8
Jean looked around, surprised to see that the common room had filled up during Piotr's discourse.
Four soldiers sat arguing at the nearest table over jacks of ale. Two farmers and some sort of tradesman were sorting through a pile of small items in a cloth at another table. A plump woman in a blue dress covered by an apron carried a tray of drinks to yet another group of customers. The voices were subdued, conversation polite and low-voiced, but that would doubtless change as the evening wore on.
Jean shook his head to clear it, drained his wine and poured another from the carafe the innkeeper had left. The low buzz of other conversations flowed past him, unheard.
There was so much he had heard that surpassed his understanding. But one thing seemed at once completely impossible, and increasingly certain: unless the folk of this land were all mad, he was not anywhere in the world he knew, but had stumbled into some place apart.
Finding Tir na n'Og was, it seemed, not a matter of following a road a certain distance, but of crossing some barrier between the real world — the world he had always known — and one in which the old tales lived and legends walked.
He took a long drink, digesting the thought. If that assumption was correct, he was not the first to discover it. Certainly mythology and folk tales alike were filled with references to such places. Could it be that the tales from his childhood, which he had always thought mere fables, were based in fact? Could this be the same place, the land of so many legends? How else to explain the seemingly universal belief in things like dwarfs, the Fey, magic….
He shifted uncomfortably and rubbed his knees, remembering the injuries that had mysteriously healed overnight. Either Keppler had worked a miracle worthy of a saint or he had used magic.
It was a profoundly uncomfortable concept. Magic, if it existed at all, was supposed to be the province of the Devil, a sure sign that evil was at work.
Yet Piotr had just said the Church itself gave its blessing for the training of children to become Mystics, workers of magic.
Jean frowned. This was an area where his own lack of knowledge might well lead to fatal error. He knew that every old farmwife had her store of "spells" she used to ward off illness or ensure a good baking. But there were said to be witches aplenty in many back-country places throughout France who could do much more, and those powers came straight from the Dark One.
He had never met a witch, to his knowledge, and did not know of any spells. The subject had never held sufficient interest for him.
If magic were real…
It was all nonsense, of course. There had to be a logical explanation.
But if magic were real….
He took a long drink, refilled his cup with the last of the wine, and made himself face the thought squarely. If magic were real, if anyone could use it, then how was it possible? How could God permit it?
Could it be that perhaps God intended it to be so? The thought sent a shiver down his spine. Could it be that, here at least, magic was not evil of itself but merely a tool to be used as one chose?
If so, could Jean somehow use it to escape this place and return home without imperiling his immortal soul? The thought was a daring one, opening a hitherto secret door to a vast unknown.
Surely this was not all some terrible accident. Surely God had sent him here on purpose. Was he, in fact, being punished? Or was there some task he must accomplish, some lesson he must learn, before he could return?
He believed — he had to believe — that he would one day return to his own land. After all, a gate could be passed through from either side, so it followed that these Gates he had heard of must operate in a similar fashion. If one learned the secret of their operation. If one knew where to find them.
If one survived to find them.
If only he could be sure, if there was some sort of proof one way or the other, a sign….
He snorted and scrubbed his face with his hands, suddenly overwhelmed with self-disgust. What was happening to him? Faeries. Fables. Magic. Now he was starting to think like a superstitious peasant.
It was past time to turn his attention to practical matters. However well meaning, an uneducated innkeeper was hardly the person to supply Jean with accurate, reasonable knowledge, even of the workings of his own country.
Jean would have to continue his search elsewhere. He would find an explanation that would make it all make sense.
He leaned back in his chair and glanced around the room for Piotr. At least the innkeeper could probably tell him how well the money Jean had with him — a mixture of coins from France and Spain, mostly copper and silver — would support him here. Hopefully, he could at least pay for lodging for himself and his horse for the night.
He spied Piotr heading for the front door, a broad but somehow nervous smile of welcome on his face. At the same time, every head in the room turned in the same direction, and conversation stilled.
Jean turned to see what caused the disturbance, and saw Piotr stop before a man who looked as though he should have turned sideways to squeeze through the doorway.
None of that bulk, clad in well-worn leathers of dull green and brown, looked like fat. He carried a seven-foot staff as thick as his wrists, blade-scarred and stained dark with age, soot, and, from the look of it, blood. A hat woven of leaves, twigs, and moss cast his face in shadow, and grey-streaked dark hair fell in matted, ill-kempt strands from beneath it over his face and down his back. Even from across the room, Jean could see the hollow, haunted look in his eyes.
Piotr bowed the man into the room and ushered him to a single table by the fire, while everyone in the room followed the fellow's progress with respectful, yet wary, silence. A few shook their heads sadly, but only after the big man had passed.
Who was he? Jean looked around for Madame Piotr, hoping to catch her attention and ask, but she was already on her way to the stranger's table, an enormous tankard in hand. She set the drink before the big man and bobbed a curtsey, her smile wavering somewhere between respect and — strangely — pity.
Though the forest-clad stranger reached for the tankard without comment, Piotr looked less than pleased. He said something to the woman, too low for Jean to hear; she shook her head as she replied. Piotr looked flustered, his hands waving excitedly as he spoke to her, but the woman shook her head again and made a small, helpless gesture. Piotr glanced at the stranger in worried apology.
The stranger said nothing, but drew a long, well-used knife from his belt, extending it to Madame Piotr. She took it uncertainly, and the stranger touched the naked blade with one large finger.
The blade began to glow. Not like metal heated in fire, but with a pure, white light, like a mid-winter star that had come to rest, impossibly, in the slightly shabby interior of the inn. Soft, silent, the light flowed out, filling every corner of the room, touching the faces of the other patrons with an invitation to wonder.
Some shielded their eyes and frowned against the light, some smiled, or looked away uncomfortably, and others merely nodded appreciation and went back to their drinks.
The woman looked awed, then broke into a smile, curtsied again, and shielded the light with one hand as she bore it proudly from the room.
Jean's hand hurt. He realized he was squeezing his cup until it was in danger of shattering, and set it hastily down on the table. He spread his hands wide on the dark wood to stop their shaking.
He had no idea what had just happened, or why the man had made the light for Madame Piotr, but one thing was now certain. He had just seen, with his own eyes, a feat of magic. There was no other logical explanation.
God had just given him the sign he had not had the courage to ask for.
Shaken and humbled, he downed the last of his wine.