“The princess-archdivine assigned me to him, not him to me. The task was his to start with before it grew”—Pen hesitated—“so complicated.”
“Could he hold Inglis without your aid?”
“Well…” Penric reflected on the possibilities inherent in that weirding voice, were it to be deployed without restraint. Not to mention the other shamanic skills. “No.”
“It seems you are the linchpin in this wheel, then. If you elect to stay, he cannot take Inglis and go.”
“That… would seem to be the case, yes.”
“Then I beg you to stay. And apply your ideas. Or counsel. Or wisdom, or unwisdom, or whatever you may dub it.” Gallin drew breath. “You have to try, at least.”
Pen imagined a prayer, or a holy whine—to the white god, either would do—If You don’t like it, give me something better.
The silence in his head was profound. Even Des did not chaff or chatter.
Penric managed a nod. Trying not to let his doubts show, he returned to the breakfast table to shepherd Inglis—and the two dogs—back to their bedchamber.
They settled cross-legged facing each other on the bedroll once more. Blood flopped down across the doorway and sighed; Arrow sat up beside Inglis and appeared to watch with more than canine interest.
“All right.” Penric took a breath. “What I’m going to do here is give you a clean new chant to gate your entry into your spirit space.”
Inglis shot him a stare of surprise and offense. “What makes you think you can do the first thing about it? Sorcerer.”
“I’m the one who’s here. That seems to be the most vital point at present.” Refusing to wilt under Inglis’s frown, Penric forged on, “My call shall be, ‘Father, Mother, Sister, Brother, Other.’ And your response shall be, ‘Bless this work and let me serve another.’ ”
“Is that supposed to be the blessing?”
“No, that’s your chant. I thought I’d combine the two and save steps.”
Inglis met his bright smile with a deepening glower. “It’s a stupid rhyme.”
“I’m a sorcerer, not a poet.”
“Evidently. It’s not even a quatrain.”
“Repeat it, and it will turn into a quatrain.”
Inglis looked ready to rebel. Or at least to refuse to cooperate. And what Penric would do then, he had no idea.
Des muscled into brief control of his mouth, and said in honeyed tones, “Or you could pray, ‘Other, Mother, Father, Brother, Sister. Thwack my head and make me less a blister.’ ” Pen failed to control the upward crook of his lips as she fell back.
After a long, black silence Inglis said, “Use the first one.”
“Good,” said Pen. And a firm, No more interruptions now, to Des. She settled back, falsely demure. “I’ll begin. Father, Mother, Sister, Brother, Other…”
They began to repeat the call and response much as Inglis and his possibly-not-that-long-ago mentor had. The mindful if simple (or simple-minded, Des put in) prayer really did grow boring after enough repetitions. A while after that, the syllables began to lose any meaning or connection at all, a steady, soothing double drone. Pen did not let up until both their tongues started stumbling, when he called a break.
Nothing had happened. Well, he hadn’t expected it to, Pen lied to himself. All right, he’d been hopeful.
“How often did your shamanic master repeat your practice sessions?” asked Pen.
“It varied, depending on his duties and mine. Sometimes, once or twice a day. Sometimes dozens.”
“And how long did you drill at a time?”
“Much as now, till our tongues grew too tired to fruitfully go on. That, too, varied.”
“Hm.” Penric slapped his knees and stood up. “Rest your tongue, then. And your leg.”
Inglis at least did not argue with this injunction.
Pen found one of their guards seated at the top of the staircase. “Where is Oswyl?”
“He walked over to the temple, I think, sir.”
“Thank you.” Penric threaded his way through the house and turned onto the street. The temple stood as quiet and dim as yesterday when they’d surprised Inglis inside. Once again, the hall held only one supplicant. Oswyl sat upon his knees before the altar dedicated to the Father, tucked up against its one-fifth portion of the wooden walls. His head turned at the sound of Penric’s steps.
“Oh. It’s you.”
“Don’t let me interrupt,” said Pen. And then, incurably curious, asked, “What do you pray for?”
Oswyl’s lips thinned. “Guidance.”
“Oh? I thought everything we’ve encountered here shouts our course at us. Or are you just angling for a different answer?”
Oswyl turned back toward his chosen god’s altar once more, the very set of his shoulders sturdily ignoring Pen.
Pen walked to the hall’s opposite side and studied his god’s niche. The shrines here had a profusion of woodcarvings, common in country temples in this region. On the lintel, the carver had placed a well-observed flight of crows; in a lower corner, some earnest-looking rats. The Daughter’s shrine, to Penric’s right, was decorated with an explosion of wooden flowers and young animals, painted in their proper colors, a muted glow in the shadows. A supplicant prayed before a shrine, Penric’s teachers had made clear, not to it. He lowered himself to his knees. Emptying his mind was not an option, but he didn’t need to badger the gods, either. He waited.
After a while, Oswyl’s voice came from across the halclass="underline" “Did you get anywhere with your tutoring?”
Not turning, Pen answered, “Not yet.”
A wordless grunt.
After a little, Pen said, “He’s not really a murderer, you know.”
A pause: then, “My task is to bring a fugitive to justice. Not to judge him.”
“Yet you must use your judgment. You followed your own line on the Crow Road.”
A considering silence.
“I have another trial in mind,” Penric continued. “I want to take Inglis out to the rock fall, and see what he can make of old Scuolla.” And what Scuolla would make of him?
A mere pained sigh was all that this elicited. What, was he finally wearing Oswyl down? It occurred to Penric that Oswyl was not so rigidly rules-bound as his stiff jaw suggested; only doubt need pray for guidance. He hoped Oswyl would get his answer. Penric went on speaking to his own walclass="underline" “Inglis is in less pain than yesterday. Calmer, if not less bleak. I expect I should take Gallin. And the dogs. We’ll need one of the guardsmen’s horses. Do you wish to come? Given you’ve no hand in the uncanny.”
Oswyl’s voice returned, distantly, “Having spent this long and come this far to find him, I’m not losing sight of him again.”
“Well, then.” Penric bowed his head and signed the tally, and they both rose together.
XII
Inglis, to his chagrin, had to be helped onto his horse by two guardsmen and an upturned stump by the stable door. His stick presented another puzzle. He finally set its butt upright atop his foot, which also had to be fitted into his stirrup by a guard, and held it like a banner pole. That and his reins seemed to give his hands too many things to do. The sorcerer almost floated up into his saddle, although Inglis put it down to his wiry build and horsemanship, not magic. Acolyte Gallin availed himself of the stump, however. Given the acolyte’s age, that was small consolation. Locator Oswyl frowned down from his mount at Arrow and Blood, swirling amiably around Inglis’s horse; the horse, which Inglis judged something of a slug, took only mild exception.
Gallin led the mounted party out past his temple into the street, where Learned Penric held up a staying hand. “Let us go to the bridge, first,” said Penric to him. “And over it. I want to see something.”