The pick-me-up did, indeed, remove Holger’s pangs on the instant. He thought that if only he could get the formula and it worked in his universe, his fortune was made. But Martinus had turned grave again. The small man paced the shop with his hands behind his back, stared at the floor, and said low:
“I could not learn your identity, Sir Holger. A geas has been laid on every being which might have told me. That suggests you are indeed someone of importance. The enemy did not think of everything, however. I raised the fleet spirits of air, even called in Ariel as consultant, and they were still able to find where Cortana lies buried. The place is not overly far from here. But it’s no trip I’d like to make.”
Holger’s heart thuttered. “Where?”
Martinus glanced at Alianora. “Do you know the church of St. Grimmin’s-in-the-Wold?” he asked.
She bit her lip. “I ha’ heard tell o’ ’t,” she admitted.
“Well, that’s where the sword is,” said Martinus. “I imagine the Middle Worlders choose a site here in the east to get it far from its rightful owner, and St. Grimmin’s specifically to make his quest hard should he ever get on its track.” He shook his bald head. “I can’t honestly recommend you go there, young fellow.”
“What is this place?” asked Holger.
“An old abandoned church in the uplands north of here. Centuries ago it was raised as a mission, in the hope of converting the savage tribesmen thereabouts, and for a while it did have a congregation. Then a raiding chief murdered them all and the church has been in ruins ever since. They say the chief defiled the altar with a human sacrifice, so the building is no longer holy, but has become the biding place of evil spirits and bad luck. Not even the savages go near St. Grimmin’s any more.”
“Hm.” Holger looked at his feet. He felt as if a weight lay on him. Martinus wasn’t kidding.
For a moment he wondered why he should bother. Why should he even want to return home? What was there that drew him?’ Oh, yes, friends, memories, well-loved scenes, but to be completely honest, no one and nothing he would miss beyond endurance. War, hunger, drabness, depersonalization. Why, if he did succeed in returning, he might find himself at the same instant of space-time as he’d left. The conservation laws of physics suggested he would. And he and his fellows had been pinned down on a beach, knowing they were to die, hoping with a rapidly fading hope that they could stay alive just long enough for that one boat to reach the Swedish shore.
Hell, everything pointed to the other world’s not even being his own. He belonged here, in this Carolingian universe; the other had been a place of exile. In so many ways this was a better and cleaner abode—No, said his stubborn truthfulness, that wasn’t fair. This cosmos had its own drawbacks. But simply by virtue of being different, didn’t it promise him more adventure and opportunity than the best of the other earth?
A sunbeam straggling in a window touched Alianora’s locks with fire. He’d never known a girl like her. If he chucked this whole stupid quest and went off with her, he could just about write his own ticket. King of the woods, or he could doubtless carve himself a realm in these turbulent borderlands, or if he wanted high civilization he could go with her to the Empire and—
And what? Chaos was still readying for battle. He thought of Alianora’s idea that the Pharisees might draw their own twilight across the whole planet. He remembered what Morgan had mentioned about heedless play with worlds and suns, about men and their homes and hopes engulfed in destruction.
No, he really had no choice. No honorable man did, in such a time. He must do his best to get Cortana and give the weapon back to its rightful owner, or wield it himself if he was the one. Afterward, if there was an afterward, he could decide whether to continue attempting a return across the universes.
He looked up. “I’ll go,” he said.