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Chapter 18 - An Impressive Debut

When Pierrette left for Anselm's keep the next day, she carried a wrapped bundle—a white dress that had belonged to her mother.

She bid the mage a quick "good morning." A glance at the west wall verified that—seen from within—it was still standing. She had no idea how that could be—how it could look one way from without and different from within—but she had no time to ponder it. She hurried to her room. She was, at last, going to be a girl.

The dress seemed plainer than at home. It needed something. . . . She scampered from the room. "Master Anselm?" she said breathlessly. "I need to borrow some things. Those chests in the storeroom . . ."

"Ah! Snooping? You want jewels? Go ahead and take some. Try on the crown. It was made for a Caesar's swelled head, but with judicious padding . . . And the great ruby of the eastern khans . . ."

"Master, I don't covet your treasure. I thought perhaps a sash, and a pair of red leather shoes . . ."

"Of course—and a matching sword belt with a bronze scabbard . . ."

"A simple cincture, Master. Have I permission to look?"

"I said so, boy. I have no need of such things. I don't even remember where most of them came from."

"Thank you, Master." Pierrette dashed toward the storeroom.

When she found what she wanted, she slipped past the stairway leading to the entry gate, where several seekers of the mage's wisdom waited. There would be no need of her services right away, though Anselm liked to have her near to fetch, carry, and prepare nostrums. Though he almost never seemed to fade, even in strong sunlight, he still refused to apply what he called "real" magic to the problems the townsfolk brought, and confined his recommendations to "practical" solutions.

"Just because there's a material explanation doesn't make it less magical," Pierrette reminded him often. "You must stop denigrating yourself. You are a great sorcerer."

* * *

"Apprentice!" Anselm was calling. "Where are you?" No slight boy answered the mage's call.

"Your apprentice is not about, Master. May I serve you instead?"

Anselm stared, speechless, his jaw hanging. His visitors—an elderly sheepherder and one of the Burgundian soldiers—did not observe his reaction, because they too had eyes only for Pierrette.

Her hair was piled high atop her head with a loose braid of pearls and gold beads that enhanced its midnight darkness. Gold earrings dangled; where gold met flesh were tiny drops of blood from the recent piercing. The earrings' intricate Celtic design matched the flared gold torque that rested on her slim shoulders, over Elen's high-collared dress. A cape of crimson silk was held with a chain of twisted links and two blue enameled fibulae. Their tightly wound springs formed the eyes of cicadas, wings folded to cover the cleverly-wrought pins. Of her crimson leather shoes, only the curling tips could be seen. The belt was indeed a treasure—stranded gold beads and pearls that met beneath her breasts in a medallion enameled sky blue.

The visitors'—and Anselm's—speechlessness was all the confirmation she desired. Not one saw scruffy Piers in his baggy tunic, hand-me-down trousers, and dusty sandaled feet. They saw instead—a queen? A royal lady of some Merovingian house? She needed no mirror to tell her how well her transformation had succeeded.

"How may I serve you, Master?" she said. Even her voice seemed changed. As Piers, she had deliberately pitched it low; now her words had the timbre of bells, overtones of wooden flutes.

"Ah . . . a brazier, I think. Yes, the bronze one—and a handful of dry, sweet grass." She bowed slightly, spun on one heel—almost tripping over unaccustomed lengths of cloth that swirled about her ankles. She set the brazier of dry gray-green grass before the mage. "Come forward!" he commanded the shepherd. "Kneel, and . . . and my apprentice will perform the spell to clear your eyes and banish the pains in your head." He glared at Pierrette, as if he wanted to punish her for the shock she had given him.

"Of course, Master." She uttered soft words. Small flames danced on her fingertips. She lowered her hand to the bronze vessel, then stood back as white smoke rose. "Breathe deeply," she said. The shepherd obeyed—and began coughing. "Don't stop! Breathe!"

She then led him aside, giving him a fat pouch of the sweet herb. "Use it, when your vision dims or your head hurts."

The soldier's complaint was personal. He was reluctant to speak of it in front of a woman. "Speak you must," Pierrette said. "That's essential to your cure. Leave out one small detail, and your condition will remain unchanged." Stumbling and hesitating, he described his difficulty, which prevented him from satisfying himself atop his wife.

Pierrette, having no personal experience with such things, drew Anselm aside for a whispered consultation. "Considering his self-centered attitude, his wife might be content with the status quo ante, but I know too little of men and women. I've watched sheep and goats, but that isn't the same."

"For this fellow, I suspect it is too much the same," her mentor stated, "though I too am devoid of genuine experience."

"Then we must send him to someone who will understand," she concluded, satisfied. "I will perform a trick to impress him, and will then command him to make pilgrimage, with his wife, to . . . to Ma." Anselm eyed her as if she were clever indeed; let Ma work the cure, and the cult of the pool would acquire a new member—the wife—for the goddess would not encourage thoughtless ploughing of her sacred soil.

Pierrette uttered a small spell adapted to the conditions of the time, and to her understanding of the magical nature of Citharista's valley. It would hopefully cause the soldier to see his wife not fat and blowsy, with missing teeth, but as when he first met her, when he burned with the heat of youthful desire—before his humping had become no more memorable than using the chamberpot.

* * *

Later, Anselm complimented her. "Your spell persists even now," he said.

Pierrette was confused until she realized he was referring not to the minor enchantment of the soldier, but to her femininity. "It's no spell, Master," she replied, smiling happily, spinning around so her white skirt billowed. "You see me as I am—without benefit of sorcery or incantation."

"Don't be so sure it's not magic," he said, "though I'm sure it's a most natural kind."

* * *

There was no word from the abbess, which meant Marie remained unchanged. Her absence was an ache, a void Pierrette became aware of at odd moments when her sister's voice might otherwise have been heard, or when she returned home brimming with things to say, and no one but Gilles to speak with. She felt useless, because she could do nothing to help. "If ever I have a chance," Pierrette vowed, "I will, no matter what the cost to myself."

As spring wore into summer, Pierrette was content with her ongoing experiment. Anselm's confidence grew, and his tentative dabblings with genuine sorcery caused no perceptible drain on his vitality. He worked only those spells Pierrette had studied—and in some cases modified, fitting their ancient assumptions to the way she perceived the world to work today.

The activities of Ligurian sprite and dark Celtic ghost multiplied in effect as folk attributed even the most natural of coincidences to them. Those attributions strengthened them, as she observed firsthand when she met with them in the high forest south of the dragon's bones. . . .

* * *

The campsite was unoccupied. She made fire—with a grand flourish that caused branches thick as her thumb to burst into flame without tinder. The leaves of a feral olive close to the hearth rustled with the gust of the sudden fire. But no gust had moved her long, loose hair.

She stepped back, eyeing the bush. The long, silvery leaves drooped, as if the fire's heat had wilted them. Two olives, green-gold, hung at the level of her eyes, about that distance apart.

"Guihen?" she whispered—now afraid that what she saw was not the sprite, but something else, something with eyes that took their pale shine not from firelight, but from some less benign source. She backed away—and was rewarded with a jolly laugh.

"Ha! I did it!" Guihen exclaimed, dancing on one foot then the other. "I fooled you! Now tell me you did not see an olive tree."

"I did," Pierrette admitted, smiling at his joy in his successful illusion, and from relief that he was, indeed, Guihen, and not some more sinister presence.

The sprite stroked the fat white hen cradled in the crook of his arm. "Now what do you see?" he cried, his words suddenly echoing as if from within a dolium, a grain vessel tall as a man.

Pierrette saw . . . nothing. Rather, she saw a background of bushes and trees that faded into night's darkness—which was what Guihen desired her to see. Then, as suddenly as he had disappeared, he was back. "I was invisible, wasn't I?" he crowed. "Truly invisible."

"Indeed. I saw right through where you stood, as if you had faded entirely away."

"Don't say that! It had nothing to do with fading away. The principle is wholly different."

"I'm sorry." This confident Guihen needed to be reminded that his new success was one small skirmish in a greater battle. Still, she chided herself for letting her fearful mood swing into momentary cruelty. "I'm feeling guilty, I suppose, because in your joy I saw myself. I've been thinking more of my successes than of the evil in this world, which concentrates itself while I play."

Guihen settled by the fire. "I suppose we must speak of such things."

"Let's wait until our dark accomplice arrives. Unless he is already here . . ."

"I would know!" Guihen shuddered.

"Don't you like Yan Oors?"

"Like? It has nothing to do with that. It's his staff! That great pole of twisted iron. My bowels flux at the memory."

"Is that old wive's tale true? Does iron really repel you?"

"If you had been there when I was a boy, when Celt horsemen came in their four-wheeled war carts, you wouldn't ask. Iron cuts bronze . . . and they cut us, who knew nothing of nsi, the black metal."

Was that the origin of wood-folks' aversion to iron? Had the Celts' conquest of the Ligures—who worked only bronze and copper—become an aversion that grew until iron itself, not its bearers, was the enemy? More to the point, had that become not just an observation but a postulate—thus fixing the deadly nature of nsi into a reality more than historical? She must study certain old, faded spells with that in mind.

"John of the Bears comes," Guihen said, tilting his head.

Pierrette discerned a muffled, regular sound. "His staff," Guihen said, again shivering. "He swings it as he walks, so it strikes the ground every pace, every other step, just after his right foot lands."

Pierrette eyed shadowy woods. Yan Oors. She did not need to look right and left for the glow of green eyes to identify it: no faded ghost stepped forth, but a man.

He wore a black leather shirt and a kilt cut in strips over his thighs like Roman pteruges, and over the shirt a vest of linked mail. His gauntness engendered the epithet "Starved John," but he was not starved. Muscles flexed beneath the curly hair on his arms. His sandals, laced Greek-fashion, exposed the tops of great, dirty feet. His thick fingers were as knobby as his toes. His face held Pierrette's gaze. A ferocious face, a terrifying face—but she was not afraid.

Yan Oors smiled. Deep crevices fissured the corners of his mouth like slash wounds from nostril to chin. Crinkles formed at the corners of his eyes, in skin the texture and shade of old leather. Big white teeth glittered with red firelight, matching the whiteness around brown, warm eyes. His hair and bushy, pointed eyebrows were the same brown. His nose dominated everything—a great, crooked beak, asymmetrical from some old break. Wide, hairy nostrils flared when he breathed.

"Welcome, John of the Iron Staff," Pierrette said in old Gallic. "Please share our fire."

He pointedly rested his staff against the bole of an oak tree, nodded toward Guihen, and came forward.

"Thank you, pretty lady," he said in the same language. His voice was as deep and hollow as the surf that boomed in sea-caves. His words disconcerted Pierrette, who was dressed as a boy.

"Has my guise worn so thin?"

"I see a white dress, and gold, and a cape of crimson. The rest is but a spell you cast about yourself."

A spell? Anselm had said that too. Had she, without knowing it, augmented the simple deception of clothing and mannerisms? It would explain why her father and Anselm, who knew she was not male, could "forget." But could magic be done without conscious effort? Or had her mother cast the spell when she was small, and was it only now fading?

* * *

Yan Oors's mobile face shifted between melancholy frown and dry, prankish grin as he recounted his adventures . . . An unfaithful wife, out to meet her lover, was driven into a cave by a tusked boar, who ravished her as no human lover could, then left her alone with shuddering, erotic memories that might have been a dream.

"That was cruel," Pierrette said.

"Was it? She enjoyed my tusky kisses, and I her plump whiteness. It had been a long time since I sowed such a fair field."

"She's with child?"

"It was a good deed, little mother. What else did she seek, that her husband's bed could not provide?"

"And what will a boar's child be?" she asked. "And why not a bear, instead?"

Yan Oors allowed himself a ludicrous pout. "I'm not entirely cruel. The child will have a bit of a snout . . . but having seen her husband, there'll be no complaints." He shrugged. "As for bears . . . when I was a god, men called me `Lord of the Animals,' and I wore whatever pelt I chose."

"Are you again becoming a god?" Pierrette asked uneasily.

"Don't worry, daughter of Ma. I am no more a god than you are a goddess."

That might have satisfied Pierrette, except that she saw a trace of a grin at the corners of his mouth. She shrugged that off; this was not the cape, ensorcelled against the passage of hours. Too soon, it would be dawn. She pressed both of them for further tales of mischief and deeds well done, and told them her own, dwelling with delight on those occasions when she had appeared as . . . herself, a woman. As a sorceress of growing power, mistress of ancient words upon which she had put her own inflections.

When all was said, she guided their talk from the past to the future—to her still-nebulous plans. They all had to be ready when—and if—the moment arose.

"We'll know when to act," Guihen assured her.

"Never fear, little mistress," growled John of the Bears. "We'll keep an eye on you, and on those important to your schemes."

She shook her head doubtfully. "Some necessary events may not occur for months, or years. How will you know?"

Guihen's laugh was a tinkling like little bells. "When you see sunlight on the silvery backside of a windblown leaf . . . When a gamin begs a copper . . . will it be me?"

"And when a shadow falls across your path," said Yan, "or a gray ember brightens without a puff of air to feed it—can you be sure I'm not watching?"

* * *

Morning came too soon, and she bade regretful good-byes. Without sleep, the trek to Citharista stretched endlessly before her, and she considered going to the Eagle's Beak instead, for a good night's sleep, but there was much to do.

Tasks left undone fester like slivers beneath the skin. Pierrette had not spoken with P'er Otho in some time, having decided first to find out how effective her campaign was. Despite the priest's uneasiness about the town's backsliding into pagan beliefs, he had not written to his bishop. But he would not put it off forever. She had no idea how she would handle it when the bishop did visit Citharista. If she could put it off . . . Calming P'er Otho's fears was as good a way as any.

A horse was drop-reined beside his house. A soldier's horse, with those "stirrups" becoming popular with men who fought from horseback. She approached cautiously—and heard voices within.

"Why haven't you written? Are you afraid the bishop will have you removed? If you don't, I'll see to it." Father Otho's softer reply was muffled.

"It's not just the woods demons," the voice continued. "The old mage has a new apprentice, a demon herself—though a lovely one, I'm told."

"What harm have any of them done?" Otho asked, "if in fact, such `woodland spirits' actually exist outside the superstitious minds of my parishioners?"

"They exist. You should be glad, for if they did not, and you still lost control of your faithful, your superiors would . . . As things stand, you need only plead the demons' strength." The loud voice was . . . Jerome. The nature of his arguments had at first caused her to reject that identification. Why would he—a worshipper of the horned god—wish the bishop to intervene? And why would not Cernunnos—or the one who had consumed him—simply consume Guihen and John, instead of pressing for a bishop to drive them off? Was there something she did not understand—a faulty assumption? Jerome was a worshipper of Cernunnos—or was he? She was not absolutely sure that her confrontation with the Eater of Gods had taken place in the "real" world, or that Jerome was himself aware of it. Was he just an occasional tool of the one she feared most, and his words today entirely his own? That would explain everything.

Should she wait until the knight departed? She dreaded and hated him. She would wait, and speak only with the priest.

Her relief, when she decided that, made her suspect it was too easy. The knight's arguments threatened not only her, but Anselm, Guihen, and Yan Oors. And calling her a "demon" . . . She would show him!

The door swung open on creaking pintles. Pierrette and both men were momentarily disadvantaged by the contrasts of changed light. To Pierrette, the interior was dark, the men mere shadows, their faces white moons. From the table where they sat, she was a dark, wavering figure illumined from behind.

"Ah—Piers," said Father Otho, first to recover. "How timely. Perhaps you can explain the tales from the Eagle's Beak. Several folk reported seeing you there."

"He's the old wizard's helper," growled Jerome. Pierrette saw that the knight sat not upon the hard wooden bench, but on a thick cushion. The boils still troubled him.

"Is that so?" asked Otho.

"The magus calls him `apprentice,' " Jerome insisted.

Otho's gaze became suspicious.

Pierrette shrugged. "The old man orders me about. If he chooses to call me his `apprentice,' what am I to do? If he called me `goat,' would I grow horns?"

"You might," said the knight, "if the sorcerer wished it." He turned to Otho. "Write to the bishop. Put an end to this before the boy indeed wears demon's horns."

Had Pierrette not known what she did about Jerome, his words might have seemed sincere. Otho, knowing only that Jerome dabbled in the cult of the horned god, might believe that in the face of genuinely supernatural events he had repented. What scheme was the Burgundian promoting?

"I'll write the letter," Otho said. "But now, Piers—why are you here?"

She had intended to speak up for Yan and Guihen, but under the circumstances . . . Reaching for an alternative that was never far from mind, she said, "An old matter troubles me—a matter of which you already know. But it can wait for another time."

"Perhaps. But will that time come—or will you continue to put it off though it no longer serves any purpose?" Otho understood. Was he urging her to break with her false past here and now, in the presence of her sister's defiler? Otho, a priest, was a man. Did he consider maidenhood a prize to be won, and of no consequence thereafter? But the knight was the secular head of the town. Otho must think it reasonable that he be first to know. He would find out anyway. Did it really matter? Her burden was onerous. Why not rid herself of it?

She sighed, and reached behind her neck where her long hair was tucked under her tunic. She consciously willed the subtle spell that veiled people's eyes to fall away. She shook her head, and her tresses swirled about her shoulders.

Jerome grinned. His expression gave her second thoughts. What was he contemplating?

"Amazing!" he said. "Had I known your father had two daughters, how differently I might have done." He laughed dryly. "But that was clever Gilles's intent, wasn't it? With no son to inherit his grove, he would have been forced to sell it to me." He looked suddenly puzzled. "Have you no further concern for your toothless sire?"

"I'm no longer a child, Miles Jerome. I can't live for my father or an olive grove. When he's gone, what use will I have for trees? If you press him to sell the grove, and he accepts your coin, it would be money thrown away. When he dies, I won't contest your claim to the grove."

"You say that with the priest as witness?"

"If Marie does not recover, and marry, so that the grove falls to her spouse, I'll sell it to you for a single silver penny."

"Your husband won't thank you," he observed. "An olive grove is no small possession."

Pierrette wondered if she had erred. Ownership of land was all that distinguished servus from miles, serf from free. But she remembered an older Pierrette, seated on a throne, with lightning at her fingertips and thunderheads at her command . . . "I won't find a husband soon," she said dryly, "and when I do, I doubt he'll rue the sale of a few olive trees." She reflected upon the long, green slopes of The Fortunate Isles, and only with effort pulled her attention back to the tawdry present.

Jerome slapped his hand on the table. "Done, then!" he said heartily—then winced as he inadvertently shifted his raddled buttocks upon the padded bench. "Father Otho—you have witnessed our words."

"I have." Otho peered toward Pierrette, no longer Piers. "Are you sure? You haven't sworn yet. Let me repeat what I understand the bargain to be: for one silver denarius or Frankish mark, you'll sell the olive grove to Jerome, within a week of Gilles's last rites. No persons or other conditions will attach to the sale. If Marie recovers and marries before Gilles passes, the agreement is null, as the grove would thenceforth be inherited within Marie's husband's family.

"I so swear," Pierrette said, impatient to be done with the matter—and to begin her new life, free of pretense, free of threat to the grove her poor, drunken father held dear. She turned to leave.

Jerome rose hastily. "I'll accompany you. We can discuss how best your transformation can be revealed."

Pierrette immediately started for home. "Wait!" the knight called, picking up his horse's reins. "Why hurry so?"

"We have a bargain. As for the other matter, do as you will. When I reach my father's house, I'll exchange these clothes for a long dress, and soon all will know. There's nothing to discuss."

"I think differently," said Jerome, hurrying to catch up. "You are as one just born—reborn, if you will. You may think yourself a woman, but you're as innocent as a newborn. Perhaps I can begin your education . . ."

His unctuous tone repelled and frightened Pierrette. Had she made some terrible mistake? Why did he gloat so?

"I know what you could teach. P'er Otho would do better to eject you from the Church. He should spew you out, and make an honest pagan of you."

His reaction was not what she expected; she was prepared for his sneering laugh, but there was no humor in his eye, no scorn or coarse amusement—she saw pain, wistfulness, and terrible loss.

Then, like a mask over his heavy features, his smile became mean. Putting one foot in the stirrup, he swung awkwardly into the saddle, which was padded with a woolen blanket. "Pagan or flawed Christian I may be, but you have only begun to learn what I have to teach. And teach you I will. Count on that!" He neck-reined his mount and dug in a single-pointed spur. His horse's hoofs rattled on cobblestones, the sound quickly diminishing.

Should she return to P'er Otho, and ask what mistake she had made—or what mistake the Burgundian believed she had? But what could he do? Nothing. But still, her concern erased the pleasure she had anticipated, when she at last became a woman.

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Framed