“You would.”
“Don’t bite,” Saul said beside him. “He’s dealing from a stacked deck.”
“Yes, but I’ve got an ace up my sleeve.” Matt took a deep breath and said, “Very well, your Majesty. I accept your challenge.”
“No!” Rebozo cried, and Boncorro snapped, “Be still, Rebozo! If there is no validity to what he says, he will fail. How long will you need to find your answer, Lord Wizard?”
“About half an hour.” Matt pushed back his sleeves. “Starting right now.” He held out his hands, fingers spread to look impressive, and chanted,
He took a deep breath, then went from Arnold to original,
“You need not compel,” said a sepulchral voice, “I was more than willing to aid you; you had only to ask.”
There he was, floating in midair, twice as large as life-Spiro the ghost, barely visible in the dim light of the throne room. The courtiers drew back with cries of horror. On the dais, Rebozo stared, trembling; his moan turned to a very soft keening. Matt breathed a sigh of relief. “Sorry, oldster. I didn’t know what kind of morass you were going to have to wade through to get here.”
“Well, there was a net of spells that needed parting,” Spiro admitted. “What would you have me do, Lord Wizard? Oh, yes, I know who you really are, now! Even in Purgatory the dead know far more than they did in life!”
Someone moaned in the crowd, and several others took it up. “Thanks, friend,” Matt said, aware of the effect. “Ghost!” There was urgency in King Boncorro’s voice. “How is it you are in Purgatory, but not in fire?”
The ghost turned slowly to regard the king with hollow eyes. “I owe you no answers.”
“Then do it for charity, I beseech you! I have great need of spiritual answers! Tell me, I pray!”
“Nooo,” Rebozo moaned. “No, no, no…”
“Well, I shall,” Spiro said, relenting. “An act of charity will aid me greatly now. Know, King, that I was not wicked enough to need the worst of tortures to cleanse my soul enough for Heaven. I dwell in a desert, baking under the heat of a blazing sun by day, and freezing at night. I do not complain; I deserved far worse.”
“Thank you,” Boncorro whispered, wide-eyed. “You are welcome.” The ghost turned back to Matt. “What do you require, Wizard?”
“I need to speak to two ghosts,” Matt said. “One of them is probably in Hell, or, just possibly, Purgatory. The other is probably in Heaven; we think he was a martyr.”
“I cannot make my voice reach to Heaven,” said the ghost, “but I shall seek throughout Purgatory, and can call down to Hell. What is the name of the depraved soul?”
Matt took a deep breath. “King Maledicto of Latruria!”
The courtiers gasped. Rebozo’s keening tapered off into shocked silence. But Spiro gave Matt a hard smile. “He is in Purgatory; I have seen him in its most abysmal depths. I shall summon him for you.”
Matt realized that King Maledicto had been older than he had thought-a lot older. “You do not summon a king!” Boncorro cried. “Worldly rank means nothing here,” the ghost retorted, “only the goodness of the soul. Maledicto, come!”
And the king’s ghost was there, smaller than Spiro’s, no longer malevolent, face contorted in agony. “What would you have of me, squire?” he gasped. “A debt to the living, and to Heaven, King-that-was!” Spiro turned to Matt. “Ask!”
“Who killed you?” Matt demanded, the hairs standing up on the back of his neck. “Who killed you, and why?”
“Why? Because I repented and sought to confess!” Maledicto’s tortured eyes lit with triumph. “And through the brave defense of two knights who held off my slayer, I succeeded! They are not here; I think they have gone to Heaven, with the monk who shrived me!”
“But how is this?” King Boncorro cried. “You, who slew and tortured so many! You, who caused so much agony through your devotion to Evil! How could you have come to repent?”
“Who speaks?” The king’s ghost turned. “Ah! My grandson, alive after all! I rejoice to see you living and well! Take care of your soul! Do not follow me!”
“I will not!” Boncorro assured him, seeming to regain strength by that renunciation. “Why did you repent?”
“My son’s death cut the heart out of me,” the ghost answered, “and your disappearance took what little spirit remained, for I saw there would be nothing left to show I had ever lived. Indeed, if I had known you lived, I might have rallied and reformed, for you were hope for the future-but without you, tomorrow was already in ashes. There was, of a sudden, no purpose in my life, for even pleasure had palled. After ten years of meditating on that matter, and nerving myself for the death I knew would follow, I repented and went to a confessor secretly. As soon as I began to confess, the Devil knew, as I had been sure he would, and sent a masked sorcerer on a fiery monster to kill me-but thanks to the intervention of my two stalwart knights, the only two of my court who I was sure were secretly religious, I managed to be shriven first-so the sorcerer slew not only me, but also the priest who had given me absolution.”
“But who was the sorcerer?” Boncorro demanded. “I know not,” King Maledicto sighed. “He was masked, and my soul is not yet risen enough to know more than it did in life.”
Suddenly, the flames billowed up higher around him. He cried out in pain, then called, “I must go, I cannot stay longer! Bless you, my grandson! Turn to God, and to Good!”
Rebozo cried out in pain at the name of the Lord, and so did many of the courtiers. The flames billowed up about the ghost, and when they died down and faded, he was gone. “That is all that I can do myself,” Spiro’s ghost told them. “As I have said, my words cannot reach to Heaven-but there is one among you whose voice can.”
Boncorro stared in shock. “Who?” Matt asked, eyeing Rebozo nervously. “Him!” Spiro’s finger lanced out at Arouetto. “His life has not been blameless, but nearly so-his only real vice has been in failing to see enough of the wickedness that is in humankind, and in not seeking out his fellow people, to do good for them! He has helped those who have come to him, but has not sought them out. Withal, his soul is still solidly good, and bound for Heaven!”
“So that is why you wished him gone.” King Boncorro fixed Rebozo with a glare that held not only conviction, but also sentence. Matt glanced at the chancellor. The man was wild-eyed and trembling. Matt braced himself for trouble-a man in that state might do anything, and this was a sorcerer. “Pray, scholar!” Spiro enjoined. “Pray that the soul of Prince Casudo may appear! The time is right, the moment crucial! If Heaven hears your prayer, the martyr may come!”
Trembling, Arouetto bowed his head over his folded hands and murmured something in Latin. Light burst through the throne room, banishing Spiro’s ghost. It faded, pulling in on itself-and a shining specter floated there before them, three times their height. It was the form of a man in his thirties, bearded and lithe, with a look of exultation in his eyes. “Father!” King Boncorro cried, and Rebozo sank keening to his knees. The ghost turned and looked down; then its face softened into lines of doting. “My son! How my heart swells with joy to see you grown, and not fully corrupted! Oh, forgive me for having left you lorn!”