Wood Nymph and the Cranky Saint- Wizard of Yurt - 2 Read Online Free PDF Page B

Just set up the spel and teach us how to keep it working and wel do the rest.”
    There were so many things wrong with his assumptions I scarcely knew where to begin. “I’m afraid a spel to lower people down the cliff couldn’t just be ‘set up’ and then kept working with no wizard here,” I said at last.
    He looked thoughtful. “That might be a problem. But maybe you’d prefer to be here yourself at least during the summer months when business wil be best! I’m sure this wil be enormously profitable once word gets out. Do you have a post at the moment?”
    “I’m Royal Wizard of the kingdom of Yurt,” I said gravely, “and this is the Royal Chaplain. I don’t need any extra income.” The man was taken aback for a moment, but he seemed to have quick powers of recovery. “Wel, then, maybe you know some other wizard who might be interested. Or maybe you’d even like to lend a hand yourself when the king doesn’t need you! I should put the proposition up to him myself, explain that this wil realy make Yurt a wel-known place, not just a novelty as one of the smalest of the western kingdoms.”
    “We’l take the road down to the Holy Grove,” said Joachim, abruptly swinging back up into the saddle.
    “But I haven’t even had a chance yet to tel you about al our souvenirs, Father!” the man said eagerly. “As you can see, we’re not quite ready for business yet, out in the next week or two we hope to have reproductions of the Holy Toe itself, figurines of a dragon—children always like things like that—and booklets teling of the life and miracles of the Cranky Saint.” Joachim’s shoulders stiffened into rigidity, but he made no answer. Instead he kicked his horse sharply into a trot. I was right behind him. The man in the feathered cap waved cheerfuly after us.
    After three-quarters of a mile, as the road left the level plateau and began its steep descent toward the valey floor, I had suppressed silent laugher enough that I dared ask a question. Even for me, originaly the son of a city merchant, this seemed to have gone much too far. ‘ Had you known about al this?”
    “The bishop made a brief reference to ‘some inappropriate activities’ at the site,” said Joachim, looking straight ahead. “But I hadn’t realized it was this bad. No wonder Saint Eusebius wants to leave.” For the next twenty minutes, we had to give al our attention to our horses, keeping them at a slow walk as the steep road wound and twisted its way down the side of the valey. The road leveled out at last and we rode back toward the grove at the head of the valey, paralel to the road we had folowed at the top of the cliffs. There were some stone huts near the road, but we saw no people. A few goats, feeding in the meadows along the merrily running stream, lifted their heads to look at us in surprise—apparently travelers to the Holy Grove were not al that frequent. The air was fresh and cool, the valey and the trees intensely lovely.
    “Can’t you, as the bishop’s representative, just make them stop?” I ventured at last.
    Joachim shook his head. “As long as they do not impede the free access of the faithful to the Holy Grove and the saint’s relics, they’re not actualy doing anything sinful. It’s shameful, of course, to be trying to make money from Saint Eusebius as though he were a two-headed calf at a fair, but it isn’t evil or even against church law. But if the saint was ‘fed up’ to begin with, this must make him furious.” He shot me a quick, worried glance. “I’d assumed that we, the bishop and I, would try to persuade those priests two hundred miles away that they had no right to the saint’s holy relics. Now I’m not so sure.
    And it may be difficult to break that news to the hermit.”
    As we rode, the sound of rushing water became louder and louder in front of us. We came around a corner to see a waterfal, white water splashing in the sunlight. Long grass and dark green ferns