First Dodger, then Hart. Too many betrayals. Could he trust anyone?

"They call me Twist, father," he said softly into the silence. He could see that he hadn't hidden his inner struggle from Rinaldi, but the priest politely ig- nored it.

"Ah. A street name?"

Sam nodded.

"I understand that the current circumstances do not inspire trust. However, we are both in the same cell and I believe that you might have the power to get us out. Perhaps if I tell you more about myself, you will trust me. Read my aura, if you wish. I have nothingto hide."

Getting out was a top priority, but Sam still felt too weak to do more than sit up and breathe deeply. He didn't feel ready to read anyone's aura, but he didn't have to tell Rinaldi that. Until he was stronger and had a better idea of what was going on, he could at least listen to the priest's words. "Sure. Why not?"

Rinaldi's idea of filling Sam in began far too early to be of any real interest. Sam had no desire to hear about the priest's rough childhood in Awakening-torn Italy. What relevance could it have? Sam let his mind drift, occasionally dropping back to the real world to pick up snatches of Rinaldi's early tribulations with his vocation and final selection of the rule under which he had chosen to live. It was only when Rinaldi revealed the nature of the Order of St. Sylvester that the priest recaptured Sam's full attention.

"You're part of an order of magicians? " Sam asked incredulously.

"I said that the Sylvestrines gather the cream of theChurch's magical talent, but not all members are mag- 252.

Robert N. Charrette ically active and most of the rest are adepts or stu- dents. I myself have but a small gift."

"Which is?"

"I have astral senses."

Rinaldi looked embarrassed, or perhaps, troubled.

Sam felt sympathy for him. Any magical talent set a person apart from ordinary folk. But to see the magic and not be able to use it? What frustration! Sam didn't think he would be able to deal with that kind of limi- tation.

"That's a valuable talent," Sam said.

Rinaldi shrugged, giving Sam a weak smile."I am primarily a scholar. My specialty is totemic shamanism, but I have studied several hermetic tradi- tions as well. While I have done some investigations of other more esoteric traditions, I would hesitate to claim any particular expertise. There is so much knowledge, and so little time to acquire it.

' 'I have spoken long enough about myself and fear I shall have to confess my prideful indulgence. You seem more relaxed now. Perhaps you feel secure enough to tell me what tradition you follow.''

"Can't you tell?"

"Without you actively using your magic? Of course not."

Sarn felt stupid. With his limited experience, he al- ready knew that a person's aura only snowed strength.

While those with strong auras were often magically capable, it didn't show unless they were actively ma- nipulating mana. Even then, the tradition they fol- lowed might not be clear unless the nature of the magic was strongly allied in the form of manipulation.

"I appear to be a shaman."Rinaldi looked surprised. "Appear to be? I should think that someone with your level of power would be quite aware of his orientation."

"It's what people tell me I am," Sam said sheep- 253.

ishly. "Honestly, father, I find the idea uncomfort- able. I'm a Christian. All the business about totems is very disturbing to me. I mean, didn't primitive people worship totems as gods? I can't do that. It just doesn't seem right that my magic is hedged around with such pagan symbolism."

Sam's breathless admission seemed to shift Rinaldi's mood. His expression became more serious.

"Do you believe in angels?"

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Do you?" Rinaldi insisted.

"They are in the Bible," Sam snapped.

"Some people do not believe the Bible is literal truth," Rinaldi said calmly. "Do you believe that an- gels are real?"

Sam hesitated. "Yes.""And what are they?"

"How should I know? I'm not a theologian."

Rinaldi smiled. "If it makes you feel any better, theologians argue over angels, too. Most agree that an : angel is a being, a spiritual entity of a different order Jthan man. I believe that true knowledge of these be- iings is something that is denied to us as long as we wear flesh.

"In our mortal state, we cannot know the mind of God. Though we each have a sliver of him within our- selves, we are hampered by our physical nature from seeing the truth as it is. For all the wonder and glory of God's creation, we perceive only a part. You, as a magician, are able to perceive more than the vast ma- jority of mankind. You used your astral senses earlier.

Didn't you see more than your mundane senses re- vealed? Of course you did. A small proof that what is available to mundane senses is not all there is to the universe. You have assensed spirits that have no phys- ical presence, haven't you? Aren't they real?"--------------------------------------------------------------- 254 Robert N. Charrette "They're just energy forms," Sam protested. "It's not the same thing."

"E=mc2. Energy is as real as matter."

Rinaldi's answer was smug, and troubling. "Are you telling me that totems are angels?"

The priest shook his head. "No. Yet I know of no shaman who does not believe in their existence."

So, was Sam supposed to believe that totems had independent existence? "Then totems are not just psy- chological constructs, tricks to let a brain do magic?"

"I didn't say that either."

"You're making me crazy, father," Sam said exas- peratedly. "What are totems? Are they real or not?"

"I wish I could give you the answer you want, Twist.

I'm not a shaman, so I can never experience a totemic contact or visit the realms where shamans learn the secrets of their magic. The ability to experience such has not been given to me, and the shamanic magicis so very experiential. While in this flesh, I shall never personally know the answer, but all those I have spo- ken to agree that whether totems are real or not, the effects of totems are real. A shaman must conform to the attitudes and strictures of his totem or lose power.''

"You're telling me that I must follow my totem's decrees. What about God's commandments? What about false gods, priest?"

"A totem is suited to your nature, or your nature to it. The order is unclear. Like the very ability to do magic, or the type of magic of which a person is ca- pable, totems are not something that is chosen. A per- son is as God has made him, gifted or burdened as He wills. We must use our gifts and shoulder our burdens as we attempt to find our way nearer to Him. He has given us free will that we may choose, and He has given us His love to guide us in choosing wisely. Ac- cepting your shamanic nature will not drive you from 255.

Him. Your gift comes from Him. How could Hemake you so that you are unacceptable to Him?"

Sam felt the wisdom in the priest's words. He said thoughtfully, "I should have spoken to you sooner, father.''

Rinaldi smiled warmly. "Regrets gain nothing, son.

You must look to the future."

"Easy to say," Sam said with a wave of his hand taking in their cell. He shrugged and said, "So when Dog speaks to me, it's not a betrayal of God."

"Your totem is a link with ..." Rinaldi quick answer died abruptly. "Did you say your totem speaks to you?"

"Yeah. He doesn't always make sense and some- times he talks too much."

Rinaldi put a hand on Sam's shoulder and stared earnestly into his face. "But he talks directly to you?

In words?"

"How else does anybody talk? Other than dragons, that is."

"I don't know; I've never spoken to a dragon.""Try to avoid it. They're accomplished liars," Sam said. Bitterly, he added, "Like elves."

"Twist, how many times have you spoken with ...

was it 'Dog'?"

Rinaldi, intent with his own thoughts, had paid no attention to Sam's sour tone. Sam forced thoughts of her lies away and tried to answer Rinaldi civilly.

"Dog sure enough; he kind of looked like a mutt I once befriended. I guess we've had three or four conversa- tions now. He teaches me songs. Crazy, isn't it?"

"No, not at all," Rinaldi said. He thought for a moment then said, "When was the last time?"

"Just before she . . . just before I got shot."

"You were facing death?"

"That was later." Sam laughed nervously. "I guess I'm a little confused, and I'm confusing you. Must be -----------------256.

Robert N. Charrette the aftereffects of the drug. When I talked to Dog, Herzog had been helping me break through to the spirit planes. He wouldn't help us against the Circle, but he was willing to take me through the ritual so I could get the power I needed to face the Circle's abomina- tions."

"The Circle? What circle?"

"A bunch of renegade druids who call themselves the Hidden Circle. They're homicidal manics.

My . . . , " Sam paused, "... friends and I were trying to stop them."

"Twist," Rinaldi said softly. "Tell me about this Hidden Circle."

Why not, Sam thought. If he and Rinaldi were really captives of elves, nothing would get back to the Circle.

Sam knew how much the druids hated metahumans; these elves wouldn't be allied with the Circle. If Rin- aldi's presence and the "elven captivity" were some kind of subtle ploy, what did it matter? Sam was onhis own now, and even Dog's songs wouldn't be enough if he were in the Circle's hands.

Sam recounted his involvement with the Circle's machinations, beginning with the bungled extraction of Raoul Sanchez and ending with the disastrous raid in the East End of London. The priest's questions were sharp and probing. Sam's answers seemed to disturb Rinaldi. Throughout the tale, Sam observed the priest's growing agitation. If he was an actor, he was very, very good.

Rinaldi listened to Sam's recounting of the runners'

speculations as to the druids' plans, then said, "Twist, we've got to get you out of here."

Sam could see the intensity in the priest's face. Sam revised his opinion. Rinaldi had spoken freely and of- fered aid without asking a reward. If Sam rejected that kind of selflessness, he would never be able to trust anyone again. But then, was trust important to a shad- 257 owrunner? Sam was surprised that he didn't need to think about it long.

"Call me Sam, father."

33.

Sam and Rinaldi talked for hours before the grind- ting rasp of the opening cell door interrupted them.

A.

* pale-skinned elf entered as soon as the door had risen high enough to clear the shock of yellow and pink hair ethat stood straight up from his scalp. His pointed ears !were especially prominent against the shaved sides of his head. Though his manner was nonchalant, Sam noticed that the elf kept a hand near the weapon hol- tstered low on his right hip.

The elf stepped to one side of the doorway and a ishort, squat shape took his place in the arch. Their fsecond visitor was neither an ape nor a man, but some- ling in between. Thick brown fur sheathed its torso land lower legs, while a fine, sparse fuzz covered thef rest of its body. The digits of its hands and feet had sharp, thick nails that were almost talons. The narrow, broad-nosed face shifted expression from fearful skit- teriness to a threatening snarl and back again. It wore no clothes, but carried a bundle of cloth from which Sam could see the soles of a pair of boots projecting.

The elf grunted at the hominid and pointed at Sam.

The furred being crouched at the sound of the elf's voice and looked at him. It made a few guttural noises.

The elf repeated the sound he had made more loudly and jabbed his hand emphatically in Sam's direction.

The creature shuffled forward, side-stepping toward Sam, and rapidly shifted its gaze from Sam to the elf.

258.

Robert N. Charrette When it was a meter from Sam, it tossed its burdenat him and scampered out of the cell to stand hesitantly just on the other side of the threshold.

Sam caught one of the boots and what seemed to be a shirt of fine white silk. The other boot and the rest of the clothes landed on the floor around him.

"Drek-eating munchkins," the elf muttered. He made a barking noise and stamped his foot in the di- rection of the hominid. The munchkin bared its teeth at him and hissed, before spinning in place and scam- pering down the corridor. When it reached a group of its fellows clustered where the corridor forked, it stopped, hopping back and forth as it screeched at the elf. The elf stamped his foot again, and the whole group of munchkins pelted out of sight around the cor- ner.

"Must be tough getting good help around here,"

Sam said as he bent to gather up the fallen garments.

Rinaldi chuckled, but the elf only frowned."Dress," he ordered.

"There are only clothes for one. What about Father Rinaldi?"

"He stays here."

Sam started to protest, but Rinaldi's hand on his arm stopped him.

"It's all right," the priest said. "But you'd better clean yourself up first. You obviously have an inter- view with the Lady and there's no point in making a bad impression."

"What about you?"