Demon Rider, page 23
“This is the best I can find, senor.”
The don regarded the prospect without enthusiasm. “It must suffice. We may do better tomorrow, when we reach the valley of the Segre. We shall follow it to Lerida, but once we turn east, the country is more settled,” Although his mother confirmed that he had never visited these parts before, he had not been wrong yet.
“Senor, I am worried about the friar. He has never ridden in his life before, and he is very old. He cannot endure this pace for long.”
“You’ll think of something, Campeador.” The don had no patience for unwelcome realities. “By the way, just before that honorable exchange with the foreigners, you promised to tell me your story. You have not yet done so.” He frowned as if this were rank mutiny, but in fact Toby had just not had a free minute. He had not even contrived any private chats with Brother Bernat, who still had much to tell him.
“I shall be honored to do so this evening, senor, to both you and Senor Francisco, if he wishes to attend. After supper, if that will be convenient?”
“Yes. And why don’t you and Sergeant Jaume dine with us in our pavilion, hmm?”
Toby thanked him solemnly, although the entire company now ate together around a communal fire. Nor did the expedition have even one tent, although that had begun to seem like a foolish oversight.
The don went off to choose a sleeping place. His mother rode by with a tired smile, followed by the other women, all chattering like starlings at sunset. Gracia and Senora Collel had insisted on retaining their previous mounts and the awkward silla sidesaddles. Eulalia and the two Elinors managed surprisingly well, although none of them would ever be described as a stylish rider. Pepita thought riding was tremendous fun. Toby had expected her to double up with one of the adults, but she had selected a high-stepping gelding, calmed him with a touch, and ridden him from then on as if she had been weaned on mares’ milk.
Rafael and Miguel actually smiled at Toby as they passed—oh, what a change that was! Of course they were rich men now, by their standards. They and their wives had scavenged through the landsknechte camp like jackdaws, gathering all the valuables. As far as Toby knew, no one else had collected as much as one gold link.
Hamish was next, leading the pack train and garbed even more garishly than Toby was, in purple and gold and lime green. He bowed graciously in the saddle as he went by.
Finally came Josep and Father Guillem, the worst riders. The monk had fallen off several times and Josep been thrown twice, although neither had broken any bones. They were leading Brother Bernat’s horse.
“What happened? Where is he?”
“He is coming,” Father Guillem said with the disapproving scowl he wore anywhere close to Toby. “He prefers to walk.”
Toby gave Smeòrach a kick and had his head jerked back as the gelding took off like a crossbow quarrel. This, in his horse’s opinion, was more like it! After about a mile, just when he was working up a good sweat, the irritating man on his back annoyed him thoroughly by reining him in again.
The gray-robed friar was trudging along at his usual pace, apparently not in distress. Toby dismounted and fell into step on the windward side, leading Smeòrach. “Are you all right, Brother?”
Obviously Bernat was not all right. He could walk any of them off their feet, but he had looked drawn and exhausted ever since they first put him on a horse. At the moment he had his hood up, so his face was not clearly visible; yet he seemed better than he had at noon, and he greeted the question with a dry, tolerant chuckle.
“There is nothing wrong with me that you can help, not unless you can somehow lift sixty years or so from me, and I doubt even your hob can manage that.”
“We should not have come so far today. I am sorry.”
The old man shook his head. “You have good reason, many good reasons. I will not hold you up. I am better with my feet on Mother Earth, that is all. You must not worry about me.”
“But —” Toby realized he was in danger of clucking and remembered how he hated to be mothered by Hamish. “I will worry, but I will try not to nag.” He busied himself loosening Smeòrach’s girths as they walked.
“There is one thing you may do for me, Tobias. Keep your eyes open for some pleasant little town that has not been ravaged too badly. I have a need to find a shrine in the near future, a small sanctuary.”
Toby tried to catch a better view of the old man’s face. How urgent was this need? “The don says we’ll reach Lerida tomorrow.”
“No, I want a smaller place.”
“I am sure the Lerida tutelary will be skilled at healing, Brother.”
“Healing is not what I need,” Brother Bernat explained patiently.
“Oh! Then why … ? But most of the lesser shrines are empty. The spirits were raped away by the Fiend’s hexers.”
“Yes, I know that.”
Completely fuddled now, Toby gave up trying to understand. “The don says we will soon be in country more populated than this.”
“That will do. I have a few days yet. How is your meditating going?”
“I keep trying. Every night on my watch. And even when I’m riding.”
The friar laughed faintly. “I had no idea that it was possible to meditate and ride at the same time.”
“I’m not sure it is,” Toby admitted. “But I do try whenever I have time.”
“It will come. There is a right way and a wrong way to put a horse in a stall, isn’t there?”
“Huh? Well, they like to have their eating end next the manger.”
“And lying on their backs with their feet in the air would count as a wrong way?”
“I’ve seen them try it.” Where was this conversation leading?
“Then I picked a poor analogy. What I mean to say, Tobias, is that there is more than one way to put a spirit inside a person. A hexer has a special way of inserting a demon into a husk to make a creature. A free demon will possess a man in another way.”
“And the hob?”
“Seems to have found a third position. From what you have told me of your experiences, it may have tried several times before it got comfortable. Father Guillem thinks that is why the Inquisition failed to conjure it, although he is guessing. There is yet another —”
“Is that why you say it cannot be exorcized?”
“No.” The old man walked on for a moment with his head down, his face hidden by his hood. “I must tell you this now, Tobias, although I would have preferred to keep it for later. The reason you cannot ever be rid of the hob is that it is too late.”
“I guessed that. It’s put down roots, hasn’t it?”
“You have grown together, and you will continue to grow together. To remove the hob now would leave very little of you. That is how you bring back such useful memories from the future. Warnings, you called them, and you said the hob wasn’t smart enough to be so selective, but you certainly are. It used your intelligence to choose the warnings, manipulating you. And manipulation seems to work both ways—doesn’t it, Tobias?”
Toby squirmed like a worm on a hook. “Well, maybe a little. Maybe once … ”
“Which of you destroyed the landsknechte and the Inquisition?”
Murderer! “I did, Brother. I told the hob where to strike. It was the storm that roused it, and I’ve been wondering if that was what was different from the time before, when it jerked me back to start over—this time the storm came. The storm was just luck, but once the hob began rampaging, I found I could direct some of the thunderbolts. I’ve never felt anything like that before, and I had trouble directing it at the end. Whatever power I had didn’t last long.”
The friar sighed but did not comment.
“Doesn’t a man have the right to defend himself, Brother? They were going to torture me to death!”
“Because they thought you had a demon. They weren’t so far wrong were they? No, I don’t really blame you for fighting back. I believe you would have chosen another way to escape if there had been one. But you and the hob are growing together, and eventually there will be no difference between you. Which of you is going to be master? I warn you, if it can ever gain control of you, then it will. It will take you over completely.”
“And I will go crazy?”
“You will be its creature, my son. The hob may not be as malicious as a demon, but it has no conscience, not yet. You know what happened at Mezquiriz.”
Toby shivered, for his worst fears were being confirmed. “Is this inevitable, Brother? Because if it is, then I must try to kill myself now.”
“No, it is not inevitable. You still have a chance. You were not a child when it happened, but you were not fully adult, either, so there is hope. Time will work on your side. Through you the hob must learn what it is to be mortal, what is right, what is wrong, what suffering means. We teach the spirits these things, my son. It takes centuries to train an elemental to be a tutelary, and you do not have centuries.”
“Is there no quicker way?” Toby asked
Apparently the old man did not hear that impertinent question. “Keep practicing your meditation, for that keeps the hob quiescent and you in control. The two of you will gradually merge into one, but it will take many years, and you must emerge as the dominant partner. Rush the process, as you were doing the other night, and the hob will be the survivor.”
They were almost at the campsite.
“That’s all I can do—breathe funny, think about swans, mumble ‘Lochan na Bi’ over and over?”
“That is quite enough to keep you busy!” Brother Bernat said sharply. “The safest thing would be to enter a monastery, for there you would have no distractions. I just cannot see you ever becoming a monk, though. I think you would go out of your mind with boredom, and then you would be no better off. But do try and stay away from battles and women, from strong drink and hair-raising escapades.”
“And if I do? If I am the survivor, what will I be then?”
The friar walked on for a long while before he answered. “Whatever you deserve to be.”
“What does that mean?”
“Ah. You promised not to ask questions until I had finished, Tobias. I have not finished yet. Not quite.”
2
The men unloaded and groomed the horses, watered them and set them free to graze, hobbling a couple so that they could be caught in the morning and used to round up the rest. The women gathered firewood, ground grain, made biscuits of dough to bake under the ashes. Those persons who chose to do so washed themselves. By the time the meal was ready, darkness had fallen, and the company gathered around the fire in no especial order to eat and share stories.
Some nights now they had singing after their meal, for Don Ramon had liberated a vihuela from the landsknechte camp. He had not only a gentleman’s skill at playing it but also a fine tenor voice—there seemed to be nothing he was not good at, except facing reality. He could pick up the melody when the Catalans sang their songs, and even manage to accompany Hamish in Scottish ballads, although Hamish’s memory for lyrics was much better than his ability to stay in key. Father Guillem had a powerful bass and a repertoire of monastic chants from many lands.
After that evening’s meal, though, Toby took Hamish aside and asked him to organize a second campfire some distance from the first, where he and the don could have a private chat.
Hamish disapproved, naturally. “How can you possibly trust him? He’s as batty as a bell tower! His head’s full of eels.”
“And I have foreseen his death. It may not happen, but I owe him a warning, at least.” For some reason he could not identify, Toby felt he ought to trust the don, that it might be important.
Hamish went off muttering but did what he had been asked, as usual.
Toby invited Doña Francisca to attend also and then decided to include Josep, who had supported him steadfastly and deserved recognition for it. The inquisitive Senora Collel tried to gatecrash, bringing Gracia with her, and the don peremptorily ordered them away, insisting that women could not attend a council of war.
The five huddled around the little flames that danced on their nest of twigs and streamed ribbons of smoke into the night wind. Pale light flickered on intent faces.
“This is a strange tale,” Toby began, “perhaps the strangest you will have ever heard, but Brother Bernat believes it, and I suspect no lie would ever deceive him. I must warn you that it involves truths that are dangerous to know. The Fiend has decreed that anyone who learns these things must die, so you may prefer not to listen. Whether that will reduce your peril, I cannot say. Just by associating with you, I have put you all at risk.”
“A dramatic preamble!” proclaimed the don. “Let us hope that the gravamen is worthy of it.”
No one departed. So there, in the cool night breezes, Toby told his whole improbable story once again. Hamish just scowled in silence at the starlit hills, for he knew it all. Josep and Doña Francisca grew more and more worried as it progressed, but Don Ramon seemed to find it dull. Perhaps his internal fantasies were too vivid for him to appreciate anyone else’s adventures, no matter how bizarre. He yawned frequently, although he beamed approval when Toby described how calmly he had laid his head on the block to have it chopped off. His mother wailed in horror.
“That’s all,” Toby concluded. “Have I left out anything, Jaume?”
Hamish blinked himself back to the present. “What? Sorry. Wasn’t listening.”
Toby chuckled. “You weren’t even here! You left us at Glen Shira and Loch Fyne.”
Hamish smiled, half abashed, half wistful. “I was thinking about girls.”
“This Baron Oreste,” asked Doña Francisca, “did he not lead the army that sacked Zaragoza? Then he is a monster!”
Toby nodded. “Most true, Senor Francisco. He is one of the Fiend’s bosom friends.”
“Does a demon have friends?” asked Hamish. “Or a bosom?”
Ignore that. “General, courtier, advisor, potent hexer. A monster for all seasons.”
“And you say he is viceroy in Barcelona?” the old lady persisted.
“That was what my vision told me.”
“And what the landsknechte told me,” said the don, “when I demanded to see their authority.” He smiled and twirled up his mustache. He had lost his air of boredom. In fact the firelight sparkled in his blue eyes with a strange excitement.
“So he is after you and this amethyst?” asked Josep, appalled.
“Mostly the amethyst. I am of no real interest to him, except that I have tweaked his pride too often.”
“Then you must not go near Barcelona! Surely so great a hexer will track you down at once.”
“Honored Senor Brusi,” Hamish said, “were you to write that advice on my friend’s forehead with a stonemason’s mallet and chisel, he would still not notice. I have been telling him the same thing every chime of the clock for weeks.”
“I suppose I shouldn’t,” Toby conceded.
“Spirits preserve us! The earth moves!”
“Conditions have changed,” Toby said, a little nettled. His main reason for going to Barcelona had been to see Hamish aboard ship and homeward bound, but Josep could arrange that much better then he could and would certainly be willing to do so. “I was hoping that the baron would rid me of the hob, but it was never a very plausible plan, and Brother Bernat fears that it would cripple me. I’ll decide what to do when we reach Montserrat. I may go on to France.”
“Or Florence?” said Josep. “Or Majorca, or Salerno? I have … my house has branches in all those places, and my offer of employment still stands.” He chuckled, detecting Toby’s astonishment. “Barcelona is a great trading city, Senor. Not so very long ago it ruled half the Mediterranean. It is still cosmopolitan, a center of the arts, a —”
“Yucch!” snarled the don. “Trade? You insult the man. You insult all of us by even mentioning it. A true man’s ambition is the accomplishment of great deeds of valor. Still, I suppose he is only a peasant and would not understand that. Perhaps trade is all he is good for, after all.” He turned to the peasant in question. “Is Baron Oreste a creature like his master?”
“No, he is human,” Toby said. “Although he is a hexer, he himself is bound to absolute obedience. I was told once that the demon that controls him is immured in a beryl set in one of the many rings he wears. He cannot remove the ring and so escape beyond the demon’s reach.”
“He is mortal, then.” Don Ramon twirled up the points of his mustache with apparent satisfaction. “I ask merely out of curiosity, you understand. I shall be paying my respects to the noble lord when we reach Barcelona.”
“What?” shrieked Doña Francisca.
They were all staring at the don. Had he taken leave of his senses? Well, yes. Some time ago. But where was his confused mind wandering now?
“I warned you, senor,” Toby protested, “that by associating with you I have put you in peril. You know of Rhym, and that is a capital offense. The baron can find any number of executioners apart from me.”
The caballero shrugged with superb disdain. “My estates lie in lands ceded to Aragon under the treaty, so my rightful liege is now the … King Nevil himself. It is fitting that I call upon his deputy when I arrive in Barcelona.” His mad eyes scanned them all, daring them to argue.
“No!” His mother had both hands to her mouth and looked ghastly in the firelight.
He dismissed her protest with a sneer. “Campeador? Francisco is well past his best. I need a younger squire. If you are seeking employment, I can offer you a career with prospects greater than anything your haberdasher friend there may dream of. Of course you will require training, but you seem to have some capacity beyond brute brawn.”
Did the don really think he could kill Oreste, a hexer protected by innumerable demons? For a moment Toby was tempted to say that he would rather apply his brute brawn in Josep’s warehouse or even Senora Collel’s bedroom—but discretion prevailed.
“You honor me greatly, senor. I beg you to let me have time to weigh your splendid offer against certain other obligations I am not at liberty to reveal.”
