Dominion by Fred Saberhagen (spiritual books to read TXT) 📗

mused, “he has somehow managed to touch you. He brought you here, for some purpose, from—wherever are you really from?”

   “From a far land, lord. I don’t know if I can explain.”

   “His magical games. I’ve always taken them on trust. Try explaining to me later. But the fact that he brought you here raises hope in me that all’s not lost. Even though I don’t know why he did it.”

   Artos was interrupted by a burst of oaths from the old man, who was getting unsteadily to his feet. “Where’s Nimue?” Ambrosius demanded of them both. “What’ve you done with her?” He glared at Artos. “Tell me, or I blast you inside out!”

   Artos spoke gently and sadly. “Do you think I fear you, father?”

   “Where is she?” But even as Ambrosius spoke, his rage was faltering back into fear.

   “She’s with Falerin, as you know.” That much was said brutally. Then Artos seemed unable to keep his voice from softening. “Do you think I’m going to tell you how to reach her?”

   “I cannot even use my powers to look for her. She has forbidden me that.” Ambrosius groped around him in the air with trembling hands, as if trying to seize something that could not be seen. His fingers, large, muscular, and powerless, bore great jeweled and useless rings. Never before had Marge seen an alcoholic derelict who still wore expensive-looking jewelry; but she could understand why no one had yet stolen these.

   Ambrosius rambled on: “Where’s that wineskin? I had it right here…” Then he stopped, staring hopelessly at the young man. “I tell you, Artos, a great stone crushes me. I do nothing but think of her.”

   “And drink.” Artos’ voice almost broke, then with a leader’s power regained steadiness. “You damned old fool. But I cannot spend my whole life trying to save yours. Not when kings depend on me to lead their armies, not when… you see, there’s a way the common folk have, of looking at me when I ride by. I can’t just leave them all to be part of Falerin’s dominion. You know what kind of a fate that would be.”

   There was a wagon coming out of the fort’s main gate toward them now, noisily empty as it jounced over ruts. It was drawn slowly by some kind of sturdy-looking cattle that Marge could not have named. Ambrosius watched it approaching for a moment, then turned back to Artos. “I’ve arranged for a ride. I’m going to Londinium. No, it’s all settled. If I’m not here you won’t be worried about me, wasting your time trying to do something for me. I’ll be no worse off in Londinium than anywhere else.” It was as if Ambrosius, by some trick, or great effort of the will, was managing to hold himself momentarily sober.

   Artos could find nothing to say.

   The wagon pulled up at the roadside nearby, stopping with a final jolt into an old rut. The lone driver, in poor garments, looked very tired, Marge thought, and worried as well. Probably about having to drive all the way to Londinium, wherever that was, without an escort.

   But the old man was not quite ready. He put out a tentative, unexpected hand and took his leader by the arm. “Before I go, will you show me the Sword?”

   “Sword?” It took Artos a moment to understand. Then slowly he pulled the weapon from the sheath at his side and held it up, hilt down, point to the morning sky. It was a little fancier then the other handmade weapons Marge had seen during the last few days. Otherwise she could see nothing remarkable about it.

   Ambrosius raised a gnarled finger, touching the half-polished steel. “Do you remember how it must be hidden? When the time comes?”

   This time Artos paused a little longer. Then in a hardened voice he answered: “I remember.”

   “Good; she doesn’t know about the Sword—not yet. If I were to see her again—she might find out. But I’m not going to see her again. She probably wouldn’t let me if I tried, and—”

   The old man’s voice collapsed, and with it his sobriety. He clung to the young man for support, and Marge could see the tears squeeze from his eyes. He repeated: “A great s-stone, Artos… she’s put me under it for good. There’s no way out. No way.”

   Artos abruptly turned fierce. “Don’t say that! In time, with all your powers, there surely must be something… tell me, what will it take? What materials will the counterspells require? I’ll get them. I’ll find other wizards who can help. It’s madness for us to give up like this. I’ll mortgage this land if need be, I’ll strip the kings who pay me of their wealth. I’ll tell them I cannot win without your help.”

   Ambrosius groaned. In a voice of solemn doom, fallen almost to inaudibility, he said: “It may not be.”

   “I’ll bring the new priests, with their nailed-up god, to pray for you.”

   “No… it may not be.” Ambrosius paused, as if trying to recover himself again. He held one forefinger upraised, as if what he was about to say next would be of great importance. But then he said only: “There’s a street I know of in Londinium… it reaches all the way around the world. I think this is one alley to it, here.”

   He lurched away from Artos to the side of the waiting wagon, then abruptly altered his course and made it, in a few staggering steps, to the wineseller’s counter. Marge saw a bright coin appear between gnarled fingers, in a hand she knew, with professional certainty, had been empty a moment earlier. The villainous-looking proprietor glanced nervously at Artos; the commander’s sword was sheathed again, and what the wineseller saw must have reassured him, for he took the coin and handed over a full wineskin. Ambrosius reeled under its modest wobbling weight back to the wagon. He