In the pool, the invisible punches stopped. The witches cowered together, looking about them, wide-eyed.
"Angels fight the devils," Frisson murmured. Friar Ignatius made the sign of the cross and looked up.
"The angels won," I said.
"Of course," Friar Ignatius answered with a glowing smile. On the far side of the cart, the priest was able to finish hearing confession in peace. He bowed his head in prayer, then made the sign of the cross over the penitent, no longer a witch. The woman rose and tottered away, face upraised - and transfigured, shining with relief and joy.
"Now she may die with a lighter heart," Friar Ignatius murmured. I stared at him. "Pretty heavy-duty magic you worked there, Friar! " But Ignatius only shook his head. "No magic at all, Wizard Saul. Only prayer."
"Only," I echoed dryly.
The shriven witch was shuffling slowly down the road now, joined by a second. A third rose from confession and joined them.
"Where are they going now,"' I asked.
"To seek a physician, I doubt not," Friar Ignatius answered.
"Their souls being healed, they shall seek a cure for the ills of the body."
"So they won't go back to their jobs?"
"Certainly not, Wizard. They cannot do so without once again selling their souls."
Which pretty well did in the bureaucracy - at least for a few days, until Suettay could find new recruits. But by that time, the combined revolution and invasion would be over, and there might be no Suettay to do the recruiting, The line of witches and the toiling priest were already shrinking, the map blurring, until a band of bright blue showed at the bottom of the pool - the Mediterranean. A belt of greenery began to grow, separating into individual trees at the edge of a meadow, then a silver line grew into a brook - with four men and a troll at its edge, staring down at something.
"Why, that is ourselves!" Frisson cried.
"Hold on," I said. "I think we're about to get our marching orders." Because the scene was shrinking again, the blue band of sea disappearing. The forest swam across our gazing pool and down, and we found ourselves looking at the line of a road that swam up through what I thought of as Yugoslavia. Little black dots were converging on the road, black dots that resolved into men in homespun as the scene expanded again - homespun tunics, with scythes and flails over their shoulders.
"An ambush?" Gilbert frowned, tensing.
"No," I said. "I think they're recruits." They were. We found it out even while we were in the forest. We followed the trail around a huge old oak - and suddenly they were there, a dozen peasants in green and brown, with bows and daggers instead of scythes.
"Outlaws!" Gilbert scowled, reaching for his sword.
"Hold on." I caught his hand and held the sword in its sheath.
"I think they want to parley."
They did; the leader came forward, hard-faced and wary. "We wish to return to our homes," he said, "but we cannot, whiles this brutal queen and her henchmen rule."
"We could change that," I told him, "maybe."
"And what is it that may be?"
"An army," I said. "If we get enough men, we'd stand a very good chance. The Spider King is helping us, and he's getting advice from some experts."
So we went on down the road, but with a dozen armed men at our back.
A little farther on, an old hag suddenly broke through onto the trail and came tottering toward us, just barely keeping herself upright with a makeshift crutch, one clawed and spotted hand reaching out. The outlaws shouted, "The Witch of the Rock!" and leapt into defensive positions.
"I am Suettay's clerk no longer," the old woman wheezed as she came closer. Then she erupted in a spasm of coughing. I caught a whiff, and recoiled - what had she been eating for breakfast? Silage?
And she was tottering toward me! I backed off, fast.
"Oh, withdraw not from me!" she cried, staggering forward a few more steps. Then she went into another coughing fit, overbalanced, and fell on her knees. That didn't stop her, though; she kept coming on her kneecaps, hands uplifted, imploring. "Heal me! For are you not he who dares to heal a witch?"
"Uh ... I've been known to do it." I glanced at Friar Ignatius.
"But only when the witch is ready to repent and abjure her witchcraft. I mean, my cures don't work as long as you're sworn to the Devil's service. Besides, what point is there in my healing a person who's going to turn around and throw a whammy at me the next minute?"
"Oh, I would not do so! She had to break off to cough again, deep racking barks that shook her whole body. They passed, and she wheezed. "I would the'er repay good with ill!"
"Then you're not much of a witch-"
"I am not! I wish to be no longer! I fear the gaping mouth of Hell, with its leaping flames!" She coughed again, then turned to Friar Ignatius. "Are you not a priest? Then shrive me, I pray! That even if I die ere he doth cure me, my soul will not burn in Hell for eternity!"
Friar Ignatius gazed at her for a long moment, then nodded. "Come aside," She tried to get up to her feet to come after him, but ran into another coughing spell and didn't make it. She fell back, and his face turned somber. He waved the rest of us away and drew a stole out of a pocket in his sleeve. Draping it around his neck, he went over to the pitiful sobbing heap and knelt down by it. He made the sign of the cross and recited, "In nomine Patris, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus. What would you confess, my child?"
The word "child" rattled me - and so did the stole. I sidled over to Frisson and said, "Guess he's more than a brother, eh?"
"He never said he was not a priest," the poet returned, low-voiced.
"What illness does this witch have, Wizard?" I studied the woman, who was muttering a mile a minute to Friar Ignatius, between coughing spells. "Hard to say without asking her and thumping her chest - but at a guess, I'd say it's tuberculosis. Could be pneumonia, but I don't think she'd be able to move this much if it were."
"Would not her demonic master give her wards against such?"
"Only if he had a good reason for keeping her alive - and she's just an underling, not one of those who set policies that make thousands miserable and tempted to resort to evil. Why prolong her life? This way, he gets her soul that much sooner."
At least, that made the kind of sense Frisson could understand. Me, I didn't believe any of it - not the bit about the Devil, nor the stuff about magic. But he did, and I needed to communicate in his terms. "Her lungs are filled with fluid," I said, "and there are tiny creatures in there that are making her body malfunction to keep the goo pouring in. Think you could craft a verse that would kill them off and dry up their habitat?"
Frisson's eyes lost focus. After a few moments, he pulled out parchment and quill. I obligingly turned my back to give him a writing surface and said, "Say it while you write it out-I think we need quick work, here."
He began to mutter while he scribbled. I couldn't quite catch the words, except for "sere" and "see" and just plain "dry" now and then - but I could see what was happening to the hag.
The racking coughs that kept interrupting her confession grew fewer, and even as I watched, her skin began to regain some color. The feverish glint faded from her eyes, but they didn't fade to dullness - they brightened, with good health. She didn't begin to gain weight, of course - that would take a few good meals. Every day. For a couple of weeks.
Finally, she stopped talking and bowed her head, trembling. By this time, she was looking so healthy that I figured the trembling had to be remorse-or fear, that Friar Ignatius might withhold forgiveness. And he did look severe. No wonder, if half of the things he'd heard were as bad as I was guessing. But he nodded slowly and began a softvoiced dialogue with the witch. She nodded, answering him in monosyllables, seeming to wilt even more with each answer. At last, satisfied, he nodded and began a short monologue. I couldn't hear any of it, but I guessed he was telling her what she had to do as penance. Give her credit, she didn't even wince. In fact, when he was done, she looked up in surprise; then, at his admonition, she began to mutter a prayer. Friar Ignatius closed his eyes, tilting his head back, and muttered his own prayer. It lasted just a little longer than hers; then he spoke a few final words, making the sign of the cross toward her and, so help me, she made it, too, crossing herself from forehead to abdomen, then from shoulder to shoulder. She bowed, saying something, then pushed herself to her feet, turning away ... And tottered.