He kept muttering and sprinkling as the friar’s groans slackened, until every burn had grown new skin and the friar sat up, looking at his arms and chest, amazed.
Sir Orizhan’s lips shaped a soundless whistle, and Sergeant Brock stepped back, the whites showing all around his eyes.
The friar stared up at Matt. “What manner of man are you?”
“A healer, among other things.” Matt figured the obvious couldn’t hurt. “You were lucky we got to you quickly—though the burns were only superficial, or I might not have been able to mend them so fast.”
“Not luck, but Providence!” The friar started to stand up, then remembered his nudity and sank back with a cry of distress.
“Yes, there’s still some pain,” Matt said grimly. “Sir Orizhan, could the good friar borrow your cloak for a little while? I seem to have lost mine.”
“It shall be replaced!” the friar assured him.
“Call it a donation,” Matt told him.
Sir Orizhan held up his cloak, and Matt helped the friar rise into its folds. He cried out as it touched his shoulders, then clamped his mouth shut.
“I know, it still hurts,” Matt commiserated. “Be careful, friar—that’s new skin, and it will be very sensitive for a while.”
“I shall be most careful indeed! Bless you, stranger, for a good Samaritan!”
“I have a stake in your cause,” Matt told him.
“My cause!” The friar buried his face in his hands, moaning. “I have failed my Lord! Both my Lord and my flock!”
“You haven’t failed yet,” Matt said grimly. “This was a battle, friar, not a war. No, not even a battle—just a skirmish.”
Sergeant Brock looked up in surprise. Sir Orizhan looked up, too, but only smiled and nodded slightly.
The friar stared at Matt, and hope began to rise in his eyes again. Matt turned him away gently and began to walk him toward the church. “Lucky your feet weren’t burned.”
“This is not the end of the matter, then?” the friar asked. “Have you any real knowledge of that?”
“Sure,” Matt said. “You pushed that Banalix to his limit, friar. All he could find for an argument were cliches that were worn thin by the time the gospels were written. He had to resort to trickery to shut you up.”
“Trickery?” The friar halted, staring up at him. “Not true magic?”
Sergeant Brock stared, too.
“Not a bit,” Matt assured them. “I saw him pull that ball of wax out of his sleeve while he was making those sham magical passes. I saw him light it in the coal-box at his belt, too, and I know what he mixed with the wax to make it burn that way—I recognized the smell on your charred robe. Believe me, there was no way you could have won that encounter—that would have taken a real wizard.”
Both his companions looked up, startled. Matt gave them a wink and a slight shake of the head.
Friar Gode turned away and started walking again, head bowed in thought. “But why wasn’t prayer enough?” he asked, bewildered.
“You should know the answer to that one better than I, friar.” Matt smiled. “It’s because we have free will—so God and the saints leave us to fight our own battles, and won’t interfere directly, though they’ll give us all the help they can. The Devil doesn’t feel any such scruples, though. The only thing that stops Hell’s minions from coming out in the open is that if they do, the saints feel fully justified in stepping in themselves. So the Devil keeps his imps hidden, and the saints watch ready to pounce, and that leaves it up to us to fight the battle. But the Devil gives his agents all the ammunition they need—in this case, a recipe the Greeks knew but most people today have forgotten.”
“Save my people from this druid!”
“I’ll do what I can. Shouldn’t be too hard; Hell wouldn’t be helping a real druid.”
Friar Gode’s face lit with relief and joy. “You, too, think the man to be an impostor, then?”
“I’m sure of it. The druids were very religious people in their own way, and the Devil’s trying to destroy religions, not help them.”
Friar Gode froze, staring at him in shock.
Matt kept on walking, though slowly. “I’ll bet Banalix doesn’t even speak Gaelic, and that sickle was only gold plate over very real steel. Besides, real druids didn’t use fake fireballs.”
The friar hurried to catch up with him, then looked up at the church. “We are come to the House of God. Will you take supper with me? It is all the thanks I can show.”
The thought of food suddenly sounded very good. “Why, yes, thank you. Sir Orizhan, Sergeant Brock?”
The sergeant looked wary, but the knight said easily, “I shall accept your hospitality with thanks. If we are to have another night in a cold field, hot food would be a blessing.”
“In a field?” The friar looked up, startled, then glanced at the inn. “Of course—you cannot be sure of your welcome at the hostel now, can you? Well, I have only the one hard bed, but if you wish to spread your blankets on my floor, I would be honored.”
Inspiration struck. “Thanks very much, but, uh … would it be too much to ask if I could sleep in the church?”
“In the church? But the floor is stone, as is all the building!” The friar gave Matt a searching glance. “Of course, if you wish it. The House of God is open to all, at all hours.”
It made a nice contrast to late-twentieth-century America. “Thanks. I think I’ll sleep much better there.”
“I’d liefer have a wooden floor, if you will allow it,” Sir Orizhan said.
“I, too.” Sergeant Brock seemed relieved.
“Then let us dine. My housekeeper should have the evening meal ready.” The friar’s lips quirked in a sardonic smile. “If she still cooks for me, that is.”
She still did, and though the meal was Spartan, it was hot and very good—only bread, fish, and ale, with cheese and apples after. When they were done, Matt took the friar aside and said, “If you don’t mind, mine host, I know a few simple spells which might be of use to you in the future.”
“Spells?” The friar stared. “Are you a wizard, then?”
“Every traveler should know enough to repel bandits and guard against night-walkers,” Matt told him. “Now, here’s a defense against fireballs, since we’ve seen you may need it…”
Friar Gode proved to be a better student than Matt was a teacher, and within the space of an hour could repeat the verses and gestures of four spells perfectly. He could quench fireballs, ward off malice and spite, protect himself against weapons of any kind, and, most importantly of all, cancel the effects of spells cast to harm him.
“I’ll feel a little better about you living on your own now,” Matt told him.
“You are not a guest, but a blessing!” the friar declared. “You must have my bed—I shall sleep on the floor!”
Matt smiled. “Well, thank you, friar—but I’d still rather sleep in the church. It’s dark now, though, so it must be your bedtime. If you don’t mind, I’ll take a little walk before I sleep.”
“Anything that pleases you!” Friar Gode turned to Sir Orizhan and Sergeant Brock. “Please, my friends, do not delay on my account! Spread out your blankets and rest!”
“I thank you.” But Sir Orizhan’s gaze rested on Matt. “Perhaps you should not walk alone, my l—good sir.”
“Oh, I think I’ll be fine. You two lie down and sleep while you can. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be safe as houses.”
“Houses of God, at least.” Sir Orizhan smiled faintly, but his eyes were still worried.
Matt went out and began his stroll, listening to the night sounds for the hoot of an owl. When he heard it, he took a packet of powder from his belt and sprinkled a sparse, almost invisible stream beside him, chanting,