[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
spell of spirit over spirit as much as spirit over matter. The symbols must be
chosen correctly to concentrate the mind. Still, I could wish for some
material connector. A lock of hair, an article of clothing actually worn& I
might as well wish for the Papal army to appear over the hill while I'm at
it." He sighed, then brightened. "Still, I have Vitelli's true name. This
would have miscarried for certain without it, and I would not have known why."
He took a new stick of white chalk, and began to laboriously trace a diagram
upon the tabletop.
When he'd finished the chalk pattern, Monreale laid a knife with green and
gold thread tied around it parallel to a wand of dry willow circled with
threads of red and black. Ferrante and Vitelli, the soldier and the
spiritually sapless mage. Monreale stood back and studied them. "Is it
enough& ? Such a distance we must carry, over a mile."
They should be crossed, upside down, to represent their entanglement and their
evil, thought Fiametta, but did not speak. Her father had severely chastised
her for daring to offer suggestions in public. Surety Monreale knew even more
about what he was doing.
Monreale folded a gauze cloth beside the knife and wand. It was actually a
Page 106
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
piece of cheesecloth fetched from the monastery kitchen. "Silk would be
better," Monreale muttered. "But at least it is new."
Spider-silk would be even better, Fiametta thought, but she quailed at the
thought of volunteering to go collect some, though there were plenty of odd
corners in the monastery where spiders might be obtained. Very odd corners.
"It will be a spell of deep sleep," Monreale explained, "the same basic spell
as that used by our healers, when a patient fears some little surgery.
Powerful enough, but we must strive to make it more powerful, to overcome two
men at once, neither anxious to cooperate and one fully capable of the most
strenuous resistance. And he may have set wards& "
Why not enspell them one at a time? Vitelli first, of course.
"My greatest worry," Monreale muttered, "is to this spell's quality of
whiteness, or spiritual benignity. It's very doubtful."
"What," said Fiametta, "why? It won't kill them unless one is leaning over a
balcony as it strikes, which seems unlikely it won't even hurt them. They just
go to sleep. A healer's spell, what could be whiter?"
Monreale's lip twisted. "And in the end if we win both men must eventually
burn at the stake. Hardly harmless in intent, even if legal in means."
"If they win, are they even likely to bother with legality?"
"To hold what they have taken, they must wrap their crimes in some cloak of
public pretense. Eyewitnesses to the contrary will be& in very grave straits."
"That includes me," Fiametta realized with a shiver.
"It includes enough by now to guarantee a very massacre." Monreale sighed.
"Well, I am ready. Until the lieutenant reports his men assembled, let us
compose ourselves in prayer."
I might have predicted that. But Fiametta settled herself upon her knees
before the crucifix on Monreale's office wall without demur. She did not lack
things to pray about. She thought sadly of all the prayers she'd wasted in the
past on her small desires& a lace cap, a silver bracelet like Maddelena's, a
pony& a husband. Yet, in a backhanded way, all had been forthcoming; the cap
and the bracelet from Papa, the white horse& Thur? What was this strange
girl-power, to make the intractable world spit forth her wishes? Ok; I wish it
were over.
At length, Sandrino's surviving senior officer returned, to confer briefly
with Monreale. The soldier's eyes glinted grimly in the shadow of his steel
helmet. His dented breastplate was dull and leaden. More determination than
enthusiasm tightened his jaw, but perhaps that was the more durable emotion,
under fire. The ten-year-old Duke's offer to lead his troops himself had been
tactfully turned down, the lieutenant reported; but the man's spine seemed to
stiffen in memory of it. Monreale blessed him and sent him on his way with a
slap to his cuirass that echoed hollowly in the plastered office.
Monreale then led Perotto, Ambrose, and Fiametta into his workroom. The prior
followed as a witness. The prior was more an administrator than magician or
healer or even, Fiametta suspected, monk, but he had been Monreale's practical
right hand throughout the crisis, managing men and space and the daily bread.
Monreale arranged his brothers standing around the table laden with the simple
set for the spell. He bent his head in one more blessedly brief prayer, and
extended his right hand to Ambrose and his left to Perotto. "Brothers, lend me
your strength."
Fiametta stepped to the table's fourth side. "Father, I will gladly lend
mine."
Monreale frowned, his brow furrowing. "No& no," he said slowly. "I don't want
you exposed to the danger of the backlash, if this effort fails."
"My little mite could be the difference between failure and success. And not
such a little mite as all that, either!"
Monreale smiled sadly, though Brother Perotto frowned repellingly. "You are a
good girl, Fiametta," said Monreale. "But no. Please do not distract me
further."
His raised palm blocked her protest, which she swallowed back into her tight
throat. She stepped, away from the table to the prior's side, and locked her
Page 107
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
hands behind her back.
"Ambrose, Perotto, join hands," Monreale instructed, and they reached across
to each other to complete the ring. Monreale's grip tightened. "The first
strike requires all our hearts, to overwhelm Sprenger." He bent his gaze to
the symbols on the table, knife and wand, and began to chant in a healer's low
drone.
Fiametta could feel the power build, as if an invisible sphere were forming
above the table. Monreale's control seemed very precise, meticulous, almost
finicky, compared to her Papa's flowing, sweeping gestures. Monreale wastes
nothing. And yet& his economy wasted time, and attention, it seemed to
Fiametta. Abundance can afford to be daring.
The sphere began to glow with a visible, corruscating white fire, shimmering
in waves both upon its surface and within its heart, as its power built up and
up. Now, that was wasteful. Papa had always insisted that a properly cast
spell should be heatless and invisible. Perhaps it was some inevitable
friction from trying to combine strengths from Ambrose and Perotto. Fiametta
held her breath. Oh, strike now, or Vitelli will feel it and be warned!
Still Monreale held his hand, building up his power. The lacy sphere cast the
monks' shadows on the walls. Then the light began to pour down like water into
the vessels of knife and wand. They filled; the knife blade gleamed like
moonlight. Soundlessly, the gauze lifted and drifted across the two glowing
objects, and settled gently over them.
Monreale's eyes opened; he breathed the last syllable of his chant. Ambrose
grinned in triumph, and even surly Perotto's eyes lighted. Monreale inhaled,
smiling, to speak.
The dry willow wand exploded into flame, which flashed across the gauze,
consuming it to crumbling blackness. White fire tainted with red flared up
into Monreale's face like a powder flash from a misfired hand cannon. His
features, lit from below, contorted. Red and green afterimages swirled in
Fiametta's eyes, and she squinted futilely against them, her hands pressed to
her mouth to stifle her scream.
Monreale's eyes rolled back, and he fell, unaided, since Ambrose's hands were
clapped to his eyes and Perotto, too, was toppling. Monreale's forehead
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
