Ars Magica by Judith Tarr

reply either yes or no. Richer had seen no proof of that. It was simply a beloved possession, a remembrance of the master’s years in Spain.
    Yet Richer was not immediately willing to move it, even to find the book he needed. He folded his long body in front of it and considered the blank bronze face. It was female, he had almost decided. Some trick of the light, or of the place, or of Richer’s sight which was not of the best, had kindled a spark in the graven eyes: a spark that seemed, for a breathless moment, to betoken a living intelligence.
    He shook it off. Too much labor, too little sleep, and the constant tension that thrummed about the death of a great lord—he was beginning to start at shadows. He set hands to the cold metal.
    â€œCareful,” it said.
    He did not start. He did not fling the thing away. He did not even drop his hands.
    â€œYour fingers will freeze,” said the image: It sounded like his nurse when he was small. She had not been old or dull-witted or a fool. But she had taken her charge to heart, and she had been most firm about it.
    â€œSet me on the table,” the image said, “and master yourself. The book,” it added, “is not here. The master took it this morning.”
    Richer set the image where he was bidden, and stood chafing his numbed fingers. He did not know why he should be astonished. He had seen greater wonders than a statue speaking.
    â€œI am rather more than that,” it said. “You may find what you need in the lesser grimoire, there, beneath Hippocrates.”
    â€œHippocrates?” Richer had forgotten the grimoire. He snatched at the small heavy book, raising it with a peculiar mingling of greed and awe. “Sweet saints, it is! And here was I, only last autumn, riding all the way to Chartres for a glimpse of a half-ruined text; and all the while, he knew that this was here. I could kill him.”
    â€œDon’t,” said the image. “It came not long ago. He was caught up in the archbishop’s sickness, or he would have told you.”
    Richer flushed. It was something, to suffer chastisement from a lump of bronze. Unconsciously he clutched the book to his chest, scowling at the image. “I owe you thanks, I suppose.”
    â€œYour attention will do,” the image said. “He gives me none. I am an oracle; and will he let me serve him as I was ordained to serve? He will not. The present, he says, is enough. And my friendship. Friendship! What is that, if he will not suffer me to help him?”
    â€œWhy? What can you do?”
    â€œWarn him. Guide him through these quicksands.”
    â€œIs it as bad as that?”
    â€œYes,” said the image.
    Richer moved a step closer. “Is it because of the magic?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNo? But—” Richer stopped, shifted. “He’s not going to get Rheims, is he?”
    â€œYes,” said the image, “and no.”
    Richer’s teeth ground together. “Are you playing with me?”
    â€œNo.” And before he could erupt: “He was afraid of temptation; and there was a matter of...guilt. He set a binding on me. I may only prophesy if questioned directly.”
    â€œTherefore, unless someone asks the right question, you can foretell nothing clearly.”
    The image could not nod, but he felt its assent, and its frustration. He had never thought of oracular spirits as prey to any such sentiments. “You would think,” said this one, “that he would consider what he was doing in stopping my tongue. But when has he ever taken thought for anything that has to do with himself? He is one of nature’s fools.”
    â€œHe is the greatest mind in Europe,” Richer said stiffly.
    â€œDid I deny it?” The image sighed like wind in a bell tower. “He seems to think that you have a little sense. I would question that, but never your loyalty.”
    â€œYou—” Richer choked on it,