serious problem,” Father Crowley continued. “It was simply that—last year—his absence from the dormitory was noted, no doubt to go to the bathroom, and I believe he asked about sleeping pills once. It concerns me a little. I will watch to see if it recurs.”
Annie pulled herself together as best she could. “Thank you,” she said.
“There. Are you all right now? You mustn’t drive on till you’re ready.”
“I’ll be okay.” The engine had stalled. She restarted it, slowly, annoyed to find herself trembling with the aftermath of shock.
“Tell me,” said the abbot, “does Nathan dream vividly?”
N ATHAN WAS talking to Eric Rhindon in the apartment above the antiques shop where he lived with his new wife, Rowena Thorn. Rowena, a gray-haired woman of sixty-odd, long widowed, whose recent marriage to an impecunious asylum seeker had stunned her entire acquaintance, was out at a weekend antiques fair. Eric was a former Eosian, accidentally pitchforked into this world (by Nathan), who had adapted with unexpected ease to what was, for him, a low-tech, low-magic, quasi-primitive society. He was seven feet tall and a couple of thousand years old, with a long, curving face, wild dark hair, deep purple eyes, and an outlook on life permanently colored by his seeing the early
Star Wars
trilogy shortly after his arrival here, and believing it was a factual account of a more civilized past.
Nathan was telling him about his latest dreams, and the mention of the sword.
“The Sword of
stroar,
” Eric affirmed.
Stroar,
Nathan knew, was a metal peculiar to the world of Eos, superstrong and harder than steel—but he always thought of the artifact as the Sword of Straw. “Is very powerful weapon, but cursed. The first Grandir who made the three—the Cup, the Sword, the Crown—he was killed by friend, best friend, with the sword. His blood filled Cup.” The definite article came and went in Eric’s speech. “He saw it before, with aid of force, but could not avert.”
“Why not?” Nathan wanted to know.
Eric shrugged, a lavish shrug of huge shoulders. “His fate to die. Must accept fate.”
“Did his friend hate him?”
“I not know. Maybe. The story is old, old even in my world. Details forgotten. Maybe there was a woman.”
“Could it have been a sacrifice?” Nathan suggested. “Perhaps the first Grandir
ordered
his friend to kill him, to—to empower the three. It could have been a sort of preliminary to the Great Spell—the one the present Grandir has to perform, if he can work it out.”
“Good idea.” Eric brightened. “Much force in lifeblood. Is new thought, but good. Maybe Grandir not murdered at all.”
“You said once, the sword moved…by itself?”
“Is legend, but make-believe illegal in my world, so could be true. Three kept in cave for thousands of years, but last Grandir move them, hide in other worlds, away from people who try to steal them and make Great Spell themselves. So Sangreal in this world, Sword and Crown—” He made a broad gesture signifying that their whereabouts was open to conjecture.
“Away from the neo-salvationists,” Nathan agreed. “Like poor Kwanji Ley.”
“But even in other worlds, three need protection,” Eric went on. “We know last Grandir send gnomons to protect Sangreal.” Nathan shuddered, remembering. “In one legend, ancient spirit imprisoned in sword so only one person can lift it, or member of one family—Grandir’s family. Spirit very powerful, very angry—not like to be trapped in sword. When wrong person touch it, spirit take over, stab him.”
“What kind of spirit is it?” Nathan asked.
“Something very old—from the Beginning, when universe in chaos. Before humans learn to control force, it is free, wild. Many spirits on different planets—some move through space. You would call them—spirits of element? Weather spirits, spirits of water, fire, rock…”
“Elementals?” Nathan hazarded. “We have them
Annie pulled herself together as best she could. “Thank you,” she said.
“There. Are you all right now? You mustn’t drive on till you’re ready.”
“I’ll be okay.” The engine had stalled. She restarted it, slowly, annoyed to find herself trembling with the aftermath of shock.
“Tell me,” said the abbot, “does Nathan dream vividly?”
N ATHAN WAS talking to Eric Rhindon in the apartment above the antiques shop where he lived with his new wife, Rowena Thorn. Rowena, a gray-haired woman of sixty-odd, long widowed, whose recent marriage to an impecunious asylum seeker had stunned her entire acquaintance, was out at a weekend antiques fair. Eric was a former Eosian, accidentally pitchforked into this world (by Nathan), who had adapted with unexpected ease to what was, for him, a low-tech, low-magic, quasi-primitive society. He was seven feet tall and a couple of thousand years old, with a long, curving face, wild dark hair, deep purple eyes, and an outlook on life permanently colored by his seeing the early
Star Wars
trilogy shortly after his arrival here, and believing it was a factual account of a more civilized past.
Nathan was telling him about his latest dreams, and the mention of the sword.
“The Sword of
stroar,
” Eric affirmed.
Stroar,
Nathan knew, was a metal peculiar to the world of Eos, superstrong and harder than steel—but he always thought of the artifact as the Sword of Straw. “Is very powerful weapon, but cursed. The first Grandir who made the three—the Cup, the Sword, the Crown—he was killed by friend, best friend, with the sword. His blood filled Cup.” The definite article came and went in Eric’s speech. “He saw it before, with aid of force, but could not avert.”
“Why not?” Nathan wanted to know.
Eric shrugged, a lavish shrug of huge shoulders. “His fate to die. Must accept fate.”
“Did his friend hate him?”
“I not know. Maybe. The story is old, old even in my world. Details forgotten. Maybe there was a woman.”
“Could it have been a sacrifice?” Nathan suggested. “Perhaps the first Grandir
ordered
his friend to kill him, to—to empower the three. It could have been a sort of preliminary to the Great Spell—the one the present Grandir has to perform, if he can work it out.”
“Good idea.” Eric brightened. “Much force in lifeblood. Is new thought, but good. Maybe Grandir not murdered at all.”
“You said once, the sword moved…by itself?”
“Is legend, but make-believe illegal in my world, so could be true. Three kept in cave for thousands of years, but last Grandir move them, hide in other worlds, away from people who try to steal them and make Great Spell themselves. So Sangreal in this world, Sword and Crown—” He made a broad gesture signifying that their whereabouts was open to conjecture.
“Away from the neo-salvationists,” Nathan agreed. “Like poor Kwanji Ley.”
“But even in other worlds, three need protection,” Eric went on. “We know last Grandir send gnomons to protect Sangreal.” Nathan shuddered, remembering. “In one legend, ancient spirit imprisoned in sword so only one person can lift it, or member of one family—Grandir’s family. Spirit very powerful, very angry—not like to be trapped in sword. When wrong person touch it, spirit take over, stab him.”
“What kind of spirit is it?” Nathan asked.
“Something very old—from the Beginning, when universe in chaos. Before humans learn to control force, it is free, wild. Many spirits on different planets—some move through space. You would call them—spirits of element? Weather spirits, spirits of water, fire, rock…”
“Elementals?” Nathan hazarded. “We have them
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