Rod was about to ask about the "yet," then decided against it. He turned to start sorting through the test tubes. "This could be a long search, Father."
"Not so," said the holy one. "Thy wits are only a few days' fled; thou wilt find them near to the top."
Then a large tube caught Rod's eye—one of the ones that was stoppered with rubber, instead of being sealed with wax. Engraved on it, in large, plain letters, was the name "Rod Gallowglass, ne d'Armand."
Beside it, of course, lay Rory's. Rod was surprised to see that it was empty.
He lifted his own test tube, frowning at the murky vapor inside. "How come everybody else's is clear?"
"Ask, rather," murmured the Evangelist, "why thine is beclouded."
Rod noticed that he didn't answer.
"Hold it 'neath thy nostrils," the old man urged, "and ope it."
Frowning, Rod did as he was told—and the mist curled up out of the tube, shrouding his whole head in fog, then streaming into his nostrils, his eyes, and his ears. A tendril brushed his lips, leaving a trace so tantalizing that Rod opened his mouth before he could think—and the vapor cascaded over his tongue and down his throat.
"The cloud of thy wits hath entered thine head through each of its orifices," the Evangelist explained.
Rod's senses reeled; he suddenly felt that he was tasting color, and feeling flavors. He listened to warmth for a moment, as the world went fuzzy; then the mist rose up and obscured it all. Only sound remained, the sound of the old man's voice right next to his ear, to each ear, intoning, almost inside his head, "Remember this—and, whensoe'er thou dost begin to doubt what thou dost see, or to suspect that thou dost see things that are not there, only close thine eyes, recall this moment and this place. Find thy vial again, if need be—and thou shalt have thy wits about thee once again."
Someone was asking, a long way away, "How can this work, good Father?" and the old man answered, "Through manipulation of symbols, my son. Through signs of what is not, thou shalt awaken to what truly is… to what truly is… truly is…"
Somewhere in the distance, Gwen was crying, "See the world as it truly is, I implore thee! Husband, awake!"
Rod blinked, and the murk thinned. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them, and saw daylight on a whitewashed wall.
Chapter Twenty
Rod woke with the familiar nausea upon him. He moaned and clasped his belly; all he wanted to do was lie down and die.
Then he realized that he was lying down. He was staring at whitewashed walls, a low rough-made table beside his narrow cot, a similarly rough-hewn chair by the table, and a crucifix on the wall. He contemplated the crucifix and decided he could bear the nausea.
Something cold and wet touched his forehead. He recoiled automatically—and saw a plump lady with a kindly face and a no-nonsense manner, in a brown monk's robe, cowl thrown back to show a sort of white bonnet covering her hair, with a broad white band standing up above her face.
"Be easy," she said softly. "The pain will pass. Thou hast been wounded sorely, gentleman, and hast lost some blood; thou must needs rest."
"I…I think I can do that," Rod moaned. "And… don't get me wrong, I really appreciate all this, especially the fire, but… where am I?"
"In our convent," the nun answered, "and I am Sister Patema Testa. Hast pain in thy belly?"
"Nausea…" Rod gasped.
The lady took an earthenware bowl from under the table and set it on the boards. "Use it, an thou hast need. Hast thou but now awaked with nausea, or hath it been with thee afore the battle?"
"Battle? That's right, the ogre… No, good woman. I… well, I've been… seeing things that aren't there, for a few days now, and… well, afterward, I feel weak, and dizzy, and nauseous…" Rod bit down against the pain, closing his eyes. When the spasm passed, he gasped, "Cramps, this time, too."
Sister Paterna Testa reached down under the table again and took up a bottle of pink fluid. She decanted a little into a vessel that looked for all the world like an eggcup and held it out to him, commanding, "Drink. 'Twill ease thy stomach."
Warily, Rod took it. He was tempted to think he was still hallucinating, but the nausea usually came after, not during. He swallowed the potion and frowned. "Odd. That almost tasted good."
"Give it a moment to work." The nun took the eggcup, then leaned back in the chair. "How long hast thou seen things not truly there?"
"Since I ate a chestnut sold by a stranger. You said I've just been in a battle?"
"Aye."
"Then you saw it, too. Who was I fighting?"
"A warrior with five peasant men-at-arms at his back."
"Hm." Rod shook his head. "I saw an ogre with a handful of trolls. Say, did you see a tall, blond knight help me out?"
The nun shook her head. "Only a tall, black horse and a leprechaun—yet thou didst lay about thee as though there were two of thee."
So. Beaubras, at least, had not been real.
Then the first part of her sentence bored through, and Rod sat up, wide-eyed. "My horse! I've got to go help him!"
He scrabbled toward the edge of the bed, but the woman put a hand against his chest and said firmly, "Thou must needs rest. As to thine horse…"
Here, Rod.
Rod stared, startled to hear Fess's voice. "He's all right!"
"Aye," Sister Paterna Testa said, unperturbed. "A young man came to the gate, did summat to the horse, and it did lift its head and follow him. He knocked at our portal, and we took him in, for he was yet dizzy from a knock on the head that had laid him low."
"A knock on the head!" Rod bleated. "Good grief! Did you check for concussion?''
"A cracked pate? Aye—and be assured, the lad hath sustained no injury, though his head aches as badly as thine, I warrant."
"Wait a minute." Rod protested. "You're not supposed to know what 'concussion' means."
The nun shrugged. "A monk taught me of it, long years ago; 'twas his knowledge showed me my calling to this House."
"You mean you started the convent?"
"Nay; it hath been here nearly two hundreds of years, and hath several buildings; thou art in our guesthouse. We call ourselves the Order of Cassettes, belike from our call to healing, especially the head and the mind it contains. Thou dost know that 'casse tete' doth mean a broken head, dost thou not?"
Rod did, but the woman obviously didn't know what a cassette was. "You're not officially of the Order of Saint Vidicon, are you?"
"Nay; we have no formal charter, though we do have our Rule. We are only a group of women who wish to live apart from the world, yet to go out and give aid where we may."
Rod nodded. "Who's the abbess?"
"None; we are not so clear in our ranks and standing as that. We are, as I say, but a group of women who live like sisters; yet the others do call me 'Mother.' I know not whether they jest, yet am honored."
"Mother Paterna Testa, then." Rod had a notion the appellation was anything but a joke. "Then I'll call you 'Mother,' too, while I'm your guest."
" 'Tis not needful."
"Yes, it is." Rod frowned, pressing a hand against his forehead; the ache was dulled, but still there. "I wonder whether I've stopped hallucinating or not—the monks never mentioned a convent to me."
"They wot not of it, I trust; we ha' ne'er sent to tell them, nor have we wish to. We desire only to be left to do our work in peace."
"Without having to take orders from the abbot, eh?"
"There is that," Mother Paterna Testa admitted, "though I've more concern that he might bid us disband. Yet whiles we are not truly a convent, but only call ourselves such, we cannot come under his authority, to make or break."