The Oathbound Wizard-Wiz Rhyme-2 (2 page)

Again, the guard turned to him, and this time his expression would have done credit to a bloodhound. Matt tried to smile bravely, but he wasn't really up to it.

This was ridiculous! Here he was, just making the guard and himself both miserable. He had to jolt himself out of this self-pity and get back in action!

It was a time to be doing, not moping!

Do what?

Good question. In Merovence, magic worked by chanting poetry, sometimes reinforced by gestures--and he couldn't chant very well if his mouth was stuffed with a gag. Gesturing was possible with chains on his wrists, but somewhat limited. Besides, gestures couldn't do anything alone.

For a life to dwell

In a dungeon cell

Growing thin and wizened

In a solitary prison...

He broke off with a shudder. He had a momentary vision of his future... My hair is gray, but not with years,

Nor grew it white

In a single night

As men's have grown from sudden fears.

The guard sniffed and wiped a tear as he glanced at Matt out of the corner of his eye. Matt plucked up his spirits to wink, and take a playful kick at the man's knee with the ankle that was not fastened to the wall. The guard looked surprised, then grinned down. "Eh, your Lordship! I should ha' known naught would keep 'ee down for long!"

Matt winked again, though he felt like crying, before his attention strayed back to his dilemma. Finally, he began to feel indignant, a very healthy sign. Definitely better than moping. The ignominy of it! He, the topmost wizard in the land--thanks to all the verses he knew that this land had never heard of--chained in dungeon vile and not able to do a thing about it! And all because Alisande had been quick enough to think of a gag before he did! She may have tired of him, but she wasn't about to let him go--oh, no! Salt him away in storage in case he suited her whim again! How like a woman, always to want a new beau for her string!

For a moment, his resentment submerged in admiration of her. What a woman!

Such presence of mind, such quickness of wit, to realize in a split second that, gagged, he couldn't work magic, and so couldn't escape. Such determination, such tenacity, such selfishness!

Well, that wasn't really fair. Her kingdom came before herself, in her own mind--that's why she was a good monarch. But could he really manage having a wife who thought her kingdom was more important than her husband?

She appeared again before his mind's eye, and he knew in a moment that he could. After all, that devotion to duty was part of what made her admirable. But did she always have to be so damned right?

Yes, she did--at least, in public matters. The "Divine Right of Kings" really worked, in this universe. Nice to know he ranked as a public issue. On the other hand, it might have been nice if, to her, he'd been more than a national asset.

Or was he? Come to think of it, if she was in love with him, it was a personal matter--and, in personal matters, her judgment could be flawed. The old scientific instinct stirred in him. How about the empirical test?

After all, who knew for sure that he couldn't escape?

Everyone, that's who. In this universe, magic worked--and it worked by poetry. But a spell had to be recited aloud in order for it to work--everyone knew that!

His spirits slumped again and, for the first time in three years, he found himself wishing ardently that he was back in the old, familiar, dead-end college-campus life he'd known before.

I am a man of constant sorrow,

I've seen trouble all my days.

I'm going back to East Virginia,

The place where I was born and raised.

The guard turned to him, startled, alarmed. Matt frowned up at him. What was there to be alarmed about?

Matt's going.

Excitement spun through him. The guard had picked up his sadness before--that's why he'd been looking sympathetic. And he was resonating Matt's feelings of longing to go, now!

And why not? Matt had been thinking in verses!

Then why didn't all his thoughts make spells happen?

Because they usually weren't in verse--and when they were, they were fleeting verses like these, all emotion with no action, no imperative!

So if he did silently say a verse with an imperative...

But everyone knew a spell had to be recited aloud.

Sure--but just because everyone knew it, didn't always mean it was true. Matt set himself and tried to think of the verse that he had used to free himself and Alisande from imprisonment in this very castle, those long three years ago.

I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,

Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,

Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,

With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine.

There shall I fly, to celebrate the light,

Freed in these flowers with dances of delight.

He waited expectantly for the disorientation of physical projection, waiting, waiting...

Disappointed.

He glowered up at the guard, feeling an irrational resentment of the man for still being there. Apparently verses did have to be spoken out loud. Then a still, small voice seemed to speak within him, encouraging, but with a suspicion that some other power was operating here, that his spells would have to be in harmony with that other power before they could work. It made sense. He knew very well that he would have gone down in defeat more than once, if his magic hadn't been supported by the spiritual guidance of Saint Moncaire, the patron of Merovence. And if Saint Moncaire had other plans for him right now than just breaking free to go wandering around feeling sorry for himself...

On the other hand, did he really want to do Saint Moncaire's work for him again?

Well, he could at least find out what the contract said before he signed it. He threw himself on the figurative mercies of the angels, asking where they wanted him to go.

The answer welled up in him, feeling uncomfortably like a compulsion. But about all you can do for a geas is go where it tells you, so Matt shrugged in surrender and recited an old, folk hymn:

"Servant, go where I send thee!"

"How shall I send me, Lord?"

"Well, I'm going to send thee one by one,

One for a little bitty baby,

Was born, born, born in Bethle--"

Light glared, and he found himself somewhere else entirely. This time he stayed still, but his stomach flipped over. He staggered, taking a deep breath against nausea, and put out a still-manacled hand to steady himself. He felt rough bark beneath his palm. He turned, surprised, to see a tree behind him, and decided he wasn't in the dungeon anymore! He was free, in the sunshine and the open air! He took a deep breath of breeze, grinned wide, and looked about him.

Then he saw his surroundings, and his stomach felt a little queasy again.

Forward, Lady!

"Yet there must be some way in which a vow may be revoked, my Lord Archbishop! Can Heaven truly wish a man to act upon words spoken in rash passion?"

"It can," the Archbishop said, with a sad smile. " 'Tis therefore we must be chary of our words, Majesty, and not swear oaths in vain." They were still in the great hall, the sunlight striking through the stained glass of the western windows in tints of rose and blue, making the flagstones glow--but those colors seemed, to Alisande, to be the embers of her hopes. "But to court death and damnation, Lord Archbishop! Surely Heaven cannot wish a man to do so!"

"As to the danger of death..." The Archbishop turned thoughtful, then slowly nodded. "I can see that Heaven might wish it so--if our good Lord thought the man had some sure chance of succeeding in his holy purpose. We must all do God's work on earth, Majesty, as much as he does want of us, in such fashion as we may. The stronger must do greater tasks--and mayhap this is Lord Matthew's." The

"Lord Matthew" stuck in his throat, but he forced it out. "And as to the danger of damnation, why! Does not each of us walk in that danger every moment of our lives, Majesty? And each of us is tempted, but none beyond his strength to resist. Be assured, if God has sent...Lord Matthew into a place of such temptation, He will give your wizard strength enough to resist."

"That is cold comfort," Alisande said, morose--but the Archbishop could see she was at least a little reassured. Then she looked up at him with a scowl.

"Yet you have no need to be so cheered at the thought of his absence!" The anger of a monarch stabbed like a sword; the Archbishop's heart skipped a beat in fright. Nevertheless, he spoke up bravely. "Pardon, Majesty--yet this self-exile is the most hopeful news that I have heard since you came once again to this throne."

"Hopeful!" Alisande spat.

"Hopeful," the Archbishop said firmly, drawing himself up. "That the man who so strongly aided you in casting out the forces of evil from this your kingdom should now be sworn to a quest to overthrow the vile sorcerer-king of Ibile?

Aye, 'tis cause for great hope! Nay, I cannot truly be sorrowful to hear such news."

"Nor to think that this candidate for royal consort may soon be dead," Alisande said, acid in her tone.

"Your Majesty truly must make some provision for the succession," the Archbishop answered. "I entreat you! For what should hap to us all if you were to die before your time, without an heir?"

He thought he had done a rather good job of avoiding the question.

The guard heard the boom of imploding air, and turned to stare at the place where Matt had been. The manacles jangled, empty, against the stone. He gazed wide-eyed for a moment, then pushed his jaw back into place, heaved a sigh, and turned away to knock on the wicket and call for the captain of the guard, shaking his head.

The captain of the guard duly reported to the seneschal, who wasn't having any and told him it was his job, so the captain settled his sword belt, squared his shoulders, and turned to face the throne room with a heavy heart, reflecting that he hadn't really thought he was going to get out of it anyway.

"The brightest hope for my providing a succession, has just been cast into my dungeon, Lord Archbishop," Alisande retorted. "An you do wish me to bear an heir, you had best bethink you of ways to assure his return!" The Archbishop seemed dubious. "Misunderstand me not, Majesty--Matthew Mantrell is a good man and noble. Natheless, he is not of royal blood."

"And is therefore unfit to be consort to a queen," Alisande finished for him. "Yet it is ironic, milord, that though that doubt has lingered in my heart these three years, I find it banished of a sudden--but only by the knowledge that Lord Matthew may be taken from me!"

The Archbishop felt his heart sink.

"Nay," the queen said, "be assured, I'll marry no one else--and surely, his service to the crown, and his finding favor in the eyes of Saint Moncaire, should have made me see his worthiness! He is the hope of Merovence, now and in the future." And of herself, she added silently. "I prithee, Lord Archbishop, tell me this understanding I have gained is the accomplishment God wished, by this vow of Lord Matthew's. There must be some way to negate his oath--for surely, he did not truly intend to take arms against Ibile, alone!" The Archbishop sighed, with a sad shake of his head. "Majesty, I cannot--for why else would a wizard, one who knows the nature of geas and compulsions, have so bound himself?"

"He had forgot the power of words, here in Merovence," Alisande replied,

"for they have no such strength in that other world he hails as home. In the heat of his passion and his anger, he thought words to be idle, only an expression of his feelings."

"Would you have me believe that the highest wizard in the land had forgot that what he swore to, in this land of Merovence, he was bound to?"

"Aye." Alisande's smile curdled. "If we had told him so, he would have protested that we did take his words too literally."

The Archbishop nodded, understanding. "Yet on reflection, Majesty, he would know that was the precise nature of the problem."

"Problem!" Alisande looked up, the color coming back into her face. "Why,

'tis but a riddle after all, is't not? And has a solution like to any other!"

"Majesty?" The Archbishop definitely didn't like the sound of what he was hearing.

"He cannot be bound by that oath! For three years ago, he did swear to serve me! How then can he leave my presence, if I do require his service here? For I most earnestly do!"

The Archbishop pursed his lips. "You mean that, at the worst, his two oaths might counter one another?"

"Nay, better--I mean that the second can have no effect, for it cannot displace the first!" Alisande actually smiled. "He cannot undertake a quest unless I command it--and I do not."

But the Archbishop was giving her the sad smile again, and shaking his head.

"I regret, but I must inform you, Majesty, that the vow cannot be broken, unless Heaven and the saints really do not wish Lord Matthew to attempt the purification of Ibile. In truth, if God did wish, this later vow would overbear the first--yet I think the occasion does not arise."

Alisande's scowl was enough to make his heart quail. "How so?"

"Why," the Archbishop said, "Ibile has ever been a threat to the welfare of Merovence, to her borders and her people, since ever the first sorcerer Grosso overthrew the rightful king of Ibile and brought the reign of evil down upon the whole kingdom. Nay, Majesty, by seeking to fulfill this oath, Lord Matthew does not only God's work, but yours also!"

"Yet it is not my will!" she cried, as if it were torn out of her.

"It is Heaven's, though." The firmness of authority came back into his voice. "And you are sworn to uphold the will of Heaven, Majesty, so far as God reveals it to you."

Alisande slumped, a moment's despair evident in every line of her body. The Archbishop acted almost automatically, reaching out to the aid of a soul in need. "Be of good cheer, Majesty. Lord Matthew goes not alone into this kingdom of wickedness--he goes with the might of Heaven to strengthen him. I doubt not that Heaven will give him all the aid it can, of saints and angels, for they must surely want him to erase from Ibile this foul blot of a king, yea, Gordogrosso and all his minions."