Toby shuffled his feet in the grass. "I'm sorry. I never met an acolyte before. I thought… I wondered if you were just one of Rory's men."
"Whose? Oh, Rory! Yes, Rory. Well, I support the cause, of course — whatever else I am, I am also a true Scotsman! But I would still help you if you were an Englishman. Even if you were King Nevil himself, I…" The little man fell silent, as if struck by a novel idea. He chewed his lip, repeatedly adjusted his eyeglasses, and made no sound except for the wild flapping of his gown.
Toby considered picking him up and shaking him like a riddle — perhaps an answer or two would fall out. There was an interruption, then, as they reached a wide and boggy burn. The other three were already across, heading over the pasture toward a group of three cottages. Toby jumped over it and turned to hold out a hand for his companion, but Father Lachlan hitched up his robe and made a surprisingly agile leap. Toby snatched the spectacles out of the air and returned them to him.
"Thank you," the acolyte said calmly, replacing them on the end of his nose.
"Rory knows who lives here?" Toby demanded. He could see no living thing except shaggy cattle, but a dog was barking. He realized that unexpected visitors could no more hope to pass unobserved through Strath of Orchy than through Strath Fillan. Someone would challenge.
"He knows just about everyone!" Father Lachlan said cheerfully, resuming the journey. "Where were we? Oh, yes. The most reliable evidence of possession is superhuman power, of course."
Despair! "Then I am possessed!"
"Why do you say so?"
"I twisted iron bars like string! I broke men's necks, I—"
"Mmph! Your feats of physical strength do not impress me."
"They impressed me!"
"Oh, no. In emergencies, people can often display astonishing strength. You are probably far more powerful than you realize. Your ability to see in the dark is more worrisome."
"Only sometimes! And what of the way I rode the horse, Falcon? And finding my way out of the bog?"
"Yes, yes, yes!" Father Lachlan said in his squeaky, fussy voice. "You have displayed some superhuman abilities, but possession is not the only possible explanation of those. Lady Valda may just have put a hex upon you. I can think of a hundred things it might be… She may have planned to send you out as an assassin, for example, to hunt down King Fergan and slay him. Or King Nevil, for that matter. She seems to have selected you for your size and strength. Having chosen a doughty vessel for her perfidy, she may have granted you some demonic abilities to aid you in your task." He beamed encouragingly at Toby.
"Do you believe that?"
He sighed. "Not much. But it is possible; and I don't believe you have a demon! If you do, then it is the most subtle, sophisticated demon I ever heard of. It is making you seem and sound like a very likable young man. You rescued your friends and, ah, Rory, from the bogy."
Toby could not recall anyone ever describing him as likable before. He wasn't sure he approved. "I had to rescue myself and they were tied to me."
"Paw! You could have snapped those ropes like darning wool, couldn't you?"
"I suppose so." He had twisted iron bars.
"No, you rescued three mortals you could have left to drown, and that simple little altruism would be beyond almost any demon, no matter what the stakes. You must remember," Father Lachlan told him sternly, "that demons are motivated only by hate. Originally, they were just primitive earth spirits, elementals. Such entities have enormous powers, but very little inclination to use them. A village hob, like the one you knew, has acquired a rudimentary concept of morality, but completely undomesticated elementals have none at all — good and evil come from mortals. Hexers know ways to enslave elementals, ripping them from their natural haunts and imprisoning them in objects, usually gems. By gramarye, the adept compels the demon to do his bidding."
"Could he not do good with the demon instead of evil?"
Father Lachlan adjusted his eyeglasses. "Perhaps some of them have such designs initially, but remember that they begin with an act of great cruelty. I don't suppose pain is an adequate description of whatever a demon feels, but to tear it away from its natural locale is itself a form of rape. How can such a person have good intentions? How can the demon itself be well-disposed toward mortals after that, or while it is caged and deprived of its freedom? Lady Valda was reputed always to wear three great gems: a ruby, a sapphire, and an emerald. She was therefore assumed to own three demons. From what you tell me, I suspect that she has since gained two more and transferred four of them into the hooded bodies you saw, demonic creatures."
And the yellow gem on the dagger was the fifth? "Then she tried to do the same to me? But why?"
"Perhaps that was what she was trying." The acolyte pulled a face. "As to why… who knows how such a mind works? It depends on what she plans, I suppose. To invoke the powers of a bottled demon takes time. It involves ritual — conjuring — gramarye. You witnessed her at work, so you know the sort of rites she must use. An incarnate demon is more easily biddable. Its powers are not as great, but it can act faster, obey simple orders. It is more dangerous in a sense, and more demonic. If it felt pain before, now it must also learn fear, because it has become to some extent mortal." He shook his head and hastily caught his spectacles. "The result can only be evil, my son, never good. A demon is always driven by hatred."
Toby would enjoy taking Rory down a peg, and he was convinced that Fat Vik deserved a thorough thrashing, but only that. He had no desire to murder anyone. He could spare no tears for Colin and very few for Godwin Forrester — but he still could not believe he was driven by hatred.
"So what roused the wisp against you?" the acolyte murmured. "What provoked the robed man to try and put a dagger through your heart? He must be on Valda's side, so whose side did he think you were on? It's all very murky, my son! I have never met a more complex case. The best we can do is get you to a sanctuary as quickly as possible — preferably before you sleep again, although that does not seem possible, does it? A tutelary can detect possession and sometimes cure it. Even a spirit may be able to help, and the closest shrine happens to be in Glen Shira, whither we are bound anyway."
"We are? I thought we were going to Oban!"
"There is no tutelary at Oban, now," the acolyte said sadly. "There was once, but York sacked the town, remember."
More history… the English army under the duke of York had rampaged through the west in one of the previous wars. Toby could not recall which one, and did not care. "Why does that matter? It was rebuilt, wasn't it?"
"The town was, yes. But a tutelary will not let you sack its town! It isn't just firearms that give the Sassenachs their victories, my son. They use gramarye, too. I suspect that this is why, er, Rory is so interested in you, because—" He stopped and caught at Toby's arm as he was about to scramble over a dry-stone wall. "I think we should wait here a minute."
A hundred paces ahead, Rory, Meg, and Hamish had been challenged by four men from the cottages. Trouble?
Toby's hand reached for the hilt of his sword.
"Wait? Why?"
The acolyte chuckled. He sat down on the wall and turned his face away from the wind. "Because it will be easier for them. If they are questioned, they can admit to speaking with a man and two children. They need not mention a friar and a young giant carrying a broadsword."
"Oh." Perhaps Rory was necessary, after all. The waiting men had obviously recognized him. They were pulling off their bonnets and bowing. What did that say about the self-styled Master MacDonald?