“Yes,” Rod agreed, “but what happens if neither of us is willing to? We’d lose face, we’d lose honor.”
Simon nodded. “But if I can say, ‘I will not strike, because my Lord hath commanded me to love mine enemy’—why, then can I sheathe my dagger, step back, withdraw, and think myself no less a man for the doing of it.” His smile gained warmth. “Thus may my God be ‘the salvation of my countenance.’ ”
Rod nodded slowly. “I can see how that would work—but you’d have to be a real believer.”
“Indeed.” Simon sighed, and shook his head. “Tis the work of a saint, friend Owen—and I am certainly none such.”
Well, Rod had his own opinion about that.
“Yet there was sufficient of the monks’ peace that did invest me so that, when the seasons turned to spring, and a villager came to beseech me for a cure for his cow, which was a-calving, but had taken ill—why, in my loneness, I delighted in his company, even for so short a while. I did distill the herbs that he did need, and sent him on his way. Some weeks later, another came—then another, and another. I welcomed their company, and strove to gain their liking—yet I minded me what I had learned of the good brothers—that the folk themselves were of greater import than their actions, or careless words. Thus did I learn to contain mine anger, and never reveal in wrath aught that I might have learned from their thoughts. Eh, but there were times it was not easy; for though their lips spoke courteously, their minds could hold insults grievous about the weird wood-hermit whose aid they sought.” He smiled, amused at the memory of himself, the staunch innkeeper, as a wild-eyed anchorite. “Yet I was mindful that they were my fellow men, and of infinite worth thereby. Sorely tried I was, from time to time, to utter words that would have blasted pride—the hidden truths about themselves that would have made them shrink within. Yet I forebore, and was ever mindful that they were for cherishing. I served them all, from the poor peasant to the village priest, who first felt me to be a challenge yet finally came to respect me.”
Rod smiled, amused. “Yes. I suppose if you can deal with those who wear their authority like mantles, you can deal with anything.”
“Aye.” Simon frowned, leaning forward. “And even as I have done, so mayest thou do also.”
Rod stared at him a minute, then turned away. He started back toward the roadway, to avoid having to meet Simon’s gaze. “What—withhold my anger, even against such a sink of corruption as Alfar?” He shook his head. “I can’t understand how you can do that, with someone who’s caused so much misery to so many people!”
At the mention of Alfar’s name, Flaran climbed out of the cart, and came to join them where they stood.
“Loose anger at the deeds,” Simon murmured, “but withhold it from the man.”
Rod ground his teeth. “I hear your words, but I can’t comprehend their meaning. How can you separate the man from his actions?”
“By being mindful that any human creature is a precious thing, and can turn aside from his own evil, if he can but recognize it.”
“Can, sure.” Rod’s shoulders shook with a heave of inner laughter. “But, will? What are the odds on that, Master Simon?”
“Any person may be misled.”
Rod shook his head. “You’re assuming that Alfar’s basically good—just an ordinary man, who’s given in to the temptation for revenge, discovered he can actually gain power, and been corrupted by it.”
“Certes.” Simon peered up at him, frowning. “Is it not ever thus, with those who wreak wrong?”
“Maybe—but you’re forgetting the possibility of evil. Actual, spiritual evil.” Rod looked up, and noted Flaran’s presence. He weighed what he was about to say, and decided that he didn’t mind Flaran’s hearing it. “Sure, all human souls have the potential for goodness—but in some, that potential is already buried before they’re two years old. And it’s buried so deeply that it’s almost impossible to uncover it. They grow up believing that nobody’s really capable of giving. They themselves can’t love, or give love—and they assume everybody who talks about it is just putting on an act.” He took a deep breath, and went on. “Though it’s not really necessary to talk about that. All you really need is the word ‘corruption.’ Alfar succumbed to the temptation to do something he knows is wrong, because he loved the idea of being powerful. And now that he’s tasted power, he’ll do anything rather than give it up. No matter who he has to hurt, how many he has to kill, how much suffering he causes. Anything’s better than going back to being what he really is—just an ordinary, humdrum human being, who probably isn’t even very well-liked.”
Flaran’s eyes were huge; he stood frozen.
“Yet be mindful, he’s human,” Simon coaxed. “Hath that no meaning for thee, friend Owen?”
Rod shook his head. “Don’t let the fact that he’s human, make you believe that he thinks you are. He can’t—he’s treating people as though they were bolts for a crossbow—something to use, then forget about. He tramples through other minds without the slightest thought. Doesn’t he realize these are real, feeling people, too?” He shook his head. “He can’t, or he wouldn’t be doing it. He’s got to be totally without a conscience, totally calloused—really, actually, evil.”
“Yet he is a person withal,” Flaran piped up, timidly. “Even Alfar is not a devil, Master Owen.”
“Not in body, maybe,” Rod grunted. “I can believe he doesn’t have horns, or a barbed tail. His soul, though…”
“Yet he doth have a soul,” Flaran pleaded. “Look you, he may be an evil man—but he’s a man nonetheless.”
Rod drew a deep, shaky breath, then let it out slowly. “Friend Flaran… I beg you, leave off! I’ve seen Alfar’s works, and those of his minions. Let us not speak of his humanity.”
Flaran was silent, but he stared at Rod, huge-eyed.
Rod steeled himself against the look and picked up the reins. He slapped them on Fess’s back, and the robot-horse started forward.
When the silence had grown very uncomfortable, Rod asked, “That fat little loudmouth, who was leading that mob—how did he figure out that Flaran was a warlock?”
“Why… he heard my neighbors speak of it. I would guess…”
“Doesn’t seem likely,” Rod said, frowning. “He was a stranger, after all. How would he find out about the local skeletons, so quickly?”
“I think,” Simon said, “that Alfar doth have adherents, minor witches and warlocks who can do little but read minds, salted here and there about the duchy—and their prime duty is to espy those of Power.”
“Oh?” Rod held himself still, kept his tone casual. “How’d you hear about that?”
“I did not; but now and again, I’ve felt the touch of a mind that quested, but did not seek anything, or anyone, of which it was certain. And, anon, I’ve caught snatches of thought clearly between warlocks, warning that such-and-such had some trace of Power.”
“How did they not espy thee?” Flaran asked, surprised.
Simon smiled. “I am, as we’ve said, rather weak at warlockery. And, too, I’ve learned to hide what poor weak powers I have, thinking like one who hath none at all, keeping the surface of my thoughts ever calm, and quite ordinary. Tis the key to not letting slip the odd comment that doth reveal thee—to think like an ordinary man; then you’ll speak and act like one.”
Flaran nodded, gaze locked onto Simon’s face. “I will hearken to that. I will heed thee.”
“Do so; ‘twill save thee much grief. Nay, begin to think like John Common even now, for we never know when Alfar’s spies may be listening.”
Flaran started, darting a quick glance over each shoulder, then huddled in on himself.
“And, friend Owen, there’s naught to fear for thee,” Simon reassured Rod, “no spy would even know thou’rt there!”
Flaran looked up, astounded. “Why! How is that?”