Fellowship of the Talisman

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.

And yet Duncan did not like it. He felt, somehow, unclean. Unworthy and unclean, fouled with deceit and shiftiness, skulduggery and trickery.

What was right? As he thought of it, the line between right and wrong became blurred and smeared, and it never had been that way before with him. He had always known, instinctively, without being told, what was right and what was wrong. There had been no blurring, there had been no smear. But his prior decisions in this regard, he realized, had always dealt with simple considerations in which there had been no complicating factor. But here there was a complicating factor that, in no way, he could quite fit into place.

He sat on the bottom step of the great stone stairway that led up to the castle’s entrance. In front of him swept the verdant greenness that ran from where he sat to the edge of the sweeping circle of standing stones ringing in the castle’s park. Through the park ran curving paths and walkways paved with bricks. Spotted about the smoothness of the lawn were stone benches, pools, and spouting fountains, rose-covered bowers, flowering gardens, and clumps of shrubs and trees set tastefully in the great green expanse of grass.

It was a beautiful place, he thought — not a place of natural beauty, but a place of artificial beauty, made so, not perhaps by man, as would be the case in other castle parks and gardens, but by the wizardry of a congress of men skilled in bringing about events that stood beyond the natural.

There was in it a peace and restfulness that he would not have thought possible in the domain of wizardry. And yet, he told himself, it would have been wrong for him to think so, for wizards were not necessarily evil men, although there had been some, if history told true, who had turned to evil. The temptation to evil, he realized, would always have been present among men who held such large-scale powers as they, but that did not mean evil was inherent in them; perhaps only a small fraction of them had ever turned to evil. Their powers were great because of the knowledge that they held and this might be, he told himself, why wizards were in such bad repute. The general populace, the great mass of common men, viewed all great power and all extensive knowledge with suspicion; they viewed with suspicion anything they could not understand, and the knowledge held by wizards was unimaginably beyond the understanding of the rest of mankind.

Down near the standing stones, Conrad and Tiny were playing. Conrad was throwing a stick for Tiny, and Tiny, beside himself with joy, for there were not often times when he could play, went racing after the stick when Conrad threw it, bringing it back in his mouth, gamboling and frisking in an ecstasy of fun that somehow did not fit in with the disposition of a war dog. To one side stood Daniel and Beauty, watching the play. Daniel, it seemed to Duncan, was looking on disdainfully, as if he recognized that such behavior was beneath Tiny’s dignity. Beauty, however, did not seem to mind. At times she cropped a mouthful of grass, but for the most part watched with uncommon interest.

Probably, Duncan thought, if Conrad were to throw a stick for her, she would run and fetch it, too.

A short distance from Daniel and Beauty, Hubert, Diane’s griffin, was lying on the lawn, the eagle head held high, the long whip of a tail curled halfway around his body as a cat would curl its tall when lying down, the jutting, rounded lion hips tawny against the greenness of the grass.

Behind him, Duncan heard a faint sound and turned his head. Diane was coming down the steps, but a different Diane. She was clothed in a filmy, clinging gown that reached from neck to toes, belted at the waist. Leaf green it was, the pale yellow-green of the first spring leaves of the willow tree. Her flame-colored hair almost shouted against the pale softness of the fabric.

Duncan came swiftly to his feet. “Milady,” he said, “you are beautiful. Beautiful and charming.”

She laughed lightly at him. “I thank you, sir. Who, I ask you, could be beautiful in buckskins?”

“Even then,” he said, “you had a charm about you. But this — I cannot tell you.”

“It’s not often,” she said, “that I can dress like this, or have occasion to. But with a house of guests, what other could I do?”

She sat down upon a step and he sat beside her.

“I was watching Conrad and Tiny at their play,” he said.

“They are a pair,” she said.

“You have known them long?”

“Conrad and I since we were boys,” he told her. “We were inseparable. And Tiny since he was a pup.”

“Meg is in the kitchen,” she said, “cooking up a mess of sauerkraut and pig knuckles. She says it has been years since she has had her fill of such a dish. I wonder, do you like it?”

“Exceedingly,” said Duncan. “And what of the hermit? I’ve not seen him all the day.”

“He’s wandering,” said Diane. “All about the grounds. He stands, leaning on his staff, staring off at nothing. Your hermit is a troubled man.”

“A befuddled man,” said Duncan. “Unsure of himself. Torn by many questions. He cannot quite determine the condition of his soul. He tried for long, by various means, to be a holy man, and now he has become a soldier of the Lord and it’s a profession he’s uneasy at.”

“Poor man,” she said. “He has within himself so much good and no way to express it. And Cuthbert? How did you like Cuthbert?”

“Impressive,” Duncan said. “Although, at times, difficult to understand. Difficult to follow.”

“He’s senile,” said Diane.

Duncan shot a quick astonished glance at her. “You are sure of that?” he asked.

“Well, aren’t you?” she asked, in turn. “A brilliant mind, sharp and clever, but now dulled by time and sickness. He cannot follow up his thoughts. At times he’s irrational. I watch him closely, lest he hurt himself.”

“He did seem to have some trouble.”

“The last of a long line,” she said, “that persisted over hundreds of years. Now all are gone except for Cuthbert.

They tried to keep the congress going, bringing in young apprentices, but it never worked. There are few outstanding wizards any more. It takes a special kind of man to be a wizard. A capacity to absorb vast amounts of arcane knowledge and to work with it. Perhaps something more than that. An instinct for wizardry, perhaps. A distinctive turn of mind. There may be few people in the world today who have that turn of mind.”

“How about yourself?”

She shook her head. “Women seldom can accomplish wizardry. That turn of mind, perhaps. Not the kind of mind that a woman has. It may have to be a man’s mind. The mind of the male animal may be shaped and pointed in a slightly different direction than a woman’s mind. I tried, of course, and they let me try, for while they were forced to banish Wulfert, they held a high respect for him, even in his banishment. He was the most accomplished wizard of them all.

And while I could grasp some of the concepts, could perform certain little magics, put together some of the more simple of the manipulations, I was not cut out for wizardry. They did not tell me this. In time to come they would have had to tell me, but I did not force them to. I realized it myself, that I could never be anything other than a poor apprentice wizard. And there’s no room in the world for inefficient apprentices.”

“But you are a resident of the wizards” castle.”

“A courtesy,” she said. “A sincere and heartfelt courtesy. Because I have Wulfert’s blood in me. When my parents died of a plague that swept the countryside, Cuthbert left the castle for the first time in his life, for the only time, for he has not left it since, and claimed me as a descendant of his great, good friend who by that time, I now know, had long since been dead. The last of the wizards raised me here and because I loved them I tried to learn their skills, but couldn’t. All this I tell you about Cuthbert coming to get me, I’ve been told, for I was then too young to remember it.

Not only did they raise me here and care for me, but they gave me as well old Hubert, who was Wulfert’s griffin, left behind when my great-grandfather had to leave this place, for he could not take a griffin with him.”

“The day will come when Cuthbert will die,” said Duncan gently. “What about you then? Will you continue to stay on?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I have seldom thought upon it. I have tried to keep from thinking on it. With Cuthbert gone, it would be lonely here. I don’t know what I’d do. There’d be no place in the outside world for me. I am not used to it, would not know what to do, have had no chance to know what one should do. And I could not for long keep hidden that I had wizard blood in me. The outside world, I am afraid, would not take kindly to me if that were known.”

“The world can be cruel,” said Duncan. “I wish I could tell you that it isn’t, but it is.”

She leaned toward him, kissed him swiftly on the cheek. “The world can be kind,” she said. “You have been kind to me. You have talked of my problem with a very gentle kindness.”

“I thank you, milady,” said Duncan gravely. “I thank you for your words. And for the kiss. it was a lovely kiss.”

“You make fun of me,” she said.

“Not at all, Diane. It is true gratitude, the more grateful because I have done nothing to deserve it.”

“Cuthbert,” she said, changing the subject abruptly, “has expressed a desire to see you.”

“It must be soon,” said Duncan. “We tarry here too long. We must be on our way.”

She protested, somewhat flustered. “Why so soon? You should take several days to rest. All of you need rest.

You’ve had no easy time.”

“We’ve been held up,” said Duncan, “by many misadventures. By this time we should have been in Oxenford.”

“Oxenford can wait,” she argued.

“I’m sorry, milady, but I don’t believe it can.”

She rose swiftly to her feet. “I must be going in to see how Cuthbert is. I cannot leave him long.”

“I’ll go with you,” he said. “You said he wanted to see me.”

“Not now,” she told him. “I’ll call you when he is ready for you.”