But he'd never had much use for prayer. Faith! It seemed such an empty word, yet it was the keystone of this culture. He rolled that around in his mind. Faith could be the core of magic, as it was the core of religion. This whole universe might be built on it, somehow. What would happen here if the people stopped believing God had created the universe? Would everything disappear? But that line of thought was getting him into the type of stuff the followers of supposed Eastern cults chewed on in their meditations.
Meditation, he thought. He'd never really tried it, but it might help to get him through the night. He settled himself again and began trying to regulate his breathing with the only mantra he remembered. Om mane padme om. Om mane padme ...
Abruptly, he jerked his head up, realizing he'd almost put himself to sleep. You will be tempted! To a man who'd only just wakened after days without rest, it was an easy temptation to give in to.
He began to regulate his breathing again until he had a slow, deep rhythm that would continue while he busied his mind again with the matter of faith.
Did Malingo have faith? In this world, he must; but he turned away from God and put his faith in the Devil. And it paid off, for a while. For now, Malingo's perverted faith gave him an edge.
He'd certainly proved adept at harassing Matt. There'd been the old witch and then Sayeesa; Malingo had moved her fifty miles or more, castle and all, to put her in Matt's path. Then there had been the peasants who came hunting her, whipping themselves into a lynch mob. And Father Brunel, who turned were again suddenly.
Something flickered at the edge of Matt's vision. Without turning his head, he began concentrating on the shimmer at the comer of his eye.
It took shape gradually, becoming almost solid-a figure in ancient armor. But its head was scarcely human. The face was piggish, lacking eyelids, and with a low brow; the mouth yawned wide, filled with three.-inch, pointed teeth.
It paced toward Matt, drooling. He watched it pensively, feeling no fear or tension, sure that the thing did not exist. It was only an illusion. What else could get into a chapel that was guarded by Hardishane's cave? Besides, he could still see through it faintly. He didn't know who had sent it or why-possibly his own subconscious.
Could it hurt him? Only if he believed in it. And he didn't.
He put out a hand, spreading the fingers. The monster loomed over him, lowering its head. The shark-jaws gaped, enveloping the hand-and paused, not closing. The lidless eyes glared into his. Then, slowly, the apparition faded.
Matt's neck muscles twitched in a faint, satisfied nod. He'd known it was illusion, so it hadn't been able to hurt him.
What did that mean for the people of this age and place? Did their magic and their monsters exist only because they believed in them? No, surely not! Stegoman had to have pragmatic reality on his own, didn't he?
His mind went cartwheeling off through the night, never following a train of thought, but moving from one concept to another in free association, revolving endlessly around and around the problem of faith and reality.
Then something flickered to the right of the altar.
It came toward him, gaining substance as it moved, dragging a hundred pounds of chain wrapped around its body and trailing on the floor behind. It wore the tatters of a nobleman's robe, a thatch of unwashed black hair, and a festoon of beard flecked with spittle. The face had a broad forehead, a high-bridged nose, and thin lips-an aristocratic face; but the eyes were wild, making the whole face obscene with madness. It came toward Matt, giggling and drooling, hands outstretched through the chains, fingers flexing, reaching for Matt's throat.
Matt watched it. He couldn't see through the madman, but it had to be illusion; it couldn't by anything else.
The madman stopped with fingers an inch from Matt's throat, staring at him. Then it pointed at him, giggling. The giggle grew and broadened. It threw its head back, cackling with insane, gleeful laughter.
Then the fingers shot out, seizing Matt's throat. The face swelled with homicidal rage, and the eyes lit with a strange, unholy glee. It cackled and gibbered as the fingers dug in. Dimly, far away, Matt seemed to feel a ghost of pressure. That was wrong; he knew this madman wasn't real. It couldn't really touch him, couldn't hurt him. It was only a phantom, sent to try and tempt him-to test whether he was sure of the basics, or didn't know what was real and what wasn't.
Matt knew. Now is an end to all confusion, he breathed, framing silent words with his lips. The figure stilled, staring into his eyes, and, staring, it slowly faded away, till there was nothing between Matt and the altar.
Matt sat immobile, filled with a satisfying sense of rightness, His sense of reality had corresponded with actuality; what he'd believed was illusion had actually been illusion; so he was still alive. Whatever faith had to do with existence couldn't really be known; but the faith in his own perceptions could be. The test was drastic, but simple; and Matt had passed it.
What if he'd believed it was real?
Then it might have been able to hurt him-which was to say, Matt would have been letting his own mind hurt him. Even in his own universe, men could be destroyed by their illusions. Here the process was more direct-
His mind went pinwheeling off again into a hundred assorted concepts, all dealing with matters of faith and existence-until the armor stirred.
It clanked. The pieces shifted about and rearranged themselves. The pile of spare parts sorted itself out and heaved. A steel man rose up over Matt, towering there, silent and menacing, wearing Matt's sword at its hip. Then the hollow knight drew the blade, grasped the hilt with both hands, and swung it up.
Every centimeter of Matt's skin crawled with horror. He knew what that blade could do. If it even touched him, he was dead. Whether by his own substantial death-wish or someone else's spell, that sword was threatening him.
He was aware, with sinking horror, that he had passed the border-he'd accepted the illusion's reality, at least partially. Now, illusion or not, if the sword hit him, he'd die.
The sword was swinging down.
Matt realized in near panic that magic could never work against his own mind. Faith, he thought-and prayer! He began hastily muttering words he was not sure of, words from earlier prayers, his eyes seeking the altar.
The sword started to swing down-and stopped. The armor fell into separate pieces, crashing down onto the stone. The sword struck and bounced, taking a piece out of the cave floor; then it lay still.
Matt sat motionless, hands still clasped, hearing the blood hammer through his head.
Faith! When all reasoning was stripped away, and a man had to confront himself, his gut response gave the truth of what he believed.
A hand touched his arm.
Matt started-and looked up to see a maroon robe, with Sir Guy's anxious face above it. The knight's voice seemed to come from a great distance. "Are you well, Matthew?"
With infinite reluctance, Matt pulled himself back to reality, letting himself feel the stone of the floor and hear the echoes of Sir Guy's voice, until he was again immersed in the moment and life was real once more.
He looked down at the armor. It lay as it had fallen, not in the neat bundle he had first seen: And the great sword lay to the side and a little behind him.
He looked up at Sir Guy, smiling slowly. "I'm very well."
Relief lighted Sir Guy's eyes, but his face didn't move. He nodded, a smile coming to his lips. "And your watch?"
Matt grinned and stretched luxuriously, rising to his feet. "Well. Now I know what I believe."
Sir Guy's face registered a flood of joy. "Then you have it, Lord Matthew. Come, bear the armor out."