Holger lowered himself into one of the chairs, which creaked alarmingly under his weight. Alianora poised on the edge of another, flickering her eyes about like a snared bird. Martinus found a third seat, crossed his legs, made a bridge of his fingers, and said, “Now, sir, what seems to be your difficulty?”
“Well, uh,” said Holger, “well, it all began back when—oh, hell, I hardly know where to begin.”
“Would you like a couch to lie on?” asked Martinus solicitously.
A bottle and three dirty goblets floated in and landed on the table. “About time,” grumbled the sorcerer. After a moment, when the invisible servant had presumably left, he went on, “I declare, there is no decent help to be had these days. None. That sprite, now, he is quite impossible. Improbable, at least,” he qualified. “Not like when I was a boy. Such classes knew their place then. And as for herbs, and mummy, and powdered toad, why, they just don’t put the sort of stuff into them they used to. And the prices! My dear sir, you’ll scarcely believe it, but only last Michaelmas—”
Alianora coughed. “Oh, pardon me,” said Martinus. “I rambled. Bad habit, rambling. Must make a note not to ramble.” He poured the wine and offered it around. It was drinkable. “Proceed, good sir, I pray you. Say what you will.”
Holger sighed and launched into his story. Martinus surprised him with questions and comments as shrewd as Duke Alfric’s had been. When Holger recounted his stay with Mother Gerd, the wizard shook his head. “I know of her,” he said. “Not a good sort. Not surprising you got into trouble. She traffics with black magic. It’s these unlicensed practitioners who give the whole profession a bad name. But do go on, sir.”
At the end Martinus pursed his lips. “A strange tale,” he said. “Yes I think your supposition is right. You are the crux of a very large matter indeed.”
Holger trembled as he leaned forward. “Who am I?” he asked. “Who bears three hearts and three lions?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know, Sir Holger. I suspect you are, or were, some great man in the western lands, France for example.” Martinus looked pedantic. “Are you familiar with the mystical geography? Well, you see, the world of Law—of man—is hemmed in with strangeness, like an island in the sea of the Middle World. Northward live the giants, southward the dragons. Here in Tarnberg we are close to the eastern edge of human settlement and know a trifle about such kingdoms as Faerie and Trollheim. But news travels slowly and gets dissipated in the process. So we have only vague, distorted rumors of the western realms—not merely the Middle World domains out in the western ocean, like Avalon, Lyonesse, and Huy Braseal, but even the human countries such as France and Spain. Thus, although this knight of hearts and lions, who seems in some manner to be yourself, may be a household name in that part of the world, I cannot identify him. Nor do I think the information is in my books, though I really must catalogue my library one of these days.
“However”—he grew earnest and lost some of his fussiness—”in a general way, I think I can see what has happened. This western knight would have been too great a foe for Chaos to meet. Quite likely he was one of the Chosen, like Carl or Arthur or their greatest paladins. I do not mean a saint, but a warrior whom God gave more than common gifts and then put under a more than common burden. The knights of the Round Table and of Carl’s court are long dead, but another champion may have taken their place. So before Chaos could hope to advance, this man had to be gotten out of the way.
“Morgan may well have done that herself, by burying his past life in him beyond the aid of any ordinary spell, turning him into a child, and projecting him into your other world, in hopes that he would not return until Chaos had irretrievably won. Why she did not merely assassinate him, I cannot say. Perhaps she didn’t have the heart to. Or perhaps, being one of the Chosen, he was shielded by a greater Power than hers.