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Chapter 9
She
 

The last task before a novice goes to kneel before the king, to rise as a knight of the Order, is always the same: it's a visit to the Arroy, and to Her.

Why? I don't know; I won't even guess. I do know what others say.

Some say it's because She provides a final temptation, as She surely does. The road to an Order Knight's swords is pitted with temptations, and if this is the final one, that's not unfitting, and while most return from the Arroy, some do not. How did they fail? I have my suspicions, but that is all: I suspect that She looks into their souls for one thing, and one thing only, and either finds it or finds it wanting.

Others say that she's lonely, and desirous of company. I think that unlikely, myself, but I'm not made to understand Her, and my thoughts of likelihood and unlikelihood should be given the weight that they deserve.

Still others say that She's simply looking out for Her family, and wants to have one last look, in person, at the candidates for the Order that will protect her family.

And if you listen to the brothers of our rival Order, you'll hear another theory—that it's yet another example of the favoritism that we receive from Her, and yet another slight for them to properly resent.

As to me, I have no opinion. I've sworn to service, honor, faith, and obedience; to justice and mercy, but not to wisdom, and not to understanding.

She sends for us; we come to Her.

That has always been enough for me, and it always shall.

—Gray

Gray took the straightest path.

He went both quickly, and rapidly, stopping only for the sake of his horse, and to rest himself when necessary.

And, yes, he rode—Gray rode toward the Bedegraine, and the Arroy hidden within it, although he knew that Cully would have walked, even though the straightest path would have taken him through Linfield, as it had Gray.

Cully wouldn't have walked around it, either.

Gray wished that he felt that he could. Gray had had quite enough of Linfield for one life, and he didn't see any harm in going through it as quickly as possible, although he hadn't seriously considered riding around it. That would have been cowardly.

Say what you would about Joshua Grayling, and you would likely have not said enough that was condemnatory—but he was no coward.

Almost two centuries after the Linfield Horror, trees in Linfield were stunted and sick, and black ruins stood where the castle had been. There were still remnants of peasants' dwellings, strangely enough; in more than one field, the rusted remains of a plow were still mostly standing, the wooden handles still sticking out, as though they had been preserved as well as blackened.

It was hard to look at what had been an apple orchard. The trees seemed to be covered with some sort of green ichor, rather than moss. The apples themselves were too large—they were easily fist-sized, even though it was but spring—and far too red and perfect.

Not that he would have been tempted by them. Some had already fallen to the ground and split open, revealing their blackened insides, with the maggots writhing in pleasure and agony.

At the edge of Linfield, some fool had planted a field of what undoubtedly looked like New World maize, but it had turned, too; the husks on the short, withered stalks had sprouted eyes, which watched him as he rode by, hiding themselves among the leaves when he returned their gaze. The rotting carcass of what appeared to be a rabbit, and a few white shards of bone showed that this perverted maize had more that it shouldn't than just eyes.

The plants were bad enough, but it was the animals that bothered him the most, and for once he was glad that he wasn't the woodsman that many of the other knights were, and he knew that his eyes missed things in the forest and on the ground that others could see plain as day.

Which was more than acceptable to him here.

The occasional sight of a squirrel rooting among the misshapen acorns beneath the twisted oaks was bad enough. They weren't gray or red, but a sort of deep taupe, so deep as to be almost black, but without the honesty or sheen of a true color, and when they rose to watch him as he rode past, their chittering was a serpentine hissing, their teeth too long and sharp, and their looks far too bold.

From a tangle of brambles to the right of the road, a pair of eyes watched him above a snout that looked more like a pig's than a dog's, although even a wild boar would not have had tusks that were so long and white, nor spittle that hissed and burbled where it touched the blackened earth.

Well, one thing you can say for the Sandoval is that he did a thorough job here.

I don't know that even you and I could have done it better.

The Khan seemed amused. Yes, it had been the Sandoval, and a knight of the Order. The feud with the Table Round had never really ended, and it had been far too close to its peak just before the Horror.

On the other hand, when was the last time that one of those Table Knights chose to give offense to an Order Knight? The lesson seemed to have been learned.

The rivalry was still there. It was just that the two rival orders tended to avoid each other. Knights of the Table Round, by and large, were more inspectors and couriers than anything else, these days, spending their time in subordinate Crown courts, like Napoli, Borbonaisse, Saxony, and, of course, the various earldoms of New England, and, in fact, when Gray had gone to New York to . . . invite the duke to come to Londinium, the three Table Knights had been rude enough that, if he had not been on mission, he would have been sorely tempted to have called one of them out.

But, no. He had been, and that was that. And if he had challenged one of them, it would have been with his mundane sword, and not whipped out the Khan.

Pity.

No, not a pity; it was a necessity—one insult, one moment of loss of self-control, by one knight of the Red Sword, and Linfield was the result.

No. It was important to be honest, with himself. This was just the remnants of the result, just the leftovers. It had been much, much worse, and the last of the Linfield deodands had only been put down a few years before.

Now, that was fun. I do have my uses.

A shadow passed over him, and Gray looked up.

High above him, no trace of light leaking through his broadly spread black feathers, a death kite circled, as though waiting for an opportunity. He carefully slid his hand back on the reins so that he could rest his hand on the Khan's steel.

I hope it tries, the Khan said.

Yes, the Khan would like that, if it forced Gray to draw him. Not likely, though; his mundane sword would do, if anything would, and death kites were unlikely to attack something larger than a child, anyway.

Of course, you could try to shoot him down.

True enough. His crossbow was tied to the front of his saddle, and a year of practice had gotten him to the point where he could, albeit clumsily, manage to cock it with the small hook that projected out of the leather that covered the stump where his right hand had been. Not quickly, though, and he would never be a decent shot with his left hand, although he practiced as much as he could.

Not much of a loss; he had never been much of a bowman, anyway. One life was too short to master all of the arts, and back when he was a novice at Alton, his clumsiness with a longbow had been the source of much amusement among the other novices, and quite a frustration to Sir Alex.

He had handled the first problem with singlesticks.

He hadn't been quite unbeatable, even among the other novices, but he had been resolute, and Father Cully had carefully ignored his tendency to pick as his practice partners those who had mocked him, and he had made a point to bruise them repeatedly and severely, and after a while, all of the mockery had stopped—but, still, he had never become much of a bowman.

If his abilities with the sword hadn't eventually become exceptional, it would have been entirely possible that he never would have graduated.

Anything rather than think on Linfield, eh?

He removed his hand from the hilt of the Khan. That it was true didn't mean that he wanted to be reminded of it.

He rode on, forcing himself to look at the horror he rode through, while, high above, the death kite banked away, looking for more likely prey.

Ahead, the boundary between Linfield and the relative sanctuary of the Bedegraine was sharp, as though it was a green curtain, beyond which lay sanity and comfort.

The big bay gelding had keener senses than Gray had; without being spurred, he cantered toward where the green giants of the Bedegraine towered, and Gray let him, only pulling him back to a walk when they were under the cover of the trees of the Bedegraine.

Yes, out of the light of the noonday sun, it was cooler here, but he felt warmer inside. Here, the trees were just trees, and within a few minutes he saw a squirrel, high in an oak tree, that was just a squirrel.

After Linfield, the ordinariness of the Bedegraine was almost luxurious.

No forester tended this part of the Bedegraine—it was too close to Linfield—so what paths there were largely deer trails, and heavily overgrown, making for slow going in most places, and often forcing him to turn his head to protect his eyes from branches.

The floor of the forest was littered with rotting humus, but it was a comforting, homey smell, and the crashing through the brush that brought his hand near the Khan turned out to merely be a massive buck deer, with a huge rack easily of twenty or more points, who gave horse and man a quick look before dashing across the trail, and off into the brush, disappearing with barely a sound.

He was never sure quite how far he rode into the Bedegraine before he reached the Arroy that it contained; the border between the encompassing Bedegraine was by no means well marked, and no mapmaker had ever been able to map it out.

Best not to try—things tended to happen in the Arroy to any who came without invitation, and even some who had been invited. Not always good things; not always bad things, but it was known as the Forest of Adventure for good reason, after all, and adventures were something that a wise man or woman would try to avoid, if possible.

But slowly, very slowly, the forest changed about him, becoming darker and quieter. No trace of sun peeked through the overhead canopy of green, and the chittering of the squirrels and the chirping of birds was but a memory. Other than the slow, muted clopping of his horse's hooves against the ground, the only sound he could hear was of a creek burbling, hidden ahead of and below him by the twist of land and thickness of the forest.

Yes, it was dark and quiet, and if he had taken a different route, he might have found it disturbing.

But not today, or any day that he came from this direction; it was, after all, the dark and quiet of the Arroy, not the black and silence of Linfield.

The trail grew too steep for him to be sure of the horse's footing, so he dismounted, and wrapped the reins about his stump, leading it down the slope, waiting—as he always did—for the trail to fork, finding—as always—that it never did, not for him.

He didn't understand that; Cully had always talked about how one thing he liked about visiting the Arroy was that it didn't matter which fork in the trail one took, as it would bring you to Her, in any case. Gray had always found that there were never forks in any trail, no matter which he took into the Arroy. They had, for him, always led directly to Her.

It probably didn't make any difference, even if it was true. Was it that the choices that you made entering the Arroy didn't matter? Or was it just that there were no choices? What was the difference?

He shrugged. It was probably just Father Cully using a story by way of making some sort of obscure point, one that would have gone over the head of the wretched Southampton orphan boy called Grayling just as much as it still did over the head of Sir Joshua Grayling.

He just followed the one trail.

At the bottom of the gully, the trail crossed the stream, and there didn't look like a better place to ford, so he did just that, wrapping the reins around his stump so that he could lead his horse while holding both of his swords high, to keep them out of the water.

The water was bone-chillingly cold, and soaked him from waist to toes. But his boots had long since shrunk as much as they could, and they would dry, eventually. He had a spare pair in his horse's pack, but lacing and tying boots was something that a one-handed man could do only with great time and trouble, and, after all, he had been summoned to Her. Damp feet would not be allowed to delay him in that.

He was so occupied in getting his swords back where they belonged as he was walking the horse up the bank, that he almost missed the rucksack lying on the large, flat rock on the bank of the stream.

"Hello?" he called out. "Is there somebody here?"

There was no answer.

Strange. He thought for a moment about stooping to examine the rucksack, but that really was a job that would have required two hands, and he had but one—and while in most places, there would be no reason to worry about his horse wandering off, this was, after all the Arroy, and even so minor a quest could turn out to be far more interesting than he had any interest in.

So he walked the horse over to a tree and tied the reins around a low branch, not trusting to it to stay ground-hitched, then walked back to the rucksack.

He dropped to one knee next to it. Very strange. There was a cake of soap on a piece of waxed paper, lying next to it. He touched a finger to the soap—it was dry, as though it was waiting for a bather.

He looked around. The creek twisted through the vale, and it was only a few yards before it twisted out of sight. There might easily be a deeper pool beyond, downstream, where a traveler might bathe, if they were of a mind to.

He could, of course, just leave it there.

He was no thief—well, he hadn't been a thief for many years; a Southampton orphan boy got by as best he could—but there was something strange about all of this. The rucksack couldn't have been lying there very long, after all; while the ground was littered with dead leaves and fallen branches, the rucksack lay atop them, as though the owner had left it there but minutes ago.

Leave it here? Had he frightened the owner of the pack, and run him—or her—off?

Perhaps the owner was hiding, and watching him from some nearby cover. Far stranger things had been known to happen in the Arroy, after all. He peered at the greenery, but couldn't see a place where somebody could be hiding, although with the way that the creek twisted through the gully, somebody could be just a few tens of feet away and be utterly hidden. And, besides, he wasn't much of a woodsman—there were probably places within his sight where eyes could be watching him.

"I am Sir Joshua Grayling, of the Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon," he said, loudly, trying to make his voice carry without actually shouting. "I mean no harm to most."

He had to be careful what he said; if it turned out that this was the rucksack of some outlaw, say, he would not promise him safe passage.

On the other hand, this was the Arroy, after all, and in the Arroy, finding a noble girl fleeing to escape an unwanted marriage was the sort of thing that could much more easily happen than in most other places. And if the noble girl had paused at a stream to bathe herself, and hidden her nakedness from the arrival of some traveler, that, too, was the sort of thing that was more likely to happen in the Arroy than anywhere else he could think of, and probably most places that he couldn't.

He had been summoned to Her presence, but if necessary, of course, he could and would tarry long enough to see to the safety of some—

"No, there's no naked maiden hiding among the leaves," She said, chuckling. "Just Me. I'm quite decently clothed, and not hiding."

He turned.

She stood there, high on the bank, toying with the gelding's reins.

And She was, of course, utterly perfect, from toe to head.

Her naked feet rested on arched sandals that seemed to have no straps. Each toe was perfect, undeformed by shoes and boots, its nail unmarked, unsullied by color or polish.

She wore a simple shift of white linen, only a few shades paler than her own creamy skin, drawn in tightly with a silver belt at her narrow waist, before it fell immodestly to just above the knee. On anybody else, he would have found its clingingness, its briefness, utterly shocking, but he simply could not see Her in that way.

"I know," She said. Her voice was sweet without being cloying, and loud in his ears, although She spoke barely above a whisper.

The horse whickered, and started to shy, but She laid a finger on its muzzle, and it immediately quieted, and stayed quiet, standing in place, turned its head to watch Her and him with its huge eyes when She dropped the reins to the ground and walked over to him.

"No," she said, turning her head for a moment toward the animal, "we'll have no adventures with you today, if you please."

Her black hair flowed like shadow across Her shoulders, and fell behind Her, held in place by a simple silver band. Her lips were red as freshly shed blood, and parted in a smile that revealed teeth that were even and white.

"Hello, Gray," She said. "I won't ask you to kneel, you know. If I put you in a position where you must defy Me, or break an oath, it will be over something more important to Me than that slight courtesy. Stand if you please; I'll take no offense."

He had sworn, long ago, never to drop to his knees other than by his own will. He had done so many times since, but always by his own choice, by his own will.

Yes, She knew everything there was to know about him, so it was through his own will, his own sense of what was right and proper, that he dropped to one knee before Her, using the leather cap on his stump to sweep his swords properly up and behind him.

"As you wish. Please, Joshua," She said. "Rise, and take my hand."

He did so immediately, and once again, as before, at the moment he touched Her hand, he knew why they all loved Her so, why he couldn't help it anymore than any of the rest could. Her hand, small in his, wasn't just warm and warming; it was intoxicating, even more than the way that her eyes, behind the long lashes, looked unblinkingly into his.

It wasn't just the physicality of it, although he tried to ignore how he had become suddenly and painfully erect, and how Her scent filled his nostrils, for the moment driving away not just the pains of the body, pains that he only noticed by their absence, but those of the spirit. His shoulders had been tight, and painful, and somehow or other he had gotten a scrape on his left cheekbone. He had ignored those things, as was only proper, and now only noticed them because they were gone.

But it was more than the aches and pains of life. For the moment, he felt whole, and decent, and it was the touch of Her hand that had done it.

It was as though the weight of all of his many sins had been lifted from him, and though he knew that their weight would return the moment that Her touch left, he felt good and worthy and whole for the moment.

But, even without that, even if the touch of Her hand had burned his flesh instead of lightened his heart, how could he not have loved Her?

Her smile broadened. "Yes. But you'll let go of My hand nonetheless, won't you?" she asked. "And you'll not take Me in your arms and crush Me to you, My mouth warm upon yours, even though you know that I would make no protest?"

She took a step closer to him. She smelled of wildflowers and musk, and if there was a hint of the reek of the rotting humus of the forest floor, it only added to the intoxicating effect—to Her intoxicating effect.

"No, Lady, I would not," he said. It was bad enough that such as he touched Her hand; he would not sully Her with more contact than that, save by Her command.

"And would you resist Me, if I tried to force Myself upon you?"

He didn't have an answer for that, although it was not the first time that she had asked him that question. "I still don't know, Lady. But I will, once again, beg You not to think of lowering Yourself so."

She smiled. "And, once again, you dodge the issue. But, be that as it may, I'd not do so, save in necessity."

Necessity? What could make that necessary? He didn't ask; if She wanted him to know, She would have told him.

"Yes," She said. "I would." She nodded, slowly, and in a quick blink She was an arm's length away from him, his hand no longer touching Her.

And all the weight of his sins fell back upon him, and he wept.

"Gray," She was saying. He didn't know how long he had crouched there, weeping like a child. It could have been a moment, or a year. Time seemed to do strange things around Her. "Please stop."

He let a breath out in a ragged sob, then drew another one in.

"Of course, Lady. You have my apologies," he said, as he rose, noting with no pride, albeit some sense of accomplishment, that his voice was steady and calm, suitable for a knight of the Order.

"Apologies? You've nothing to apologize to Me for," She said. "And if you need to draw strength by touching the Khan, though, please do so."

No. Not in front of Her. She could see into the foulness of his soul, yes, but he would not add to it. Not now, not in front of Her. Later, perhaps—no, later, certainly; Gray would be honest with himself. But not before Her.

He hooked his thumb in his sash.

"At most, you can only be once damned, you know," She said, shaking Her head, slowly. "And that is avoidable. But it doesn't feel that way, does it?"

No. It didn't. He could not have served his king, and his brothers, as well if he had not taken the Khan into hand, to mix his soul with the surely damned one of the Khan trapped in the Red Sword, but . . .

"No, it's not that." She frowned. "Even if it's as dark a sin as you think it is, it's forgivable, as all are, to those of the faith you profess. It's the despair that you will not release yourself from that's the sin, Joshua."

Will not, or can not?

He didn't ask. He would like to pretend to himself that it would be otherwise, but he remembered, each and every time that he drew the Khan, what he had made of himself, and what he would make of himself not merely when next he drew the cursed sword, but took a breath without repenting of the necessity of it, a repentance that he could not feel, and would not lie about, to himself or to others.

"Such arrogance, from a man of such modesty." She cocked her head to one side. "Who are you to say that your God cannot forgive you?"

Always the same questions; always the same answers.

"I'm a man who has sworn to live by mercy tempered only by justice, justice tempered only by mercy," he said. "I'd not ask for mercy for myself that I think would be tempered by no justice at all."

Yes, Christ had died, offering to take the sins of the world with him; yes, forgiveness was available, to all who confessed and repented.

But how could a just God forgive the unrepentant?

"The world," she said, "is a stool that rests on three legs: faith, wisdom, and justice. And which of those is most important?"

There was, as always, only one answer to that ancient riddle. "It's as with any other stool—the weakest leg is the most important, Lady, of course. And justice is, always and ever, the weakest. Wisdom there is, although never enough; and faith, while sometimes lacking, is always available. But justice? There's little of that. Of all my failings, Lady, of all my sins, of all that can be said about me, please let it not be said that I begged God to weaken the most important leg of the stool on which the world rests."

"Gray—"

"Please, Lady, may we speak on this no more?"

She sighed. "A stubborn one, you are. More so than most, and your Order is a stubborn lot, all in all. Would you rather speak about the rucksack?"

In Her presence, he had forgotten about something so mundane.

"If it pleases You, yes," he said.

"It's Cully's; return it to him, if you would," She said. "He left it here his last visit." She actually chuckled. "Most of you, I would chide for leaving your laundry for Me to do, and I guess I should make no exception in his case. But I shall, anyway, and tell you not to chide him on My behalf. In fact, I tucked in a hairbrush for him—he forgot to bring one with him last time. Don't mention that, either; let him discover that for himself." She cocked her head to one side. "Are you not going to ask?"

"Ask what, Lady?" He didn't pretend to understand Her. You didn't need to understand Her in order to love or worship Her, after all.

"Are you not going to ask if I had you sent all the way here just to pick up Cully's rucksack?"

She wanted him to, so of course he did: "Lady," he said, "did you have me sent all the way here just to pick up Father Cully's rucksack?"

"And if I did?"

"I make no complaint."

Seeing Her was always pleasure, always pain, and there were times when he wasn't sure that he could sort out which was which, but that wasn't important. Obedience; service; faith; honor; justice and mercy; mercy and justice, yes. His own agony, physical or otherwise, simply didn't measure on that scale.

"No, you'd not complain." Her voice grew sharp. "Well, you should, if that was the case. You should be complaining much. You should be complaining about Mordred, and about Cully, and about the abbot, and about Me, for that matter. Let's start with the king. He treats you like an archer treats an arrow—to him, you're just a tool, just a weapon."

"As is his right, Lady," he said. "And as he's said, in so many words. And if among my sins is the pride that I'm a good weapon for him, I'll not repent of that, either."

She snorted. "You're as unrepentant an inveterate penitent as I've ever known, Joshua."

He didn't answer; he didn't know if one was called for.

"And then there's Me. You should be angry at Me. I sent you off to be knighted, suspecting what might happen to you." She frowned. "Not a Sight, no. Just a suspicion. But even if I'd had a Sight, do you think I'd have not sent off such a promising young knight-to-be to serve My family? You were quite the hero in those heady days, and you've further distinguished yourself since, on more than several occasions." She cocked her head to one side. "The Khan is quite dangerous, as much as the Sandoval, I think—but I also know that you'd not drop your iron self-control for a moment; there'll be no Linfield Horror created by the likes of Joshua Grayling."

"Not without necessity," he said, carefully. "Not over mere anger. I've done awful things, as You know better than most, but not because I can't control myself."

"And that's one of the things that makes you such a useful weapon for the king."

"I'm honored, Lady."

"Not angry, but honored." She nodded her head. "And I made you love Me."

At that, he smiled. "How could I not?"

She smiled back at him, and Her smile warmed him more than he could have said.

"Oh, yes," She said, "all the boys love Me, and in My own way, I do love them, though there are those who think that I love all of them in a fleshy sense, and not in a chaste and proper way. In the villages around the Bedegraine, you'll hear whispers that I bed all of them, too, that the reason that the final test for entry to the Order is the trip into the Arroy is so that the novices can satisfy the carnal needs of the insatiable Queen of Air and Darkness, and that those who fail to do so are left as empty husks, sucked dry of life."

He had never heard such a thing. Of course, he wouldn't—if someone were to speak disparagingly of Her, it would not be even a whisper where the likes of Joshua Grayling could overhear. Not twice.

Nor, for that matter, would any do so twice around any other of the Order, including the abbot general.

"Ah, yes, Ralph," she said. "Another one of those horrid romantic triangles my family seems to find itself in. Although this one has more than a few angles to it; triangles linked in a chain—did you never wonder why the abbot general carries Jenn?"

Cully had carried Jenn, and surrendered the White Sword when he had left the Order. Yes, Jenn belonged at Cully's waist, not the abbot's, but—

No.

He shook his head. No. It wasn't for the likes of him to judge his betters, and the abbot was a good man. He was. And if he differed with Gray about Father Cully, that was not only his privilege, but his right, and—

"He played you like a lute, Joshua, and I can hear the distant song even now. 'Hear my confession,' he said, and then he emptied his heart out to you, withholding no trace of sin, for he is devious in his directness, as he knows that you're the most pitying pitiless man that he's ever met. He gulled you with sincerity, and you fell for it."

"To what end?"

"To make you doubt. He has good intuition, that one—and I would think that, since I share it. He thinks that Cully's irresponsible, and reckless, and that there are things happening where Cully may well be near the center and the heart, and that you'll be a steadying influence on him, if only Ralph can persuade you of his own wisdom. The abbot thinks that, in the final analysis, he can trust you, for he has given you his trust, confessed his sins and failings without reservation, and he knows that utter honesty can be far more manipulative than even the cleverest lie, more effective than can be even the most carefully constructed deception, Gray."

But Father Cully was irresponsible, and reckless. He always did what he thought best, and only bowed to superior authority out of necessity—when he saw the necessity—not with the giving heart and oath of a knight of the Order. He ruthlessly used the tools given him, and never counted the cost until after, if then.

"And you love him for it, and if I could promise you that you could die horribly, in great agony, at his side, protecting him, you'd bless Me for that promise."

"Of course, Lady," he said. He would love Her no more for that promise, because that was impossible. But he would certainly try.

"But, yet, you should be angry with Cully—he took you in, as a child, yes, but he abandoned you."

"He did not." Yes, Father Cully had left the Order, and England—but it was not an abandonment, it had been an attempt to save Gray's soul, to prevent the king and the abbot from giving him the Khan.

That Father Cully was wrong wasn't a betrayal; he had been trying to protect Gray. How could Gray be angry with him for that?

"You used to be," she said, answering his thoughts, rather than his words.

"Then I was a fool, as well as damned." He could not stop Her from speaking as She saw fit, and he wouldn't have if he could have, but he would not hear Father Cully accused without defending him, not even—no, particularly not when the awful words fell like bright jewels from Her lips.

She picked up the rucksack, and handed it to him. "Well, I'm not telling you that you'll die by his side, protecting him; I have neither the power nor the desire to grant that, and no Sight to foretell it." She sighed. "Just tell Cully that I tried, if you please."

"Tried? I don't understand"

"Just tell him. He will understand; it's something between him and Me." Her hand reached out toward him, but She drew it back. "And be careful, Joshua," She said. "There is something awful going on."

He would have asked if there was more that She could tell him, but She would have, if She could.

"Yes, I would." She nodded. "I'm not keeping anything from you, Gray. I have fear, but no understanding of it. It's feeling, hints, worries—and you've enough of those latter without Me burdening you more."

"I make no protest, Lady," he said. He would bear his burdens as best he could, and without complaint.

"Well, you should." She shook Her head. "Darklings in the south are only part of it. The new live swords? Another piece of the puzzle, and the one thing I'm certain of is that those aren't the only pieces. You've heard about Hostikka, and that was hardly the only missing piece.

"And so I send you, yet again another one of his lambs, out to find more pieces, and help put them together. And if it's to the slaughter I send you, as it might well be, what would you have to say to that? What would you have to say to Me?"

Of lies, there were no limit; there never were. But of the truth, there was only one answer:

"I would say: I thank you, Lady; I bless you, Lady; and I love you, Lady, for the honor that you bestow upon me, unworthy of it though I am."

She sighed. "Then I'll say this to you, Joshua: follow your heart and your head. Look for the right thing to do, even when it doesn't mean self-sacrifice. I will not say that I trust you to do the right thing, because I am not sure that you will know the right thing any better than do I.

"But let Me say this: when it comes time to decide, listen to others, and accept their counsel, if you think it wise. But listen with an open mind, and an open heart, and as you love Me remember this: it was you whom I sent for, and you to whom I have said this, and not the king, and not the abbot, and very much not Cully, much though I love him.

"I said, truly, that I have no Sight in this, and that concerns me, but I have a feeling, Joshua, and My feeling is that the stool of the world may not rest on faith, or wisdom, or justice, not this time: it may, indeed, rest on you. What have you to offer, Joshua?"

And, as always, there could be only one answer. "Service, honor, faith, obedience. Justice tempered only by mercy; mercy tempered only by justice."

"Obedience? You've been set out on your own, Joshua, to do as you think best: that is your obedience. Your whole life is service; that can give you no clue. And if you should see that faith, wisdom, and justice are insufficient, and since you believe with all your heart that you are a man who has sacrificed his soul, and are without honor, that leaves you one virtue left."

"Mercy, my Lady. Mercy tempered only by justice, but mercy nonetheless."

"Mercy, indeed. And may it include mercy on yourself, Gray."

He bowed stiffly, and when he raised his head, he was alone by the bank of the creek, his horse snorting in impatience. It was difficult, working with one hand and his stump, to strap the rucksack to the saddle, but he did it as rapidly and thoroughly as he could, then gave a quick tug on it, to be sure that it was securely bound.

And then he was quickly on his way.

There was, of course, only the one path.

He followed it.

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Framed

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Contents

Chapter 9
She
 

The last task before a novice goes to kneel before the king, to rise as a knight of the Order, is always the same: it's a visit to the Arroy, and to Her.

Why? I don't know; I won't even guess. I do know what others say.

Some say it's because She provides a final temptation, as She surely does. The road to an Order Knight's swords is pitted with temptations, and if this is the final one, that's not unfitting, and while most return from the Arroy, some do not. How did they fail? I have my suspicions, but that is all: I suspect that She looks into their souls for one thing, and one thing only, and either finds it or finds it wanting.

Others say that she's lonely, and desirous of company. I think that unlikely, myself, but I'm not made to understand Her, and my thoughts of likelihood and unlikelihood should be given the weight that they deserve.

Still others say that She's simply looking out for Her family, and wants to have one last look, in person, at the candidates for the Order that will protect her family.

And if you listen to the brothers of our rival Order, you'll hear another theory—that it's yet another example of the favoritism that we receive from Her, and yet another slight for them to properly resent.

As to me, I have no opinion. I've sworn to service, honor, faith, and obedience; to justice and mercy, but not to wisdom, and not to understanding.

She sends for us; we come to Her.

That has always been enough for me, and it always shall.

—Gray

Gray took the straightest path.

He went both quickly, and rapidly, stopping only for the sake of his horse, and to rest himself when necessary.

And, yes, he rode—Gray rode toward the Bedegraine, and the Arroy hidden within it, although he knew that Cully would have walked, even though the straightest path would have taken him through Linfield, as it had Gray.

Cully wouldn't have walked around it, either.

Gray wished that he felt that he could. Gray had had quite enough of Linfield for one life, and he didn't see any harm in going through it as quickly as possible, although he hadn't seriously considered riding around it. That would have been cowardly.

Say what you would about Joshua Grayling, and you would likely have not said enough that was condemnatory—but he was no coward.

Almost two centuries after the Linfield Horror, trees in Linfield were stunted and sick, and black ruins stood where the castle had been. There were still remnants of peasants' dwellings, strangely enough; in more than one field, the rusted remains of a plow were still mostly standing, the wooden handles still sticking out, as though they had been preserved as well as blackened.

It was hard to look at what had been an apple orchard. The trees seemed to be covered with some sort of green ichor, rather than moss. The apples themselves were too large—they were easily fist-sized, even though it was but spring—and far too red and perfect.

Not that he would have been tempted by them. Some had already fallen to the ground and split open, revealing their blackened insides, with the maggots writhing in pleasure and agony.

At the edge of Linfield, some fool had planted a field of what undoubtedly looked like New World maize, but it had turned, too; the husks on the short, withered stalks had sprouted eyes, which watched him as he rode by, hiding themselves among the leaves when he returned their gaze. The rotting carcass of what appeared to be a rabbit, and a few white shards of bone showed that this perverted maize had more that it shouldn't than just eyes.

The plants were bad enough, but it was the animals that bothered him the most, and for once he was glad that he wasn't the woodsman that many of the other knights were, and he knew that his eyes missed things in the forest and on the ground that others could see plain as day.

Which was more than acceptable to him here.

The occasional sight of a squirrel rooting among the misshapen acorns beneath the twisted oaks was bad enough. They weren't gray or red, but a sort of deep taupe, so deep as to be almost black, but without the honesty or sheen of a true color, and when they rose to watch him as he rode past, their chittering was a serpentine hissing, their teeth too long and sharp, and their looks far too bold.

From a tangle of brambles to the right of the road, a pair of eyes watched him above a snout that looked more like a pig's than a dog's, although even a wild boar would not have had tusks that were so long and white, nor spittle that hissed and burbled where it touched the blackened earth.

Well, one thing you can say for the Sandoval is that he did a thorough job here.

I don't know that even you and I could have done it better.

The Khan seemed amused. Yes, it had been the Sandoval, and a knight of the Order. The feud with the Table Round had never really ended, and it had been far too close to its peak just before the Horror.

On the other hand, when was the last time that one of those Table Knights chose to give offense to an Order Knight? The lesson seemed to have been learned.

The rivalry was still there. It was just that the two rival orders tended to avoid each other. Knights of the Table Round, by and large, were more inspectors and couriers than anything else, these days, spending their time in subordinate Crown courts, like Napoli, Borbonaisse, Saxony, and, of course, the various earldoms of New England, and, in fact, when Gray had gone to New York to . . . invite the duke to come to Londinium, the three Table Knights had been rude enough that, if he had not been on mission, he would have been sorely tempted to have called one of them out.

But, no. He had been, and that was that. And if he had challenged one of them, it would have been with his mundane sword, and not whipped out the Khan.

Pity.

No, not a pity; it was a necessity—one insult, one moment of loss of self-control, by one knight of the Red Sword, and Linfield was the result.

No. It was important to be honest, with himself. This was just the remnants of the result, just the leftovers. It had been much, much worse, and the last of the Linfield deodands had only been put down a few years before.

Now, that was fun. I do have my uses.

A shadow passed over him, and Gray looked up.

High above him, no trace of light leaking through his broadly spread black feathers, a death kite circled, as though waiting for an opportunity. He carefully slid his hand back on the reins so that he could rest his hand on the Khan's steel.

I hope it tries, the Khan said.

Yes, the Khan would like that, if it forced Gray to draw him. Not likely, though; his mundane sword would do, if anything would, and death kites were unlikely to attack something larger than a child, anyway.

Of course, you could try to shoot him down.

True enough. His crossbow was tied to the front of his saddle, and a year of practice had gotten him to the point where he could, albeit clumsily, manage to cock it with the small hook that projected out of the leather that covered the stump where his right hand had been. Not quickly, though, and he would never be a decent shot with his left hand, although he practiced as much as he could.

Not much of a loss; he had never been much of a bowman, anyway. One life was too short to master all of the arts, and back when he was a novice at Alton, his clumsiness with a longbow had been the source of much amusement among the other novices, and quite a frustration to Sir Alex.

He had handled the first problem with singlesticks.

He hadn't been quite unbeatable, even among the other novices, but he had been resolute, and Father Cully had carefully ignored his tendency to pick as his practice partners those who had mocked him, and he had made a point to bruise them repeatedly and severely, and after a while, all of the mockery had stopped—but, still, he had never become much of a bowman.

If his abilities with the sword hadn't eventually become exceptional, it would have been entirely possible that he never would have graduated.

Anything rather than think on Linfield, eh?

He removed his hand from the hilt of the Khan. That it was true didn't mean that he wanted to be reminded of it.

He rode on, forcing himself to look at the horror he rode through, while, high above, the death kite banked away, looking for more likely prey.

Ahead, the boundary between Linfield and the relative sanctuary of the Bedegraine was sharp, as though it was a green curtain, beyond which lay sanity and comfort.

The big bay gelding had keener senses than Gray had; without being spurred, he cantered toward where the green giants of the Bedegraine towered, and Gray let him, only pulling him back to a walk when they were under the cover of the trees of the Bedegraine.

Yes, out of the light of the noonday sun, it was cooler here, but he felt warmer inside. Here, the trees were just trees, and within a few minutes he saw a squirrel, high in an oak tree, that was just a squirrel.

After Linfield, the ordinariness of the Bedegraine was almost luxurious.

No forester tended this part of the Bedegraine—it was too close to Linfield—so what paths there were largely deer trails, and heavily overgrown, making for slow going in most places, and often forcing him to turn his head to protect his eyes from branches.

The floor of the forest was littered with rotting humus, but it was a comforting, homey smell, and the crashing through the brush that brought his hand near the Khan turned out to merely be a massive buck deer, with a huge rack easily of twenty or more points, who gave horse and man a quick look before dashing across the trail, and off into the brush, disappearing with barely a sound.

He was never sure quite how far he rode into the Bedegraine before he reached the Arroy that it contained; the border between the encompassing Bedegraine was by no means well marked, and no mapmaker had ever been able to map it out.

Best not to try—things tended to happen in the Arroy to any who came without invitation, and even some who had been invited. Not always good things; not always bad things, but it was known as the Forest of Adventure for good reason, after all, and adventures were something that a wise man or woman would try to avoid, if possible.

But slowly, very slowly, the forest changed about him, becoming darker and quieter. No trace of sun peeked through the overhead canopy of green, and the chittering of the squirrels and the chirping of birds was but a memory. Other than the slow, muted clopping of his horse's hooves against the ground, the only sound he could hear was of a creek burbling, hidden ahead of and below him by the twist of land and thickness of the forest.

Yes, it was dark and quiet, and if he had taken a different route, he might have found it disturbing.

But not today, or any day that he came from this direction; it was, after all, the dark and quiet of the Arroy, not the black and silence of Linfield.

The trail grew too steep for him to be sure of the horse's footing, so he dismounted, and wrapped the reins about his stump, leading it down the slope, waiting—as he always did—for the trail to fork, finding—as always—that it never did, not for him.

He didn't understand that; Cully had always talked about how one thing he liked about visiting the Arroy was that it didn't matter which fork in the trail one took, as it would bring you to Her, in any case. Gray had always found that there were never forks in any trail, no matter which he took into the Arroy. They had, for him, always led directly to Her.

It probably didn't make any difference, even if it was true. Was it that the choices that you made entering the Arroy didn't matter? Or was it just that there were no choices? What was the difference?

He shrugged. It was probably just Father Cully using a story by way of making some sort of obscure point, one that would have gone over the head of the wretched Southampton orphan boy called Grayling just as much as it still did over the head of Sir Joshua Grayling.

He just followed the one trail.

At the bottom of the gully, the trail crossed the stream, and there didn't look like a better place to ford, so he did just that, wrapping the reins around his stump so that he could lead his horse while holding both of his swords high, to keep them out of the water.

The water was bone-chillingly cold, and soaked him from waist to toes. But his boots had long since shrunk as much as they could, and they would dry, eventually. He had a spare pair in his horse's pack, but lacing and tying boots was something that a one-handed man could do only with great time and trouble, and, after all, he had been summoned to Her. Damp feet would not be allowed to delay him in that.

He was so occupied in getting his swords back where they belonged as he was walking the horse up the bank, that he almost missed the rucksack lying on the large, flat rock on the bank of the stream.

"Hello?" he called out. "Is there somebody here?"

There was no answer.

Strange. He thought for a moment about stooping to examine the rucksack, but that really was a job that would have required two hands, and he had but one—and while in most places, there would be no reason to worry about his horse wandering off, this was, after all the Arroy, and even so minor a quest could turn out to be far more interesting than he had any interest in.

So he walked the horse over to a tree and tied the reins around a low branch, not trusting to it to stay ground-hitched, then walked back to the rucksack.

He dropped to one knee next to it. Very strange. There was a cake of soap on a piece of waxed paper, lying next to it. He touched a finger to the soap—it was dry, as though it was waiting for a bather.

He looked around. The creek twisted through the vale, and it was only a few yards before it twisted out of sight. There might easily be a deeper pool beyond, downstream, where a traveler might bathe, if they were of a mind to.

He could, of course, just leave it there.

He was no thief—well, he hadn't been a thief for many years; a Southampton orphan boy got by as best he could—but there was something strange about all of this. The rucksack couldn't have been lying there very long, after all; while the ground was littered with dead leaves and fallen branches, the rucksack lay atop them, as though the owner had left it there but minutes ago.

Leave it here? Had he frightened the owner of the pack, and run him—or her—off?

Perhaps the owner was hiding, and watching him from some nearby cover. Far stranger things had been known to happen in the Arroy, after all. He peered at the greenery, but couldn't see a place where somebody could be hiding, although with the way that the creek twisted through the gully, somebody could be just a few tens of feet away and be utterly hidden. And, besides, he wasn't much of a woodsman—there were probably places within his sight where eyes could be watching him.

"I am Sir Joshua Grayling, of the Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon," he said, loudly, trying to make his voice carry without actually shouting. "I mean no harm to most."

He had to be careful what he said; if it turned out that this was the rucksack of some outlaw, say, he would not promise him safe passage.

On the other hand, this was the Arroy, after all, and in the Arroy, finding a noble girl fleeing to escape an unwanted marriage was the sort of thing that could much more easily happen than in most other places. And if the noble girl had paused at a stream to bathe herself, and hidden her nakedness from the arrival of some traveler, that, too, was the sort of thing that was more likely to happen in the Arroy than anywhere else he could think of, and probably most places that he couldn't.

He had been summoned to Her presence, but if necessary, of course, he could and would tarry long enough to see to the safety of some—

"No, there's no naked maiden hiding among the leaves," She said, chuckling. "Just Me. I'm quite decently clothed, and not hiding."

He turned.

She stood there, high on the bank, toying with the gelding's reins.

And She was, of course, utterly perfect, from toe to head.

Her naked feet rested on arched sandals that seemed to have no straps. Each toe was perfect, undeformed by shoes and boots, its nail unmarked, unsullied by color or polish.

She wore a simple shift of white linen, only a few shades paler than her own creamy skin, drawn in tightly with a silver belt at her narrow waist, before it fell immodestly to just above the knee. On anybody else, he would have found its clingingness, its briefness, utterly shocking, but he simply could not see Her in that way.

"I know," She said. Her voice was sweet without being cloying, and loud in his ears, although She spoke barely above a whisper.

The horse whickered, and started to shy, but She laid a finger on its muzzle, and it immediately quieted, and stayed quiet, standing in place, turned its head to watch Her and him with its huge eyes when She dropped the reins to the ground and walked over to him.

"No," she said, turning her head for a moment toward the animal, "we'll have no adventures with you today, if you please."

Her black hair flowed like shadow across Her shoulders, and fell behind Her, held in place by a simple silver band. Her lips were red as freshly shed blood, and parted in a smile that revealed teeth that were even and white.

"Hello, Gray," She said. "I won't ask you to kneel, you know. If I put you in a position where you must defy Me, or break an oath, it will be over something more important to Me than that slight courtesy. Stand if you please; I'll take no offense."

He had sworn, long ago, never to drop to his knees other than by his own will. He had done so many times since, but always by his own choice, by his own will.

Yes, She knew everything there was to know about him, so it was through his own will, his own sense of what was right and proper, that he dropped to one knee before Her, using the leather cap on his stump to sweep his swords properly up and behind him.

"As you wish. Please, Joshua," She said. "Rise, and take my hand."

He did so immediately, and once again, as before, at the moment he touched Her hand, he knew why they all loved Her so, why he couldn't help it anymore than any of the rest could. Her hand, small in his, wasn't just warm and warming; it was intoxicating, even more than the way that her eyes, behind the long lashes, looked unblinkingly into his.

It wasn't just the physicality of it, although he tried to ignore how he had become suddenly and painfully erect, and how Her scent filled his nostrils, for the moment driving away not just the pains of the body, pains that he only noticed by their absence, but those of the spirit. His shoulders had been tight, and painful, and somehow or other he had gotten a scrape on his left cheekbone. He had ignored those things, as was only proper, and now only noticed them because they were gone.

But it was more than the aches and pains of life. For the moment, he felt whole, and decent, and it was the touch of Her hand that had done it.

It was as though the weight of all of his many sins had been lifted from him, and though he knew that their weight would return the moment that Her touch left, he felt good and worthy and whole for the moment.

But, even without that, even if the touch of Her hand had burned his flesh instead of lightened his heart, how could he not have loved Her?

Her smile broadened. "Yes. But you'll let go of My hand nonetheless, won't you?" she asked. "And you'll not take Me in your arms and crush Me to you, My mouth warm upon yours, even though you know that I would make no protest?"

She took a step closer to him. She smelled of wildflowers and musk, and if there was a hint of the reek of the rotting humus of the forest floor, it only added to the intoxicating effect—to Her intoxicating effect.

"No, Lady, I would not," he said. It was bad enough that such as he touched Her hand; he would not sully Her with more contact than that, save by Her command.

"And would you resist Me, if I tried to force Myself upon you?"

He didn't have an answer for that, although it was not the first time that she had asked him that question. "I still don't know, Lady. But I will, once again, beg You not to think of lowering Yourself so."

She smiled. "And, once again, you dodge the issue. But, be that as it may, I'd not do so, save in necessity."

Necessity? What could make that necessary? He didn't ask; if She wanted him to know, She would have told him.

"Yes," She said. "I would." She nodded, slowly, and in a quick blink She was an arm's length away from him, his hand no longer touching Her.

And all the weight of his sins fell back upon him, and he wept.

"Gray," She was saying. He didn't know how long he had crouched there, weeping like a child. It could have been a moment, or a year. Time seemed to do strange things around Her. "Please stop."

He let a breath out in a ragged sob, then drew another one in.

"Of course, Lady. You have my apologies," he said, as he rose, noting with no pride, albeit some sense of accomplishment, that his voice was steady and calm, suitable for a knight of the Order.

"Apologies? You've nothing to apologize to Me for," She said. "And if you need to draw strength by touching the Khan, though, please do so."

No. Not in front of Her. She could see into the foulness of his soul, yes, but he would not add to it. Not now, not in front of Her. Later, perhaps—no, later, certainly; Gray would be honest with himself. But not before Her.

He hooked his thumb in his sash.

"At most, you can only be once damned, you know," She said, shaking Her head, slowly. "And that is avoidable. But it doesn't feel that way, does it?"

No. It didn't. He could not have served his king, and his brothers, as well if he had not taken the Khan into hand, to mix his soul with the surely damned one of the Khan trapped in the Red Sword, but . . .

"No, it's not that." She frowned. "Even if it's as dark a sin as you think it is, it's forgivable, as all are, to those of the faith you profess. It's the despair that you will not release yourself from that's the sin, Joshua."

Will not, or can not?

He didn't ask. He would like to pretend to himself that it would be otherwise, but he remembered, each and every time that he drew the Khan, what he had made of himself, and what he would make of himself not merely when next he drew the cursed sword, but took a breath without repenting of the necessity of it, a repentance that he could not feel, and would not lie about, to himself or to others.

"Such arrogance, from a man of such modesty." She cocked her head to one side. "Who are you to say that your God cannot forgive you?"

Always the same questions; always the same answers.

"I'm a man who has sworn to live by mercy tempered only by justice, justice tempered only by mercy," he said. "I'd not ask for mercy for myself that I think would be tempered by no justice at all."

Yes, Christ had died, offering to take the sins of the world with him; yes, forgiveness was available, to all who confessed and repented.

But how could a just God forgive the unrepentant?

"The world," she said, "is a stool that rests on three legs: faith, wisdom, and justice. And which of those is most important?"

There was, as always, only one answer to that ancient riddle. "It's as with any other stool—the weakest leg is the most important, Lady, of course. And justice is, always and ever, the weakest. Wisdom there is, although never enough; and faith, while sometimes lacking, is always available. But justice? There's little of that. Of all my failings, Lady, of all my sins, of all that can be said about me, please let it not be said that I begged God to weaken the most important leg of the stool on which the world rests."

"Gray—"

"Please, Lady, may we speak on this no more?"

She sighed. "A stubborn one, you are. More so than most, and your Order is a stubborn lot, all in all. Would you rather speak about the rucksack?"

In Her presence, he had forgotten about something so mundane.

"If it pleases You, yes," he said.

"It's Cully's; return it to him, if you would," She said. "He left it here his last visit." She actually chuckled. "Most of you, I would chide for leaving your laundry for Me to do, and I guess I should make no exception in his case. But I shall, anyway, and tell you not to chide him on My behalf. In fact, I tucked in a hairbrush for him—he forgot to bring one with him last time. Don't mention that, either; let him discover that for himself." She cocked her head to one side. "Are you not going to ask?"

"Ask what, Lady?" He didn't pretend to understand Her. You didn't need to understand Her in order to love or worship Her, after all.

"Are you not going to ask if I had you sent all the way here just to pick up Cully's rucksack?"

She wanted him to, so of course he did: "Lady," he said, "did you have me sent all the way here just to pick up Father Cully's rucksack?"

"And if I did?"

"I make no complaint."

Seeing Her was always pleasure, always pain, and there were times when he wasn't sure that he could sort out which was which, but that wasn't important. Obedience; service; faith; honor; justice and mercy; mercy and justice, yes. His own agony, physical or otherwise, simply didn't measure on that scale.

"No, you'd not complain." Her voice grew sharp. "Well, you should, if that was the case. You should be complaining much. You should be complaining about Mordred, and about Cully, and about the abbot, and about Me, for that matter. Let's start with the king. He treats you like an archer treats an arrow—to him, you're just a tool, just a weapon."

"As is his right, Lady," he said. "And as he's said, in so many words. And if among my sins is the pride that I'm a good weapon for him, I'll not repent of that, either."

She snorted. "You're as unrepentant an inveterate penitent as I've ever known, Joshua."

He didn't answer; he didn't know if one was called for.

"And then there's Me. You should be angry at Me. I sent you off to be knighted, suspecting what might happen to you." She frowned. "Not a Sight, no. Just a suspicion. But even if I'd had a Sight, do you think I'd have not sent off such a promising young knight-to-be to serve My family? You were quite the hero in those heady days, and you've further distinguished yourself since, on more than several occasions." She cocked her head to one side. "The Khan is quite dangerous, as much as the Sandoval, I think—but I also know that you'd not drop your iron self-control for a moment; there'll be no Linfield Horror created by the likes of Joshua Grayling."

"Not without necessity," he said, carefully. "Not over mere anger. I've done awful things, as You know better than most, but not because I can't control myself."

"And that's one of the things that makes you such a useful weapon for the king."

"I'm honored, Lady."

"Not angry, but honored." She nodded her head. "And I made you love Me."

At that, he smiled. "How could I not?"

She smiled back at him, and Her smile warmed him more than he could have said.

"Oh, yes," She said, "all the boys love Me, and in My own way, I do love them, though there are those who think that I love all of them in a fleshy sense, and not in a chaste and proper way. In the villages around the Bedegraine, you'll hear whispers that I bed all of them, too, that the reason that the final test for entry to the Order is the trip into the Arroy is so that the novices can satisfy the carnal needs of the insatiable Queen of Air and Darkness, and that those who fail to do so are left as empty husks, sucked dry of life."

He had never heard such a thing. Of course, he wouldn't—if someone were to speak disparagingly of Her, it would not be even a whisper where the likes of Joshua Grayling could overhear. Not twice.

Nor, for that matter, would any do so twice around any other of the Order, including the abbot general.

"Ah, yes, Ralph," she said. "Another one of those horrid romantic triangles my family seems to find itself in. Although this one has more than a few angles to it; triangles linked in a chain—did you never wonder why the abbot general carries Jenn?"

Cully had carried Jenn, and surrendered the White Sword when he had left the Order. Yes, Jenn belonged at Cully's waist, not the abbot's, but—

No.

He shook his head. No. It wasn't for the likes of him to judge his betters, and the abbot was a good man. He was. And if he differed with Gray about Father Cully, that was not only his privilege, but his right, and—

"He played you like a lute, Joshua, and I can hear the distant song even now. 'Hear my confession,' he said, and then he emptied his heart out to you, withholding no trace of sin, for he is devious in his directness, as he knows that you're the most pitying pitiless man that he's ever met. He gulled you with sincerity, and you fell for it."

"To what end?"

"To make you doubt. He has good intuition, that one—and I would think that, since I share it. He thinks that Cully's irresponsible, and reckless, and that there are things happening where Cully may well be near the center and the heart, and that you'll be a steadying influence on him, if only Ralph can persuade you of his own wisdom. The abbot thinks that, in the final analysis, he can trust you, for he has given you his trust, confessed his sins and failings without reservation, and he knows that utter honesty can be far more manipulative than even the cleverest lie, more effective than can be even the most carefully constructed deception, Gray."

But Father Cully was irresponsible, and reckless. He always did what he thought best, and only bowed to superior authority out of necessity—when he saw the necessity—not with the giving heart and oath of a knight of the Order. He ruthlessly used the tools given him, and never counted the cost until after, if then.

"And you love him for it, and if I could promise you that you could die horribly, in great agony, at his side, protecting him, you'd bless Me for that promise."

"Of course, Lady," he said. He would love Her no more for that promise, because that was impossible. But he would certainly try.

"But, yet, you should be angry with Cully—he took you in, as a child, yes, but he abandoned you."

"He did not." Yes, Father Cully had left the Order, and England—but it was not an abandonment, it had been an attempt to save Gray's soul, to prevent the king and the abbot from giving him the Khan.

That Father Cully was wrong wasn't a betrayal; he had been trying to protect Gray. How could Gray be angry with him for that?

"You used to be," she said, answering his thoughts, rather than his words.

"Then I was a fool, as well as damned." He could not stop Her from speaking as She saw fit, and he wouldn't have if he could have, but he would not hear Father Cully accused without defending him, not even—no, particularly not when the awful words fell like bright jewels from Her lips.

She picked up the rucksack, and handed it to him. "Well, I'm not telling you that you'll die by his side, protecting him; I have neither the power nor the desire to grant that, and no Sight to foretell it." She sighed. "Just tell Cully that I tried, if you please."

"Tried? I don't understand"

"Just tell him. He will understand; it's something between him and Me." Her hand reached out toward him, but She drew it back. "And be careful, Joshua," She said. "There is something awful going on."

He would have asked if there was more that She could tell him, but She would have, if She could.

"Yes, I would." She nodded. "I'm not keeping anything from you, Gray. I have fear, but no understanding of it. It's feeling, hints, worries—and you've enough of those latter without Me burdening you more."

"I make no protest, Lady," he said. He would bear his burdens as best he could, and without complaint.

"Well, you should." She shook Her head. "Darklings in the south are only part of it. The new live swords? Another piece of the puzzle, and the one thing I'm certain of is that those aren't the only pieces. You've heard about Hostikka, and that was hardly the only missing piece.

"And so I send you, yet again another one of his lambs, out to find more pieces, and help put them together. And if it's to the slaughter I send you, as it might well be, what would you have to say to that? What would you have to say to Me?"

Of lies, there were no limit; there never were. But of the truth, there was only one answer:

"I would say: I thank you, Lady; I bless you, Lady; and I love you, Lady, for the honor that you bestow upon me, unworthy of it though I am."

She sighed. "Then I'll say this to you, Joshua: follow your heart and your head. Look for the right thing to do, even when it doesn't mean self-sacrifice. I will not say that I trust you to do the right thing, because I am not sure that you will know the right thing any better than do I.

"But let Me say this: when it comes time to decide, listen to others, and accept their counsel, if you think it wise. But listen with an open mind, and an open heart, and as you love Me remember this: it was you whom I sent for, and you to whom I have said this, and not the king, and not the abbot, and very much not Cully, much though I love him.

"I said, truly, that I have no Sight in this, and that concerns me, but I have a feeling, Joshua, and My feeling is that the stool of the world may not rest on faith, or wisdom, or justice, not this time: it may, indeed, rest on you. What have you to offer, Joshua?"

And, as always, there could be only one answer. "Service, honor, faith, obedience. Justice tempered only by mercy; mercy tempered only by justice."

"Obedience? You've been set out on your own, Joshua, to do as you think best: that is your obedience. Your whole life is service; that can give you no clue. And if you should see that faith, wisdom, and justice are insufficient, and since you believe with all your heart that you are a man who has sacrificed his soul, and are without honor, that leaves you one virtue left."

"Mercy, my Lady. Mercy tempered only by justice, but mercy nonetheless."

"Mercy, indeed. And may it include mercy on yourself, Gray."

He bowed stiffly, and when he raised his head, he was alone by the bank of the creek, his horse snorting in impatience. It was difficult, working with one hand and his stump, to strap the rucksack to the saddle, but he did it as rapidly and thoroughly as he could, then gave a quick tug on it, to be sure that it was securely bound.

And then he was quickly on his way.

There was, of course, only the one path.

He followed it.

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Framed