"Danger and delight grow on one stalk."
--English proverb

ur journey to Toulouse took eleven days from Avignon. The road we travelled took us along the southern coast, where I was able to glimpse the ocean that I loved so much. This was not the raging sea of my Dream, but the gentle carrier of more pleasant remembrances from my childhood. The fresh smell of the salt air and the cries of the seabirds made me homesick for my mother's singing, my father's heavy boots in the hall when he returned from a voyage, even my brother's arrogant boasting and little tortures. The travel was doing me good; I didn't Dream during this entire leg of the journey, and I wondered if I had somehow left my demons behind me. Perhaps they had found other souls to torment. But if this were true, other fiends had come to rest on my shoulder. As we turned inland and northward five days into our journey, the sense of loneliness and abandonment evoked by memories of my family stayed with me.

Though I liked the Clergy well enough, and though I thirsted for learning, the fact remained that I had been entered upon this course with no concern for my own needs or desires. When one is disposed of in such a way, the world becomes one large, inescapable prison.

Toulouse was nestled in a bend of the Garonne River, a powerful yet quiet watercourse. The great wonder of this place was the series of dams, recently built to provide waterfalls for the new water-wheel-driven grain mills. About three score of these mills lined the right bank of the river, and men and wagons bustled busily around them. To the south, the majestic peaks of the Pyrenees rose white against a menacingly grey sky. It was apparent that our luck with the weather had held out just long enough to see us through our journey.

Nicolas had given me some background on the place as we traveled. He had discoursed at some length upon the dark reputation of the city, known for being a wellspring of heretical ideas, and subsequently, for being the center of activity for the inquisition.

Less than twenty-five years ago several martyrs of the Albigensian, or Cathar, heresy had attempted to revive their faith, and had ended up being burned at the stake in the center of the city. Catharism was a mystical faith which attempted to reform some of the ideas of the Church. The root of the word, cathari, meant "pure." It had gained enormous popularity in the region, especially with those of lower castes, although the local nobility had sympathized with them as well. During the bloody "Albigensian Crusade" of a century ago, the count of Toulouse and other nobles of Languedoc had defended, at least verbally, the rights of the Cathars to practice their chosen faith. It had done little good, however; the people were subjected to wholesale slaughter at the hands of mercenaries controlled by the Church. None were shown any mercy,and when asked how to differentiate between heretics and those of the true faith, the Bishop of Citeaux was said to have replied, "Kill them all. God will know His own!" Thus a heresy had been crushed in a matter of weeks. As part of the penance demanded from the Count for his support of the heretics, he was ordered to establish the university, which now drew us into its fold.

Things are often not as they seem, and the spirit of man is a thing not easily dominated, as these dangerous times could surely attest. Brother Nicolas went on to explain that it was believed that Cathars may even yet exist somewhere in the area, and that as a result, eyes often shifted from face to face in suspicion, and a properly phrased insinuation was the weapon of choice for disposing of enemies or advancing one's lot within the university or the local hierarchy.

The city's woes did not end with the destruction of the heretics. Only a few years ago, the war between France and England had taken its toll, and most of the town had been burned. Now, much of it was under reconstruction, this time from red brick dug from the soil, giving everything a rosy hue that I found pleasant.

But Nicolas' words about the heretics had a disquieting effect on me. Upon hearing me say this, he smiled and said, "Don't let it worry you, boy. Things have quieted in those quarters over the last few years. Besides, those of us who have nothing which may be coveted need not worry. Hum, yes, indeed."

I was worried, but for a different reason. Nicolas had related his stories of massacre and execution of the church's enemies grimly, and had seemed far too cheerful to ponder the possibility of the heresy's continuation. If what he had told me were no exaggeration, were he to display such sentiments in front of the wrong person, it could go very ill for him. While those who were guiltless could, by some stretch of the imagination, survive the brutal methods of the inquisition, a man like Nicolas, whose sympathies seemed to lie with the church's enemies, would surely not hold up under the torturer's instruments. Nicolas had, in fact, once said that he believed many of the men who confessed themselves to be heretics or witches did so only out of their fear of the inquisitor's whips and thumbscrews. I was inclined to agree. What I had thus far seen of human nature made it clear to me that men would risk any future consequence to avoid pain in the present, even if it meant excommunication or death.

Yet in the end, I knew that I would simply have to have faith in Nicolas. He was a singular man. I had never known Nicolas to betray any thought that passed through his mind, save in our own private conversations. I had often felt privileged to be the man's confidante. I felt that I probably knew more about this exceptional mind and its workings than any other; and yet it sometimes seemed that I did not really know Nicolas at all.

We entered the city in mid-afternoon. Warmth radiated from the red brick of the walls of many of the buildings we passed. I was pleased to find that little of the squalor we had encountered in Avignon was to be found in Toulouse. The streets were far less crowded, and were washed clean. No aroma of human refuse attacked my nostrils. The streets meandered narrowly among the shops and houses, but in such a way that they all led eventually to the Place du Capitole, the public building at the center of everything. Here we were able to receive directions to the university, a large, mismatched mass of high buildings, again of red brick, roughly surrounding several small courtyards.

We dismounted from our cart in one of these courtyards, wondering where to go next, when a student in clerical robes approached and spoke Nicolas' name, explaining that we were expected. He led the two of us with our cart to the stables, where he helped us carry our belongings up one flight of stairs to a small but well lit room overlooking the stables and a small smithy.

I dropped my last load and sat down, winded, upon one of the chests. Nicolas began busily unloading another while our helper stood uneasily in the middle of the room. He was watching Nicolas with more than ordinary curiosity, and an expression I took to be distaste upon his face. I thought I understood why; Nicolas was dressed in his travelling robes, which were tattered and stained, and his only sandals, which had grown stiff and cracked in the mud of our travels.

By contrast, the student was dressed in a manner that could only be described as carefully opulent. His Dominican robe was of very fine wool, and his hair was carefully trimmed. Around his neck he wore a fine silver chain, with a heavy silver cross at its end. His sandals were new and of good dyed leather, and the cord at his waist was of finely woven silk. To him, we must have appeared little better than beggars.

His gaze then fell on me, but I met it with a glare. He turned back to Brother Nicolas hastily, saying, "By your leave, brother, I must be going. The chancellor has asked me to invite you to his home for supper this evening, after vespers. His boy will come for you then."

"Please convey our acceptance to the chancellor for me, we will be delighted," said Nicolas. "And thank you for your help. You are too kind. God go with you." The student gave a slight, stiff bow and left.

Nicolas turned to me at once. "You must be wary of pride, Alix. It is unbecoming for one of your obvious sensitivity, not to mention your station."

"My indignation," I replied slowly, trying to control my voice, "is not for myself as much as for you. He looked at you as if you were some sort of vagrant. And you! You were so polite to him. Didn't you notice his manner?"

"Of course I did, it would have been difficult not to. But you will find that it is better to turn aside pettiness with a few kind words than return it twofold. Besides, I daresay his attitude will change quickly when he finds himself in one of my classes." He grinned. "I think perhaps he did not know my purpose here. But all students must come through my classroom ere they can call themselves scholars."

I stared at him for a long moment, and he stared back at me, as inscrutable as ever. Then something inside me broke loose and I guffawed loudly. "Don't tell me you don't enjoy the thought, because I know you better than that!" I was gambling that Nicolas would be feeling as relieved as I that our journey was at its end, and my gamble paid off in the wide grin that stole across his face. Such things were rare in Nicolas, which may have been a good thing-- on his bony, narrow face it looked ghastly.

I flopped down contentedly on one of the cots, finding it to my liking. "Do you suppose everyone in this place dresses like that? Between Avignon and this place, I am beginning to feel like one of the beggars he made us out to be."

"I would suppose," he said pointedly, "it matters little, but I imagine they do all dress more richly than we are used to. Many of the men who study here are Dominicans, and can well afford to put on airs. But furthermore, I imagine it is all part of appearing as un-heretical as possible."

I threw him a quizzical look. Seeing this, Nicolas explained, "Well, surely you have heard of certain... er... controversial ideas which have circulated concerning the poverty of Christ. There have been many, including some of our own Franciscan order, who claim the Church is too rich, too corrupt to truly represent the will of God. They say that Christ was poor, that he did not own his clothing or his food; therefore, the Church should own nothing."

The argument was a familiar one, for I had heard it discussed laboriously over supper, on more than one occasion. I remembered Avignon's lavishly clothed and coifed priests, and the enameled wooden crosses I had seen for sale in some of the shops, depicting Jesus being crucified while one of his hands dipped into a purse at his belt. After seeing Avignon, I knew that I could never view the Holy Church in the same way.

"You agree with them, don't you?" I asked.

"Yes, I do."

I said no more, but instead began unpacking our things. I could feel Nicolas' eyes upon my back for a time, but I did not turn to meet them. I had too much to think about.

That evening, another student arrived at the door of our room. He, too, was carefully dressed, but showed Nicolas considerably more respect as he explained that he was to be our guide to the dean's house, which was not far.

In response to my inquiries, Nicolas told me he had never met Dean Gascon before, and knew little of him. He was a friend to our own Father Perrer, who had, in fact, first recommended Nicolas to the university. I felt very lucky to have been chosen to accompany him, for with his endorsement there was a very good chance that I would be allowed to enter the university. This meeting with the dean of the school would be a good first step in that direction.

The student led us down several winding, dimly lit streets to a house on the edge of the university's complex. This was one of the few older dwellings that had survived the great fire. It was built of wood and daub, with a black slate roof, steeply gabled, and had narrow, deeply inset windows that reminded me of sunken eyes. The effect was stark against the warm red buildings I had already grown accustomed to seeing. None of the windows on either of the two floors allowed the slightest glimmer of light to welcome us.

Our guide knocked on the heavy oak door, which was opened quickly by a sullen looking boy of about thirteen years. He peered out for a few seconds, then opened the door wide when he recognized our guide.

"Please enter, I will inform Dean Gascon of your arrival." This was said in a mumbled, apprehensive manner, as if the boy expected to be punished for something. Our guide bowed slightly and hurried away up the street. Nicolas glanced at me inquisitively, I shrugged, and we crossed the threshold.

We stood in a small round foyer. A door opposite us opened onto a small but richly furnished common room. Here, heavy woven rugs covered the walls as well as the windows. In the center of the stone floor was a large, deep rug made of several black sheepskins sewn together. This lay in front of a fireplace in which a fire poured heat into the room. Facing it were several chairs with intricate but not quite matching carvings across the backs and along the arms.

As we stepped further into the room, two walls of shelves came into view. These were filled with a large assortment of curiosities. Urns of brass and silver as well as some gold dotted the shelves here and there, among figurines of the virgin and Christ. There were other figures too, tall slender things, beautifully formed, exquisite in detail and craftsmanship. I guessed them to be Egyptian in origin. Delicate blown glass vessels of every shape and size reflected the firelight colorfully. Opened chests of Ivory and fragrant woods were there too, each lined with velvet and containing some treasure of carved bone or ivory, or cast of precious metals.

I browsed wide-eyed among these treasures while Nicolas stood by the fire, studying the mosaic inlaid above its mantel.

A small stoppered bottle of rose colored glass caught my eye. It was as delicate as anything I had ever seen, wide at the base and narrow at the neck, topped with a stopper shaped like flower petals. It was half full of some dark liquid. Glancing behind me to see if I was watched, I removed the stopper and sniffed. I wrinkled my nose at the bitter smell just as a voice behind me said, "At last we meet, Brother Nicolas. I apologize for keeping you waiting."

I turned to see a smiling man with a pointed chin and a long nose stride across the room and take Nicolas' hand. He glanced over at me, looked at the thing in my hand, frowned, and began moving toward me.

The room exploded into a whirling kaleidoscope of light. I fell to one knee as a driving pain constricted my chest. I struggled to breathe. The room grew dim and a deafening rushing sound assaulted my ears.

All of these sensations halted as abruptly as they had started. I was standing in an enclosed room, suffused dimly with a soft blue light. After a few moments my eyes adjusted, and I realized that I was in the tomb of my previous Dream, and standing before me was Riothamus, the man who had given me my name. He wore a strange white mantle with a red cross, splayed at the ends, emblazoned across the front. I had been holding my breath, and now I let it out with a rush.

He took a step forward and held out a cup that appeared to be of solid gold, studded with gems of red and green. "Drink." I must have been gaping stupidly, for he repeated himself. "Drink! It is reason I offer you. You haven't a chance without it, and your time runs thin. Drink!" He took my hand and forced the cup into it. It was so cold that I could feel my skin freezing to the outside. I quaffed the contents rapidly, trying not to think about what was happening. I clutched the empty cup in my fist and started to speak, but he interrupted with, "Do not take the grail with you! It is not for you to have!" The urgency in his voice compelled me to let go of the cup. It fell to the floor with a dull thud as the light and the man faded from my sight.

I felt myself being drawn along a passage like a mote of sand in a strong wind. The air became colder, then colder still as I tumbled head over heels. I landed hard with a thump at the base of something made of stone.

I clutched the sharp rock edge above me and pulled myself to a crouch. At first, my eyes were met with only darkness, but then a wan green light began to appear. I was in a burial crypt. At first I thought that I had not left the tomb at all, but some things were different about this place. A shrouded corpse lay on the stone slab before me, and was in fact the source of the steadily growing light. I looked around, and the first tremors of panic began within me when saw that there was no exit.

I turned back to the figure. I knew that I would have to make the next move. I had experienced enough of these Dreams to have learned that they required my participation, but I dreaded the next task. After a few more moments of hesitation, I threw back the shroud to expose the face.

The eyes were open. They shifted to behold me, sunken and dark in a gaunt and bearded face that was little more than skin stretched dryly over a skull. The cracked lips began to move.

"He is your enemy. You are the instrument of my wrath on earth. You will destroy him." The voice was musty with death. I shuddered. It took me several tries before I could speak, "Who?"

"Lucien. He is your enemy. He is darkness."

Lucien? I had not heard the name before. Confusion made my head spin. There were so many things I needed to know...

So many things, which would never be answered, for I was obviously being used to attain some end that would remain hidden from me. A warm anger began to form in my stomach, supplanting the chill of fear. I could feel the potion from the golden cup spreading into my limbs, filling them with a vitality like nothing I had ever felt before, steadying me. Then the warmth reached my head, and everything fell into order with greater clarity.

I approached the corpse. "It seems to me that you could have chosen someone with more influence than I. Why have you chosen a Franciscan monk?" the eyes widened. I knew I was not on firm ground, yet my frustration drove me on. "How am I to be what you say I am? I am closer to being the instrument of my own destruction than anyone else's. I am nothing in the real world--"

"Enough!" The corpse's chest heaved and rattled. "Where did you get such knowledge? It is not for you to know anything of what you are! You are my tool!" It paused for a moment. Then, as the eyes rolled slowly in their sockets, its voice became sly with cunning. "Who have you been consorting with?" I did not reply. "It is a dangerous thing, too much knowledge. But I will grant you this." His hand reached toward me. I started to move away, then forced myself to stay in place. As the outstretched fingers touched my forehead, images began to pound in rapid succession through my mind.

In every direction around me were streets swollen with rotting cadavers, blackened by some evil. Carrion fowl circled over the rooftops in great flocks, drawn by the smell of smoke and decaying flesh. Huge rats swarmed over the dead in a constantly moving tide. Their chittering gave way to the sound of the wind disturbing a scorched plain, where I now stood. Some distance off, robed figures hung from a gibbet, dancing eerily in the wind. I walked against the wind for some time, my eyes tearing so that I could not see. When at last I reached the gibbet, I saw Brother Nicolas hanging at the end of a rope, swaying slowly, an expression of grotesque horror on his uncovered face. I turned to run from the sight, but a crowd of starving people had surrounded me, their faces full of supplication as they stretched their hands out to me. I shook my head and they grew angry, shouting obscenities and pummeling me with stones and clubs. I screamed and darkness fell over me once more.

I was back in the crypt, but the corpse had vanished. The shroud lay inside out on the slab. As I watched, it rose slowly into the air and hung suspended there. Upon its surface I could see the impression left by the body's decomposition. The cloth moved, buckling and stretching where the mouth had been.

"Yours is to trust and obey. Mine is to command. Only you among all men have the ability to keep these things from coming to pass. You will soon find for yourself that he is your enemy."

The light faded with the voice and I knew nothing more.

An eternity had passed. I struggled for consciousness, forced my mind upward from the deep pit of sleep. It took me a few moments to remember where I was and what had happened. I was in the chancellor's house, or at least I had been. I moved my hand a little, felt cloth beneath it. I felt hot. Opening my eyes, I saw that I was in an unfamiliar room. Heavy blankets covered me. A solitary candle burned on a round table across the room. I kicked the covers onto the floor, feeling the fire that ran up and down my limbs begin to recede.

My robe was across the room on a chair next to the table. I started to sit up and groaned softly as I paused half way. My head felt as if it had been bludgeoned repeatedly and for a long time. Breathing heavily, I pushed myself upright, realizing as I did so that I was lucky I had not yet eaten, for I would have lost the meal now. Despite all of this, I stood. I felt an overwhelming desire to find Nicolas, to take comfort in his presence.

Standing became easier after I had done it for a few moments, and the queasiness in my stomach began to subside. I donned my robe and pulled the fat candle from its holder. The room had only one door, which opened onto a narrow hallway. On each side were three doors, in addition to one at each end of the corridor.

I randomly decided to try the door nearest me, to my right. This and the one across from it revealed unoccupied rooms similar to the one I had just left. The other side doors were all locked, but the door at the end opened to reveal a small pantry stocked mostly with wine and sacks of grain. One small cask had a spigot inserted into its end, and I put my mouth to it and drank a little. The red wine had its usual steadying effect on me, though my stomach lurched a little at first.

Why was I alone? Brother Nicolas had never left my side after one of these episodes. But then, I felt like I had been out for a long time, and Nicolas' meeting was an important one. I surmised that, seeing that I was resting peacefully, Nicolas had probably gone on with his visit. With a sudden rush of guilt I hoped that I had not ruined it for him.

With the wine in my belly I felt more alert. There seemed to be strangeness in the air, something not quite right. I shook my head, remembering that nothing ever felt quite right after these Dreams. Yet something nagged...

I took another drink from the spigot and leaned back against the shelf behind me, wiping my mouth on my sleeve. With a sudden lurch, the shelves gave way; I tried to catch myself, but fell flat. I rolled to one side with my arms covering my head, expecting the shelves and their contents to crash down upon me. No such thing happened. I picked myself up from the floor, rubbing my elbow where it had hit the floor.

The shelves were hinged at one side, allowing them to open like a door, revealing a few feet of floor and a wooden staircase twisting upward. The candle had gone out when I fell, but moonlight filtered through a small slit in the wall part way up the stairs.

Was I in a cellar then? It seemed too warm for me to be below ground. A quick look out of the slit in the wall would help me get my bearings. I climbed the stairs and looked out. A neighboring rooftop and a view of the street beyond told me that I was on the second story of the chancellor's house. So Nicolas would probably be somewhere below, if I could find out how to get there.

But what was above?

Indecision held me. I was intrigued by the hidden stairway, as all young boys are by things secret, yet Nicolas would be extremely worried -- not to mention angry -- if he came to check on me and I had disappeared. The thing that finally propelled me forward was the inescapable feeling that this discovery was no accident. Something was definitely in the air, and it made the back of my neck tingle with anticipation.

The stairway curved to the left for a few more steps, then ended at a doorway which housed a short wooden door, rounded at the top. No light escaped from the space at the bottom. I listened for a few moments, then when I was convinced that there was no one on the other side, pushed the door open and entered. The door swung open silently.

Light filtered anemically around the edges of heavy curtains to my left, but not enough to see by. I started feeling my way along the wall to my right, until my hand encountered a small niche where flint and a stone were stored. I pulled the candle from my belt, and after a few tries was able to produce light.

I turned from the wall and stood stunned by the sight before me. The room was small, but everywhere my eyes fell, some new wonder leapt up to fill them. Every wall was covered from floor to ceiling with deep shelves, which were covered with myriad scrolls, books, beakers, flasks, and vials. A pile of skulls, animal and human, sat atop one of them. Another supported bricks of dull grey metal. Next to these was a large scale and a wooden chest of weights. A tray of surgical knives and saws shared another shelf with huge jars containing preserved organs of indeterminate origin. Below this was arrayed an assortment of dried herbs in jars, or tied together in bunches. Bunched herbs also hung from the ceiling, and the air was sour with their mixed aroma.

In the center of the room were several counters, strewn with more flasks and vials among charts showing the workings of the human body, or long discourses in an odd derivation of Latin which I tried in vain, briefly, to decipher.

Further searching revealed a small cubbyhole behind one section of shelves, just large enough for two men to stand single-file within. At the end of it was a banner, white, embroidered with a red, splay-ended cross . It was the same as the mantle that Riothamus had been wearing in my Dream. On a pedestal in front of the banner was a life-sized stone head, portraying a bearded man. Neither of the two made any sense to me.

As I wandered about the room, it dawned on me that this was a repository of knowledge that went beyond anything that I had ever heard of. With a small hint of panic fraying at the edges of my mind, I thought that everything in this place had an air of the forbidden about it. It was certain that the user of this incredible library... laboratory... whatever it was... did not want its existence known. Were I to be discovered here, I would probably not live to tell of it. And if I did not return to my room soon, I would surely be found out.

As I turned to leave, two more things caught my attention: The set of pitted iron shackles hanging from a hook behind the door, and the bronze five-pointed star inlaid into the center of the floor. This I recognized.

I slipped quickly out of the room, down the stairs and into the corridor, being careful to leave everything just as I had found it. I had just closed the pantry door behind me, and had taken but a few steps, when the door to my chamber opened and a girl in servants garb stepped into the hall. I froze, knowing that I was found out, waiting in terror of the startled response that would alert everyone to my prowling. She looked away from me first, down the hall. Then her head turned and she saw me. She froze in place, mirroring my fear, only more intensely, if that were possible. Then she seemed to come to herself, and with a surreptitious glance over her shoulder, hurried to me and reached out for my arm, as if I had been about to fall.

"Now, what are you doing up? You shouldn't be wandering about like this, and besides, you'll find nothing here that will serve you better than a night's rest." She was attempting to speak in a firm and admonishing tone, but I could hear the undercurrent of apprehension in her voice, and she kept looking over her shoulder.

I let her lead me back to the room and put me in the bed. But when she attempted to cover me with the blankets, I pushed her hands away gently and said, "No, I'm warm enough, please. I'm not really sick." I ignored her look of skepticism and changed the subject. "What is the time? Have I been asleep long? Where is Brother Nicolas, the man I came here with?"

"I'd say it's near midnight, and you have been `asleep,' if that's what you'd call it, for about four hours. You appeared closer to death than life, to me." She watched me askance, looking blatantly suspicious. But her voice belied her expression, for she sounded genuinely concerned.

As a matter of fact, I was beginning to notice a lot of things about her, now that my fear of being caught had subsided. Her voice had a softness to it, and she spoke with a slight accent, as if she were from some other part of the country. She was leaning toward me slightly, but she was between me and the candle, so that I could not determine the color of her eyes, only that they were big and dark. Her hair was long and slightly wavy, of a brownish color that seemed red in the candlelight. It was clean, like her skin and the simple dress of dull white linen, belted at the waist by a cord, and the grey wool shawl which hung loosely about her shoulders. Her hands were delicate and thin. And there was something pleasing about her scent, as though she had rubbed her skin with flowers.

I was surprised and annoyed at myself for noticing these things. I had had very little experience with the opposite sex. Somehow, they were to be counted as inferior according to teachings, yet it was always intimated that they held some dark power that should be feared and shunned. I had never had any reason to disbelieve these things, except in the case of my mother, to whom I was certain such rules did not apply.

I felt the blood rush to my face when I realized that I was receiving a like appraisal from the girl, though hers was much cooler. She tilted her head back and to one side and said, "Have you been cloistered so long, that your mouth hangs open at the first female that you see?"

I reddened again. "Perhaps I have at that. I wonder if it is against my vows if I tell you that you are... very lovely?" My voice squeaked awkwardly.

She laughed and I had the pleasure of seeing her blush in turn. "If it is, then I think that you are a habitual sinner, for you say that much too easily for it to be true."

I smiled. "Believe me, flattery is not an art they taught in the abbey. But please, I am anxious to know. Where is Nicolas, my companion? Do you know of whom I speak?"

"He is where you left him." She looked at me uncertainly. "Do you remember?

I nodded as I recalled the circumstances of my sudden malady. It disturbed me very much that it had come upon me like that. If Dreams were to begin taking over my waking life, then where was sanity to be found?

She must have seen the cloud cross my face, and concern was once again in her voice as she said, "Monsieur Gascon said that you breathed the vapors of something in a bottle, and that it left you stunned. That was when he called for Phillippe and me to carry you up here. He said that you would recover soon, and that you were in no danger; but your friend, the brother, insisted upon being with you at first. Then he left you when he saw that you were resting well, and my master promised that I would stay with you." She looked at her hands folded before her. "I only left you for a few minutes, just to get another candle and some water. When I returned and saw you gone, I... I didn't know what to do. If my master had found you first, he would have... punished me." Her dark eyes were wide, and I knew what she wanted to ask me.

"No, I will not say anything about it. You have my word. Let's call it a thieve's agreement... I won't tell if you won't. But tell me about your master. I did not get a chance to greet him before I... fainted. What sort of man is he?"

She recoiled a little at the question, crouched into herself as if to ward off injury. She watched me out of the corner of her eye. "Why ask me? I am no judge of men. He feeds me and clothes me, and gives me a little money now and then. I do what I'm told, because that is what is expected of me. Beyond that, I have no business in his affairs."

I closed my eyes. I was losing patience with evasions and uncertainties.

She must have seen my displeasure, for then she said, "You truly have a need to know everything, don't you? In that you are very much like him. Please... don't hate me."

I looked at her. Hate? I did not think I could ever hate her.

"It's just that he frightens me sometimes," she said, "and I don't like to think about things that frighten me. He can become violent when he is angry, and nothing makes him angrier than having his affairs pried into."

I suppressed a shudder. I had not really met this man, but I was beginning to get a fairly good idea of his temper. I imagined what his wrath would be like were he to discover my visit to his most secret chamber.

I finally forced these thoughts from my mind and turned my attention back to the girl. "I don't know your name. Mine is Alix."

"I know. And you are from some dreary place in the mountains. I overheard your friend and my master talking earlier. I am Isa. That's not some cut off part of Isabeau or Isabella. My parents were simple people, and they believed in simple names."

I watched her carefully as she spoke, following every movement of her finely sculpted face. I guessed that she was a little older than I, and that she had probably lived a good deal more of life than I had in my own sheltered existence. She told me of her parents, who had led a happy and passably comfortable life as cloth merchants, traveling in the warmer seasons from town to town. But they had both been killed, slaughtered in the battle that had virtually destroyed this town two years ago. Isa had escaped death only because she had been inside the house of a noble family, whose men-at-arms and staff had fought valiantly and successfully to repel the invaders. She had been repairing a drapery that her father had sold them the year before. She returned to the inn at which they had been residing only to find it burned to the ground. She had spent the rest of the day and all of the night wandering the streets in search of her parents, before she found someone who could give a grim accounting of their last moments.

She was left with no place to go. Her parents were the only family she knew of, and the brigands had taken all of the money they had on their persons. "I was becoming desperate," she said, "I had nothing to eat and not even a cloak until I found one on a dead man's body. Then my luck changed. I met a bookbinder. He hired me as a housekeeper, though he paid me precious little. I stayed with him for a year, and I learned something of his craft. He even allowed me to do some of the stitching in the bindings when his apprentices were overworked. Yet he always made it clear to me that this was man's work, and that my craft work was substandard. Fa! I knew that wasn't true. My work was at least as good as the apprentices, and he knew it too.

"Then he died... the flux, they say... and I came to work for Dean Gascon. The two had known each other, so again I was lucky. I am happy here, most of the time, and I eat well."

I listened in fascination, though I did not always hear her tale. Something was happening to me that I had never considered. My life was chosen for me, pre-ordained from all sides. I held my vows sacred, despite everything, but these things seemed to fall away to disused corners of my mind with each glance from Isa.

"But enough." I started as she caught me staring at her again. She pretended not to notice. "I have been prattling on like a fool, and here you are ill. Surely I am tiring you..." she ended the sentence as a question.

"No -- not at all, really. I enjoy the company." Did I imagine that she was pleased at my reassurance? "That was why I left the room, to find Nicolas. Only instead, I found a pantry." I watched her closely as I said this. There was no reaction. So she didn't know of the secret chamber... or else she was a very good actress.

"Well, you are better off here in this bed, I'm sure. You certainly seem to be feeling better. You looked a fright when they brought you in here, and your friend -- Nicolas was it? -- you could tell he wanted to stay here, by your side, but he really didn't have much choice. The dean was very insistent. Not that he could have done much, by my reckoning. You were limp as a wet blanket."

I changed the subject after that, not wanting to allow my mind to linger on the Dream. Isa seemed to sense that she had stepped over some invisible line, and was happy enough to let the conversation turn to more pleasant things. She told me of places she had seen, including Paris, of which I had only heard, and Burgundy, which I had visited once with my father, when I was very young.

Then, abruptly, she leaned forward. "You're not really a monk, are you? You don't really talk like one, you know. You're not meek and self-deprecating, like some, nor are you holy and all-mighty like others. There's something of shadows and wolves and hunger about you."

I laughed. "You have some imagination. It's usually me gets accused of that." Yet I examined myself in that instant and felt that in some way she was probably right.

I could have stayed on like this for the rest of the night, but the door opened to admit the dean and Nicolas, who smiled when he saw that I was awake.

The dean smiled as well, less warmly. It did not seem natural for him to smile. His face was deeply lined, with thick black brows and prominent cheekbones. His nose was long and thin, knifelike. He was of average height, thin but not overly so, and I guessed that he was about Nicolas' age. The shadows of the room made him appear all the more severe to me, and I was reminded of stone gargoyles that I had seen. Here was the wolf, if ever I had seen one.

His voice as he spoke to me was smooth and deep. "So our curious one has awakened at last. I trust you feel rested?" He stepped further into the room, and I could see that he held the vial I had sniffed earlier in his hand. "You have learned a fundamental rule of science, boy. Never sample unknown substances with your nose. I was not aware that there was anything in that bottle, but investigation has revealed that you breathed a distilled mixture of herbs commonly used to stun creatures for surgical investigation."

Then Nicolas said, "I think we should have amputated his curiosity while we had the chance, but I fear that there would have been nothing left to sew up." He said this gruffly, but I could hear the relief in his voice. Yet as he spoke, his eyes slid sideways to Isa, and I could see the questions forming in his mind, and then possible answers on their heels. He frowned at her, but she did not see it. I stared back at Nicolas, feeling indignant that he could not see her obvious grace and beauty. "At any rate, boy, I think it is past time we were in our own beds. Do you feel strong enough to walk?" I nodded. "Good. Then we will impose upon the dean's kind hospitality no longer. I haven't the resilience of the young, though my companion here treats me as if I do. I must say, Monsieur Gascon, that I think this is a secret of youth. Keep company with the young, and it sometimes rubs off of them onto you."

I could see a strangely eager glitter in Gascon's eye at this, but I had no time to ponder what it could mean as Isa helped me from my bed. The four of us went down a flight of stairs to the front room of the house, Isa holding on to my elbow as if I were still weak. I did not argue with her on it, for her touch was pleasant.

We bade our host good-night and walked out into the cold. Isa's hand left my sleeve softly, sliding down to my hand before letting go, but when I glanced back over my shoulder, the door had closed and there was no last sight of her to carry with me.

Nicolas strolled slowly along the street, occasionally looking up at the sky. I walked silently beside him, glad for his forbearance in mentioning the girl or the night's events.

I knew there would be much said about it later, but tonight belonged to me and my youth and the tranquil darkness.


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