“You worked too hard,” said Diane. “That’s what’s the matter with you now.”
The wizard’s mind jumped. “We were talking about the Huntsman,” he said. “Do you know he once spent a week with us? There were several of us then and sometimes we’d have guests of a slow weekend. But the Huntsman was no invited guest. He dropped in. He came riding in one evening on his horse and with all those dogs of his. They landed in the big dining room you saw, where we were just finishing a well-cooked meal. The dogs jumped up on the sideboard and made off with a platter of partridge, a ham, and a venison pot roast, and fought one another up and down the hall for each one’s fair share of it, while those of us at table sat petrified with the gaucherie of it. The Huntsman, meantime, hoisted a small keg of beer to drink directly from the bung-hole, pouring it directly down his throat and I swear you could hear the glugging of it when it hit his stomach. Although after that first onslaught it all got straightened out and we had a jolly week of it, with those dogs eating us out of house and home and the Huntsman drinking us out of house and home. But we didn’t mind too much, for the Huntsman told us tales that thereafter, for a full year’s time, we recited to one another, savoring them again.”
“You must have had good times in those days,” said Duncan, saying the first thing that came to mind.
“Oh, we did,” the wizard said. “You must ask me about that night when a band of drunken rogues brought the demon to us. Having tired of him themselves, and looking to get rid of him, they thought it a splendid joke to bring him as a gift to us. By the way, you have met the demon, have you not?”
“Yes, I have,” said Duncan.
“As demons go,” the wizard said, “he is not a bad sort. He claims he has not a single vicious bone in his body and while I’d not go so far as that…”
“Sire,” said Diane, in a gentle voice, “you were talking about the Horde of Evil.”
Cuthbert seemed somewhat surprised.
“Were we?” he asked. “Is that what we were talking of?”
“I believe it was,” said Duncan.
“As I was saying,” said the wizard. “Or was I saying it? I just cannot remember. But, anyhow, I think it likely that most people have no real idea of how a congress of wizards live. I would imagine they might equate a wizard’s castle with a monastery where the little monks wind their silent ways through mazes of doctrinal theology, clutching their ragged little souls close within their breasts, scarcely daring to breathe for fear they will draw into their lungs a whiff of heresy. Or they might think of a castle such as this as a place of hidden trapdoors, with sinister figures, black draped and cowled, hiding around corners or ambushed behind the window drapes, with sinister winds whistling down the corridors and hideous odors billowing from thaumaturgic laboratories. It is, of course, nothing like unto either one of these. While this place now is quiet from lack of occupants, there was a day when it was a gleesome place, jocular and laughter loving. For we made a jovial group when we put our work aside. We worked hard, it is true, for the tasks we set ourselves were not easy ones, but we also knew how to spend merry hours together. Lying here, I can call the roll of those old companions. There were Caewlin and Arthur, Aethelbehrt and Raedwald. Eadwine and Wulfert–and I can think of them all most kindly, but for Wulfert I feel remorseful pangs, for while what we did was necessary, it still was a hard and sad action to be taken. We turned him out the gate…”
“Sire,” said Diane, “you have forgotten that Wulfert was kin of mine.”
“Yes, yes,” said Cuthbert. “I forget again and my tongue runs on. It seems to me that lately I do much forgetting.” He made a thumb at Diane and said to Duncan, “That is quite correct. Wizard blood runs in her veins, or perhaps you already know. Mayhaps she has told you…”
“Yes, she had,” said Duncan.
The wizard lay quietly on the pillows and it seemed the talk had ended, but again he stirred and spoke.
“Yes, Wulfert,” he said. “He was like unto a brother to me. But when the decision came to be made, I sided with the others.”
He fell into a silence and then again he spoke. “Arrogance,” he said. “Yes, it was his arrogance. He set himself against the rest of us. He set his knowledge and his skills against our skills and knowledge. We told him that he wasted time, that there was no power in his talisman, and yet, setting at naught our opinions and our friendships, he insisted that it had great power. He said it was our jealousy that spoke. We tried to reason with him. We talked to him like brothers who held great love of him. But he’d not listen to us, stubbornly he stood against us all. Granted that this talisman of his was a thing of beauty, in more ways than one, since he was a magnificent craftsman, a skilled worker in the arcane, but it takes more than beauty…”
“You are sure of that?” asked Diane.
“My dear, I am sure of it. A petty power, perhaps. He claimed that this silly talisman of his could be used to go against the Horde of Evil and that was pure insanity. A mere petty power, is all. Certainly nothing that could be used against the Evil.”
“How is it,” Diane asked, “that you never spoke to me of this before? You knew I was seeking word of him, that I hoped to find the talisman.”
“Why should I cause you pain?” the wizard asked. “I would not have said it now, but in my silliness and weakness, it slipped out of me. I would not willingly have spoken, for I knew how loyal you were to him. Or to his memory. For I suppose he now is dead. I think you told me that.”
“Yes, for a century or more. I found where he was buried. In the village just beyond the hills. The last years of his life he posed as a saintly man. The village would have run him out if they’d known he was a wizard.”
The old man’s eyes were misted. A tear went running down one wasted cheek.
He waved a hand at them. “Leave me now,” he said. “Go. Leave me with my grief.”
22
He had a problem, Duncan told himself, and the fact he had a problem worried him a lot. He should not have this kind of problem–it was not in his nature to follow a course that would result in such a problem. All his life he had been frank and forthright, saying exactly what he thought, holding back no truth, telling no lies. And this was worse than a simple lie; this was dishonesty.
The amulet–perhaps the talisman, for that was how Cuthbert had described it–did not belong to him. It belonged to Diane, and every fiber in him cried out for him to hand it back to her. It had been constructed by her great-grandfather and should be passed on to her. And yet he had said nothing about having it, had set the course for the rest of his band to say nothing of it, either.
Cuthbert had said it had no power, that its fabrication had been a failure. And yet Wulfert, Diane’s great-grandfather, had been willing to accept banishment from the congress of wizards rather than admit that it had no power.
It was because of the nagging feeling, almost a conviction, that it did have a very potent power, he knew, that he had acted as he had. For if the talisman had any kind of power at all, could afford its bearer even the slightest protection, then, he told himself, he had a greater need of it than had anyone. Not he, of course, but the manuscript–for that was the crux of it, the manuscript. He must get it to Oxenford and there was nothing that he could ignore, nothing at all, that would help him get it there.
It was not for himself alone that he, who had never been dishonest, now was dealing in dishonesty. In the library back at Standish House His Grace had said that in the manuscript lay mankind’s greatest hope–perhaps the one last hope remaining. If that were true, and Duncan had no doubt it was, then dishonesty was a trivial price to pay to get the writings of that unknown follower of Jesus into the hands of Bishop Wise.