My friends tell me I slept for two days after that. While I slept, they cleaned up the carnage, did a little hunting—and worried that I would never wake up. There was a good deal of cleaning to do, but by the time I awoke there was no sign of the detachment or the Fireball.
I was hungover and grouchy for the rest of the day. I had pressed myself to my limit in spell casting. But I had won! Then I thought of the soldiers I had killed and I was sad. They would now never return to fathers, mothers, wives, or brothers. But they were also scum-of-the-earth mercenaries who sold out to the highest bidder, and to make matters worse, from their point of view, they sold out to an even scummier crook, someone who didn’t pay them what he promised—or at least not on schedule! In the end, after a final cup of breakfast tea, I thought, “I did a Fireball and it worked perfectly!” and I was a little happier.
After that good breakfast, my mind ungummed enough for me to think about what should come next.
The first thing I did was say a few words over the unmarked grave that my friends had dug for the Turks. “You men followed your orders well and fought bravely, yet you have died defeated, unmourned, unsung, and far from home. That is sad. But you attacked me, my family, and my people! You are bastards and deserve this and worse!” I kicked more dirt on their grave and walked away angry.
My mother and father would have frowned at my eulogy for these men. They taught me that even enemies, if they were brave and true to their cause, deserved respect. But those men had scared me deeply. They had come to kill me, and they were resourceful enough that they had nearly done so! It was only the image in my mind of my mother frowning that kept me from doing even more, from spitting or pissing on that unmarked grave, to see if I could lose some of my fear. I was alone now, terribly alone, and powerful forces wanted me dead. Kicking dirt on the grave shouldn’t have made me feel better … it was childish … but I was feeling so grouchy and scared, it did! Doing it made me feel a little better, and now I could think more clearly about the future.
I told my four friends, “These are terrible times we are going through but you have remained true to me. I deeply thank you for that and I want you to know that I will remain true to you. There isn’t much I can offer you now, but know that you are now my trusted inner circle. Should this end happily, you will be rewarded by remaining my trusted advisors as well as dear friends. Keep in mind that few have seen what you witnessed at this campground, and it is best not to talk about my magic powers to anyone outside this circle.”
My friends understood, and that was how my inner circle of Grigor, Niko, Todor, and Josif was formed.
I explained to them how from my astral journey I’d learned why my father had sent me off on this fool’s errand to Florence. It was to save me. But … was it really a fool’s errand? Where else could we go for help against such a large enemy? We were facing both Kalnichovs and Turks, and the Rostov forces were completely overwhelmed. Where else could we turn for help? We decided to hurry on to Florence and seek advice from Mr. Lupin.
There we found that he was doing well, quite well. He was integrating himself into Florentine society as a university instructor and an aspiring railway planner, and his new wife was expecting their first child soon!
When I told him of the disaster that had befallen our valley and Falcon’s Aerie, he nodded. (I was careful not to tell him how I had acquired the information.)
“The wars on the Hungarian Plain have been news all summer in Florence. I worried, and from what you are saying, I worried with good reason. You and your friends will stay here, of course. Give me a day or two to think, and to talk with the friends I have made here in Florence.”
The next day, I rested—still not fully recovered from my intensive spell casting—while Mr. Lupin showed my four friends the sights of Florence. The following day, I showed them around myself and we all called on a couple of the friends I had made there. Over breakfast our third day Mr. Lupin reported, “It comes as no surprise to you, I’m sure, that my influential friends are outraged when I tell them of what happened in your valley. They are outraged, but not activated. The Kalzov Valley is a long way from Florence.”
I nodded. “The more I thought about it, the more I thought I was on a fool’s errand. But given the magnitude of what has happened in the valley, this is my best place to turn for help.”
“I would agree, and say you had little hope at this time … except for one thing: Your Pope’s Blessing. Now may be the time to see what value that really has. Tonight I have planned a dinner party, to make you all known to my friends and acquaintances in Florence. You never know when such connections can become valuable. As soon as possible, we will arrange a papal audience for you.”
That evening we met several influential Florentines … and Florina! It was a little awkward, but just a little. We hadn’t done anything rash, so there were only our inner feelings to mend. Florina said she was now happily married, and she looked it. Her eyes were still deep wells, but they were wells for someone else now. Still … it might have gone very differently and I, for one, would have been very happy if it had. In the end, meeting her again was a good thing. It didn’t happen that night, but in time it released my heart.
I suppose I made a good impression on the other guests. I know my friends did. Grigor was merry, Niko was grave, Todor discussed church administration with a young bishop, and Josif talked tactics with a retired general.
After dinner, I explained why we were in Florence and presented our case in a low-key manner. There was no point in pushing hard on people who were neither mentally nor emotionally prepared to take action. I merely gave them something to think about and let them see me. I didn’t like it much, but I knew it was so: I was the center of attraction.
I wanted to ride to Rome the next day, but Mr. Lupin convinced me to stay in Florence a while.
“Your old friends are here. You should see them while your new friends obtain your audience.”
It was good advice, so I dallied in Florence a week, visiting school acquaintances and catching up on old times. The Kalnichovs had already proved they were devious enemies with a long reach, but Mr. Lupin’s friends proved their own long reach. When we finally rode for Rome, I was carrying a letter of introduction to Pope Pius VII signed by five Florentine dignitaries. I also was carrying a report on what happened in the valley, and what we wanted from the Pope, that Mr. Lupin and I had penned together.
Two days after delivering those letters to the Vatican, I had my audience with Pius himself!
“You bring Us news of great concern,” said the Pontiff after I had been announced and kissed his ring. “We have read your report and We were surprised to hear of the Pope’s Blessing on your valley. Papal blessings are common enough—Our secretaries must send out scores every week, perhaps every day—but this one is unusual, not least because it was given to a part of the world where Our bishops hold no sway. It was given nearly a century ago, by Clement XII of happy memory, and the details in Our archives, the reasons for the blessing in particular, sound like dark superstition. But Our predecessor’s promise of support is unmistakable.”
“So you will help, Your Holiness?” My heart was rising at this unexpectedly good, and unexpectedly strong, response! A papal army marching in the Balkans!
“Yes. We will help, but We cannot do so by having a papal army marching in the Balkans.
“Instead, We will give you help in a more subtle form.”
The Pontiff motioned forward a humbly dressed cleric from his retinue.
“Iglacias Rostov, I would like you to meet Father Caspar.”
The priest bowed deeply and said, “The pleasure is mine.”
I bowed as well … somehow. How could a single common cleric help me in my unequal fight? My long training in courtesy proved its worth and I said, “I am honored to meet you, Father Caspar.”
“And well you should be, my son, although you do not yet know why,” said the Pontiff. “Father Caspar has studied the Balkan situation for many years. Your situation has ramifications here in Rome that We will not discuss. They are sufficiently deep, though, that We are asking Father Caspar to get directly involved. On his recommendation, it is Our wish that you and he drive the infidel Turk from your valley and restore the Rostov heritage.”
“Will he help drive off the Kalnichovs, too?” I asked, sensing hedging in his wording, and quickly added, “Your Holiness”.
“The power of the Kalnichovs is another issue, and, sadly, a very sticky one. Breaking that power cannot be part of his mandate. But where they get in the way, he and you can certainly deal with them.” The old man’s wintry smile suggested more than he said aloud.
I had been expecting weeks and weeks of pleading to get anything. This quick, favorable resolution that resulted in a single mysterious man being assigned to my cause was so strange! I could protest, I could negotiate for more, or I could …
“You have been most wise and most generous, Holy Pontiff. I must ask your own blessing on our quest to restore my homeland.” I knelt and kissed his ring again. The priest back home in Falcon’s Rest would have been horrified, but my father would surely have seen it as a literal case of “when in Rome …”!
Pius laid his hands on my head. As I rose, he told me very quietly, “Before my ordination, I studied with your father. You have his wisdom and courtesy.” Then, returning to his regal tones: “You also have my personal blessing and best wishes, young Rostov. Send Father Caspar back with reports of victories.”
Father Caspar and I left the audience together, escorted by my four friends. He led us to a refectory and chose a table in one corner. “We can be private here,” he said, “the more so that no one near us understands the tongue of our neighbors across the Adriatic.” His accent as he spoke that tongue was more that of Zagreb than of our little valley, of course, but still I was delighted at his fluency.
As we talked, my friends and I enjoyed warm loaves of bread, a fish stew, fine cuts of beef with an interesting sauce—rather different than those I had become used to in Florence—and a good red wine, along with two or three kinds of cheese. I noticed that Father Caspar made a simpler meal, without the beef and with rather less wine than any of us except Todor.
The priest’s first question to me was, “Have you inherited your father’s special skill?” When I did not answer immediately, he went on with a smile, “From the way the Pope tells it, with all of his and your father’s antics in their student days, Rome is lucky to still be standing.”
“Yes, I have, and my father has been training me for many years.”
“That explains the fate of the Turks sent to pursue you, doesn’t it? I know that things happened very quickly.”
I nodded. “They won’t be heard from again.”
“I too have a special gift, quite different from yours, but perhaps more powerful. When God permits me, I do minor miracles.”
Father Caspar’s voice and manner had remained straightforward and unemotional, but as I looked at him some of my skepticism must have shown.
“Perhaps a demonstration is in order. According to His Holiness, one of your father’s favorite skills was mind control. Did you pick it up?”
I nodded again.
“Try it on me,” he said.
I looked around. I was very uncomfortable even talking about my skills in a public place, let alone demonstrating them.
“I don’t do parlor tricks,” I said.
“I appreciate your care. But in this case, I insist. Make your suggestion as subtle as you like; whatever it is, I assure you nothing will happen.”
Stung—remember how young I was then!—I gestured as if explaining a point in our conversation and suggested to the priest and my friends that they should yawn widely.
Josif and Grigor did so, followed immediately by Todor, then Niko. Father Caspar remained seated, grinning.
“I am impressed with your skill! But spell-resistance is part of my gift.”
If he was impressed, I was more so. He was the first person who had ever resisted my Suggestion spell.
We decided to reassemble for dinner in my apartments and start our planning then. In the meantime, my friends dispersed to enjoy the sights and pleasures of Rome, while Father Caspar and I spent the afternoon comparing notes on what we knew of the situation in the valley, and what our respective clerical and magical skills were. Father Caspar’s historical and political knowledge of the Balkans far surpassed that of anyone else I had met, and if his clerical spell casting skills were what he said they were, the Pope truly had given me extraordinary though covert support.