Sir Guy touched his heels to his horse's flanks, and the great beast leaped out in a gallop. Stegoman lumbered into a run.
They pulled up next to Alisande, who was pointing ahead, her mouth a thin, hard line. "Behold the fruit of evil kings!"
Matt looked - and saw charred ruins.
It might have been a village, once - maybe only last week. But now it was a jumble of charcoal timber ends, sticking up from ash heaps.
"It is even as she says," Sir Guy said softly. "This is the result of Astaulf's rule. The King is the symbol of the nation; he stands for all the people."
Matt knew the power of symbols in this universe. He nodded. "So whatever the King does, the people do."
Alisande nodded, thunder in her face. "He gained this land by theft; now many of my people live by theft."
"There has been much brigandage this last year," Sir Guy explained, as Matt stared at a blackened roof beam standing out from the rubble. "Troops of bandits roam the land. If the village will not pay tribute in food, gold, and virgins, the bandits howl through the houses like an evil wind, ripping plank from timber, stone from stone, and burning all to ashes."
Matt tried not to look directly at the low, charred, twisted mounds that lay here and there among the embers. It didn't help; he knew they were corpses.
Then something caught the corner of Matt's eye. "Stegoman, off to the left, there ... Let's see it a little closer."
"Wherefore?" the dragon growled; but he waddled forward.
Alisande and Sir Guy looked up, startled. Then they nudged their horses to a walk, following, towing Sayeesa along behind. "What do you seek, Wizard?" the princess demanded.
Matt pointed for an answer.
It poked up out of the rubble - a burned and broken building, but still standing, twice the size of a peasant's hut.
"The church," Sir Guy murmured.
"How come it's still there?"
"The power it served protected it somewhat, Lord Wizard. This was consecrated ground."
Somewhat was right. The walls still stood, but they bore an outer layer of char, and half the roof was gone. The empty windows stared in reproach.
But, desolate as it was, it waked Matt's conscience to uneasy pricking. He had resolved to confess his sins at the first church he found, or to the first priest. Okay, here was the church - but the priest was gone, if he was lucky; crisped, if he wasn't. Of course, if the bandits hadn't hit ...
Matt stiffened, eyes widening. "How long ago would you say the raiders hit?"
The knight pursed his lips. "There's still some warmth ... A day or two, or more. Wherefore?"
"Could it be..." Matt felt his stomach sink. "You don't suppose they could have done this to celebrate our arrival, do you? Or mine, I should say. If Malingo peeked into the future right after we escaped, he could have seen that I just might be passing this way - if I got this far, that is - and that I might be looking for a priest..."
Sir Guy's breath hissed in between his teeth, and Alisande grated, "Aye, most certainly. You have the right of it, Lord Wizard. This is the sorcerer's work."
Matt glowered at the building, feeling the anger and resentment grow. Okay, they'd headed him off - but he could still make the gesture of defiance! He swung his leg over Stegoman's neck and jumped down.
"What dost thou intend?" But from the tone of her voice, Alisande had guessed. "There can be naught within! And the roof could fall, the floorboards crumble! I prithee, Lord Wizard, abandon this folly!"
"Aye, abandon it!" Sayeesa sounded downright scared. "I feel strange forces lowering near that I like not!"
Matt could feel it, too, now that she mentioned it - just barely tingling. It felt like a snowbank ready to fall, a dragnet ready to tighten, just needing a pull on the string. But something tugged at him from the church, and suddenly he was certain that going in was right. "Just a quick look." He started walking.
"Thou hast no need!" Alisande cried.
But Sir Guy held up a gauntlet. "Let be, your Highness. What he must do, let him do."
Matt steped up to the church, kicking chunks of burned timber out of the way. He set a foot on the rough-hewn charcoal that had been a doorstep and leaned his weight on it tentatively, then all the way. It held, and he stepped through the broken bits of door that still hung twisted on the frame and set foot on the church floor, carefully, until he realized it wasn't burned.
Nothing was, inside. The interior of the church was in amazingly good shape, though the roof over the sanctuary was gone. The sunlight streaming in over the altar lent an air of sanctity to the whitewashed walls and rough-hewn pews. Even the confessional stood intact, scarcely more than a wide, upright box with a partition down the middle, its near side curtained; but the homespun curtains weren't even crisped.
Matt looked about him, skin crawling at the nape of his neck. There wasn't a bit of char or fleck of ash to be seen anywhere, and the feel of magic forces was growing stronger, tingling along the strings of his neurons. His muscles tightened, readying for trouble. This wasn't just amazing - it was impossible.
"What seek ye, goodman?"
Matt whirled about, grabbing at his sword hilt.
A friar stood before him, old and bent, in a brown, cowled robe with a white rope for a belt. His hair and close-trimmed beard were white, and he'd once been tall. But he still looked solid, even stocky, and his complexion was ruddy. His eyes were bright, and his voice was deep and resonant. "'Tis not the custom to bring arms within a church, Sir Knight."
"Yeah, well, I'm not a knight." But most of Matt's brain was trying to add up oddball factors. The old man looked normal enough, but there was something about him ... His habit was totally clean, and he looked remarkably cheerful for a priest whose parish had just been wiped out. But there was something else ...
"What seek you in this church?" the friar inquired gently.
Go, something within him urged. Here lies danger.
Matt steeled himself against it. He saw no evil here, only great serenity. And there might be something strange about this strong ancient, but Matt was somehow sure he was a priest and a good man. "My soul is heavy, Father. I must confess."
"Ah." The friar raised his head - that explained everything. He turned away to his confessional, nodding. "Come, then. Speak your sins, and I will hear."
He disappeared behind the homespun curtain at the left-hand side, and Matt's stomach churned as every gland within him urged, Away! He tightened his jaw and stepped firmly into the confessional.
He knelt and slowly, very slowly, made the Sign of the Cross. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been..."
His mouth dried up, tongue cleaving to his hard palate. The words wouldn't come.
"Yes?" the firm old voice urged gently; from the other side of the lattice. "How long since you've been here, my son?"
The question loosed Matt's tongue. "Four years." He swallowed, bending his head, and shifted into overdrive. "I've missed my Easter duty four times, skipped Mass 208 times, mocked my father six times..."
He worked his way through the Commandments, going so fast he could hardly make sense of it himself. Somehow, the sins kept coming to his mind, with a relentlessness that dumfounded him. It almost seemed that something was surrounding him, pushing the tale of his minor iniquities out of his soul like paste from a tube. He couldn't stop until, at last, he found that he'd run dry.
"FortheseandallthesinsthatIcannotremember, Iamverysorry!" he blurted, and collapsed over his white-knuckled hands with a sigh: of relief.
"And there is nothing more?" the friar prodded.
Matt went rigid. He'd forgotten about Sayeesa! ""Uhhh ... Well, you see, Father, it was this way ...
He went on, running through the whole story, until he finally finished with the collapse of the palace. He sagged against the woodwork, breathing deeply.