Cornwall nodded. "So you went to the inn."
"That is right," she said. "They were glad enough to have me, although you never would have known it from their treatment of me. I was young and strong and willing to work. But they beat me just the same."
"You'll have a chance to rest when we get to the Tower," said Cornwall. "To decide what you want to do. Is there anyone who knows what kind of place the Tower might be?"
"Not much of anything," said Hal. "An old defense post against the Wasteland, now abandoned. Once a military post, but now there is no military there. There is the bishop only, although why he's needed there, or what he does, no one pretends to know. A few servants, perhaps. A farm or two. That would be all."
"You have not answered me," said Mary. "Do you go into the Wasteland?"
"Some of us," said Cornwall. "I go. I suppose Oliver as well. There is no stopping him. If I could, I would."
"I was in at the first of it," said Oliver. "I'll be in at the end of it."
"How far?" asked Gib. "How long before we reach the Tower?"
"Three days," said Hal. "We should be there in three days."
15
The Bishop of the Tower was an old man. Not as old, Gib thought, as the hermit, but an old man. The robes he wore, once had been resplendent, with cloth of gold and richest silk, but now they were worn and tattered after many years of use. But, looking at the man, one forgot the time-worn, moth-ravaged robes. A depth of compassion robed him, but there was a sense of power as well, a certain feeling of ruthlessness—a warrior bishop grown old with peace and church. His face was thin, almost skeletal, but fill out those cheeks and broaden out the peaked nose, and one could find the flat, hard lines of a fighting man. His head was covered with wispy white hair so sparse it seemed to rise of itself and float in the bitter breeze that came blowing through the cracks and crevices of the time-ruined tower. The fire that burned in the fireplace did little to drive back the cold. The place was niggardly furnished—a rough hewn table, behind which the bishop sat on a ramshackle chair, an indifferent bed in one corner, a trestle table for eating, with benches down either side of it. There was no carpeting on the cold stone floor. Improvised shelving held a couple of dozen books and beneath the shelving were piled a few scrolls, some of them mouse-eaten.
The bishop lifted the leather-bound book off the table and, opening it, riffled slowly through the pages. He closed it and placed it to one side. He said to Gib, "My brother in Christ, you say he passed in peace?"
"He knew that he was dying," Gib said. "He had no fear. He was feeble, for he was very old…»
"Yes, old," said the bishop. "I remember him from the time I was a boy. He was grown then. Thirty, perhaps, although I don't remember, if I ever knew. Perhaps I never knew. Even then he walked in the footsteps of the Lord. I, myself, at his age was a man of war, the captain of the garrison that stood on this very spot and watched against the Wasteland hordes. It was not until I was much older and the garrison had been withdrawn, there having been many years of peace, that I became a man of God. You say my old friend lived in the love of the people?"
"There was no one who knew him who did not love him," said Gib. "He was a friend to all. To the People of the Marsh, the People of the Hills, the gnomes…"
"And none of you," said the bishop, "of his faith. Perhaps of no faith at all."
"That, your worship, is right. Mostly of no faith at all. If I understand rightly what you mean by faith."
The bishop shook his head. "That would be so like him. So entirely like him. He never asked a man what his faith might be. I distrust that he ever really cared. He may have erred in this way, but, if so, it was erring beautifully. And I am impressed. Such a crowd of you to bring me what he sent. Not that you aren't welcome. Visitors to this lonely place are always welcome. Here we have no commerce with the world."
"Your grace," said Cornwall, "Gib of the Marshes is the only one of us who is here concerned with bringing you the items from the hermit. Hal of the Hollow Tree agreed to guide us here."
"And milady?" asked the bishop.
Cornwall said stiffly, "She is under our protection."
"You, most carefully, it seems to me, say nothing of yourself."
"Myself and the goblin," Cornwall told him, "are on a mission to the Wasteland. And if you wonder about Coon, he is a friend of Hal's."
"I had not wondered about the coon," said the bishop, rather testily, "although I have no objection to him. He seems a cunning creature. A most seemly pet."
"He is no pet, your grace," said Hal. "He is a friend."
The bishop chose to disregard the correction, but spoke to Cornwall, "The Wasteland, did you say? Not many men go these days into the Wasteland. Take my word for it, it is not entirely safe. Your motivation must be strong."
"He is a scholar," said Oliver. "He seeks truth. He goes to make a study."
"That is good," the bishop said. "No chasing after worldly treasure. To seek knowledge is better for the soul, although I fear it holds no charm against the dangers you will meet."
"Your grace," said Cornwall, "you have looked at the book…"
"Yes," the bishop said. "A goodly book. And most valuable. A lifetime's work. Hundreds of recipes for medicines that can cure the ills of mankind. Many of them, I have no doubt, known to no one but the hermit. But now that you have brought me the book, in time known to everyone."
"There is another item," Cornwall reminded him, "that the hermit sent you."
The bishop looked flustered. "Yes, yes," he said. "I quite forgot. These days I find it easy to forget. Age does nothing for one's memory."
He reached out and took up the ax, wrapped in cloth. Carefully he unwrapped it, stared at it transfixed once he had revealed it. He said nothing but turned it over and over, examining it, then laid it gently in front of him.
He raised his head and stared at them, one by one, then fixed his gaze on Gib. "Do you know what you have here?" he asked. "Did the hermit tell you?"
"He told me it was a fist ax."
"Do you know what a fist ax is?"
"No, your grace, I don't."
"And you?" the bishop asked of Cornwall.
"Yes, your grace. It is an ancient tool. There are those who say…"
"Yes, yes, I know. There are always those who say. There are always those who question. I wonder why the hermit had it, why he kept it so carefully and passed it on at death. It is not the sort of thing that a holy man would prize. It belongs to the Old Ones."
"The Old Ones?" Cornwall asked.
"Yes, the Old Ones. You have never heard of them?"
"But I have," said Cornwall. "They are the ones I seek. They are why I am going to the Wasteland. Can you tell if they do exist, or are they only myth?"
"They exist," the bishop said, "and this ax should be returned to them. At sometime someone must have stolen it…»
"I can take it/ Cornwall said. "I'll undertake to see that it is returned to them."
"No," said Gib. "The hermit entrusted it to me. If it should be returned, I am the one—"
"But it's not necessary for you to go," said Cornwall.
"Yes, it is," said Gib. "You will let me travel with you?"
"If Gib is going, so am I," said Hal. "We have been friends too long to let him go into danger without my being at his side."
"You are all set, it seems," the bishop said, "to go marching stoutly to your deaths. With the exception of milady…"