It was magic all his own, warrior’s magic, and the courtiers who weren’t wizards paused in their pressing back toward the doorways, heads coming up, wide-eyed.
Matt took his cue.
It wasn’t their language, but the words worked anyway, and the zeal imparted by the song. With a massive shout, the courtiers turned on the sorcercers, who turned to blast them… A maddened yowl broke from the archway, and the manticore sprang in, fur bristling. It flew into the sorcerers, double jaws closing on one after another and tossing them aside. The remaining sorcerers screamed with fear and shrank back-but, unfortunately, so did the rest of the courtiers. Then a massed shout thundered from the archway, overriding the noise from within, and a hundred knights strode into the throne room, swords mincing the sorcerers’ monsters and cutting a way through to the sorcerers themselves. Behind them a golden-haired fury strode, a golden circlet about her helmet, sbouting in rage, “Slay the foul fiends who would imperil my love! Rally to the Lord Wizard, to the Witch Doctor, and to the Black Knight!”
Behind her, Stegoman’s huge head shot in through the door. A dozen sorcerers shouted and sprang to block his way, wands swirling, but the dragon roared in fury, and the sorcerers howled and fell, rolling in flames. Unarmed courtiers sprang aside, and the dragon charged toward the dais as hundreds of men-at-arms came running into the throne room to strike the sorcerers down. Rebozo’s monster saw Stegoman and sprang to meet him with a howl like a siren. The dragon roared in answer, and flame blasted flame. But behind them King Boncorro, undistracted now, turned on his traitorous chancellor and wove an unseen net in the air as he sang. Rebozo shouted in alarm, flourishing his staff and shrieking a verse-but before he could finish it, ruddy flames blasted up about him, freezing him in agony, and for one brief instant a dark horned form seemed to loom behind him before the flames abruptly ceased, leaving only a pile of ashes. The fiery monster disappeared at the same instant, leaving only a fading shriek behind it-and every sorcerer in the hall screamed in pain, back arching, and fell rolling to the floor in agony. Sir Guy lowered his sword, panting, and told the king, “Well struck, Your Majesty!”
“But I did not,” Boncorro panted, staring at the heap of ashes with widened eyes. “My spell only inspired the agony of my traitorous courtiers! The flame that took him, that was not mine!”
“Even so,” Sir Guy said grimly. “When the queen’s army burst in, the end was clear, and the Devil gave his old punishment for failure.”
“Queen Alisande?” Boncorro looked up and saw the blond avenging angel wrapped in the arms of the Lord Wizard, who broke off murmuring endearments long enough to say, “You know, there’s something to be said for an army.”
“Yes, and I thank your Majesty for its use.” King Boncorro looked up at the ghost, who stood staring down at the carnage, aghast. “Mercy to so depraved a soul as that is unwise.”
“No,” the spirit muttered, shaking its head in denial. “It is always right, always! And a king must always do what is right!”
But Boncorro shook his head. “I think that there are times when a king must do what is prudent instead-and you must forgive me, my father, but on this Earth, I am called to be a king, not a saint.”
Matt and King Boncorro lingered unobtrusively in the doorway of the twenty-by-twenty studio, watching the sculptor at work in the light from the wide northern windows. After a little while, Matt moved onward, beckoning to the king, who nodded and followed. When they were away from the door, Boncorro said, low-voiced, “His progress is amazing! And you say Arouetto has given him only a very little criticism and suggestion this past fortnight?”
“Only a little,” Matt confirmed, “but the kid paid attention. He respects Arouetto, you see.”
“Even though our scholar admits he is no sculptor?”
“No-because he admits he is no sculptor. But he does claim to be a connoisseur, and no one disputes it. At least, not twice-though whether that’s because they’re dazzled by his arguments, or just don’t want to sit through another hour of his explaining the merits of various paintings and statues, I don’t know.”
At another doorway, they paused to watch several painters at work; at a third to watch a string quartet practicing; and a fourth time to watch singers rehearsing an opera. As they went on, Matt said, “Arouetto even has hopes of persuading the actors from the marketplace to try performing a script one of his students is writing. It will take some doing, convincing them to memorize lines instead of making it up from a scenario as they go along, but I think he might manage it.”
“He is a most persuasive man,” Boncorro admitted. “He is,” Matt agreed. “I’m amazed that he manages to stop persuading when he’s teaching… here.”
They paused in another doorway to see Arouetto sitting in a circle with the young men and women from Escribo’s farm, discussing an issue with great earnestness. “But there is as much sense in seeing the world as divided into male and female principles, as in seeing it divided into Good and Evil!” Escribo maintained. “Nonsense!” cried Lelio. “There is good in the world, and there is evil! Our teacher’s recent victory is reason enough to believe that!”
“No one denies it,” Berylla replied. “It is a question of which is greater, that is all.”
Lelio stared. “Do you say that the female principle can be greater than Good?”
“No-that it can exist within the principle of Good!” She turned to Arouetto. “Could that not be valid?”
“Perhaps,” Arouetto said, “if you remember that, in the Far Eastern dualism, Good proceeds from male and female existing in balance, and Evil springs from one or the other being too prominent.”
“Evil being a lack of balance, and Good being balance?” One of the girls looked up sharply. “That has a familiar ring! The Greeks?”
Arouetto nodded, visibly restraining his glee. “Flaminia, you seem to remember the quotation.”
“ ‘Moderation in all things,’ ” Flaminia said, eyes wide in sudden understanding, “including moderation!”
“That is it,” Arouetto said. “But tell me, could there be any connection between that principle and the motto, ‘Know thyself’?”
“Far more than a motto, teacher!” another youth objected. “It is indeed.” Arouetto’s eyes shone. “But how do you see that, Amo?”
As Amo began to answer, Pascal’s head suddenly snapped up, his eyes widening in amazement. He thrust himself to his feet and strode off to a writing desk in a corner, where he began to scribble furiously. “Thus the poet gains inspiration,” Boncorro murmured, shaking his head in wonder. “This is something I can never truly understand, Lord Wizard!”