooth 248 Judith
Tarr
  swiftness. He was close now. The
scent was strong enough to taste, almost unbearably
sweet. Thea, Thea Damaskena. Leopard's
caution brought him up short. Leopard's instinct
made him one with deep shadow. Mind and body met
with a bruising shock; he crouched flat, every sense
forcing itself to the alert. He realized dimly that not
only his eyes were his own; he had taken his proper
shape. Sometime very soon, he was going to have to take this
new power in hand.
  He lay in a tangle of thicket. About him was
wasteland, dark under a hard glitter of stars. Before
him bulked a great shape of blackness. He sharpened
his eyes. There was the loom of a castle, rough and raw
and new yet backed and guarded by Roman walls.
Part of those lay in ruins, but much was solid still,
transcribing a shape he knew. He swallowed
bitter laughter. Many a day from San
Girolamo's campanile he had looked straight
into this open grassy vale with its long oval of
walls. Once it had been the Great Circus of the
city, his thicket its center, the spine of stone that had
brought so many hurtling chariots to grief. And there in
its curving end was the castle whose tower had seemed
to stare at him, awkward bastard child of old Rome.
Somewhere in or about it, in full sight of the
long vigil, lay his lady and his daughter.
  They slept within their strong walls, the
Frangipani princes. None seemed to know what
prisoners they held. Nor what approached them,
a man moving as a leopard would move, his white
skin dappled with mud and starlight. The scent led him
round the castle itself, past the frown of the gate toward
the older walls. The ranks of seats were gone,
fallen or taken, but the skeleton remained; and it
was thicker than it had seemed. Of course; there would
have been a webwork of passages and chambers, stables,
storage places for fodder and harness. Not the mighty
labyrinth of the Colosseum, maybe, that had brought
Nikki back one night in a fever of excited
discovery, but space the hounds OF god 249
  And who need ever know? Not the Frangipani,
secure in their fortress. Not the few folk who
dwelt on this the edge of the populous places. Not
ever the hunters quartered so close and never
suspecting that their quarry lay in plain sight.
  He paused in the lee of the wall. Prom here it
seemed immensely long and high, impossibly
complex. The scent that had been so strong was fading
fast. The thread was thread again, thin as a spider's.
He sped along it, abandon ing both
caution and concealment. Beast-shape would be faster, but
flight was faster still. He spurned the earth, flung
himself upon air, wingless yet swifter than any
bird. He nearly overshot the mark: an arch far
down the wall, across the field from the place where he
had begun. Of all the many arches, this one alone
cried out to him; it gaped blackly, his height and more
above the ground. He hovered before it, shaping light
to see within. A door shut. An axe fell. A
great force severed thread and power together. He fell like
a stone and lay stunned, blind and deaf. With infinite
slowness his sight restored itself. He could move.
Nothing had broken, although every bone felt as if it had
been stretched upon the rack. He dragged himself to hands
and knees, to knees alone, to his feet. The arch
yawned above him. The wall beneath, cracked and cran
nied, offered hand- and footholds. Grimly he
attacked it.
  This dark was no natural lightlessness. Starlight
should have been enough even for cat-eyes, more than enough for
witch-sight. But he was as blind as any human,
groping his way down a stone passage with no power
to guide him. Was this what it was to be human? Blind,
deaf, wrapped in numbness.
  The floor dropped away. Once more
he fell, once more he lay on the edge of
oblivion until pain dragged him back. This
rising was harder by far; when he walked, he walked
lame; But again his bones were intact, his steps steadying
as the nain fi caret o caret i caret [*macr]
caret dis$11 comtilde comi diseacomsti..-i-i
tilde .--i tilde [*macr] u-
com[*macr].ea[*macr)'eai
  250 Judith Tarr
  more slowly now, with greater care. Another fall
might break him indeed; and being what he was, he
would not die easily. He could lie long ages in
agony before his enemy came to add to his torment, or
until death claimed him at last.
  Light.
  His eyes mocked him with hope. No; it was
growing. It flickered. Torchlight. Dimly at
first, then more clearly, he saw what lay about him.
A long passage a little wider than his arms'
stretch, a little higher than he could reach. It was not
Anna's passage; no doors broke the
featureless walls. What it had been, what it was
meant for, he had no wits left to guess.
  He stumbled toward the light. It illumined a
stair, a short downward flight. The
torch was old, ready to gutter out, but he wrenched it
from the crack into which it had been thrust. With it in his
grip, he felt slightly stronger. He could move
more quickly, indeed he must, before the light died.
  Another stair. Upward. At last, a door,
bolted. With ruthless, furious strength, he tore
bolt and bars from their housings. Satisfaction warmed
him, stronger than regret;
  his muscles at least had not lost their power,
whatever had become of his mind and his senses. He
strode through the broken door. He was close now.
This must once have been an entryway into the arena, a
wider space bordered with arches. One was blocked with
rubble and rough brickwork. The other, though barred below,
offered a thin half-circle of open sky. Alf
paused, drawing clean air into his lungs, drinking
in strength. He advanced more steadily than before into a
passage which, oddly, seemed less dark. In a little
while he was certain. His power was returning. Even
before his torch sputtered and died, he had no need of
it;
  he saw clearly enough.
  Yet another stair descended below the level of the
ground, but its ceiling was a sloping shaft roofed with
stars. The passage at its foot ended in
a second door. This bolt he
  the hounds OF god 251
  This was Anna's corridor. The blank wall
would face the outer world, the rim of the Circus. The
doors would open upon chambers and new passages.
There were not as many doors as she had remembered, perhaps
at Simon's conni vance-three or four at most,
and the one, the one that mattered, set with a grille that
scattered golden light against the wall.
  AlFs heart hammered. His palms were cold, his
head light. If this was all a grim deception, if
they were gone, or if they had never been there at all-
  The cell, the vaulted ceiling, the cluster of
lamps, he had seen them through Anna's eyes. The
pallet lay as she had recalled. On it ...
He never remembered the door's opening. Perhaps he
had simply willed himself through it. She was asleep
or unconscious in her own beautiful shape, her
white skin glimmering, her hair a tangle of
silk, bronze and gold. Slowly he drew near.
His mind uncurled a tendril, poised for any
sorcerous assault, meeting none. With infinite
delicacy it touched her.
  Her eyes opened, all gold. "So early?" she
murmured, still half in sleep, reaching
drowsily to draw him down. As their lips touched,
all sleep fled. Her grip tightened to steel; her
warmth turned to fire. She clutched him with fierce
strength, yet no stronger or fiercer than he, as
if one madly joyous embrace could wipe away
all the days apart. Neither knew who cooled first
to sanity, he or she. They were body to body still,
flesh to burning flesh, but eye met eye with passion
laid aside. He was above her, stroking her hair
out of her face. She traced his cheek; frowned;
  followed the long beloved line down neck and
shoulder and breast to count each jutting rib. "Alfred
of Saint Ruan's," she demanded sharply, "what have
you done to yourself?" She did not wait for an answer,
if answer he could have given. She thrust him from her,
rising in her turn above him, glaring down. "Look
at you. A skeleton. And here.
  you iftinr V caret disi.
,ea[*macrgg'[*macr]", l-caret nolaor
",A"'eacaret , was 252 Judith Tarr
  For all her wrath, and it was wrath indeed, her
eyes had filled and overflowed. He kissed the
tears away. She slapped at him; he kissed her
palms. "You fool! This is exactly where he
wants you." "And where I want you." Not
all the tears were hers. He laughed through them. "Thea.
Thea Damaskena. I was dying, and now I live
again."
  "Not for long," she snapped. "He laid the
bait, and you cook it, royally. And all you can think
of is the fire between your legs." "Of course. It
maddens him." Alf cupped her breasts in his hands.
They were fuller than ever he remembered, infinitely
sweet. "He'll be here soon. Shall we give him
something to watch?" "You're mad."
  "I'm challenging him."
  "You're suicidal." He laughed; she struck
him again, not lightly. "He has Liahan. He
came, freed me from the hound's body, took her
away." That killed his laughter, if not his ardor.
"When?" "After he flung Anna out and Cynan with
her. Baited his hook, I should say. Liahan is
his hostage. He'll kill her if you threaten him."
"Maybe not." He caught her hips, eased her
down upon him. She gasped, half in resistance,
half in desire. Resistance died as desire
mounted. In the joining of their bodies she saw what
he saw, weaving into his mind, filling all his
emptiness as he filled hers, body and soul. They
were whole again, both, in high and singing joy,
nor could even his power of prophecy, reborn, cast
it down to earth. Joined, they held Simon at
bay; their loving repelled him more completely than
any shield of power. But even witch- strength could not
suffice to prolong their union much beyond the mortal
span. They lay entwined, the aftermath made sweeter
for that there might never be another, and smiled at the one
who had come to destroy them. "Whnro was Cim caret
n'f ,eacaret bena A'.a
.gg*macr)'"...[*macr]
n[*macr]eaeacom-J :- A ir greater-than .
---- -- i the hounds OF go d 253
  own did, but that proved nothing. It was certainly
light for a man's, and it was purer than a human's
would have been, even raw with outrage. And yes, the
face was like the one he met when compelled to face a
mirror, yet older, stronger, less
girlish-fair. This one had grown to full
manhood, had not frozen just on the verge of it,
caught forever between boy and man.
  In body, perhaps. In mind . . .
  Alf rose, setting himself eye to eye.
Simon's nostrils thinned and whitened. He flung
something in Alts face, a tangle that sorted
into twin robes of unbleached wool. They were
considerably finer than pilgrim's garb. Alf
donned the larger, which fit well, and waited as Thea
slipped into the smaller. "The last of God's
Hounds who jailed me," he observed, "would not
besmirch his habit by clothing me in it." "The rules
have relaxed," said Thea coolly, "since one of our
kind found his way more or less legitimately into the
Order." She circled Alfs waist with her arm,
leaning against him with easy intimacy, stroking the soft
wool that clung to his thigh. "Delicate skins,
the Paulines must have. This makes the Jeromite
habit feel like sackcloth."
  "Saint Jerome's Brothers tend to be a shade
austere." Alf regarded Simon with the suggestion of a
smile. "Saint Paul, however, was the champion of
moderation. In all things."
  "You are abominable." Simon looked as if he
were fending off violent sickness. "How could you do--that
--"
  The smile grew clearer. "Quite easily after such
a parting; and for a long while before it, my lady was too
great with the children to--" Alf stopped; he flushed
faintly. "Ah, Brother, your pardon. I've
been in the world so long, I've forgotten proper
priestly discretion." "You have forgotten
nothing."
  "Maybe, after all, I have not." The smile was
gone. Alfs eyes were cool, his voice level.
"I forget very little. Forgiveness is another matter."
  "do YOU rhink vnii pan rhallpnw me?"
  254 Judith Tarr
  "I do. I am. I challenge you, Brother
Simon of the Order of Saint Paul. I bid you
release my lady and my daughter. I command you
to cease your harrying of my people."
  was "Canst thou bind the sweet influences of the
Pleiades, or loose the bonds of Orion?
Knowest thou the ordinances of Heaven? canst thou set
the dominion thereof in the earth?"'"
  Alfs eyes glittered; he laughed. "Are you so
mighty then, kinsman? "Hast thou an arm like
God? or canst thou thunder with a voice like him?"'"
  "I am the voice of God."
  "Pride, my brother, has cast down greater
powers than yours." "I shall cast you down, demon,
mock me though you will." Simon stepped away from the
open door. In it stood Brother Paul,
languid as ever, and in his arms the still form of
Liahan. Her eyes were open but dull. Her
alaunt's body was limp. The monk
stroked her steadily, a smile growing as Alf
stared. "Good morning, my lord Chancellor," he said.
  Alf stood taut, seeing him hardly at all,
only his habit and his intent and the creature he
cradled with such deceptive care. "If you have harmed
my daughter--"
  "Yes," Brother Paul cut him off lightly.
"If we have. What then, my lord? What can you do?
It won't be as it was before, I can assure you. No
mere mortal men hold you captive; no king will
ride to your rescue. This time, at last, the Order
will have its revenge."
  "You have a most un-Chrisrian memory for
slights."
  "Slights, sir? Is it so you reckon it?
By your doing we are banned from the whole isle of
Britain; with your aid we were forbidden to enter
Rhiyana. You've had no small part in the quashing
of our Order, Alfred of Saint Ruan's."
  "I'd lie if I professed remorse."
Alf focused above the hi hir 11 r caret rather
caret not t"...h caret [*macr] We
right-brace tstn-[*reggg'o Att*tsti l
caret stn-l liajandtion
*i*-n-t.*ful[*reg]. [*ma
crgg'[*macrgg'[*reg)'.caret .. greater-than
  the hounds OF god 255
  diced; it was a handsome face, if not at all in the
mold of the Kindred. The accent, he noticed, was
Anglian, but as for the man: "Surely you're not
old enough to have been one of my inquisitors." "I
admit, I never had the honor. But I was there."
Brother Paul's smile was rich with malice.
"Brother Reynaud gave a good account of himself with the
whip. He's still alive, you know. Still laughing, save
now and then when he howls like a beast. When our
postulants need to know what would become of humanity
under your people's sway, they're taken to see him. It's
very effective. The weak flee our walls in dread
of a like fate. The strong grow all the more determined
to destroy your kind."
  "If you were there, you know that that was none of my doing."
"No? I ventured a test once. I drove a
man to attack Simon. He went mad
likewise. He died; but after all, Simon is
stronger than you. Also, I think, more honestly
merciful. I certainly would prefer death to the life
Reynaud has lived since he ran afoul of you."
Alts eyes had narrowed as the monk spoke.
Memory was stirring, stripping away
years. Evading the horror of a truth he had never
known or wanted to know, that in return for the scars on
his back he had broken a man's mind.
  It was a trap, that truth, meant to break his will.
He made himself see, made himself find the name this
monk had had. He had been a youth then, dark and
slender, languid-eyed, all sweet malevolence.
"Joscelin. Joscelin de Beaumarchais." He
shook his head, not incredulous, not precisely, but
much bemused. "You had chosen the Benedictines, I
thought. For the wine and the women and the boys when you wanted
them. Whatever made you turn to Saint Paul?"
Brother Paul, who had once been a squire of the
Lionheart, smiled the smile Alf remembered.
The years had done nothing to abate its malice.
"The wine and the women turned out nnr rn he so
forthcomirw. and I lost my
  256 Judith Tarr
  taste for boys. Your fault too, sir
sorcerer. A beautiful boy was never quite so beautiful
after I saw your face, and no man could ever come up
to the king you robbed me of. At last I had to conceive a
new lust. I went in search of power. What Saint
Benedict had, seemed to me to lack spice.
Saint Paul, on the other hand, offered
power of a very peculiar kind, power to judge men's
souls; and he didn't ask me to be a barefoot
fanatic."
  "And he led you to another beautiful boy," Thea
said. The monk laughed softly. "He led me to a
power I hardly dared dream of. Imagine my thoughts
when a vagabond stumbled into the abbey where I
lodged, hardly a fortnight past my acceptance
into my new Order; and that wandering madman was
obviously, unmistakably an enchanter. A young
one with no will at all of his own. He thought I was
God. He thinks so still, nor can he be shaken."
  "You were a contemptible boy. You've become an
evil man." He regarded her as she stood there with
defiance on her face, holding to Alf as if she
would be both protector and protected. "You could
argue that I'm the instrument of God's will. Simon
does so incessantly. I'm content to do as I
please. In the end, who knows? Saint Peter's
throne may be beyond me, but the generalship of Saint
Paul's brethren is not."
  "Unless," Alf said gently, "yon beast of
burden flings you from his back."
  "Was I ever averse to a good gamble?"
  "Your luck, as I recall, was never
remarkably good. The meek little monk you caught for
your sport turned vicious and brought about your
downfall."
  "But now I have him again, and I don't intend
to let him go. You made my fortune before, in your
crooked way. You'll do so again." Brother Paul
raised the hand with which he had been petting Liahan.
"Simon. Take him."
  On guard though Alf had been, the force of
Simon's power smote him to the ground. For all the
strength of his
  rfQmt'tinr' caret h/gg*macr] minrhr h
less-than n73aret [*macr] K caret
less-than [*macrgg'f greater-than *, caret
*ful-[*macr)'bblstbled'o st1/3aret 11 caret
rtst.st-l caret caret caret *caret *cccaret
(tilde
  the hounds OF god 257
  and sent to battle against the sea. His shields were
useless, his defenses vain. He was utterly,
hopelessly outmatched. Somewhere far away, Thea was
speaking. Spitting words: defiance, maledictions.
As easily as a man separates two newborn
kittens, Simon held her apart from her lover.
  Alf rolled onto his back. Simon
gazed down, ex pressionless. "Get up," he said.
  Alf obeyed by no'will of his own. It was all
he could do to keep his head up, to speak without a
tremor. "Is it thus you treat your brother?"
  "We are no kin," Simon said. Did his
voice break a very little? "We are brothers, if not
in blood, then in kind. Look at me, Simon.
See that it is so."
  "I see that you cannot overcome me. You can only
plead with me." Alf spread his hands. "Destroy
me then. Am I not entirely in your power?"
  "Entirely." Simon's face contorted; he
shuddered. "You are so much-like-was
  "So much like you. Slay me, my brother. Has not
God commanded it? Cast me into the everlasting fire."
  "Silence him," Paul commanded swiftly. His
voice seemed to come from very far away. "He is
ancient, my son, ancient in his evil. Silence
his serpent's tongue lest it turn you from the very face
of God." Alf felt the closing of his throat, the
freezing of his tongue. But he could smile. He could
set his hands on the other's shoulders. They were narrower
than his own, although the man seemed sturdy enough, lean
rather than slender. Brother, his will said. Brother.
Simon struck the hands away, struck
Alf to his knees. "Like," he whispered. "So
like." He bent, searching the lifted face. His fist
caught it. It rocked, steadied, blinked away
tears of pain. Fair though the skin was, the
bruise did not rise swiftly enough. His power
uncoiled. It reached, at
  Once delicate and hniral Ir ripnrhpd-
ir rwi' less-than berpd 258 Judith Tarr
  Alf gasped, more in surprise than in pain.
He could not feel--he felt--
  His face itched. Small annoyance; it baffled
him. Simon was watching with terrible fascination. He
raised a trembling hand. The skin had roughened.
No. Had grown-- was growing--
  He laughed for pure mirth. After all these long
years, after all the taunts and all the doubts and
all his hard-won acceptance, he was sprouting a
beard. A soft one as beards went, but thick and
growing as sturdily as Jehan's had that night in
Caer Gwent. Simon did not take kindly
to his merriment. For that alone he kept it up. His
voice was deeper. His skin felt harsher. were his
bones heavier? His hands were slender still, but not as
slender as they had been. They were becoming a man's
hands. Pale hair thickened on the backs
of them. He itched elsewhere, his belly, his deepening
chest. He was a little taller; a little broader. His
beard was growing, curling, white-gold as the hair of
his head.
  His laughter faded. His knees ached. His back
twinged, not scarred skin alone but the bones within. The
skin on his hands coarsened. The joints knotted.
Veins and tendons rose into relief. A tooth
began to throb. His tongue, probing, found it
loose. He was aging. Like a mortal man, but
faster, far faster, a whole lifetime in a moment.
Eyes and ears were dulling. His head was too heavy for
his neck. Having grown, now he shrank and
shriveled, trembling with the palsy of age. His vision
spun, staggered, sharpened to a bitter clarity.
Simon had lent his own eyes. On the floor
huddled an old, old man, a man who had lived
every one of Alfred's many years.
  And yet he was not pitiable. He was--yes, he
was still comely, and the eyes in the age-ravaged face,
though faded, kept much of their old brightness. There was
no fear in them.
  Acraitt backslash f* A caret
comright-brace that e*backslash comM right-brace
fl caret arw m [*reg]-li caret
,,,.-,caret steaI, caret Can L:- 1--1. the
hounds OF god 259
  Not an ill body even yet, and not an utter
ruin. He could stand, with great effort. He could
smile. He could wield a voice not thinned
overmuch, not indeed much higher than it had ever been.
"Alas, Brother Simon, you'll never slay my
vanity until you slay me."
  Simon's rage roared over him in blood-red
fire. He tumbled over and over, helpless, but not,
by God, not ever afraid. The hand that held him from the
floor was his own again, smooth and long-fingered. His
cheeks bore only the merest downy suggestion of a
beard. His teeth lay quiescent in their places;
his voice, though well broken, was a clear young
tenor. "My thanks, brother. In spite of its
disadvantages, I do prefer this semblance. And
now," he said, raising himself, hardening his tone, "and
now I think there has been enough of this entertainment.
Simon of Montefaico, monk of Saint
Paul, kinsman ofRhiyana's King, I call you
to the reckoning."
  He had taken Simon by surprise. "You have no
power--" "I have the right. The Church does not deny
fair trial to any, even to such as I.
Let that trial, by my choice, be trial by combat."
"You cannot help but lose."
  "If so," Alfsd, "then so be it. I would far rather
die in battle than at the stake."
  Thea flung herself to her knees beside him. No one
hindered her. Simon was motionless, unreadable;
Paul frowned, searching transparently for a trick,
finding none. She gripped Alfs shoulders with
fierce strength. Although she knew that Simon would
hear, she spoke in Alfs
  ear, just above a hiss. "Have you forgotten the children?
Have you forgotten me?"
  "Never," he answered, equally low. "Thea,
we're all dead, one way or another. But I
won't sell our lives cheaply. I'm going to try
at the very least to mark him, to give him a wound that he
will not forget." Her breath hissed between her teeth.
She plared into his 260 Judith Tarr
  eyes, her own as fiery dark as old bronze.
He tried to speak to her below thought, to the place in his
soul that was hers and hers alone. A hut of mud and
wattle beset by a battering ram; a woman's hand
upon a tapestry, embroi dering the petals of a
flower. And, as clearly as he dared, a small
furred creature gnawing away the roots
of an oak. Despair shook him. She did not
see. Her eyes and her mind held only anger,
outrage, frustration. "I'm fighting beside you," she
said, biting off the words. "You can't stop me."
  He lifted one shoulder. His finger brushed the
stiff set of her lips. They would not soften.
"Whatever comes of this, know you well, Thea
Damaskena, I regret not one moment of all our
years together." "Not one, Alfred of Saint
Ruan's?"
  "After all," he said, considering each word, "not
one." He kissed her lightly, and then more deeply.
When he rose she remained upon her knees, her
face rigid, white as bone. He turned
to Simon. "I am ready."
  For an eternal while, Simon simply stood.
Perhaps he prayed. Perhaps he hoped to lure Alf
into attack. Alf was not to be lured. His formal
praying was long past, the rest left to God. Fear
had died to a steady roaring beneath the surface of his
brain. He simply waited as he had waited for so
long, with watchful patience. His shields were up, but
lightly. His power gathered hard and bright and pulsing
behind them. He shifted his sight. The flawed
hemisphere of his eyes' vision grew and
rounded. But he saw no more and no better. Simon
filled the world like the sun unbound, raging from pole
to pole. It had consumed its own center, the mastering
will. It was consuming the body that bore it. Unchecked,
it could consume all that was. Could, although in the doing it
would destroy itself.
  Alts fear howled within its chains, swelling
into terror. He had never stood so close to death.
Had never dreamed. the hounds OF god 261
  even when he faced the stake, that dissolution could come
so close. He had never met a power greater than his
own. He let wonder rise above the fear, riding
on it, arming himself with it. If that mighty strength could
be tamed, what a marvel it would be; what
splendors it would engender. He shaped the wonder and the
vision. He made them into a spear hafted and tipped
with light. He cast them forth with all the strength of his
compassion.
  Simon struck as a man strikes at an
insect, with casualness close to contempt. Alfs
shields locked; he staggered but kept his feet. His
dart had pierced its target. The sun-flare
dimmed. A flicker only, scarcely to be seen.
  The power lashed out in sudden rage. Alf dropped
shields and fled. Wherever he turned, the
power waited. He flung himself at it. Not as a
spear, not as a sword, but as a rush of gentleness:
a soft wind, a fall of water. He whispered through
the walls. He flowed round the striking hand. He
took shape in a zone of stillness within walls of
fire.
  Simon waited there as he waited in the world that men
called real. "Wherever you go," he said, "I am."
  Alf stepped forward. Simon drew no closer.
Alfs body, illusion that it was, shaped and firmed
by his will, had begun to fray. Just so had it been when
he had lost the key to the change, when his form stretched
and quivered and all his being wavered, poised on the
border of formlessness. The same dread; the same
black panic rising to master him, to fling him back,
to set both body and soul in immutable stone. Stone
itself flowed like water, water dissolved into air, air
sublimed into fire. He was trapped, caught in the
center of Simon's power. There was no anchor,
nothing solid or stable, no shape or focus or
center. Death-not the death the Church foretold, the soul
freed whole and glorious from the encumbering body. This
was the death of the soulless. Decay; dissolution. Ashes
to ashes- dust to dust. and a 262 Judith Tarr
  wind of fire sweeping away the last
feeble fragments. But not into oblivion, nothing so
simple or so merciful. He was aware. Lost,
scattered, millionfold, he knew that he was,
he knew that he suffered, he knew that he knew.
  Of the myriad motes that had been the self called
Alfred, one lone speck clung to light and will. It
was no more than a thought, a wordless awareness. Not for his
kind could there be any hope of Heaven, but Hell, it
seemed, waited for them as for mortal men. If the
wordless could have encompassed itself in words, it would have
protested like a child. It's not fair!
  A second mote drifted toward the first.
Fair, it keened, not. A third. A fourth. N.
A fifth. Ten, twenty, a hundred. J.
Haifa thousand. Unjust. A thousand. Why for us
only Hell? Why are we granted no entry
into Heaven?
  Thought spawned thought. Raw protest transmuted
into logic. Logic begot reason, and reason
remembrance. Re membrance, and pain renewed.
He had found form, and that form was a scream. Pain was
real. Pain was a center. Dissolution, dissolved,
wrought stability. He clung, and clinging, grew;
and the pain grew, waking into agony, and from agony
into piercing pleasure. He must endure.
He knew not why. He knew only must. Though if
wracked his newborn self, though it tore with
claws of iron, though it cried to him to let go, he
only clasped it closer. He was mind amid pain.
He was body. He was flesh flayed raw; and a hand
closed about it, waking agony beyond even
pleasure-ineffable, unendurable. And he could not lose
consciousness; he had none to lose. He could not even
go mad.
  The hand tightened. Caught writhing on the very
pinnacle of torment, he did the simplest of things.
He wished himself gone. Absence of pain was more terrible
by far than its eternal ea
  the hounds OF god 263
  presence. He had a body; it lay gasping. It
opened aching eyes. The hands upon him eased but did not
let go. Thea's. He was englobed in power still, and she
with him, and even as their eyes met they mingled. Yet
without fear, with full and joyous will, mind to mind and
body to body, he and she, they, one mind and one
power. One body likewise, he and she, shifting,
steadying, she. But the eyes were his; the hand also, for a
moment, exploring the strange-familiar shape,
familiar from his long loving, strange for that now he
dwelt in it. He felt his lips--her
lips--curve in a smile. Her smile. They
called forth their power.

  The hour of Matins had come and gone. Jehan had
not gone to sing the Office, nor had O.one. Anna
and Stefania had quieted at last, Anna
drowsing, Stefania seeming to drowse by the cooling
brazier. Nikki knew that it was only a seeming;
that she watched him, oblivious as he feigned to be,
and brooded. Considered what she had fallen into;
wrestled with flat incredulity. It could not be as she
imagined. There was Anna asleep, the monk and the
priest all but asleep, Nikephoros pretending
to sleep.
  But there was Cynan wide awake, playing on the
floor with a shadow and a bit of string. The shadow in his
hands had substance, although when he let it go it was
merely shadow. And when he turned toward the lamp,
his eyes caught its light and flamed.
  Nikki left the bed without thinking, went to her,
sat at her feet. She could not muster a smile, but
she touched his cheek with a fingertip. He laid his head
in her lap. So simply he did it; so simply
she accepted it. But she did not cease her brooding,
nor did her touch linger.
  the hounds OF god 265
  Nikki snapped erect. Cynan too had
heard it, that cry of unspeakable anguish. The child's
form flickered. Nikki flung himself at it.
Dimly, distantly, he knew the shock of a great
weight falling upon him. Then weight and world were gone,
swept away.
  Cynan struggled, protesting. Why do people always
fall on top of me? Nikki, crushed, had neither
breath nor wits to answer. The tangle sorted
itself. The weight was Father Jehan, staggering up and
shaking his head groggily. The world was strange, but
familiarly strange, Anna's old prison.
Between the newcomers and those who were there before them, it was
full almost to bursting. Alf and Thea, clad alike
in voluminous white, lay side by side with a
stranger who bore Alfs face. Over them all and
regarding the arrivals with surprise stood Brother
Paul, with Liahan struggling in his grip- She
won free, scrambling round the still bodies.
Cynan met her in mid-flight. Their bodies
twisted and blurred and mingled. An alaunt, a
manchild; a womanchild, an alaunt; twin
alaunts, twin children side by side, her hand upon her
mother's brow, his upon his father's. The scent of
power was chokingly strong. Jehan, never one
to reflect when action was wiser, launched himself at
Brother Paul. Nikki had not long to watch the
battle royal. Power, the power he had met
twice before and to his sorrow, had risen against him.
The fourfold will of witch and witchling offered no such
tempting target as one lone, bemused human
creature, given power himself but never born to it,
marked and sealed with mortality. It was immeasurably
stong and immeasurably cruel. Human, it mocked
him. Mortal man. It showed him himself as in a
mirror, but realer than any image cast upon
glass: a shape of earth and clay, ill-made,
incomplete, brother to the mute beast. But even a
beast had five full senses.
  His image cowered- Ir was rank wirh filrh
A ci-rincrlpd 266 Judith Tarr
  moan escaped it, an unlovely sound bereft
even of human music; and he himself less lovely
still, a scrap of bone and hair, a lingering stink, a
hint of the death that waited to claim him. Far down in
the hollow that had been his soul, some thing stirred. It
looked like himself, yet not the sorry creature the
mirror had shown him; the Nikephoros Stefania
had dreamed of. It lifted its head; shook
it slowly, then more firmly. Its jaw set,
stubborn. Little by little, with effort that drew the lips
back from the white teeth, it stood erect. Raised
its arms. Refused.
  The power over him, vast ebon hand, paused in its
descent. He was conquered. How dared he resist?
  He was human. He could not help but resist.
Poor impotent half-cripple that he was, he
hurled himself upon the hand, upon the mirror it held,
upon the lying image.
  The mirror shattered. The image hung in the
mocking air, but it withered and shrank, melting away.
  Wrath rose in a blood-red tide. He
flung back his tangled hair; he turned half
crouched, searching, nurturing his fury. Father Jehan
had his knee in the back of the stranger- monk, the
man choking out a plea for mercy. The rest had not
moved at all. He was forgotten. His victory had
been no true victory; he had been discarded in
favor of a stronger opponent. In the moment of
distraction the fourfold mind of his kin had drawn
Simon in, had beset him with power even he could not
despise. Nikki did not try his own bruised
power. His anger was growing, honing itself into perfection.
Human, was he? Crippled, was he? But
he had hands. And he had a weapon. No named
blade, no sword of heroes, only the little
silver- hafted knife he used at meat, but it was
Damascus steel, slim and deadly sharp. Alt
had given it to him when he grew from page
into squire; it had a falcon graven on its
blade. He drew it, seeking neither silence nor
con-
  ffalmcnr arlvancintr iinnn Simnn Nr
greater-than liphrninors drove him the hounds OF
god 267
  back. No mighty force of power struck him
down. He knelt beside the still body. It might have
been asleep. So Alun had seemed to be upon his
bier, but Alun's breast had not risen with a slow
intake of breath. Alun had died by this man's will, for
no more reason than that he was there to be slain.
  Nikki raised the knife. Lamplight flamed
upon the polished blade. He narrowed his eyes,
shifted his grip upon the hilt. This was a just
execution. This was Rhiyana's salvation. With all
his strength he struck.
  Steel fingers snapped shut about his wrist.
Simon regarded him coolly, eyes focused
full upon him. The power waged its war upon
Rhiyana; shielded itself from Rhiyanan
retribution; toyed with the little creatures who had
bearded it in its lair. But it was losing patience.
Its prey had learned not to confront it; teased it,
eluded it, made itself four and two and one and
greater-than-one. Strength mattered little in such a
battle. Subtlety it had never studied. It had
never needed to.
  Nikki, caught, struggling vainly, saw
Simon's focus sharpen; felt the power shake off
a score of trivialities-a dozen forays against
Rhiyana's walls, a handful of spies in Caer
Gwent, a thought maturing in a cardinal's mind.
Here was an anomaly. A human with power. A
living being who dared to bring steel against the hand of
God. Dared, and had not died.
  He would die. Slowly. With effortless, ruthless
strength, Simon snapped the boy's wrist.
  And screamed. Nikki's mind, white with agony,
had opened wide; and the eye of Simon's power was
fixed upon him. The dart of pain plunged deep and
deep and deep. Simon fell writhing, all his
myriad magics crumbling, no room for aught in
mind or body but the reverberation of pain.
  Nikki won the mercy of
unconsciousness. Not so Brother Simon. The pain
had caught him and bound him in its ceaseless circle.
He could not escaoe. He could not heal it.
  268 Judith Tarr
  The body was not his own; Nikki's will,
unconscious, still repelled him with blind persistence.
  Alf fought free of the nightmare. They were all in
a heap, he and his lady and his children. Gently but
firmly he pried Liahan's arms from his neck.
Witch-children were never beautiful; that came with
  blossoming into man or woman. Yet she was a
lovely child, great-eyed, with a cloud of spun-silver
hair about a solemn face. Poor infant, she
had never learned to smile. He kissed her and set
her with her brother in her mother's lap.
  They were all in his mind, interwoven, as he knelt
above Simon. Now we can take Aim, Thea said,
and Cynan who was fully as fierce as she.
Liahan was a wordless reluctance. Alf looked
down at the body of the one who had wrought so much
havoc, and considered justice. Considered vengeance.
Remembered compassion.
  He can't live! Thea cried. Can't you feel it?
He's working loose. The earth is trembling. The
stars are beginning to wobble in their courses.
When he's free, our deaths will be the very least of it.
He knew. He was a seer again; he saw clearly
what she could only guess. Simon's wrath,
maddened beyond all hope of healing, would make do with no
small revenge. It would reach. It would strike.
What it had done to Alun, it would do to the sun itself.
And then, in a storm of fire, world's end.
  He shook his head. He did not know what he
denied. It was too much-it was too horrible. He was
not strong enough to do what he must do. Even the simplest
way . . . Nikki's dagger lay abandoned on the
floor. He could not take it up.
  Thea's will lashed him. Fool that he was; he had
done justice before, long ago in Saint Ruan's,
for the murder of a single man. Why was he so slow now,
when the crimes were so much blacker? That other
criminal had been pure enemy, and human. This .
. . this could have been himself. If he had grown up as
Simon had; if he had not known the mvstical
ncanc n less-than was
  the hounds OF god 269
  Ynys Witrin, that could sanctify even
elf-blood, defending it from human hatred. He
had been stoned in the streets of the village, he had
faced more than one Brother Radbod, but
he had always had that rock, the surety that he was
loved. His nurse had loved him in her fashion;
after her a Brother or two, a teacher, a very wise
abbot; and a red- haired fellow novice who became
fellow monk and fellow priest, who rose above him
as abbot and died at the hands of a madman, and that
madman had died in his own turn by Alfs hand. But
Alfhad not gone away desolate; he had had
Jehan, he had had King Richard, and Gwydion,
and Thea. He had always been rich in friendship; in
love. Simon had nothing. Terrible as that was for a
mortal man, for his kind it was beyond endurance. No
wonder he was mad. No wonder he had tried
to destroy his own people.
  "But," Alt whispered as the long body
convulsed-, "still love you." Somewhat to his
surprise, he knew it for the truth. He stretched
out his hands. He knew quite clearly that when he touched
Simon, he would raise the power; he would die, they
would both die, but the war would be ended.
  Thea stood aghast within his mind. With all gentleness
he nudged his children's awareness toward hers and shut them
out. How lonely it was without them; how empty. The
power was a warm tingling in his fingers. He laid them
on Simon's breast.
  Jehan saw him kneel, saw him gaze down as
if in thought; saw him reach, and knew surely what
that must mean. As hands touched white-habited heart,
Alfs body arched like a bow. His flesh kindled
blindingly bright;
  shadows of bone stood stark within.
  Thea was already moving, beating against potent bar
riers. But Jehan had no power to hinder him. He
braced his body, aimed it, and let it go. It
lunged toward the dagger, snatched it up, cook an
eternal moment to measure its target. Swift as a
serpent's tongue, neat as a viper's fang, the thin
blade sank itself into Simon's throat. 270
Judith Tarr
  The world rocked. The stars reeled. The moon was
born and slain and born again.
  Silence fell, the silence that comes after a
whirlwind. Jehan was Hat on his back, but
unbroken, only bruised and winded. He sat up
dizzily. He was all over blood; he wiped it
from his eyes. More dripped down--his own. He had
cut his forehead.
  He could have howled. The monster was still alive.
Alt likewise, glory be to God. They locked
in a struggle as intimate as love, as
frozen-fluid as a marble frieze. Waves of
levin-power surged between them, and that was all that moved;
all that mattered. Someone, perhaps God, perhaps Thea,
gave Jehan eyes to see. It was life for which and with
which they battled. Simon's ebbed low with the pulsing of
blood from his throat, too low for any miracle of
healing. But Alfs flickered ember-feeble, all the
rest burned to ash in the flare of his enemy's power.
What remained between them sufficed, just barely, for one
alone.
  And they, mad saints, fought each to die that the other
might live. Alfs hands that seemed to strangle
strove to heal; Simon's, fisted, drove life and
strength into a failing body. Drove relentlessly,
drove inexorably, against a resistance that hardened as
the life burned higher. Smote at last, low and
brutal, with the faces of two children against a ruined land.
With a wordless cry Alftore free, only to catch the
falling body of his brother. By blood indeed or
simply by face and spirit, it did not matter now.
Gray eyes looked up into silver, death into life.
For one last, utterly illogical time, Alf
reached out with healing in his hands.
  Too late now, Simon said in his mind with the last
of his power. Which is vseli'foryou
andmostwell'forme. The power has fled, but not as far as
death. I must go while I can help myself. "Brother
--"
  A smile touched the white lips, half gentle,
half bitter. What a good priest you are. You
love your enemy as yourself. "Because he is myself."
  the hounds OF god 271
  Simon shook his head just perceptibly. You are
too wise, my brother. See-I admit it. We
are kin. I would have destroyed you, and you foremost, but
when the time came, I too was powerless. It took a
pair of mortal men to break the deadlock.
  Alf spoke swiftly, urgently. "Simon,
you can live. We can heal you. You can be one of us. The
past doesn't matter; only the present, and the
power."
  The power, Simon repeated, jw. For that I must
die. Believe me, brother in blood, there is no
other choice. Close the eyes of hope; unbind
your prophecy. Let me go before I shatter the world.
Alf bowed his head. But he said stubbornly, "I can
heal you." Proud, proud saint. Bless me,
brother. I shall need it. I go murderer, suicide,
very probably soulless.
  "You go forgiven." Alf signed him with the
cross: eyes, ears, nostrils, lips and cold
hands, each gate of the senses sealed and sanctified.
Simon's eyes closed as Alf blessed them; he
sighed. As easily as that, as hardly as if he would
indeed rend worlds, he let his spirit go.
  Such a death for a mortal man was a journey
into singing glory. Simon went into soft darkness. But
at its edge glimmered light, and all of it wrapped
not in oblivion, not in the agonies of Hell, but in
spreading peace.
  "I think," Alf said in deep, wondering joy,
"I think- dear God in Heaven, I think that even
we are granted souls."
  "You're the only one who ever doubted it." Thea
rose stiffly, catching Alt as he crumpled to the
floor. Even un conscious, his face was too bright
for human eyes to bear. She, who was not human,
looked long at it. Her eyes when she raised them
were brighter still, blinding. Her voice was cool and
quiet. "It is over," she said. "For a little
while."
  Jehan turned slowly. It was like a
battlefield. The living and the dead lay tangled
together, conscious and uncon scious and far beyond either; and
Thea swayed above them, and for all her
courage she was perilously close to
  272 Judith Tarr
  breaking. Jehan sighed deeply. "How on
God's good earth am I going to get us all out of this
place?"
  "My power will take us."
  "All of us?"
  "Not Simon Magus." She bent over him, her
face unreadable. With hands almost gentle, she
straightened his limbs, folding his hands upon his still
breast, smoothing his ruffled hair. "This will be his
tomb." For a long count of breaths Jehan was
silent. "It's fitting," he conceded at last. He
paused. After a moment, in a clear and steady
voice, he spoke the words that came to him. "Lamb
of God who takes away the sins of the world, grant
him rest. Grant him rest; grant him eternal
rest."

  O.one cried out in wonder as they appeared all
about him; and cried out again as he saw them clearly.
Without another word he turned and bolted.
  Stefania would have liked to follow, but one of the two
slack bodies was Nikephoros'. His face was
gray-green; one hand hung at an
unnatural angle.
  She dropped beside him with a strangled cry. He was
alive, blessedly alive, breathing raggedly as if in
a nightmare. His good hand clenched and unclenched, his
head tossed, his mouth opened, gulping air. But he
made no sound. That, more than anything he had shown
her or told her, made it real. He was a
sorcerer. They were all sorcerers. They were like
warriors after Armageddon, scarred and staggering,
white with shock. And yet, even now, the slender
woman's gold-bronze beauty cut like a sword.
She raised Alfs body as if it had been a child's
and laid it on the bed, settling it, pausing with head
bowed as if she searched ror strength. Jehan touched
her arm to comfort her, his own
  "7?
  274 Judith Tarr
  face stark, frozen. She shook him off. "I can
take care of myself and my beloved idiot. Go see
to Nikki."
  He wavered between them. "Go!" she snapped at
him. Numbly he went. But he was
self-possessed enough when he knelt beside Nikki, a
grim self-possession that cracked briefly but
terribly when, stretching forth his hand, he
saw that it was gauntleted with blood. Drying
blood, crusting in cracks and hollows.
  Jehan dragged his eyes away, back
to Nikephoros. Stefania had his head in her
lap. The black eyes were open, shadowed with pain.
They seized Jehan with a fierce intensity; Nikki
struggled to sit up. He must know-he must-
  "Simon is dead," Jehan said without
inflection. "I finished what you started."
  It was all Nikki could do to hold himself erect,
even with Stefania to brace him. Alf. The word
came with great effort. Alf-I can't-power- "Alf
is alive. You're the only casualty. Lie
down again, lad, before you fall down, and I'll see
about robbing the infirmary." "No need for that," said
Prior Giacomo from the door. Brother
Rafaele advanced with his gangling, stork-legged
gait, O.one trailing behind with an armful of
bottles and bandages. Silently the infirmarian
set to work on Nikki's arm.
  The boy was well looked after, and well enough but for the
pain that had saved all of them. Jehan wandered back
to Alf. Prior Giacomo was there already, arms
folded, scowling. Thea had laid her body beside her
lover's, head pillowed on his breast, their
children burrowed into his side. Jehan started forward in
alarm, and stopped short. They were breathing. They
looked as if they slept. But by the pricking in his
nape he knew that they worked witchery.
  "S." Giacomn said- "vnn fnnnrf rhcm his
  the hounds OF god 275
  Jehan nodded. He still had not washed his hand.
Giacomo was staring at it, at him. His face was
stiff. He had forgotten the blood there. He forced
himself to speak. "It was ... a bit of a struggle."
"So I see," Giacomo said. He extended his
hand. "Don't!" cried Jehan.
  A spark leaped from Alf's brow to the lifted
palm. Giacomo recoiled instinctively. His
jaw set; his brows met. He tried again. A
hand's breadth from flesh, the lightning crackled. It
shocked but did not burn. He recovered his hand;
folded his arms again, tightly; drew a breath.
  "Don't touch them," Jehan said softly.
  Giacomo shivered. In the silence, Anna came
with bowl and cloth and chair. Mounting the last, she
began to wash the blood from Jehan's face and hand.
It was a mildly comical spectacle;
Giacomo's lips could not help but twitch.
Jehan smiled openly, with relief
close to hysteria. He was in shock, he had come out
of enough battles to know that, but at the moment he could not
care. They were all alive, the enemy was dead-at his
hand-at-
  He let the storm of shaking run its course.
Anna finished and rested her head briefly on his
shoulder; she hugged him, rare concession. "Everything will
be well now," she said.
  Jehan swung her down from the chair. "It's not
over yet." His eye caught the last of them, the one
who might have been a bundle cast upon the floor.
Brother Paul's eyes were shut, his face blotched
livid and pallid, but the tension in his shoulders gave
proof enough that he was conscious and far from vanquished.
Joscelin de Beaumarchais, like a cat, had a
habit of landing on his feet. Maybe he already had.
Giacomo, bending to examine him, looked up at
Jehan. "May I ask what you've been up to,
casting down and binding a secretary of the Pauline
Father General?" "An old enemy of ours.
He'll be dealt with when, and as, 276 Judith
Tarr
  Giacomo's brows went up. "Will he now?"
  "A bishop," Anna said clearly and coldly,
"may in certain circumstances exert full
authority over a humble monk. Even though this monk
is not in fact under His Excellency's
jurisdiction, he has subjected himself to it by his
actions. To wit, ordering the abduction and
imprisonment of a noblewoman and her children; causing,
albeit indirectly, the murder of a royal
prince; attempting to cause the murder of a high
lord."
  "A sorcerer." Paul had flung off his
pretense of unconsciousness. Sit up he could not,
let alone stand, but he had a voice that carried
well. "Sorcerers all, good Brother:
  elvenfolk of Rhiyana, condemned by papal
decree."
  "Not yet, I think," Anna said.
  "Not yet," Jehan agreed, "and maybe not ever.
Certainly not without a fair trial. Which I intend
to get."
  "You and your tame witches. Sarum may never
see its Bishop, even if Rhiyana gets back
its Lord Chancellor." Paul shifted. No one
moved to make him more comfortable. "Meanwhile,
Brother, it seems to me that you've been keeping
guests under false pretenses. Did you know what
august personages had taken shelter under
your roof? Sinful too, alas: a whore and her
keeper and their tender little bastards." Jehan's fist
hammered him into silence. But the Bishop's voice was
mild; lethally so. "Can you govern your tongue,
Brother, or shall I govern it for you?"
  The man's eyes glittered, but he did not speak
again. Nor did Giacomo give voice to his
thoughts. Brother Rafaele, having finished splinting
and binding Nikki's arm and dosed him with strong herbs
mixed in wine, wavered transparently between duty and
curiosity. At last, with some regret, he
yielded to his duty. "The boy should do well now.
Brother Prior. The rest, I fear, are somewhat
out of reach of my competence." "I suspected they
might be," Giacomo said dryly. "Many the hounds
OF god 217
  "We, is it?" Anna asked as the door closed
with Rafaele on the other side of it.
  Giacomo faced her. "We, Madonna. I'm
afraid I've learned too much for my good, though
I hope not for yours. And I brought your kindred here;
I feel responsible. I want to be sure that
they've come to no harm." "Or that San Girolamo
has taken no harm from their presence," she said.
  "That too," he agreed unruffled.
  Dawn, considered for itself, is a very great
miracle. But it is quiet. No trumpets
herald it; no lightnings accompany it. It
simply comes, subtle and unstoppable. So they
woke, all four sleepers, as if this were a morning
like a thousand others. Cynan was vocally and Liahan
quietly ravenous. Thea sat up yawning and
stretching and shaking out the silken tangle of her
hair. Alf simply opened his eyes and lay,
feeling out the borders of mind and body. For the first time
in an age beyond reckoning, he was whole. It was
pleasure close to pain, hollows filled that that had
gaped like wounds, powers lost and found again, ready
to his hand. He reached with flesh and spirit, and she was
there, their children no longer within her but close against her,
nursing each at a breast. She smiled over their
heads. "Great man and woman that they've made
themselves, they should get the back of my hand and a bowl
apiece of gruel."
  He laughed, knowing as well as she that she would do
no such thing. His mirth caught for an instant upon
memory-- Simon's face, the ruin he had wrought
before he died, the mighty atonement he had made--and
shook free, fixing upon this blessed moment. With some
care he sat up. Dizziness swelled,
passed. He realized that he was at least as ravenous
as the little witches. He could not remember when he had
ever been so hungry.
  But first, pain cried out for healing. He passed
faces glad, troubled, carefully expressionless.
He set his hands on Jehan's ohni.i caret
aeacaret
  Jehan wrenched away. "Stop it," he said
roughly. "Stop it!" "You hurt," Alf said,
simple as a child. But he lowered his hands to his
sides.
  "Nikki hurts. I have a matter to settle with
my confessor. Leave it at that."
  Alf was not disposed to. There might have been a
battle, for Jehan was adamant, had not Nikki
come between them. Even light-headed with Rafaele's
potion, he was well able to shield his own pain, what
the drug had left of it. Brother, he said to Alf,
go and eat. O.one's raided the Abbot's kitchen for
you. You too. Father Jehan. You can have your fight
later.
  They glared with equal hauteur, equal
intransigence. Nikki laughed at the likeness. Which
brought their anger upon his head, but he only laughed the
harder. Collapsed, in truth, giggling
helplessly, until Stefania shook him to make
him stop.
  Bishop and Chancellor bent over him. He
grinned, unrepentant. Alf sighed. Jehan's
lips twitched. Alf said, "You too, infant.
Don't you know it's deadly to balk power?"
  We humans can take care of ourselves. Nikki
said it with newborn pride. Go and quiet your
stomach, Alfred. It's growling like a starving wolf.
  It was a starving wolf, and it needed firm
restraint lest it gorge itself into sickness. Alf
took some small comfort in seeing that no one else
went hungry, Nikki in particular, who would have
settled for a cup of wine. Even Paul had his
fill; Alf fed him calmly as one feeds a young
child, although his glare was baleful. Nikki ate as little
as his brother's tyranny would allow, and outdrank
them all. His temper had taken a turn for the
worse. When Stefania stoppered the wine bottle
and set it out of his reach, he scowled, flung his cup
down, flashed his eyes over the gathering. Simon
Magus is dead. Rhiyana is free of his power.
What now? "Rhi-vono 1Can fri caret people- f
lirri caret was caret yhmicrh ff caret fi inrl
r caret ct-caret rl right-brace lf
THE hounds OF god 279
  looked weary still. He had reclaimed his chair
by the brazier, and Liahan was with him, half
asleep. Her profile against his robe was his own,
blurred and fined by her youth and her sex. He laid
his cheek upon the kitten- softness of her hair. His
voice, though quiet, was stern. "The Crusade
rages. The Interdict has fallen. The King may
be past any hope of healing.
  "And yet," he said. "And yet I refuse
to despair. Listen now, and hear what we shall do."
  Nikki drew his hood closer about his face, and
wished that Thea would. Or at least that she would bow her
head in proper humble fashion. If she insisted on
walking into the Mother House of Saint Paul rather than
willing herself into it, for no other reason than a love
for the dramatic and an hour to spare, she could at least
forbear to invite curiosity. Particularly since she
had done nothing to disguise herself save to swathe her
body in mantle and hood, dark enough but to his eyes
not particularly deceptive. She was still a graceful
witch-woman with the bearing of a queen.
  Stop fretting, child, she chided him silently
Nothinghuman can see anything when it's as dark as this.
  I can, he muttered. But he eased a
little, enough to raise his head and walk more steadily. They
were close now to the place they sought, a fortress
crowned with a cross, Standing just out of the shadow ofCastel
Sam" Angelo. No shadow now, to be sure,
with the sun long since set and Compline rung, and neither
moon nor stars to lighten the sky. Thea walked
coolly to the barred gate and set hand and power upon it;
it opened in silence upon darkness and a scent of cold
stone. Cold hearts, Nikki thought as Thea led him
beneath the arch. As soundlessly as it had opened, the gate
closed behind them. For an instant his lungs labored,
crying that there was no air. He gasped, struggling for
quiet. Thea was already a hnrse-l caret
nrrt-caret caret ,,.-,,. u- comcaret ----
l-j -- com--i i 280 Judith Tarr
  If San Girolamo had made Nikki
desperate for freedom, San Paolo Apostolo
won from him a heartfelt vow. Never again, not even as
a guest, would he shut himself up within the walls of a
monastery. He would find his God under the sky, or
if he must, in churches where the doors were never shut.
Not in these prisons of the body that closed all too
often into prisons of the soul.
  Thea seemed unmoved, walking without stealth through
cold halls and cold courts, up
lamplit stairs, past the darkened cells of monks
and the dormitories crowded with novices, to that arm of the
stronghold from which the Father General commanded his Order.
All was quiet there as elsewhere, even the clerks and
secretaries sleeping, and no guards to challenge the
invaders. Such arrogance, to trust in high walls and
in the Pope's favor. Nikki's scorn almost
made him forget his panic-hatred of the place.
  The Pope's favor is no small thing. Thea
opened a door like a dozen others along the
passage, upon a cell as bare as a penitent's.
It had not even a bed, only a crucifix upon the
wall, and under it, stretched out like one crucified, a
man of no great height or girth, remarkable for
neither his beauty nor his ugliness. His face bore the
ravages of pox, ill hidden by a sparse brown
beard;" his body was thin in the white habit, his
feet bare and gnarled and not overly clean. Yet upon
his face and in his mind blazed a white light.
Nikki's head shook from side to side. This man
prayed exactly as Alf prayed, with a purity of
concentration, in an ecstasy of communion. But what
he prayed forand what he stood for, those were inimical
to all Alf was.
  "Father Alberich," Thea said. Her
voice tolled like a bell. "Father Alberich von
Hildesheim, you are summoned."
  The outstretched arms folded inward. The still
features woke to life; the eyes opened,
gray-green, kindling as they fell upon her face.
Their brilliance was like a blow. Yet far the hounds of
GOD 281
  little in the face of it. She raised her chin; she
put aside mantle and hood. Beneath them she was
arrayed in splendid simplicity, gown and overgown
of deep green, her hair bound with a fillet of
gold. "One of your Brothers is dead," she said,
"and one is a prisoner. You are summoned to defend
them."
  Father Alberich rose. "Who summons me?"
  "Justice."
  "And if I cannot come?"
  "You will come."
  He smiled. He knew no fear that Nikki could
see, and if any hatred touched him, it was lost
amid his wonder at her beauty. "Ah, Lady,"
he said sighing, "it is a very great pity that you are of the
Devil's children. Such loveliness should be consecrated
to God." "How so? My hair cut off, my body
sheathed in sacking and ravaged with penitence?"
  "Of course not, for then you would not be so beautiful.
Though it could be argued that your soul's beauty would more
than make up for your body's lack."
  "Except," she said, "that in your philosophy
I have no soul to beautify. But that may be as
ridiculously wrong as all the rest of it. Your
sorcerer monk is dead. I'm no authority, but
one was there who can testify that he went to something other
than oblivion." "Sorcerer monk. Lady? We
of all Orders can have had none such." Nikki
snorted. Thea laughed short and fierce. "Don't
lie to yourself. Father General. You know what Brother
Simon was. You always knew, however you chose
to disguise it. Saint and worker of miracles,
mystic, child of God-he was of my own kin."
  With perfect serenity Father Alberich conceded, Perhaps
he was. I grieve that he is dead. He was a
great warrior of God."
  "He was mad and he was tormented. Your fault.
Father d caret not caret Ml still." --- i * was
@u @u @u ....
  282 Judith Tarr
  You did nothing to break that bond; you kept it
strong, you left them free to work what harm they could.
We owe you a debt, we of Rhiyana.
Now we will pay it."
  "If I die, our work will continue. Rhiyana
is ours; it has returned to the hand of God. No
sorcery can rob us of it."
  "Rhiyana indeed is yours, if yours are war and
hatred, death and destruction and the spreading of wasteland
where once was peace and plenty."
  His eyes were sad, his voice soft with sorrow.
"War is always terrible, and the war for souls is worst
of all. But a desert can grow green again, if men's
souls are freed from darkness."
  "And if there never was darkness? What then, priest
of God?" "Night is Satan's day and darkness his
light. You tempt me, beautiful demon, and I
may yet succumb, but the Order has won this
battle in its long war. Nothing that you do can alter
it."
  "Can it not?" She held out her hand as to a wayward
child. "Come to judgment, Father Alberich."
  For one who had seen Constantinople before its
fall, walked the length of the Middle Way and
looked on the splendor of the imperial palaces, the
dwelling of the Pope seemed an echo and a defiance of
that royal glory. Its guardians were the images of
old Rome, that some said carried still an
antique magic: the she-wolf of the empire; the
head and the hand of some forgotten giant, whether
Samson or Apollo or the Emperor
Constantine, his fingers clasping the orb of the world; and
mounted on a stallion of bronze, right hand
upraised in warning or in command, the image that
pilgrims called Marcus or Theodoric and the
Romans Constantine, who could have been any or
none, but whose pride was the pride of the Pope of
Rome. Behind the haughty back rose a tower of
bronze like the
  the hounds OF god 283
  had stood between the sacred Emperors and the world; and
beyond the tower, the palace of the Lateran.
  It stood in a city within and apart from the city of
Rome, built on the slopes and summit of the
Caelian Hill near the eastern walls. East of
it lay fields and farms and the walls themselves; empty
lands stretched westward to come at length to the
Colosseum and the borders of the living city. There
Romans and pilgrims preferred to stay, the former
by the banks of the Tiber among their own kind, the
latter gathered about the basilica of Saint Peter
in the Leonine City. "Pope Innocent had
sense," Jehan had said to Alf once when
they had leisure to talk of trifles. "He
built a castle up on the Vatican Hill in the
Borgo San Pierro, ample enough for a palace and
strong enough for a siege. More will come of that, I think. It
was never a wise choice to try to build a new city
of God so far away from what was left of Rome and
its Romans, not with Saint Peter staking his own
claim out past Sam' Angelo."
  But Saint John of the Lateran clung to his
honors, and where the Pope was and had been for nigh a
thousand years, there was the Curia and the heart of the
Church. A heart of minted silver, many would say,
but the truth remained. Saint Peter's could call
itself foremost of all churches, omnium ecclesiarum
caput. Saint John's was caput mundi,
foremost of all the world.
  Jehan stood with Alf well within the gates of the
Lateran, a shadow among the many shadows of the
Pope's bedcham ber. Unseen and unheard, they could
hear with ease what passed in the workroom without.
Cencio Savelli, Pope Honorius, was little like
the vigorous young man who had ruled before him. He was
old, his hair thin and gray round the tonsure; he
had been tall for a Roman, but years and care had
bowed him. He looked too frail by far
for the burden of his rank, holy paradox that it was,
prince of the princes of the Church, servant of the
servants of God. And yet he had outlived all
Innocent's youth and brilliance; when that had burned
to ash in its 284 Judith Tarr
  own splendor, he had risen in his turn to the
Chair of Peter. Neither young nor brilliant, one
no longer, one never, in his quiet careful way he
continued as Innocent had begun.
  "No," he said, gentle but immovable."..."...ationo,
Brother, you may not. We need you here."
  The other was equally gentle, equally obstinate.
"God needs me among His poor." He was
kneeling at the Pope's feet; he raised bandaged
hands, the bandages rather cleaner than the rest of him.
"Holiness, I have dreamed. I have had sendings. I
know what I must do, and that is not to be a hanger-on,
however honored, of your Curia."
  "Cencio's tame saint." Honorius smiled
a little sadly. "Fra Giovanni, I too have my
dreams and my duties, however much they may be
clouded by this eminence. Not all destitution of spirit
dwells in hovels; much of it has settled among
the princes of the Church."
  "Have I no Brothers to teach them by word and
by example? May I not at least return to my own
Assisi and minister to God's poor there, if only
for a little while?"
  "That," the Pope said slowly, "I may
consider." Hope had leaped in the wide brown
eyes; he laid his hands on the ill-barbered head.
"My son, my son, we all have such need of you, and
yet your remedy for our hurts is much too strong
to be taken all at once. All the world at peace
in the faith and the poverty of the Apostles-a vision
worthy of our Lord, but not so simple to accomplish."
  "It will come," Giovanni whispered. "God has
promised. It will come." "But not too soon," said
Honorius, half in foresight, half in warning.
There was a silence. The Pope pondered.
Giovanni, undismissed, bent his head in
prayer. Suddenly he lifted it. He looked
toward the inner door with clear and seeing eyes.
"Holy Father, do you believe in angels?"
  Honorius started out of his reverie. "Angels,
Fra Gio vanni? Of course." He said it as
if to quiet a very young child. "They are in
Scripture. But what-was
  the hounds OF god 285
  "One has come to speak with you. How
generous of Heaven's messenger to wait upon another and
much lesser petitioner."
  "No creature of Heaven, I," Alfsd. He
had entered as no mortal might, through the closed
door, bearing his own faint silver light. He was
all in gray, rather like a Minorite, but no poor
brother of Christ would have worn wool so soft, or
belted and brooched it with silver. He went down in
obeisance before the silent staring Pope, and remained
kneeling as still Fra Giovanni knelt. "Earth
bore me and earth keeps me; I have never been a
messenger of God."
  "No, brother?" murmured Giovanni.
  He neither expected nor received a reply. The
Pope looked from Alfs lifted face to that of the man
who, recovered at last from the shock ofAlfs
vanishing, entered in more human fashion.
Recognition sparked; bewilder- comrnent lessened.
"Jehan de Sevigny, did I never give you
leave to claim your see of Sarum?"
  Jehan, prevented by the Pope's impatient
gesture from kneeling with the others, stood straight and
found his voice. "You gave it, Holiness. I've
been detained."
  "So it seems." Honorius" eyes
returned to Alt. The wonder in them was untainted
by either fear or hate, although he knew well what
knelt so meekly at his feet. "It would also seem
that both these men know you. May I share the honor?"
  "Alfred of Saint Ruan's," Jehan said before
Alf could speak, "Lord caret Chancellor of
Rhiyana and emissary of its King."
  Honorius rose from his chair. His gaze never
left the fair strange face. "The White
Chancellor. We have heard of you, great lord. We have
heard it said that you were once one of ours. Impossible
if you were a mortal man;
  disturbing if you are the being of the tales."
  "If the Devil may quote Scripture,"
Alfsd, "it follows that the Devil's minion may
become a master of theology. Particularly if he
be very young and rather too proud of his erudition."
  286 Judith Tarr
  "Yet orthodox," mused the Pope. "Most
orthodox. My predecessor knew the truth of you,
I think. He loved to read the Gloria Dei, so
perfect it was, so succinct, so divinely
inspired. But he would always smile when he spoke of
its author."
  "And you. Holy Father? Do you smile?
Or do you gnash your teeth?" "I have not Innocent's
love for paradoxes. He was a great man; I am
merely a man. I can do no more than guide myself
by the Church's teachings."
  "Even if they stem not from God but from human
fear?" "So speaks heresy. Lord Chancellor."
  "Or so speaks wisdom," Fra Giovanni
said with rare force. "Holy Father, hear the tale he
has to tell. Any living thing deserves that much of
you."
  Pope Honorius paused, caught between wrath and
strict justice. He had been invaded by what could be
nothing but witchery, with boldness mitigated not at
all by the en chanter's evident humility. And now
the first of the Friars Minor, that gentle thorn in the
Church's side, had arrayed himself with the enemy.
  Honorius lowered himself again into his chair, making
no effort to conceal his weariness. "Tell your tale,
sir,"-he said, "but tell it swiftly."
  Alt bowed his head in assent. As he raised
it, the air shifted and shimmered. Thea walked out of it
with Nikephoros, leading the Father General of Saint
Paul. That brave man wasted no time in either
astonishment or panic; he went down on his knees
before the Pope. Now three knelt and three
stood, a tableau almost menacing in its symmetry.
Father Alberich's presence lent no comfort. He had
the look of a martyour at the stake, white and
exalted. Honorius wondered briefly what his
own face betrayed. Alt's eye caught his;
he shivered. It was not a human eye, yet it was very,
very calm. Serene. As well it might be. Saint
Peter's throne offered little protection against such power
as this creature wielded.
  the hounds OF god 287
  Alf shook his head slowly. "While my kind
dwells in. this world, it must admit the power of your
office. Consider how very few we are, how very many the
people over whose souls you rule."
  The Pope shivered. Not even his thoughts were his own
tonight. "If you chose, you would rule them all."
  "We do not choose. We do not even dream of it.
The one of us who did is dead; and he was our enemy,
the power behind the Crusade, a monk of the Order of
Saint Paul."
  That brought Honorius erect. He had not known
it. He did not believe it. God and the Church were not
so mocked. "His name," Alf said gently and
inexorably, "was Simon. He had power the like of
which even we have never seen, nor ever wish
to see again. It drove him mad; it devoured him.
Hear now what he wrought, he and those who made use
of him."
  Told all together in that soft calm voice, it was
terrible; it was pitiable; it was most horribly
credible. "Without Brother Simon," Alf said,
"no doubt the Crusade would have mounted on the wave
that shattered Languedoc. But Rhiyana could have
withstood it, turned it back without bloodshed. Its people
would suffer no war and no Inter dict." He drew
a slow breath. "What is done is done. Simon
died repentant; God has taken him, he is at
peace. Not so those who wielded him. Sworn
to destroy all works of sorcery, they loosed a
sorcerer mightier than any in the world; in their zeal
to raise their Order above all others, they resorted
to that very power against which they thundered. In God's name.
God's Hounds turned to the ways and the arts of the
Adversary."
  "Or so they would say." Thea stood at Alts
back, hands on his shoulders, eyes on the old man
in the tall chair. "As they would say that any means
is just if the end is holy. Perilous doctrine.
It permits murder and rapine and black sorcery in
the name of an Order's furtherance, but it
grants
  288 Judith Tarr
  no mercy to those of us who try to live as the Church
prescribes. The first of us who died was a child. He
believed devoutly in God and the Gospels. He
heard Mass every day. I never heard him speak ill
of anyone, nor knew him to do harm to man or beast.
And he died. If he had not been killed, if all
had gone as our enemies intended, he would have been
burned alive."
  Honorius tore his gaze from her. She was not
gentle; she was not quiet. She was afire with rage.
And justly, said the cold judge within, if all was as
he had heard. "What proof can you give?" he
demanded of her. "How may I know that you tell the
truth?" "Look yonder," she answered.
  Another white habit, another gray cowl.
Brother Paul stood dazed, torn from a black
doze under the eyes of two monks and two mortal
women and two witchborn children. "Brother Paul,"
Thea said, "was the mind to Simon's hand. His was the
genius that found the mad boy and knew him for what he
was, and made him the chief of God's hunting
Hounds." "Not entirely." Even she stared at Father
Alberich. He had listened in silence,
motionless but for the flicker of his eyes; he spoke as
coolly as Alfhad. "Brother Paul was given the
power of finding, but not that of making. Such was my part.
Like him I saw God's hand in Simon's coming
among us; I saw the working of God's will. Here was the
sword we had prayed for, a keen weapon against the
powers of the dark; here also was our shield and our
fortress."
  "You knew what he was. You accepted him; you
used him. Are you any less culpable than the King
of Rhiyana?"
  "It was God's will." Alberich's words were like a
gate shutting. "Your Holiness, if Brother
Paul is to be punished, I beg leave to remind
you that I am given full and sole jurisdiction
over my wayward brethren." Jehan stepped
forward. "I claim episcopal exemption. This
monk has committed grave crimes against a whole
kingdom."
  the hounds OF god 289
  "Not yours, Bishop of Sarum," drawled
Brother Paul. "Mine for the duration of this
embassy," Jehan shot back, "under the
forty-third capitulum of the Synod of
Poictesme, which states--" Honorius
smote his hands together. "Sirs, sirs! By no will of
mine this has become a papal tribunal. It
appears that we are trying the guilt of the Order of
Saint Paul on a charge of murder and sorcery.
Or is it that of Rhiyana's King and certain of his
nobility on a charge of sorcery alone? Or shall it
be both?"
  "We do not deny either our possession or our use
of power," Alf said, "which men call magecraft and
sorcery. We do deny that that power either stems from or
serves the purposes of God's Adversary. And
we charge that our kingdom has been assaulted without
reason or justice; that the guilt lies not with us but
with the preachers of the Crusade. We have lived as best
we could between the laws of the Church and the laws of our
nature. In return we have been set upon with arms
and with power; our children murdered or taken; our human
folk condemned to suffer for us, for no better reason
than that we live."
  "You live," Brother Paul echoed him. "There
is the heart of it. You live. You do not die."
  "Save by violence."
  "Exactly."
  Thea tossed her head. "There's a dilemma for
you. Lord Pope. God has made us,
certainly, unless you subscribe to the doctrine that the
Devil could have done so, and that is heresy; He
made us immune to death by age or sickness. So if
we are to die, we have only two choices. Murder
or suicide. The latter is forbidden by the Church.
So is the former, unless, of course, one calls it
war. Or Crusade. Or destruction of a
pestilence."
  "You cannot live," said Father Alberich
dispassionately. You are against nature. All things
on earth fade and die. Only spirit is undying."
  "Such fine ecclesiastical logic. It exists;
it should not; 290 Judith Tarr
  deny it and destroy it. Are you absolutely
certain. Father General, that your vision is clear? That
you see what we are without an intervening cloud of
envy?"
  "I see what you are. Beautiful; seductive.
Deadly."
  "Ah, but to what? To your sense of superiority?"
"You are superior to no man."
  She clapped her hands. "Bravo, Father!
Truly, we are not. But neither are we inferior.
We are another face of God's creation, no more
good or evil than our human cousins.
Consider what sets us apart: our beauty, our power,
Our deathlessness. Have you nothing to counter these? Think,
Father Alberich. Have you?" He crossed himself
deliberately, eyes averted from her shining face.
To him she was doubly terrible, witch and woman both,
and far too intelligent for a female creature.
Demonically intelligent. "Demonically
accurate," she said. "Tell me what you have that we
have not. Tell me why a good Christian faces
worse punishment in long life than in early death.
You have threescore years and ten, maybe more, very
likely less. We have years uncounted, bound to earth
apart from the face of God."
  A soft cry escaped from Fra Giovanni.
"I see. Oh, I see! He gives you the rest,
the gifts men envy so bitterly, in recompense for
that one great grief. Lady . . . Lady, how do
you bear it?" "With ease." Brother Paul's hand
swept out, taking her in, close as she was to her
lover, one hand unconsciously stroking his hair.
"Can you believe that they suffer? Look at them! No
expectation of Heaven, maybe, but none of Hell
either. He can abandon priestly vows, sire
bastards, sin with happy impunity. She can do
exactly as her devils prompt her. And
believe this. Holy Father. That lovely form is far
from her favored one. Her nature and her instincts,
whatever her likeness, are the nature and the instincts
of a bitch in heat." Alf surged up, breaking her
strong grip with the ease of caret
  the hounds OF god 291
  wrath. In spite of his courage--and he had a
great deal of that, whatever his flaws--Brother Paul
blanched. He was one of a rare few who had seen
Alf enraged; and then as now, he had provoked it,
and paid dearly after.
  Alf smiled with sweetness all the more deadly for the
white fury in his eyes. "Brother, Brother," he
chided, "your language is most unsuitable in that
habit and in this company. Will you make amends?
Tell His Holiness a truth or two. Tell him
why you made use of my poor brother who is
dead."
  "Whom you killed."
  "He willed himself to death rather than wreak further
destruction. Tell him, Joscelin."
  The monk gripped Honorius' knees. "I
cry foul. Holiness! He compels me with
sorcery."
  Alfs face set. He would not say it;
he would not permit Thea to say it for him. It was
Jehan who strode forward and lifted the man
bodily, shaking him like a recalcitrant pup.
"He does not. Do as he says, monk. A word will
do it. Two. Power; jealousy. You had a weapon
against the world, and a long-awaited chance to get revenge
on the one who made your lover forget you. Worse--
you thought him fair prey, and he had the temerity
to best you."
  Honorius startled them all; he startled himself.
He smiled. As sternly as he might, he said,
"Put him down, Jehan." The Bishop obeyed.
Paul's glare promised murder--later, when there
was no one to interfere. The Pope steepled his fingers
and closed his eyes. Not for weariness, not any longer,
but to think in peace without the distraction of those crowding
faces; the two in particular that were so heartrendingly
fair, so young and yet so anciently wise. In
ignorance of them, with Father Alberich and his monks
hammering out their denunciations, it had been grimly
simple. A race of sorcerers had established itself
in the outlands of Francia; one had dared to crown
himself King over Christian folk, and dared then
to hold his throne for years beyond the mortal span.
However well he
  292 Judith Tarr
  ailed, he could not alter the truth. He was a
creature of darkness, a child of demon Lilith or
of the beings of Scripture, the sons of God who
came down unto mortal women and begot halflings
upon them. For far too long had the Church suffered his
presence. The Canons and the safety of men's souls
left no space for doubt. He and all his kin must
be driven from the earth.
  Now his kin had come to plead his case. And they were
fully as perilous as Saint Paul's disciples
had warned; but not, exactly, in the way he had been
led to expect. The woman was a fierce creature
with a tongue like a razor's edge, but she had a most
disconcerting habit of speaking the truth. The man was
worse yet. He was subtle. He was gentle; he
was brilliant; he was so obviously a creature of
God that it hurt to look at him, just as it hurt
to look on Fra Giovanni. If he had been
mortal, people would have said that he was not long for this world;
God could not bear to leave his like among sinful men.
He was not mortal. He was not human. He was
steeped in sins of the flesh, that he had confessed without
shame or repentance; nor, all too clearly, had
he any intention of putting an end to them.
And yet he belonged surely and utterly to his
God.
  The Pope opened his eyes. They were looking at
one another, Fra Giovanni and the enchanter; they were
smiling the same faint unearthly smile. A mere
man, even a man who was the Vicar of Christ, could
only begin to guess what passed between them. If it was
sorcery, it was divine sorcery: a communion of
saints.
  Saint Paul's brethren watched them.
Honorius thought of Paul the Apostle while he
was Saul the persecutor, watching the stoning of the
martyour while the cloaks of the Jews lay heaped about
his feet. He had had the law and the prophets behind
him. So too did they. One proclaimed with
malice, one with regret, both with honest conviction:
The Church must not suffer these witches to live.
Scripture, canon law, plain human
expedience, all forbade it. the hounds of Gou 293
  Innocent, Honorius thought, still would give this
tiara that was yours and is now mine, to pass this cup and
this dilemma to you. If they had only been less
beautiful. He could have thought more clearly then.
Beauty seduced, yet it also repelled. One
wanted to trust it; one dared not; then one
distrusted one's own distrust, because yes, no man with
eyes could help but envy that perfection of form and
feature. And what if all his doubts were in truth the
warring of his will against their enchantments?
  He shook himself hard. More of this circling and he
would go mad. No wonder Brother Simon had; between
what he was and what he believed, his whole existence
had been a contradiction. The Pope's eyes opened
upon Alfs face. There was one who had not taken
leave of his sanity, a miracle as surely as any
in the Gospels. What had been in the water's mind
when it realized it was wine? "Surprise," Alf
answered softly. "Denial. Fear. Revul
sion. But at last, at great price, acceptance."
  Honorius shook his head in reproof. "My
son, can you not grant me the privacy of my own
thoughts?"
  "Holy Father, you persist in invading mine. I have
none of your inborn defenses; I must labor
to shield against you."
  The Pope could see the words as Alf spoke them.
Men armored and immune like knights in battle;
enchanters naked to every darting thought. "But not
defenseless," Honorius said swiftly. "Far from
that. Our weapons are few and feeble against the
bitter keenness of yours." The Paulines approved
his words, if not in great comfort. They could see that the
Pope was wavering; they dared not speak lest they cast
him into the enemy's camp. So always had it been with the
sorcerers. With their beauty they seduced; with their
magic they bound men's souls. Not even the
successor of Peter could be proof against them. Behind
Brother Paul's eyes, Joscelin de
Beaumarchais stood up and cried revolt. He had
lost this battle once. He 294 Judith Tarr
  would not lose it again. The witches were intent on the
Pope and on one another. He was all but forgotten.
He would have only one chance. He launched himself,
joined hands a club with all his weight behind them, his
target the back of Alfs neck.
  The damned sorcerer sensed something. He half
turned, his throat a better target still. So had
Simon died. S. Fanged horror lunged between
them, bore Paul down, closed its jaws upon his
throat.
  Gently, gently. The beast's breath was searingly
hot, its jaws a vise held just short of closing.
He could not even struggle. Of all the faces that had
reeled past as he fell, he saw only Father
Alberich's. The reproach in it was worse
even than his failure. He had unmasked the
were-bitch, but dishe had convinced the Pope. God's
Hounds knew no reason nor justice. Their hate
was blind, and in extremity, murderous. They were proven
to be as the witches had proclaimed. How he hated
that beautiful voice, half boy, half man, all
Chrisrianly compassionate. "Let him go, my
lady. He'll do no harm now." I [lij
Small comfort that his sweetness cloyed on her too.
She reared up into woman-form, with the decency at least
to witch herself into her dress as she did it; her
response was blistering, and ingenious. Even Saint
Alfred flinched a little, although his angelic perfection
restored itself in an eyeblink. "Thea Damaskena,"
he rebuked her, "this is no place for-was
  "You could have been killed!" she shouted at him. The
silence was thunderous. No one had the will or the wits
to break it. Paul dared at last to sit up,
to glares from the witch and the bishop and the deaf-mute
boy, but none prevented him. Maybe, just maybe,
there was a little hope left. Canon law was canon
law, and it was most strict regarding sorcery. With which
both witches had been blatantly free.
  Honorius looked old and worn, beaten down
by the the hounds OF god 295
  weight of law and truth and the grim need to judge
both fairly and in accordance with his office. His
curse; he could not yield to plain expedience, nor
force himself into Alberich's simple and immovable
conviction.
  "Holy Father." Fra Giovanni's voice was
faint but not timid; excitement, not fear, had taken
his breath away. "Holy Father, there is a way out of
this tangle. My lord named it himself. When their kingdom
is safe, he said, they will all go away. They've
made a place for themselves;
  they'll take it out of the world. Isn't that what
everyone wants? They can't bear us any more easily
than we can bear them; this way they're gone and safe,
and we're free of the stain of their murder." Father
Alberich nodded. "There is wisdom in what you
say. Brother. Yet gone is not dead. And what
if they choose to put it off? When their kingdom is
safe, the sorcerer promises, they will depart. How
do they reckon safety? Their King was King for
fourscore years, and very many of those were years of
stainless peace, yet he clung to his throne. Now
that war and Interdict have wrought their havoc, must we
wait another fourscore years for the land to be healed?
How long can they prolong their presence in the
world of men?" "Not one more year." Alf measured each
word with equal, leaden force. The face he turned
to them all was as white as bleached bone, and old; so
old that only deathless youth could embody it. He
raised his hands. They were empty; they were laden with
power. "I said that I must labor to hold up my
shields against mortal thoughts. I have labored thus
for every day of my life, every day of every year of
fourscore and ten. And I am weary. were I a
man I would find rest in death. Since I am not a
man, I can only dream of a place apart, among
my own people, where all have power and none can die, and no
fear or hate or human pity can come to torment
me." He flexed his fingers; he closed them; he
caught the Pope's eyes and held them. j bar
"Holiness, when I was young, before I knew I would not
  296 Judith Tarr
  die, I used to dream sometimes of a text I
loved. "Come to me, all ye that labour and are
laden, and I will give you rest." Can you know--can you
imagine--what it did to me to grow into the knowledge that my
dream was a lie? For men, yes, there was an end. For
me there was none."
  The Father General spoke almost sharply, cutting
across the Pope's response. "If the
tale you have told is true, this new tale is a
lie. You cannot die, but you can be killed, and on the
other side of death is peace. were you in truth so
desperate for it, you would not fight this battle for your
life."
  "What will content you?" Alf demanded. "Would my
death suffice to gain the lives of my kin? If I
give myself to you and your fire, will you consent to see my
people depart behind the walls of Broceliande?" "If I
knew you could be trusted not to wriggle away--"
"Enough!" thundered the Pope. They all gaped. None
would have dreamed that he had such power in him. Much more
quietly he said, "There will be no bargains struck
except as I strike them. You, Lord Chancellor,
have the disposition of a martyour, self-sacrificing to the
point of parody. You on the other hand. Father
General, would serve admirably in the part of the
unregenerate Saul of Tarsus. Beware lest your
road to Damascus become the road
to Broceliande."
  He left his chair, which suddenly was a throne; he
drew himself to his full height. "You promise
to depart. Lord Alfred, but in this much Father Alberich
speaks the truth. You do not bind yourself. Your weariness
may pass when you see what is to be done
in Rhiyana; and I forbid you to linger. It is Lent
now. If by Pentecost you are not gone, you and all your
people, I will hand you over to my Hounds. Then indeed, and
justly, shall you burn."
  Alf paused. Thea was silent, walled in
stillness. Jehan had started forward, then stopped,
face set and gray. Only Nikki who had been
but a pair of eyes through all of this, who had kept
silence of mind as well as body, ventured to
  the hounds OF god 297
  raise a hand, to widen his eyes. Protest,
assent, part and part. Alf sank to one knee. His
head bowed. His voice came slow yet strong.
"Let it be done according to your will."
  Honorius said nothing, did nothing. Paul's
thwarted rage, Alberich's reluctant acceptance,
rang like shouts in Alfs mind. From the Pope came
only blankness. Alf looked up under his brows.
Honorius gazed down in deep and somewhat painful
thought; but Alf could not read it. Sometimes humans could
do that. They could think sidewise, and evade easy
reading. Nikki, with power behind him, had perfected the
art; unless he wished it, he could not be read at
all, or even sensed. When at length the Pope
spoke, it was to the Paulines. "Father
Alberich, Brother Paul, what you have done is beyond
forgiving. You have deceived me with lies and half-
truths, you have abused your vows and your offices, you have
proven yourselves not merely false witnesses but
hypocrites. Your weapon is broken and your plot
unveiled;
  your Order should be scoured from the earth. But I have
some wisdom left. The great mass of your Brothers
are innocent of your wrongdoing; many possess a
true and laudable zeal for their calling, which is
to preserve the Church's orthodoxy against the
attacks of heretics. For their sakes, and indeed for
your own-for however blind and misguided, you remain my
spiritual sons-I shall be merciful. You are not
suspended from your vows. You are not removed from your
Order. But you are bidden to leave the world for a time.
Brief or long, I do not know, nor do I
prescribe; only that you wake to full knowledge of what you
have done." He waited; after a moment they bowed,
both, and kissed the hand he held to them. "Go now.
Hold yourselves to your cloister. I will see that you are
sent where I judge best."
  As Paul passed Alf, he hesitated as if
he would have spoken, or struck, or spat. Thea
advanced warningly; Honorius raised his
hand. With a last long look-a glare, 298 Judith
Tarr
  yet tinged just perceptibly with something very like
admiration, the acknowledgment of enemy and strong
enemy-Paul spun away. Alberich too paused.
He did not threaten; he only searched AlFs
face, carefully, as if he could find there some thing of
value that he had lost. His faith, perhaps. His
certainty that he had chosen the path of God.
  With his going, the air lightened visibly. But
indeed, beyond the walls it was dawn. Far away on the
edge of human hearing, a cock crowed.
  Honorius started a little, foolishly. None of
his guests, the one invited or the four not, melted
away into noth ingness. If anything, they seemed the more
solid for the day's coming. Again he looked down
into Alfs eyes. He would not see them again, and he was
not grieved to know it, although the knowledge grew out of no hate
nor even any dislike. They were too alien for
mortal comfort, too much like a cat's and too much like
a man's and too little like either. But worse,
infinitely worse, was the truth he saw there.
""A priest forever,"" the Pope whispered,
""in the order- of-"" "No," Alfsd more
softly still, in something very close to desperation.
"I cannot. I must not. You must not even think of it."
"I, never. You threaten the roots of my faith; you
menace the very foundations of my Church. I pray
God that I have not erred beyond human forgiveness in
granting you only exile, and not the finality of
death." [*thorn] The fair inhuman face was
still. It did not sroop to beg or to plead. It had
heard the will of Cencio Savelli. It waited upon
the will of the Vicar of Christ.
  Honorius laid his hands upon the bowed head. He
felt the tremors that racked the body beneath. He
willed his voice to be steady. "When you have passed the
borders of your secret country, you will pass beyond the
reach of man, and of the Church of this mortal world. But
not, not ever, of God."
  the hounds OF god 299
  Alf sank down and down, prostrate at the
Pope's feet. So must he have lain on the day he
was made a priest. Had he trembled so? Had he
so frightened that long-dead bishop as he did this aging
Bishop of Rome? "I leave you to God,"
Honorius said. "Remember Him. Serve Him.
And may He and His Son and His Spirit of truth shine
upon you, and guide you, and lead you into His wisdom.
Whatever that may be." The Pope signed
him with the cross; and hesitated, and signed them all.
Then at last they had mercy. They left him. But
glad though he was to be free of their presence, he
knew he would never be free of their memory. They
had taken with them the surety of his faith, and his
heart's peace.

  They walked back to San Girolamo, by common
consent, for time to think. The morning that swelled about them
was like the first morning of the world: splendid with the victory
of light against darkness; muted with the promise of the
darkness' return. Alf passed through it in silence,
and yet it was not the silence of grief. He walked
lightly, easily, as if a bitter burden had
fallen from his shoulders. He even smiled,
remembering Fra Giovanni's farewell. The
Minorite had kissed him and asked his blessing, and
persisted until he consented to give it, and said then with
quiet conviction, "Now I know beyond doubting that God
walks in the world. Ml the world." Simple words
enough, and truth that was self-evident. But the friar's
face when he said it, the joy with which he spoke, had
warmed Alf to the marrow. matters that much to you,
doesn't it? Nikki was beside him, trotting to keep
pace, lips a little tight with what the jarring
was doing to his arm.
  Alf slowed in compunction and settled his arm about the

  the hounds OF god 301
  boy's shoulders. "What's the trouble,
Nikephoros? Do I puzzle you?" Nikki
shrugged. No more than you ever do. It was all very
interesting to watch.
  "Greek to the last," said Thea on his other side,
arm slipping round his waist. When he frowned at
her, she laughed and kissed his cheek. "It's over,
Nikki. We've won. Don't you want to sing?"
still can't. He pulled away from them both, half
running toward the loom of the Colosseum.
  They exchanged glances. His back was straight and
unyielding, his mind walled and barred. "Akestas,"
Thea said.
  Alf shook his head slightly. But he did not
stretch his pace. His mind was clear, intent, looking
ahead now, seeing what it had still to face. They had
won in Rome, perhaps;
  but not yet in Rhiyana.
  Nikki did not come back with the others. Not that
anyone seemed to care. jehan and Thea were full of
victory, vying to tell the whole of it;
Alf absorbed himself in his children. Liahan had
learned to smile, and Cynan had discovered speech.
"Father," he cried insatiably. "Father, Father,
Father!"
  Stefania retreated from the clamor. She
understood as much of it as she needed to. They had got
what they wanted, the witch-folk. Brother O.one
ventured so far as to favor Thea with a quick shy smile.
Prior Giacomo was grimly amused, but glad
too, as if all this proved that he had not erred in
taking them into his abbey. None of them asked where
Nikephoros was, or why he had vanished.
  She found her cloak and slipped toward the door.
She did not know precisely where she was going. First
she had to find her way out of San Girolamo, not
the easiest of tasks;
  the monks stared, which was disconcerting, or sternly
refused to stare, which was worse. It was all she could do
to walk calmly, not to run like a wild thing trapped
in a maze.
  302 Judith Tarr
  The gate was blessed relief. She ran through it
down the road into the city.
  Nikephoros was nowhere between the abbey and the
scrivener's shop, nor was he in the rooms
above. As a last resort she peered into the tavern.
It was very early yet, but a few devoted winebibbers
bent over their cups. Just as she turned away, she
saw him. He had found the darkest corner, and he was
drinking with the dedication of a man who means to drown his
sorrows.
  "It doesn't work, you know," she said.
  He had closed himself oflf again. She caught his
face in her hands and made him look at her. His
eyes were awash with the wine, but his mouth was bitter. He
offered her his cup; she shook her head. He drained
it with a flourish that would have made her smile, if he
had not been' so desperate.
  Have you seen the deaf-mute begffng in the piazza?
he asked much too calmly, setting the cup on the
table in front of him. An appalling creature.
Malodorous. Ill-favored. First cousin to the
Barbary ape. She drew up a stool and sat,
eyes never leaving his face. "I find him
pitiable."
  He hurled the cup at the wall. It shattered;
the shards dropped heavily, scattering on the
ill-swept floor. People turned to stare; the
wine-seller lumbered forward scowling. Nikki
flung him a handful of coins and staggered
up, dragging Stefania with him into the merciless
sunlight.
  She dug in her heels. Abruptly he let
her go; she fell backward. He caught her. For a
long moment they poised, stretched at arm's length like
partners in a spinning dance. She firmed her feet
beneath her. His hand opened, dropped. All at once
he looked very ill. The wine left him in a
flood. She held him, helpless to do more than wipe
his streaming face with the end of her veil. When the storm
had passed, he crouched on hand and knees and shook;
but his mind-voice was uncannily clear
  the hounds OF god 303
  and steady, with an edge of ice. still am an utter
disgrace as a drunkard. "You'd be a disgrace if
you were one."
  What do you call me now?
  "Nikephoros." She took his hand and kissed
it. "Come to the house with me. You need to fill your
stomach with something more trustworthy than wine."
  His fist clenched. But he let her pull him up
and lead him toward the stair. At the foot of it he
stopped. No, Stefania. I can't face-
"I'll get rid of Bianca."
  He laughed, choking on it. And
persuade her to leave you alone with a man?
  "I don't call myself a philosopher for
nothing."
  She got rid of Bianca. Masterfully. The
old woman was even pleased to scour the market for
Messer Nikephoros' favorite sweets. He
shook his head in wonder. Stefania Makaria, you
are a deceitful woman.
  "I'm a dialectician." He was sitting in
Uncle Gregorios' chair, nibbling a bit of
cheese. She knelt in front of him and touched his
splinted arm. "Does this hurt still?"
  His good shoulder lifted. Not much, unless he thought
about it. He abandoned the cheese for an olive.
  Stefania's eyes widened. "How do you do that?"
What?
  "You don't even need to-was
  Resort to words. She had never known that one could
make so many bites out of an olive. Or that one
could say so much with a supple body and a mobile
face and a splendid pair of black eyes.
Looking at them as they darkened, she knew. It was the
Pope's command. It was the battle won yet lost,
the Kindred saved but ordered into exile. It was the
beggar, poor ill-made creature, who but
for the grace of God and the power of a white enchanter, was
Nikephoros. She shook her head fiercely.
"Your back is straight and your mind is clear and you
are beautiful."
  304 Judith Tan- So was he! Words again at
last, all the stronger for that he did not need them.
He was born as I was born. Beatings and starvation
misted him. The rest--the rest twisted and clouded because
he never learned what words were. He never can now.
He's too old. Even Alf can't work that great a
miracle.
  "He did with you. For which I thank God."
  He was not listening. He showed me--the madman I
helped to kill. He showed me what I truly am.
  "No, Nikephoros. He showed you a
nightmare, and tricked you inffbelieving it was true."
  He laughed, cold and clear in her mind. Oh
no, I'm no cripple, I'm a great wizard,
I'm utterly to be envied. Can't you see,
Stefania? I'm not the mute beast I should have been,
but neither am I human. Alfs miracle made
sure of both.
  "You were born human. You have a man's eyes.
You won't live forever." doesn't matter. I'm
an enchanter. The Pope's decree binds
me too. "It does not!" she burst out.
"Nikephoros, that command was framed for the Fair
Folk. You are none of their kind. You have no need
to leave the world; no one can call you alien."
  No?
  "No! Your beauty is a human beauty. It's
warm; it's familiar; it makes people smile. Not so
the one you call your brother. He looks like a marble
god. He makes people stare and gasp and cross themselves
in awe. That's what the Holy Father is sending out of the
world." That and the power. I have the power, Stefania. I
am an enchanter. Just as easily as the Church can
bum Alf, it can bum me. "It won't. We'll
find a way. I'm much too clever for anyone's good
but my own; I'll convince the world that you're no more and
no less than a mortal man."
  For a whole lifetime, Stefania? We would have
to live a lie. "Not a lie. A careful skirting
round the truth."
  the hounds OF god 305
  He shook his head. still can't- His eyes widened;
he paled. God in Heaven. "What? What,
Nikephoros?"
  It's preposterous. But what if . . . what if
my power needs Alf and his people to sustain it?
What if, once the Folk go away and the walls
close about them, all my magics vanish? I'll
be like the beggar. "Preposterous."
  He lowered his face into his hand. I don't know
what to do. They're my people. They're like me. They know
me as no human being ever can. But I'm not of their
blood. And I love you, and 1 can't ask you to go with
me into such an exile as that, and I can't endure a
world without them. I want to stay in Rome and browbeat
you into marrying me; I want to go with my soul's kin
into Broceliande. "I would go," she said very low. "I
would go with you."
  You're stiff with terror at the thought of it.
They're all so beautiful; they're all so
strange. After a very little while you'd come to hate them
for being what they are, and me for binding you to an exile
beyond the world's end.
  She was silent. She wanted to protest; she could
not. He was telling the truth. She was of the mortal
world, utterly and irrevocably; she could not leave
it.
  She could give him up. She had lived a
respectable while before he came to trouble her peace.
She had never intended to bind herself to any man, let
alone a pretty lad without the least
aptitude for philosophy, four years younger than
she.
  Three.
  "Three and a half." She frowned. "Did I
give you leave to trespass in my mind?"
  His eyes dropped. She fancied that she felt his
power's withdrawal. Looking at him, unable to turn
away, she realized that he had changed. These two
days and nights had aged him years. His desperate
stroke had begun the dance that ended in an enchanter's
death; and he had paid for it in more than a broken
wrist. His prettiness was gone. 306 Judith
Tarr
  He was handsome still but rather stern, with a deep line
graven between his brows, the signature of power and
pain. She buried her face in his lap. "I love
you," she said. She was crying. She did not want
to; she could not help it. "I love you so much."
  Very gently he touched her hair, stroking it,
loosening the tightly woven braid. He was crying
too; she felt it. Somewhere at the bottom of
self-pity she found the remains of her good sense.
She raised her head. He wept like a stone
image, stiff-faced, with the tears running down
unheeded. She levered herself to her feet,
sniffing loudly, but dignified for all of that. "I
don't suppose you have a handkerchief," she said.
  He held up a napkin. She dried his face with
it, and then her own. Tears pricked again; she willed
them back. "I'm doing you no good at all. Why
don't you curse me for a foolish female and leave
me to my fate?"
  Because he loved her.
  "Foolish boy." The last binding gave; her
braid uncoiled, tumbling over her shoulder. "Now
look what you've done."
  Yes; and he would finish it. His sorrow had
shifted in a dismaying direction. He reached for her.
Before she could stop to think, she was in his lap and he was
freeing her hair, one-handedly awkward but very
persistent. Her hands found themselves behind his neck. Her
body had begun to sing its deep irresistible song.
Only once. Only once, before she lost him.
  They never knew who led whom. She mounted the
steps in front, but he was as close as her shadow.
They kept stopping. When they came to her bed, her
veil was long gone, her gown unlaced. She had to do
most of the rest of it, for both of them. Even with the sling
tossed aside, his splinted arm got in the way.
He did what he could with all his
aristocratic lacings, thinking curses at them; of
course his luck would bring him to this when he was dressed
for an audience with the Pope. She laughed
breathlessly. "Oh, to be sure, a pilgrim is
much better attired for an afternoon's seduction."
  the hounds OF god 307
  Sacrilegious, he chided her, tugging at her
gown. She blushed furiously. Which was utterly
absurd. He was as bare as the day he was born, as
calm as if he were swathed in silks. Cobbling up
all her courage, and helping by turning half away,
she slid out of gown and camise and stood shivering on
the cold floor. His smile gleamed in the corner of
her eye. She was all a prickle of gooseflesh,
but her face was afire. She made herself face him.
"What odd animals we are," she said. "So
ugly. So ridiculous." But so beautiful.
  Stefania raised herself on one elbow. He was
almost asleep, his eyes dark with it, but he smiled and
brushed his finger across her lips. She was shaky,
excited, happy, sad, languid and tender, all
at once, in a hopeless tangle. She wanted
to tease him awake again. She wanted to lie down and
rest in the drowsy warmth of him. "I'm sorry,"
she said.
  He roused a little, puzzled.
  She bit her lip. "I know I didn't--I
know you weren't-- you did everything to please me, and I
didn't even know what to--" He was awake, but not
the way she had wanted. You pleased me very much. He
drew her head down and kissed her slowly, savoring
it. That's one of the great wonders of being a sorcerer.
What delights a lover is double delight.
  "You know all about it, don't you?"
  Woman, he said sternly, are you asking me to count
over old lovers? Shall I give you a ranking for
each, as if we were allotting places in a
tournament?
  "I don't know what I'm asking!" She laid
her head on his good shoulder, muttering into it, "I'm
sorry again. I'm trying to start a fight. To make
it easier to let you go. Now--now I know what all
the singing is about."
  He laughed gently, caressing her back and her
tumbled hair. Do you really? I was afraid I
hurt you.
  308 Judith Tarr
  Jit1' "Only at first." She lifted her
head. "Now who's I "bar ?"'"'caret wallowing
in apologies? Nikephoros, we both
talk too t j? much. But before I take a vow of
silence--what did you do caret lli to Bianca?"
  til. His eyes were wide and innocent. I? Do
anything to 12ar bar bar Bianca? Is it my
fault that she's met a friend in the market and is
Ijjl caret " bar to gossiping the day away? And
I'll remind you, ladylove, that it caret - ill
wasn't I who sent her there.
  "We're well matched, aren't we?" She tried
something she had thought of a little while since, something
deliciously wanton. His gasp of surprise
gave way to one of piercing pleasure. "First
payment," she said. And second, and third, and
fourth. It kept her from remembering what he had
omitted to say. He had not denied that he would go.
Too soon; but it was she who named the moment. He was
asleep at last; she hated to wake him. But the day
was racing toward evening. Bianca must come back before
night, and Uncle Gregorios would be wanting his
supper, and they would rage if they knew what she had
done while they were gone.
  She dressed slowly, combed and braided her
hair. Her reflection in the old bronze mirror
was no different than it had been the last time she saw
it, ages ago; she was still Stefania. And
he was still Nikephoros, but now that bare name meant more
than worlds. She was going to cry again, and she must not.
When she had mastered her face, she bent over him and
kissed him awake. His eyes opened; he peered
without recognition. She kissed him again. Awareness
grew; he smiled. She j played a little with the
tousle of his hair. "Wake up, love;
  it's getting on for evening."
  He stretched and sighed. He would be happy to stay
just where he was. "You won't be when Bianca finds
you. Up now, and tell me how all this goes on."
  Termagant. He smiled ruefully and sorted out
the tangle I, of his clothes, directing while she
tugged and laced and-- the hounds OF god 309
  inevitably--tarried to play. Had she been even
a shade less sensible, they would have ended as they
began, with garments scattered and bodies twined.
  She tore herself away, smoothing her gown and her
ruffled hair. He was all lordly splendid, and
growing lordly stern as passion faded and knowledge woke. Come
to San Girolamo with me, he said. Come that far at
least.
  She hesitated. After a moment she nodded. The
lower room was bright with sunlight. Arlecchina blinked
in it, purring loudly, enthroned in
Anna's lap. Anna's face was stiff and pale,
as if she had emptied herself of everything but patience.
Stefania felt the blood rush to her cheeks.
"Anna!" she cried too brightly. "How long have you
been here?"
  "Not very long." Anna glanced from her to Nikki,
seeing much too much, and understanding all of it. Her mouth
took on an ironic twist. "They've been
waiting for you, little brother."
  Something in her tone brought him across the room.
Anna, what's happened?
  "Nothing." She smiled to prove it. "Alf is
desperate to be gone. Poor Brother O.one;
he's too devastated even to cry, but the Prior
at least is glad to see the last of us. His theology
hasn't been very comfortable lately."
  No good; he of all people could see through a cloud of
words. You aren't going.
  "I've decided not to," she said. "Stefania,
do you still want to be a philosopher? I do, very much.
And I have the means. Prior Giacomo knows of a
house or two that might suit us, and that's a
miracle in its own right; after what he's seen, he
says, he finds a pack of female scholars
frankly reassuring. Alf has given
me gifts, not just my share of the family treasure,
but books. You wouldn't believe--he has an
Albumazar he insists he doesn't need, a
half-dozen volumes of Aristotle, a
Macrobius with his own commentary ..."
  "Do I want all that?" Stefania cried. "I
dream about it." She stilled. "You're not joking, are
you?"
  Anna crossed herself Greek fashion. "By the
bones of Chrysostomos, every bit of it is true.
I came to ask you if you'd share it with me. Unless
..." She glanced at Nikki. "Unless there've
been changes." "No," Stefania answered
steadily, "there've been no changes. We were only
saying goodbye."
  You aren't going, Nikki said again.
  "Of course I'm not." Anna glared. "What
made you think I could? I've always known that when the
Folk went into Broceliande, I'd have to stay behind.
I can't face Rhiyana without them. Rome is a
pleasant enough place, and I've found friends here just in
the few days I've been free. Father Jehan's
promised to come when he can; a bishop can always find
excuses to call on the Curia. Or I can call
on him, if it comes to that. I might find
I want to do a little goliarding in a year or three,
when Rome begins to pall on me."
  She made it all so simple. But she was
human. She had no need to choose.
  "I have no choice." She drew a long breath.
"May I stay here, Stefania? Just for a little
while?"
  "As long as you need to," Stefania said,
embracing Anna quickly, tightly "Are you coming with us
to San Girolamo?" Anna shook her head.
"No. No, it was hard enough to do once. I'll be a
coward and stay here."
  And do her crying in privacy. Stefania hugged
her again. "I'll come back as soon as I can.
Tell Bianca where I've gone." She
grimaced. "Don't be surprised if she puts you
to work."
  Anna smiled. "Go on now. Alfs been
threatening to leave without Nikki; you'd better hurry
before he actually does it."
  Even yet Nikki hung back, looking hard
at his sister's face, seeing all her
sacrifices. At least he had had his love
requited, if only for a day. She had had a
deeply loving embrace, a fraternal
kiss with a tear behind it, and a trove of treasures,
none of it worth a single touch of Stefania's hand.
  the hounds OF god 311
  But what could he give her? An embrace, a
kiss and a tear, his own share of the wealth of House
Akestas since in Broceliande he would have no need
of it. He held her for a long while between his strong
arm and his splinted one, pouring into her mind all the
comfort he could muster. She was going to thrive. She was
going to be happy, one woman wedded to all the
philosophers, with sisters to bear her company and
riches to ease her way.
  "And Father Jehan when I need him, and a whole
life to make what I like of." She held her
brother's face in her hands. "Good-bye, Nikki.
Be good. You can if you work at it, you know."
  still should want to?
  She slapped him lightly and let him go.
"Brat. Take care of Alf for me. Now stop
dawdling; can't you hear him yelling for you?" He
looked back once. She was turned away from him,
bent over the cat in her lap, steadfastly ignoring
everything but the silken harlequin fur.
  They were waiting, the strange ones and their massive
brown-cowled Bishop, and although they were all
courtesy, their impatience was strong enough to taste.
Nikki made Stefania come all the way with him,
gripping her hand, so that she stood face to face with the
witch-woman. The gold-brown eyes passed quickly
over her; she shuddered deep within. They were so close
to human, and so very far from it. Their interest was warm
enough, their assessment rather more approving than not, but they
were not the eyes of anyone with whom she could share anything
that mattered.
  Nikki let her go. He was shaking, and trying not
to, and surely he hated himself for it. She saw him
again as she had once before, small and dark and flawed,
human, mortal, no kin at all to the high beauty
about him. And then he moved, or his magic moved, and
he was inextricably a part
  312 Judith Tarr
  of them. The light in his eyes had its reflection
in the eyes of his brother. Or was Nikephoros the
reflection;" The moon to the white enchanter's
sun, with no power but what his master chose to bestow upon
him. And without it-
  Eye met cat-flaring eye. The witch-folk
drew together, drawing Nikki with them. On the very edge
of hearing, the air began to sing. "Nikephoros!"
she cried.
  The note died abruptly The tall ones stood
still. Nikki looked at her, and the pain in his eyes
made her want to weep aloud. "Stay," she begged
him, with all her heart in it. "Stay and love me."
His hand rose, reached. Come with me.
  "You know I can't."
  The hand began to fall. All at once
Stefania hated him, hated him with a passion only
love could engender. "You know I can't! This is my
world. This one, and no other. Just as it is yours. What
will you do among the immortals? Trail behind them.
Ape their mighty magics with your little borrowed power.
Go slowly mad, and die gibbering, too far gone
even to wish you had had the sense to escape while you
could." His head shook from side to side. This world
promised only the dulled existence of a cripple.
The other promised all the splendor of power, free
and fearless, far from human terrors. You can come. You
can share it. Perhaps-even-
  "If I could ever have become a witch, that time is
long past." She spoke quietly, almost calmly,
but for the tremor she could not quell. "You are a
coward, Nikephoros Akestas. You seduced me,
knowing what you would do to me, knowing that I could never
follow you. You wanted me, and when it was
safe, you made sure you had me. This little pain that
pays for it, that will go away. You have all your Fair
Folk, and the glory and the lightnings, and the memory of a
little mortal fool to reassure you when you
  the hounds OF god 313
  wonder if you've made the wrong choice. What
more could you ask for?" Stefania, he whispered.
  But he did not whisper. He had no voice that
he would use. "No, child, you may not have me, and
Broceliande too. It's one or the other.
Choose."
  For a little while she knew that she had won. He
came toward her. One more step and his arm would come
to circle her. Her body felt it already, yearned for
it.
  He stopped. He looked back. His kin did
nothing, said nothing, only stood and waited and were.
More beautiful than any mortal creature, more
splendid, more powerful, mantled in magic. She
watched them conquer him. They did not mean to do it.
No more did the candle mean to draw the foolish
fluttering moth. He looked on their faces and
fell headlong into their eyes, and when again he faced
Stefania, it was from between the witch and the enchanter. His
whole body cried pain, begged for
forgiveness. It even dared, even yet, to beseech her
to follow him.
  She would not move. Even when his kiss touched her
lips, an air-soft invisible ghost-kiss, lingering,
burning. Trying to have it all, refusing to acknowledge
the truth. With an effort that made her gasp, she
willed him away. "Go," she said through set and aching
teeth. "Go where you think you must." And more slowly, as
the pain began to master her: "God-oh, damn you,
God go with you."
  They were there, all of them, close together. Then they
were not. There was only a shimmer, fading fast, and a
memory of Nikephoros" black eyes bright with
tears.

  The churches of Rhiyana were dark, their gates
bolted and sealed, the vigil lamps lightless above the
silent altars. The dying passed unshriven; the dead
lay cold in unconsecrated ground. The living
knew no consolation of holy Church, neither Mass
nor sacraments; not even in the abbeys might monks
sing the Offices, on pain of flogging and expulsion.
  They dared it, Benedetto Tbrrino knew
surely, as priests in the villages dared
administer the sacraments in secret, even
under the watchful eyes of God's Hounds. But the
grimness of the Interdict, coupled diswith war and winter,
beat down even the most valiant. He had nothing
to do with it. The Paulines had circumvented him; on
the authority of their new Papal Legate, still on
the road from Rome, they had lowered the ban. Having
no authority more recent or more potent, and no army
to defend it, he was powerless. What little he could do,
he did. Every morning since the Interdict began,
he had sung Mass in the castle. He made tid
the hounds OF god 315
  no great secret of it. Even yet the Hounds
did not dare to pass the gates, and they learned not
to keep the people of the city from passing them. As they were
learning that one winter's preaching and one week's
Interdict could not turn Rhiyana's folk against
their King of fourscore years. It only taught them
to hate the men whose coming had wrought all their suffering.
  Tonight again the Queen had sent her page. The Lord
Cardinal was bidden to dine with her, as he had been
bidden every night since that day in the garden. Tonight again
he sent a gracious refusal. The words came no
more easily this seventh time than they had the first. He
saw her at Mass, and that was already as much as he could
bear; he dared not sit beside her, even among
her ladies and her courtiers, and try to conduct himself
as if she were no more to him than any highborn
matron. Not with such thoughts as he had, that not only
she among her court could read. Nor with such dreams
as he had been having, sweet torment that they were,
impervious to prayer and fasting. He dined on prayer
and water, alone, his few loyal monks sent
unwillingly away. His head was light with abstinence,
the pangs of hunger vanquished. But not the pangs
he longed to be rid of. This storm-ridden night they
took flesh and stood before him all in white, ivory
hair loose to ivory ankles, golden eyes
shining. "Lady," he prayed from his aching knees,
"must you haunt me in the flesh as in the spirit?"
  She knelt to face him. "There is war in
Heaven," she said. "Do your bones not feel it?
Does the wind not bring you its clamor?" It was she.
He caught the faint rose-sweet scent of her.
By Heaven's bitter irony, her presence so close
eased his torment. He could bow over her hand, he could
rise and raise her with him, setting her in the chair
which faced the fire. He could even venture to rebuke
her. "Lady, you know you should not be here."
  "Where else should I be? My lord is barred
to me, and 316 Judith Tarr
  my own people have no comfort for me, and the world is ending."
"It is only a storm of sleet."
  She laughed as clearly and as sweetly as a child.
"0 mortal man! May the world not end in sleet as
easily as in fire?" She sobered; she spread her
hands to the blaze, that turned their pallor
to rose-gold. "I cry your pardon, my lord. I
am a little mad, I think, and truly it is not all
with grief. Our great enemy is dead by his own will,
dead these two days. Our Chancellor has spoken
with the Pope and gained pardon for us all. But still I
cannot touch the mind of my King." He forgot himself
utterly; he seized her hands. "The Pope? They
have gone to the Pope?"
  "To Saint Peter's own successor. The Hounds
are chastised and sent to their kennels. The Interdict
is lifted--I have proclaimed it, which is
presumptuous of me, mere temporal regent that
I am, but it is too mighty a secret to keep from
my people. We ... we are forgiven, within limits. You
need not fret now. Lord Cardinal; you are not
obliged to send us to the fire."
  "Hosanna in excelsis!" He was so glad that
he sang it in full voice. "Lady, Lady,
I do believe in God's mercy again. And
you said"--his joy died--"the King is ... dead?"
  "No!" she cried. "He lives, but now truly
he is dying, and his power struggles to preserve him
against invasion. All invasion, even the touch of my
mind. Even--even healing. It is our nature. In
extremity, it turns against us."
  "So your kingdom is saved, but your King--" Her
chin lifted; her eyes glittered. "He has not
died yet, and my lord Alfred is coming. We shall see
whether the King of Rhiyana can stand against the Master of
Broceliande."
  "If there is aught I can do, if I may ride
or pray, storm a castle or storm Heaven itself,
you need only command me."
  She was careful of her smile. She kept it within
mortal the hounds OF god 317
  limits. Yet he was lost long since; he could
only fall deeper into the enchantment. No matter that
his mind was clear enough to mock him. Great prince of
priests that he was, and no boy either, he flung
himself at her feet like any callow simpleton of a
squire. "Alas, my lord," she said, "I have
bewitched you. And alas for me, the spell also
strikes the one who casts it. Perhaps we should both
storm Heaven."
  "But first, let us muzzle God's Hounds."
Her witchery too; with her hands in his, he saw
all that needed doing, and all that he could do. "My
lady, if you will lend me a company of your guards
and the aid of one or two of your Kin, I shall be
pleased to cleanse this city of its pestilence. And,"
he added, "to free its Archbishop from the prison
into which yon madmen have flung him."
  He was on his feet, vivid with eagerness, but she
gripped his hands. "Lord Cardinal, is it wise?
Have you forgotten in whose name you are here?"
  "Indeed not. Pope Honorius has spoken for
you; and I am more than glad to take his part against the
destroyers of your kingdom." "Brave man!"
  Tbrrino wheeled toward the strong clear voice with
its touch of laughter. Maura started and cried out in
gladness, drawing Thea into a swift embrace, and
Jehan after her, and the children who faced all this
strangeness with wide eyes and firm courage. As the
Queen took them up gently and kissed their fears
away, Thea said, "The others have gone to beat some
sense into Gwydion. In the meantime, Eminence, if
you're minded to hunt Hounds, here's an arrow for your
bow." He took the parchment with its pendant seals,
running his eye over it.
  Here was proof positive of the Queen's tidings,
confirmation of his embassy and full power to settle
matters in Rhiyana as he saw fit. "So shall I
do," he said, "with deep pleasure. My lord
Bishop, would it please you to aid me? If it comes
to a fight, whether the weapons be 318 Judith
Tan-
  words or blades, there are few men I would rather have
at my back." Jehan grinned. "Do you think you can
keep me from it? Lead on, Eminence; I'll be behind
you."
  "And we," said Maura, "will be beside you." As the
Cardinal struggled between courtesy and flat
refusal, she laughed. "You asked for a witch or
two; so shall you receive. Cynan, Liahan, you must
hold the castle for us. Tao-Lin will keep you
company."
  She came in the disconcerting fashion of the
Kindred, all at once, out of air, settling herself
with eastern serenity. When Tbrrino passed the door,
she was enchanting her charges, quite literally, with a dance of
crimson fire.
  The King lay as he had lain for many days, in his
castle of Carmennos half a league from the March of
Anjou. His power in its throes had wrought
wonders and terrors within those walls; dreamworld and
solid world lay side by side, and the air shifted and
shimmered with the flux of his pain. When his mind was
clearer he had sent the human folk away, all but
those whose love overmastered their fear. They guarded
him; they gave him what care he would permit, and
manned the walls against enemies who did not come. That
much his power did for them. It drove back any who
willed harm to castle or people. And any who willed
help. Alf, barred from Gwydion's presence as
completely as any Angevin bandit, stood outside
in the dark and the storm and gathered his own . power. Already
he was cloaked in it, shining with it. Wind and sleet
had no strength to touch him. Nikki could, though not
easily; it cost him an instant of burning-cold
pain. Alf, he said, a mental gasp. Alf,
don't waste power. Let me do it.
  Before Alf could frame a protest, Nikki had
raised his own shields. Alf knew a moment of
vertigo, disconcerting yet familiar, mark of the
boy's strange power. They thrust forward against a
wind that was suddenly bitter, into the
  the hounds OF god 319
  lash of sleet, up the precipitous path to the
gate. Shielded and invisible, they passed
through oak and iron into a dark courtyard. And again,
bold now, through nothingness into the eye of the storm. It was
flawlessly still. A room like a death chamber, lit
by no
  earthly light. The King lay on the bed as on a
bier, covered with a great pall of blue and silver,
with a white sheen upon him and a hooded shape beside him.
That one rose as the two entered, hood slipping
back from Gwydion's own face.
  Nikki ran to clasp Prince Aidan
tightly, spinning him about with the force of the onslaught,
nearly oversetting him. His grin put the shadows
to flight; his cry would have waked the dead. "God be
thanked! How did you get in?"
  How did you? Nikki stood back, looking hard
at him. Anna said she saw you die. You don't
look as if you're far from it. "I am now,"
Prince Aidan said, "though two days ago I was
lying beside my brother. When you paladins broke the
power that was killing us, Morgiana dragged me up and
beat life into me. But Gwydion was already past that."
His eyes glittered. "Damn you, Alfred. Damn
your soft heart. How dared you reward that monster with
an easy death?" Alf raised a brow. "Would it
matter to Gwydion if Simon Magus
had died in agony?"
  "It would matter to me." Aidan's eyes
closed; he shook his head. He looked very old and
very weary, and sick nigh to death. "Enough, brother.
If there is aught that you can do, for God's love do
it." "For God's love," Alf said, "and yours."
He held the Prince for a moment, catching his breath
at the contact. Aidan had barely strength to stand,
let alone to rage at him. "Nikephoros, take
this valiant fool to the hall and feed him. And see
that he sleeps after. Preferably with his Princess
beside him."
  Once gone, Nikki dragging the tall lord with
inescapable persistence, they could not come back.
Gwydion's shields 320 Judith Tarr
  were too strong; and AlFs own had risen, weaving
a web even Nikephoros could not pierce.
  Alf stood by the bed. Gwydion's state had one
mercy: it preserved his body from decay. He
looked much as he had when Alf left him, even
to his stillness, which had the likeness of serenity. Alf
folded back the pall. He was naked under it, his
only wound that one which drained his life away. Deep
but clean, all but bloodless, fresh as if the arrow
had pierced it that morning. It had not even
begun to heal. "Thank all the saints," Alf said
aloud, softly, "that the dart did not pierce the bone.
And that it was not a handspan higher." His hands passed
over the wound, not touching it. No healing woke in them.
He ventured a brush of power. Nothing. The King
might have been armored in glass and steel.
  Without, beyond the center of quiet, the castle trem
bled. A creature of horror and shadow paced the
halls. Men felt their bodies thin and fade,
shriveling into mist.
  Alf raised his head. Death was close now. As
if Gwydion had only waited upon Alfs coming,
clinging to life until the Master returned
to Broceliande, and now he let the dark wings spread
for him. He went without regret. He had lived
long, he had ruled well, he had seen to the
preservation of his kingdom and of his Kin. Kings dreamed
of such an end; few indeed were given the grace to receive
it. "No," Alf said. His anger was rising. Ah,
he was growing fiery, two fits of wrath in scarce
three days. But he had had enough. Simon,
Jehan, Nikki, Gwydion, every one stood fast
against him. Every one had demanded to suffer; every one had
balked the flow of healing. But healing, balked,
ripened into rage. A white rage, blinding
and relentless, edged with adamant. Alf drove it
into the King's armor, implacably, mercilessly, with
all the force of his thwarted pride. He clove
shield and wall, he pierced flesh and bone, he
thrust at the very roots of power, that were the roots of the
hounds OF god 321
  life. What Simon had refused, what
Jehan had denied, what Nikephoros had turned
away, all those he called together, and he beset the
door that Simon had closed and Gwydion's will had
barred. The wonted warmth was a cleansing fire, the
wonted numbness an exquisite agony. It
beckoned. It seduced. It lured him down the path
that was the King's death.
  He wrenched himself from the trap. He made a ram
of his body. He drove it with wrath. The door
trembled, bulged, swelled into a shape that was no
shape, that had no name but blind resistance. The wrath
mounted to white heat and transmuted into ice. Alf
made it a mirror. He shaped on it an image.
Maura's face when she saw the body of her son.
But it was Gwydion she looked on, shrunken in
death, hands like claws on the still breast. And she must
gaze, and suffer, and know that she could not follow. Her
power would not allow it. Mindless shapeless
obstinate animal, it knew only that it must live,
and to live it must defend itself, and to defend itself it must
yield to no will but its own. And for it, and for
Gwydion's own folly, she must endure all her
deathless life alone.
  The mirror began to waver. The face for all its
beauty was old beyond bearing, scored with grief that would
never again know joy. Alf raised face and mirror
together, each within each, and flung them toward the door
that had risen once more to bar his way. The mirror
smote it and shattered. The shards pierced the barrier,
flecks of ice and silver that budded and blossomed
into swords. The door trembled, buckled, fell.
He plunged within, into a storm of heatless fire. It
caught him, whirled him. He raised the last
vestiges of his will and his wrath and his healing. He
spoke to the heart of the madness. "Peace," he said with
awful gentleness. "Be still."
  Alf opened his eyes upon quiet. The light of
power glimmered low. The wind had fallen; the sleet
yielded before the softness of snow. 322 Judith
Tarr
  Gwydion's breast rose and fell, drawing
deep shuddering breaths. Deep for life's
returning, shuddering in fear of the fiery pain
that but a moment before had filled all his body. But the
pain had gone. The wound had closed. Even as Alf
watched, it paled from scarlet to livid to watered-wine
to white. The King's hand trembled upon it. Alf met
the clouded gray stare. Gwydion's brows drew
together in a struggle to remember; he turned his head
from side to side, testing its obedience. His hand
traveled up to search his face. His beard, that had
been close cut, felt strange; was long enough
to curl. He fought to shape words. "How long-was
  Alf answered beyond words, mind to mind, all that the
dimmed awareness could bear. Like a newborn child forced
at first to the breast, Gwydion learned hunger; he
reached, he clung, he drew greedily upon the
other's memory.
  His grip eased. He lay still. After a long
while, measured in his slow heartbeats, he said,
"The war will end now." He spoke without either joy or
anger, in that tone which even the strongest of his Kin had
learned not to gainsay.
  Alf was a poor scholar of such prudence. "So it
will, but not by your riding from end to end of Rhiyana in a
blaze of power."
  "Would I be so flamboyant a fool?"
  Alf simply looked at him, with the
merest hint of a smile. Gwydion sat up
unsteadily. "I would." His voice was rueful. "I
shall yield to your tyranny. My brother will go. And-was
"Your brother is in no better straits than you.
Be wise, my lord. Remember the walls and the
wards."
  The King's eyes narrowed. His power sang
softly, testing its limits and the limits of the web
they had woven about Rhiyana, all of them, with Alf
at their center, in the dance of the year's turning.
Simon Magus had torn great rents in the
fabric; his passing had not healed them, for marauding
armies filled them, and human folk driven
to madness and riot, and Hounds of God in Caer
Gwent itself. the hounds OF god 323
  Gwydion touched the great blooming flame that was his
Chancellor; the rioting fire of his brother;
Nikephoros' deceptively quiet brilliance,
and the manifold powers of his people. And at last, with
deep joy, the moon-bright splendor of his Queen.
As easily, as effortlessly as a lady chooses a
thread for her tapestry, slips it through the eye of her
needle and begins the veining of a leaf, Gwydion
gathered them all into the shaping of his pattern.
  The snow fell softly. The cold was
almost gentle. Fires in cot and castle, banked
until morning, swelled into sudden warmth. Hearts
eased; dreams turned all to peace. But in the
camps of wandering companies, in captured villages
and in fortresses seized by assault or treachery,
flames kindled for comfort gave birth to demons.
Shadows woke to a life of fang and claw.
Wolves dishowled; things of horror abandoned dreams
for flesh. Men woke screaming to a nightmare worse
than any in sleep, a land that had roused at last and
turned against them. Out! roared the very stones. Begone!
The shadows' claws were cruelly sharp, dragging
laggards and cowards from their beds. Wolves and worse
nipped at the heels of horses that knew only one
desire, to bear their riders across the borders of this
terrible country. But the horseless moved no more
slowly. Some rode helpless on the back of the wind;
others ran like driven deer, swift, blind, tireless.
And those who had advanced farthest, the lords and captains
whose forces had eluded Rhiyana's defenses
to strike at the kingdom's heart, knew darkness and
whirlwind and terror beyond mortal endurance, and some
woke mad and some woke blind or maimed or aged
long years in that single night, but all woke
to morning far beyond the Marches of Rhiyana.
  The Hounds of God rested complacent. Without
Simon's power they could not know what had passed in
Rome, save as mortal men know, at a full
fortnight's remove by the swiftest of couriers. Their
own chosen Legate was coming, lay indeed in an abbey
two days from Rhiyana's marches.
  324 Judith Tarr
  They had heard some nonsense of a royal
proclamation, a denial of the Interdict and a
confirmation of the Cardinal Tbrrino's authority, but
they credited none of it.
  "The King is dead," said the Father General's
deputy in Rhiyana, taking his ease in his study
with one or two of his brethren. "We can be sure of
that. The Queen keeps up her pretense that he
lives; this new folly is an act of desperation,
a struggle to win the Church and the people to her dying cause.
Little good it can do her, with God Himself binding her
magics."
  "And the Pope's own Legate disporting himself in
her bed." The monk's lips were tight with outrage,
the words bitten off sharply, but the glitter in his
eyes spoke more of envy than of priestly
indignation. His superior regarded him with
disapproval. "Brother, that is not
charitable, nor is it proven. We cleave to the
truth here. Never to mere speculation."
  "And if it is proven. Father?"
  "We have no need of that," the third man said with a
flicker of impatience. "Whether she be an angel
of cha/y or the very whore of Babylon, she rides
now to her fall. We have won Rhiyana. Tomorrow, I
say-tomorrow and no later, let us summon her to our
tribunal." The monk's lips curled. "A
trial? Would you trouble yourself with such mummery? Hale
her forth and burn her, and have done."
  "Brother," they began, almost in unison.
  The door burst open; a very young lay brother
Hung himself at the Superior's feet.
"Attack!" he gasped.
"Army-Queen-sorcery-was "Impossible." The
Superior was on his feet. "Cease this babbling and
explain yourself."
  The boy had his breath back, and some of his wits.
Enough for coherence. "Father, I am not raving. We are
beset by a company in the livery of the Queen. The
Cardinal rides before them with the Queen and another
  the hounds OF god 325
  witch, with an army of wolf-familiars and a man
in the armor of a Jeromite warrior
bishop. And . . . and with the Archbishop ofCaer
Gwent, who is in no forgiving temper."
  "An army indeed," the Superior said, cool and
quiet. "I hear no cries of battle."
  "There is no battle yet. Father." Between youth and
terror and the sheer unwontedness of it all, he was almost
weeping. "They command that we open the gates and
deliver ourselves up. They--they say they have a mandate
from the Pope's own hand."
  "It looks," the third man observed with an
ironic twist, I "as if Her Majesty has
anticipated us. She would hale us forth; I
wonder, will she burn us?"
  The boy crossed himself. "Sweet Mother Mary
defend us! Father, Brothers, they are terrible. They
are mantled in sorcery. The bishop--the bishop who
spoke for them, he bade me tell you that you will
hasten, or they will fling down the gate and seize us
all." "They already have." He was immense; he was
smiling the sweet guileless smile of a child, frightening
on that Norman reiver's face. He stepped
aside to admit the Cardinal Tbrrino and a grimly
smiling archbishop and a fierce-eyed bronze-gold
witch, and the ivory delicacy of the Queen. A
delicacy that smote the heart even when one
knew that she wore mail and surcoat like a man, and
stood nigh as tall as the armored Bishop, and
matched her pace to that of a wolf as great as a
moor-pony. She took the Superior's seat as
her right, the wolf settling molten-eyed at her
feet.
  Her own eyes were fiery gold yet strangely
gentle, resting lightly upon these men who struggled not
to shrink from her. For all their bitter enmity, none had
yet stood face to face with any of her kind. "You
will pardon the intrusion," she said, "but we have tidings
which could not wait upon your pleasure. My lord
Archbishop?" With grim relish, he set the
Pope's parchment in the Superior's hand. The
Pauline priest read it slowly, with
  326 Judith Tarr
  great care, without expression. When he was done he
returned the writ to its bearer, calm still. But the
witches knew and the men guessed what raged behind the
mask. Raged and could not burst forth. It was all in
order. Perfectly. It was all decided in the
Devil's favor. They gloated, those women who were
not women, those daugh ters of Lilith with their
demons' eyes.
  One man found voice to speak, he who
had spoken of the Queen's adultery. "You have not
triumphed," he said low and harsh. "We are not
ordered out of this kingdom."
  "You are." Benedetto Tbrrino had to fight
to keep the satisfaction out of face and voice. "I
so command it; and I am Pope Honorius' voice
in Rhiyana."
  "That can be argued."
  "That will be obeyed. I have sent messages to your
false Legate. If he would not be brought to trial
as an usurper and an impostor, he had best
refrain from completing his journey." The Cardinal
examined each in turn. His fine Roman nostrils
flared; his fine brows met. "You and all your ilk will
join him as soon as may be. You have until
sunrise to depart from this city, you and all your
cattle; if by the fifth day hence this realm is not
clean of your presence, I will loose its folk upon
you."
  "We fear no witches."
  Tbrrino's voice was silken. "I was not speaking
of the King's Kindred." Almost he smiled. Almost he
was kind. "You had best be quick, Brothers. Morning
may be closer than you think."
  Deliberately, meticulously, the
Superior made obeisance to him, to Bishop and
Archbishop, to the Queen and her familiars. "We
are vowed to obedience," he said. But he paused,
face to face with Maura. "We go as we are
bidden, without treachery, for we are men of honor as
well as men of God. But you will have small occasion
to rejoice. Our exile may endure no longer than the
life of one aging Pope, and then we may return
to greater victory. Your exile must endure for all
of time." the hounds OF god 327
  "Perhaps not," said the bronze witch. "The world
changes. Men change. One day we may come forth
again."
  "Not in this age of the world," said the vicar of Saint
Paul in Rhiyana. "No, lady witch; your
triumph rings hollow. God and His Hounds and His
mortal children have won this kingdom. Not all your
spells and sorceries can gain it back again." He
signed himself with the cross and beck oned to his
companions. "Come, Brothers; we are cast forth,
for a time. Let us go in what dignity we may."

  "Tomorrow," Alf said, "we go."
  Jehan forgot what he had come to the Chancery for.
He forgot twenty years of hard lessoning
in the world and in the church and, most brutally, in the
papal Curia. He brust out like a raw boy, with a
boy's sudden terrible hurt. "Tmff"It's still the
dead of winter. Rhiyana's still in an uproar over
the war. Gwydion's heir doesn't even know
he's--"
  "Duke Rhodri knows he will be King.
Gwydion told him a long while ago, when he was
a boy. Now he knows the day and the hour. Much to his
credit, he's less elated than frightened that it has
come at lasti and he grieves for the loss of his dear
lord."
  Words, empty rattling words. Jehan shook them
out of his head. "You weren't to go till Pentecost."
  "We were to go no later." Alf caught the tail
of Cynan's gown before it vanished over the
threshold, and swung the child into his lap. "No,
imp. No forays among my poor clerks." He
laughed at his son's deep displeasure, and said
  the hounds OF god 329
  still laughing, "Little terror; he drove Mabon the
under- chancellor into hysterics by falling out of air
into my lap. With his gown coming separately and somewhat
later, and falling full on Mabon's head.
He's not quite the master of his power yet."
  "I am too," snapped Cynan, sounding
remarkably like his mother. "I hate clothes."
  "They keep you warm," his father said.
  "I keep myself warm." He shut his eyes in
concentra tion, opened them again. The gown vanished.
He grinned at them both with wicked innocence.
  Alf sighed deeply. "You are a trial to your
father's soul." "Your father is a trial to mine."
Jehan's pain had lost its edge. Alts doing,
damn him. "You are a conniver, do you know that? A
heartless manipulator. A damned, ice-
blooded, eternally scheming witch. Why won't you
let me do my hurting in peace? I'll tell you.
Because it hurts you."
  "It does," Alf agreed, calm as he always was
when the target was only himself. "Jehan, we must go.
The Pope has commanded it. For the kingdom's welfare,
for our own good, we can't linger. Nor can we spread
abroad that we go, or all Rhiyana will rise,
some few to cast us forth, most to bar our way. Even
yet Gwydion is well loved." He paused for
breath, for compassion. "Tomorrow the King goes hunting with
his Kin on the borders ofBroceliande. We will not
come back." This was worse than death. In a score
or two of years, Jehan himself would die;
if the doctrine he preached was true, he would live
again with those he loved about him. But not Alfred. Not
any of these people whom he had come to love as his own
blood kin. "Except one," he said. "The one I
hated. God help me! I slit the wrong
throat."
  "Jehan-was
  He spun away.
  "Jehan de Sevigny, what did you say
to Anna about growing up?" 330 Judith Tarr
  He spun back. "Is there anything you don't
know?" Alf went on quietly, almost absently, as
if Jehan had not spoken. "I was never very good for
you. I demanded so much of you. So much looking after; so
much thankless pain."
  "As if I didn't give back every bit of it
ten times over." Jehan sat down slowly.
Suddenly he was very tired. "I'm a disgrace," he
muttered. "Anna, that stubborn little snip of a girl
--she grew up. She let you go. But I who was
preaching that doctrine to her, I've been bellowing like
a weanling calf."
  Alf said nothing. Jehan laughed painfully.
"Don't fret, Alfred. I'll wean myself. When
you're gone I'll do what they do in an
abbey when a sainted Brother dies, and declare a
three-days" festival." Still silence. Cynan was
utterly subdued, even when his father set him on the
carpet by the fire and walked to the window. The cold
snowlight leached the gold from AlFs hair, the youth
from his face. He had never looked less human.
Jehan had never loved him more. His voice came
soft and slow. "Jehan, there is one thing. I would--
if you would--Thea and I, we would like our children to belong
properly and formally to God, however we all may
end. I know it is Lent, I know you should not, but
since there will be no chance hereafter . . . will you perform the
rite for them?"
  Jehan's throat closed. He wrestled it
open. "Of course I will. If you can still want
anything to do with the Church that cast you out into the cold."
  Alf turned swiftly, all his ice turned
to fire. "But it did not!" He reached Jehan in a
stride, grasped the wide shoulders, shook them
lightly. "Jehan, Jehan, didn't you understand?
Didn't you see? His Holiness exiled us all, and
in a very strict sense we are excommunicate--
cast out as no humans ever have been, set apart from every
office of the Church. That was his duty, his obligation
under canon law. But when he spoke to me,
behind and among his words he the hounds OF god 331
  told me another thing. He left me to God and
to my own wisdom. He set me free."
  Jehan shook his head, denying nothing, trying
only to clear his fogged brain.
  "Listen," said the eager beautiful voice.
"See. He struck away the chains I forged of a
lifetime in the cloister. He said. Go, find your
God where He waits for you, where He has always
waited for His strangest children. I was a priest, I
am one still, I shall be forever, but of what faith or
rite or order, only God may tell me. For
what is a priest after all, but a servant of
God?" The mingling of exaltation and sorrow that had
lain on Alt since they left the palace of the
Lateran, that had seemed the simple
bitter-sweetness of a victory won hard and at
great cost, lay now all
  bare to Jehan's wondering eyes. Honorius,
the devious old courtier, had shown Alf the way out
of his long dilemma, and done it without a single
uncanonical word. And Jehan had thought that the
Pope was only casting all his troubles into the lap of a
higher Authority. "What more did he need to do?""
asked Alf. "He has sense, does
Cencio Savelli: the one thing I've never had.
Thea would be angry, if she weren't so highly
amused. It took the Pope of Rome to convince me
of what she's always known, that I'm flesh and spirit
both, and I can't deny one at the expense of the other.
I can't go about as half a man, even the half that
seemed so happy with its lordship and its lady and its
worldly riches. I have to make myself whole." His hands
left Jehan's shoulders; he shivered, and for a moment
the light went out of him. "It's hard. I don't
need prophecy to tell me it will never be easy."
  "If it were, would you want to bother with it?"
"No," Alf admitted wryly, "I wouldn't.
Sometimes I could sing for joy that the burden is gone.
Then I sink down under a world's weight of terror and
pain and loss. You're not alone in hating to grow
up." "You've already grown far beyond me." Jehan
straigh- 332 Judith Tarr
  tened, found a smile. "And if I know you, you'll
get a treatise out of it all." Alf laughed.
"Yes; and I'll set it against that great
  arrogant folly of my youth, the Gloria
Dei: a Gloria magici, a Tractatus de
rebus obscuris et tremendis. And no doubt
when I'm as old for my kind as now I am
for a man, I'll smile at all these childish
fancies."
  "As long as you don't forget how to smile,"
Jehan said. Alf smiled at that with every appearance of
ease. Jehan turned away too quickly, eyes and
ears and mind closed against any calling back.
  It was meant to be a quiet celebration, a
Mass and a christening at dawn in Saint John's
chapel, with such of the Folk as would come, and no great
fanfare. But even before the first glimmer of light had
touched the sky, the small space was thronged
to bursting. They had all come, all the King's Kin
who were still outside the Wood, and the Archbishop in
plain Benedictine black, and the Cardinal
Tbrrino, and Duke Rhodri who would be King
by sunset, and a number of lesser folk: courtiers,
servants, clerks and officers of the Chancery.
Everyone who knew that this day's hunting party would not
return. Alf had not realized there were so many.
  And yet no pall of grief hung over them.
They were sad, yes; Rhodri above all looked
worn and ill; but they could take a quiet joy in this
gathering and this rite.
  King and Queen held each a wide-eyed child,
Liahan and Cynan both swathed in white
silk, but the mere weight of fabric had no power
to subdue them. Their minds wove and unwove and
rewove with one another, restless, curious, taxing
even Gwydion's legendary patience with a barrage
of questions. Thea did not stoop to theology, and Alf was
not answering: Jehan had coaxed and cajoled and
bullied him into the sacristy, and all but forced him
into alb and dalmatic. "Just once," the Bishop
said. "Just one last time. For me."
  the hounds OF god 333
  But for Alf's own sake too, and Jehan was not
fool enough to think that thought would go unread. Pope
Honorius had set Alf outside the Canons,
freed him from them, but spoken no word that forbade him
to serve upon the altar. "And if he had," Jehan
growled, "I'd give you a dispensation, and fight it out
with him myself."
  Alf laughed, but he was shaking
uncontrollably. About surdly, needlessly; and
how many times had he done just this, for Jehan, for
Bishop Ogyourselfan who was dead, even once for the
Archbishop of Caer Gwent? He had not been
free then. He had served out of a goodly measure of
defiance, to prove to himself that he had escaped all the
chains of the cloister.
  He had never been as close to panic then as he
was now, with the chains a glittering dust about his feet, and
his exile full before him. Exile more isolate than
any abbey, whiter than the whitest of the white
martyrdoms of the island saints, and more complete, set
apart within the walls of Broceliande. Once the last
gate closed, no mortal man could enter, nor would
any immortal depart, perhaps beyond the end of this world.
  The altar waited, gleaming softly in its cloth of
moon light and snow. There would be none such where he was
going, and no one to raise the Host before it, or
to speak the ancient holy words. The chapel in the
House of the Falcon was an empty tower open to the
stars, with no emblem of any mortal worship. No
cross, no crescent, no star or idol or
sacred fire. No mask before the face of God.
Yet this altar and this cross, how familiar, how much
beloved. This big man with his lived-in,
ugly-beautiful face, and his clear eyes, and his
heart that was even greater than his body, vesting slowly
and trying not to resist Alfs ministrations-how hard,
how cruelly hard to know that they would never stand so again.
To stay, to cling, to refuse the burden . . .
  So then. He could stay. He could defy the
Pope, who after all was but a mortal
man. And in a little while he
  334 Judith Tarr
  would go mad, and there would be a new Simon
Magus to torment the world. Even now his power surged
against the walls of his control, urging him, tempting
him to heal every hurt that came close to him, to open
himself wide to all his visions of what would be. It was
growing stronger. The duel with Simon, the battle with
Gwydion, had swelled it from a constant and endurable
ache to a desperate need. No; it was as well that
he was going away. His battered shields were falling
one by one. In too brief a while he would be
naked, and then he would shatter.
  Jehan was vested, waiting, a line of worry between
his brows. Alf took up the censer. With a small,
childish, rebellious flare of power, he kindled the
coal within it. A smile touched his lips, skittered
away. Some of the fear fled with it. In the chapel
without, Liahan was asking Gwydion why she had
to be presented to God, if He had made her. Was
He so forgetful that He needed to be reminded? The
smile crept back, settled, grew a little. The
fear slunk into shadow and pretended to sleep.
  It was a Mass like any other, and yet it was not.
Benedetto Tbrrino approved the devotion
and the sheer physical presence of the man who wore the
chasuble, but his eyes lingered most often upon the
acolyte. The boy, as it seemed, who performed the
duties of a servant, quiet, self-effacing, and
bathed in a light that owed nothing at all to lamp or
candle or rising morning. It flared to a white fire
when King and Queen brought their charges forward. The
words and the water flowed over the dark head and the fair
one, but the Kindred were not looking at the mortal
priest. Alf had emptied his hands of cloth and
vessels, and his mind, it seemed, of human
rituals. Even as the words of baptism rolled
into silence, he raised his hands, and they were filled with
light. It brimmed and spilled and flowed as the water
had, and the words he sang were the same, and yet how
utterly different, for he sang them not with throat and
tongue and lips but with the purity of his power.
  The light faded as water will, vanishing into air.
Liahan shook her damp head and laughed, sudden and
sweet in the silence. Alf kissed her brow and that of
her brother, smiling the most luminous of all his
smiles, and withdrew again into the meekness of the servant.
The Bishop of Sarum blinked like a man roused from a
dream, shook himself, continued the Mass.
  "There walks wonder and splendor," said
the Cardinal to the Queen, whom chance and perhaps design
had placed beside him in the exodus from the chapel.
Gwydion was well ahead with his brother and his somber
successor; the lesser ones had scattered, the children
been entrusted to their mother, the Folk gone to ready
themselves for the riding. So were they alone, they two, if
well within sight of the celebrants in the sacristy.
From where he stood, Torrino could see the blur of
white and gold that was Alfred divesting the Bishop of
his chasuble.
  "His Holiness saw with truly miraculous
clarity," Tbrrino went on, "to do as he did with
your kinsman. But did he know that there could be such
glory in our own rite? The Mass of the white
enchanter . . . There, surely, is one who has
seen the light before the throne of God."
  "So he has," she said, "and he has shown us its
dim reflection. Which is fortunate for us, whether we
be mortal or immortal; we have not his gift,
to face the full Glory and live." Her face was
still, her eyes downcast. "That is his task. To be the
bridge; one might say, to be our saint. I
find, now my queenship is over and my exile
begins, that I am very glad of him. He at least is
going to fulfill his nature." "And you are
not?"
  She shrugged simply, as a child will. "I have never
known, truly and indubitably, what I am. I was
a village witch. I became a queen. I was
never wholly content with either. Now I shall be ... I
know not what. Do you know that we will be alone? No
servants. No attendants. Only ourselves and our
power. It is going to be very 336 Judith Tarr
  strange." Her eyes lifted; they were clear
gold. "It is a whole new world."
  He looked at her and his own eyes dimmed.
Already she had severed herself from humankind, had turned
mind and heart upon that world no mortal would enter.
  She and her wedded lord. She had greeted
Gwydion's return with courtly propriety, but
Tbrrino had seen the spark that leaped between them, and the
sheen that had lain upon them since. He had made himself
see it. He had made it his atonement.
  He made himself bow, although a smile was beyond him.
"Whatever you become, you can never be less than
royal."
  Her laughter both angered and soothed him. "But,
Eminence, that is only habit and the weight of a
crown. I shall be glad to see the last of both."
  He was silent. Her eyes softened; her
voice grew gentle. "I shall always remember you."
  "That," he said with control that amazed them both,
"is a very great gift."
  "I must go." She kissed him lightly, yet that
lone brief touch would burn him lifelong. "Fare
you well, my lord."
  They rode out in the cold clear morning, all the
Fair Folk together, with hawks and hounds and the
Queen's wolves and one small green-eyed black
cat that rode in the fold of Nikephoros' sling,
and a company of mortal men who would witness the passing
of the Kindred. The King's aging seneschal led them,
somewhat grimmer-faced even than his wont, and
Jehan had attached himself to them. No one stopped
him. Not that he had any delusions of anonymity;
  the beard he still wore, and the Jeromite habit
kilted over high soft boots, were even less
disguise here than they had been in Rome. He
established himself beside Alf, and there he stayed, saying
little, doing his best to think of nothing beyond the moment.
Nikephoros rode far back, somewhat apart from the
rest. I? He had glanced back only once at
Caer Gwent; at the tower the hounds OF god

  from which the King's banner still flew, proud
merciful deception; at the people lining the road between.
They would not know until he was long gone that they had
seen the last of their Elvenking. That even now the
twice-great grandson of his sister, a mortal man,
not young, sat in the King's chamber with his Duchess who
had become his Queen, and contemplated the crown which
Gwydion had laid in his hands. They were
Rhodri's people now, who cried Gwydion's name,
who even paused here and there and muttered against a king
who could ride a-hunting so close upon so grim a
war.
  Nikki barred his mind to them. They had never been
his own folk. He was born a Greek; he had
become an enchanter. His adopted kin rode ahead
of him, some silent and somber, some singing. More than
once Tao-Lin looked over her shoulder, almond
eyes at once bright and soft. He willed himself
to smile in response. Tonigsttt, she
promised, a thought like a caress.
  He shivered and cast up all his shields. The
silence was blessed; appalling. His hands and feet,
unguarded, throbbed with cold. He turned his face
to the brilliant warmthless sun. The same sun that
shone on Broceliande, yet not the same at all.
The walls of power made it strange.
Softened it, turned its glare to a wash of gold.
His traitor mind cast him back to the sun of
Rome, potent even in winter. Showed him his own
face that could not even blanch.to white, only
to sallow gray, so long had the eastern sun burned
upon his ancestors. And raised up an image he
had schooled himself never to see again.
  On the night of the King's return, Tao-Lin
had come to Nikki's bed. It was nothing new or
shocking; she had come many a time before, as he had come
to hers. The two of them had always reckoned that they were
lovers, though not, to be sure, in the pure and
single-minded fashion of those other scandalous sinners,
his brother and the Lady Althea. That nieht when the war
ended, Nikki had welcomed 338 Judith Tarr
  Tao-Lin. Had made her laugh and exclaim that
he was eating her alive. Had taken her with something very
like brutality. And through every moment, seen not those bright
black eyes, but eyes the color of evening.
Stroked skin like perfect ivory, and remembered
soft dark down on human flesh. Clasped her who
had been a famous courtesan, and could think of nothing
but a sweetly awkward, very mortal woman. He
shook his head, eyes clenched shut. Their choices were
all made. She had returned to the course
she had long since chosen, and he was riding to the fate
that had been his since an Anglian enchanter fell
sunstruck upon the road to Byzantium. What had
been between them had been diversion only. Lust;
infatuation. A few days' glorious folly. She
had learned swiftly to hate him, and by now she would have
learned to forget him. In Broceliande, where power
ruled and human fear could not come, he would forget her.
This was only pain; it would pass. But ah, before it
passed, how terribly it hurt. It did no good
to open his eyes. The sun smote them; the wind
whipped them to tears. The earth was harsh and winter-gray
and bitterly beautiful, stretching wide before him all
unexplored. He would explore the world within, the
realm of power that was vaster than the earth and all upon
it. And some of the Folk spoke already of wandering beyond; it
was only the world of men that was barred to them. To rise beyond
the circle of the moon, to walk among the spheres of the
planets, to seek the stars in their courses-what was
mere dull earth to that?
  "What indeed?"
  Nikki started a little. Alf was beside him, and his
mind had fallen open by no will of his own, to gape like a
wound. Fiercely he forced it shut.
  But Alf had got inside it and would not be
driven out. There was no defense against that voice.
Soft, gentle, relentless. The face had nothing
soft in it, and very little
  the hounds OF god 339
  that was human. "Frankly, Nikephoros, I
had thought better of you." Nikki sat stiff and
cold in the saddle. He would not ask. He did not
need to. "You know well what I'm getting at.
Are you set on committing yourself to this madness?"
  Are you?
  "For me," Alf said, "it's the only sane
choice. But I'm not speaking of myself or of my
kin."
  still am one of you.
  Alf shook his head. "You are not. You never
were."
  Nikki abandoned words for his speech of the body,
wild, cold, edged with iron. He was of the Folk.
He was made to be like them. Alfred himself had done
it.
  "I gave you the words you longed for. I took
away none of your essential humanity.
Broceliande won't change that. You'll grow old
there as you would here, and you'll die. And you'll die
mad. She saw it, your lovely lady
to whom you were so cruel. She saw it as clearly as
I in all my prophecy."
  Nikki's fingers tightened on the reins until his
mare jibbed to a halt, protesting this utterly
unwonted pain. Alfs gray stood as if she had
never been aught but stone, and Alfs face was stone,
but his eyes- Nikki could not meet those eyes. Would
not. Must not. "Go back to her," said the quiet
voice. "Go now. She weeps for you; she curses
you, and she loves you. She will make a world for you."
She hated him who had loved her and left her. "Of
course she hates you. She loves you to distraction."
That, snapped Nikki, driven back to words, is
absolutely illogical. Alf laughed, merry and
sad at once, and bitter to endure. "It's
lovers' logic, and perfect of its kind."
  Nikki rounded upon him. Rage was white, white
as snow, white as steel in the forge, white as the sun
before it struck the eye blind. Why? Why now, when it's
too late? I could have stayed; would have. But you stood.
You said no word, but you had no need. You lured, you
beckoned. You needed me. I was
  340 Judith Tarr
  your only way to get at Gvsydion. Now . .
. I'm no Use to you, am I? I'm an
embarrassment. An oldmistake
you'd'ratherforget. A stink of mortality in the
perfect air of your Broceliande. If Nikki's
words dealt wounds, Alf did not betray them. He
only bowed his head and said utterly without anger, "I
needed you, yes. I thought you would see sense on your
own, once the need was past. I thought you would stop
clinging to me like a child and walk as a man." That was
manhood? To run straight to a woman's skirts?
A smile touched Alfs eyes. "And she into your
arms, and soon a young one between you. That is the way of the
world."
  Nikki clutched at saddle, reins, mane.
No-no, that he had not done, please God, he had
not got her with child. "No?"
  The rage flooded back. You can't force me that
way. Not with lies, not with threats. I go where I must
go.
  "Go then," said Alf, cool and dispassionate. It
was not contempt that paled those eyes to silver. The
Master of Broceliande, great heretic saint, did
not stoop to contempt. "Only remember. Once the
gates close upon you, there will be no returning."
  A shudder racked Nikki to the core. He
looked at Alf, and he saw a face as
familiar as his own and more beloved, the face of a
master, of a friend, of a brother. Its eyes were
inexpressibly tender, and utterly alien. They
saw no walls before them, but gates opening upon a
myriad of worlds.
  Nikki saw walls. He named them gates, he
told himself of the worlds. But they were only walls.
  The others were far ahead now, human and unhuman
together. Tao-Lin was a flame in her saffron
silks. Her thought of him had faded; she had
retreated into one of her pagan reveries. Walking the
steps of the Way, she called it. When Alf did
it, he called it prayer. When Stefania did it,
it was philosophy. But it was not the same. It was
warmer, less oerfect in its focus, more the hounds
OF god 341
  perfect in its intensity. Humans were like that; all
too easily distracted, but also more conscious of
measure, of restraint. There was something almost frightening
in the Folk, an absoluteness of concentration,
poised forever on the edge between power and madness. Alf
sat his mare, all silver and fallow gold, and
watched Nikki's mind in its flounderings. He was not
cool, after all. He was not dispassionate. He was
tearing himself by the roots from this earth which he so
loved and so hated.
  Nikki gathered the reins, touched leg to his
mare's side, turned her slowly upon her
haunches. Gray earth, gray sky. Gray cold
winter-scented air.
  But it was not gray. The sun was palest gold. The
earth was russet, brown, wine-red and wine-gold,
umber and charcoal and faintest, shyest green, spring
enkerneled in winter's bitter shell. The mare
scented it. She flared her great Arab nostrils and
snorted, pawing the road; it rang with each
impatient stroke. In the depths of Nikki's
cloak, the cat began to purr.
  They would not dislike one another, she and
Arlecchina. No. No, he could not go back. Not
how. Creeping, blushing, begging forgiveness for what
could never be forgiven. "Why not?"
  Nikki opened his mouth, closed it.
  "Yes," Alf said, "it's time you taught yourself
to talk. To be a man in all senses."
  Never. Never, while he had no ears, while he
had power. "You have Stefania."
  No.
  Alf was silent.
  Stefania. Sunlight. Laughter and
pain, quarreling, lov ing, growing and breeding and
birthing and dying. Beauty flawed; squalor
flawed, because there was beauty in it. He of all men,
he had eyes to see. That fear, like the rest, had been
purest folly. He would always have them.
  342 Judith Tarr
  If he stayed to use them.
  Stefania.
  It burst out of him. Laughter, tears. Alf was
laughing, weeping. They did not touch, hand or body.
Their minds met, embraced, clung. Tore
free, bleeding a little, pain as sweet as it was
bitter. Lovers' logic. Brothers'. Nikki's
will gathered, though it trembled, though it yearned to turn
coward and run. Now, it bade Alf. Now! They were
gone, cat and mare and boy who would learn now to be a
man. Alfs power returned to itself, with yet a vision
of a rider upon a hill and all Rome below; and a
woman in it, and a sister, and a world that he would make his
own.
  But it was Alfs no longer. He let the wind
scour the tears away. He would not weep again upon this
earth.
  The company had ridden out of sight if never out of
mind. Alf turned his mount back toward the
road they had taken, and gave her her head.
  Broceliande grew slowly before them. A shadow
at first over the stony hills, no more substantial
than a tower of cloud. Little by little the shadow swelled.
On the third morning even human eyes could see that
the darkness was the massing of trees, a mighty wall
of bole and branch that had stood since the shaping of the
world. Jehan knew what lay within. Trees and
winding tracks, glades that were glorious in spring and
summer and autumn, a veining of streams that gathered
into a small swift river; open meadows rich for
tilling; and a lake like a jewel, and on its shore a
mound and on the mound a castle, the House of the
Falcon. And beyond that, deep wood and gray moor
and the pounding of the sea. It was a wider realm than one
might think, more varied and more beautiful.
  Yet riding toward it under a gray sky, in a
bleak raw wind, he saw only the looming shadow.
Once the last exile had passed within, the barriers
would close. Mortal men would
  the hounds of god 343
  shrink from them in sourceless horror, or if for
daring or folly they ventured in, would wander the maze
until it cast them out again, starved and very likely
mad.
  "It's necessary," he told himself. "It has to be."
  Already the first of them had ridden under the trees.
Tao- Lin in gold and vermilion, sparing no
grief for the lover who had abandoned her, no glance
for the world she was forsaking, her back straight and stiff
as she spurred onward. The shadows retreated from
her; a shimmer lay upon her, a moonlight sheen.
Gwydion, Maura, Aidan, Morgiana,
followed side by side, and the sheen grew to a
spectral splendor, embracing the wolves that
trotted in the Queen's wake, and the lady who rode
her dun stallion behind. Cynan, perched on her
saddlebow, gazed steadily back. She fixed her
eyes firmly ahead. She had never been one for
backward glances, had Thea Damaskena.
Jehan's horse halted of its own accord,
snorting, tensed to shy. Alfs tall gray continued
unruffled. Jehan would not, could not move or speak.
Yes, let them go this way, calmly, without a word.
No tears, no foolishness. Simply a man on
a chestnut destrier, watching, and an enchanter on a
gray mare with a moon-pale child peering out of his
cloak, riding away into the luminous dark. On the
edge of it, as it began to reach for him, Alf paused.
His mare half turned; he looked back.
His hand raised, sketched a cross in the air. His
smile was sudden and shining and laden with all there had
never been time to say, and all there had. Jehan
cried out, he hardly cared what, kicking his mount
into a startled, veering gallop. The mists thickened.
The stallion bucked, plunged, fought. Jehan
cursed and wept and hauled the great beast back upon
its haunches under the very eaves of Broceliande.
Almost he could have touched the one he loved most in any
world. Almost Alf could have touched him. Their eyes
met. Jehan's blurred. The white figure
shimmered and faded. When at last he could see, they
were gone, all of them, and all their light with them.
344 Judith Tarr "The magic has gone out of the
world," he said. He threw back his head to rage at
Heaven, dropped it to rage at earth and its fools
of priests, and found his fist clenched upon something. With
all his will he forced it open. And laughed in wonder
through the flooding tears. In his palm lay a brooch
of marvelous work, ivory and carnelian, malachite
and silver: a white hound, red-eared, with wickedly
merry eyes, and dancing with her among woven leaves
a proud-winged falcon. Its eye glinted upon him,
now silver-gilt, now ember-red. Ml the magic,
Jehan de Sevigny? He laughed again,
with a little less pain. "Not if you can help it." He
saluted the silent wood, a sweeping, exuberant,
triumphant salute made all the stronger for its
leavening of grief, and wheeled his stallion about. Now
that he thought of it, he had a bishopric to take in
hand. He rode toward it; and as he rode, though still
he wept, he began to sing. FORSAKE THE SKY
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