by W. C. Conner
“What of your father?” coaxed Kemp.
“He died when I was very young. I believe I was five when he died. I remember little of him except that he was gentle and protective. I remember that my stepmother treated me much more harshly after he died.”
Kemp waited as Wil tried to remember more. Finally he shook his head. “Would you like to know a little about your father and your real mother?” Kemp asked.
Wil tensed visibly, but nodded nonetheless.
“You’ve told me in the past how you feel you’ve never grown up despite the fact that you are well past middle age – that, in fact, you are old by all normal standards.” Again, Wil nodded. “And you’ve had people marvel at your very young appearance even though you’re sixty-five years old.” Another nod. “Would you be shocked to learn that you’re really just past being an adolescent ... for a wizard?”
The truth exploded in Wil’s mind, sending it lurching into itself then back as feelings clicked into place. The haunting, the taunting, the restlessness; this was the source of those tormenting itches. The sensation of motion came on him once again, only this time everything stayed perfectly still, making him feel slightly woozy. He looked at Kemp, feeling much in his mind as he had in his stomach immediately after vomiting on Scrubby’s boots.
“They were both adepts, Wil. When you were born they were living in one of the original elven buildings in the Wizards’ Compound on the Crelleon Plain. She was a hedgerow witch, good with herbs and things of the earth and minor spells of love and caring, and he was a Lesser Wizard of a potential very close to that of a Great Wizard, though he was one of the few with that much ability who had no ambitions of greatness. Together, they produced a single heir to their combined powers who never knew his parents long enough to learn the truth of what he was.” Kemp looked narrowly at Wil. “Unless we have misread every sign, Wil, within you is the potential to become the most powerful wizard that has ever lived on this earth. We are convinced you are the one destined to command the talisman.”
At those words, Scrubby’s eyes rolled back in his head and he fell, landing heavily on the floor behind him. Peg and Thisbe jumped up together and went to his aid, sitting him up, patting his cheeks and massaging his wrists.
As he regained consciousness, the faces of the two beautiful women swam into his view and he became aware of the proximity of Thisbe’s cleavage only a few inches from his face. His eyes again rolled back as he fainted once more.
15
Prince Gleneagle fidgeted with his collar as he paced back and forth outside the Judgment Hall wherein he knew Greyleige waited. Although he had pledged to refuse any meeting with him, the wizard had been insistent. In the end, the knowledge that the man on the other side of the doors was a threat to his daughter had rid him of any indecisiveness he may have previously had.
Before she disappeared, she had been ever at his right hand when he met with Greyleige, standing just to the side and behind him, her hands composed upon the front of her skirts, willing her resistance to the wizard’s entreaties into the ether and hoping it would take root in her father’s mind. In the period between the constant strength of Caron’s mother and Caron’s assumption of her mother’s role, Greyleige had made inroads into Prince Gleneagle’s favors. Caron had ended that.
Now, although he did not have her presence at his shoulder, the knowledge that the threat to his daughter came directly from the wizard who had insisted upon this meeting hardened his resolve. Previously, the wizard had been an annoyance to his daughter; now he was a deadly threat to her. Though Mitchal had assured Gleneagle his daughter was safe, Caron had put herself directly in the path of terrible danger. She was out where he couldn’t put his arms around her, couldn’t defend her, and his frustration at his sense of impotence ate at him. Gleneagle was unwilling to challenge Greyleige directly with physical force in this meeting because he had no way of knowing whether or not the wizard had some sort of magical tripwire set to trap Caron should he say or do the wrong thing.
He scowled at the door. The wizard was coming perilously close to crossing over into Gleneagle’s area of expertise.
“Have me announced, Geoffrey,” he said.
“Be firm, Sire,” his chamberlain said sympathetically before stepping through the door to instruct the door warden to announce the arrival of the prince.
Other than Geoffrey and the ever-present guards, the wizard and his two acolytes were the only people in the Judgment Hall. Greyleige looked up expectantly. His Sub-Altarns, Amos and Bertrand, attended him to his left and right and two paces behind.
Gleneagle did not hesitate as he stepped through the open doors and walked briskly to the front of the room, his footsteps echoing in the nearly empty chamber. After seating himself with no ceremony, he looked coldly to Greyleige. “If you are here with the same request as before, Greyleige,” he said bluntly, “you might have saved yourself the effort. Nothing has changed. You may not have access to the Old Forest. It is not within my power to allow it even if I were so disposed, for entry is proscribed by ancient elven magic.”
“You misjudge me, Highness,” the wizard replied, smiling ingratiatingly. “Since last I petitioned you for access to the Forest, I have studied at length and given much thought to my requests. I realize my original suppositions regarding the Old Forest and its secrets were flawed. I was in error even proposing access for the Wizards’ Guild.”
Though caught totally off-guard, Gleneagle waited for the wizard to continue.
“It is fortunate that your daughter was so adamant in her advocacy of the sanctity of the Old Forest, for my further studies have confirmed that my presence there would, indeed, upset the balance of magics in our world.”
Despite his skepticism, Gleneagle found himself wishing he could accept the wizard’s apparent conversion, for he knew that, in this at least, he spoke the truth.
And Greyleige had, indeed, told that much of the truth that he wanted the prince to hear, for he had determined that, had he been successful in his quest to gain access to the Old Forest, the nature of the magic hoarded therein would have destroyed him utterly. There was only one wizard who could survive entry, and that was the one his fragmentary texts had named The Key.
No, he no longer needed the prince for his own access to the forest, but the house of Gleneagle yet held the answer to control of The Key. What that answer was, Greyleige did not know, but the information he had pieced together told him that access to the Old Forest for the one named in the texts as The Key would come somehow from the elves or their descendants.
The person, the elven access, the talisman: Control those and the unmatched power of the elven magics of the Old Forest would be his to command; destroy any one of those and the threat to him would be over. Either way, the game would go to him.
“In honor of the strength of the Gleneagle throne that held to principle and truth in the face of my demands, I offer this humble gift.”
Greyleige turned toward Bertrand who stepped forward bearing a small chest which he opened, revealing a perfectly wrought pale blue sculpture of Gleneagle and Caron in their accustomed positions as they held audience with their supplicants.
Gleneagle was shown sitting upright on the throne and Caron with her hands composed upon the front of her skirts just to his right and slightly behind him. Gleneagle’s eyes were drawn to the sculpture, so lifelike were the images.
“This is how I see your strength,” Greyleige said, bowing to the prince. “This is the strength that forced me to the truth.”
“We are pleased with your newfound understanding and with this beautiful gift,” Gleneagle said with surprising sincerity. “We would ...”
Prince Gleneagle’s words trailed away as Greyleige’s smile faltered, then was replaced of an instant with the far away look of a person who has seen his fate. He swayed slightly, throwing out his arms as if for support. Amos stepped quickly forward to steady the wizard who had paled considerably.
“Are you unwe
ll?” Gleneagle asked, surprised that he felt genuine concern for the wizard.
Greyleige dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. “It is nothing,” he replied, struggling to maintain a smile. “It is a hazard of our profession and will pass quickly enough. But, still, I would beg your leave to remove myself at once, Highness.”
At the prince’s nod, he turned to Bertrand, still holding the chest with the pale blue sculpture before him. “Leave the gift with the chamberlain, Bertrand.” Giving the Prince a slight bow of deference, he turned on his heel and walked unsteadily from the hall with his acolytes supporting him carefully from his left and right.
Once beyond the closed doors he hissed to them, “The Key is found. I felt the shift when the tumblers fell in the lock of his mind just now. We must move to find him as quickly as we can, for with him we will control the world. Should he not join us, he must be eliminated as quickly as possible.”
In the Judgment Hall, Prince Gleneagle looked upon the sculpture depicting him and his daughter as he wished they were at that moment. His rudimentary elven senses were unable to detect the spells of attraction and compulsion and of seeking that had been subtly woven into the statue of Caron. “What a beautiful sculpture,” he observed to Geoffrey. “It shall have a place of honor on the table in my study.” He scrutinized it for several moments. “The likeness of Caron is uncanny, don’t you think Geoffrey? It feels as if I’m actually looking at her.”
In Wrensfalls, a one-eyed drunkard leaned on the one-armed beggar slouched against the wall next to him. The one-armed beggar’s head cocked as if hearing something faint and far away.
“Mitchal, I have the strangest feeling my father is watching me.”
16
Tingle looked around in curiosity as his wagon jangled down the dusty street. He was puzzled at the lack of the normal customer interest in his wares, skills and stories of the road. There were no welcoming calls, no customers waving broken pots at him with promises to bring them to the market center to have them repaired, no children running and shouting in the road. In fact, there was almost no evidence the town was inhabited at all. Instead, an occasional head was hastily pulled back as a curtain was drawn across windows, and the doors one would expect to see open to catch any midday breezes were closed.
As he pulled into the normally busy market square, he was met with only a handful of stalls – all of them of the dry goods sort. There were none showing vegetables or fruit, poultry, meats or eggs. Of the few stalls open, none had anyone in attendance watching for customers or thievery. At the side of the road between the last of the stalls and the alehouse beyond, two lonely figures sat on a bench, obviously too simple or drunk to share whatever anxiety drove the other good citizens inside during the day.
Tingle placed his wagon in a spot normally among the best for maximum foot traffic within the silent market area. It was a prime spot that vendors often fought over, but there was no one to dispute his possession of it for the dual reasons that there were no other vendors and no customers. He unhitched his little mare and tied her on the shady side of the wagon, put some hay in a net within easy reach and drew a bucket of water from the barrel lashed to the side of the wagon. After one last look around to make sure that he had done all that he could for her, he smacked his lips at the thought of a tankard of ale to wash the dust of the road from his throat and started toward the alehouse.
When he passed the two beggars, one of them called to him. “Good sir, could you spare the price of a pint for two of the Prince’s men cast aside by the misfortunes of fate?” He slurred heavily, obviously having difficulty focusing on Tingle and swaying slightly even though seated. He finished the request with an impressive belch.
Although he felt some compassion for human wreckage such as these, yet their disrepair and filthy appearance bothered Tingle’s sensibilities and his face wrinkled in disapproval. “The lack of an arm or an eye does not stop others from earning an honest living,” he said. “Once you have bathed and earned the price of a pint, you are welcome to join me.” He had almost relented when he noted the one-armed beggar’s youthfulness, but steeled himself. The older one is beyond help, no doubt, he thought, but the other one is young enough to learn to support himself if not already too far down the road toward the prison of alcoholism.
With a forced smile on his face, he stepped through the alehouse door and called to the barman, “I am returned, Albrecht, but where are all the good citizens of Wrensfalls?”
Albrecht stood up wearily from his stool behind the counter and drew a tankard of ale which he set before the tinker. “Times are difficult, Tingle,” he said despondently. “You have been on the road for several months since your last visit. Did you, perchance, hear of the death of poor old Bork during a storm this month past?”
Tingle nodded, a sober look on his face. “I did, Albrecht. I happened upon Kemp at the crossroads not far from Wisdom. I saw the pile of blackened lumber where his smithy used to stand on my way into town,”
Albrecht’s face brightened visibly. “Thank the powers,” he breathed. “We thought Kemp would be dead by now after those hard-looking men came through town looking for him.”
Tingle’s senses came alert. “How many were there?” he asked. “I encountered five such men on the road not three weeks past.”
“Fifteen rode in,” Albrecht replied. “They asked everyone they saw where Kemp was or where he might have gone, but nobody here knows. After three days, five of their number remained here and five of them rode back in the direction of Dunlivit. The other five rode west. Those are probably the ones you saw.”
No doubt, Tingle thought, but only nodded.
“They wore nobody’s device, but Elba heard one of them mention Greyleige while she was serving their ale.” He indicated the empty room. “I guess I don’t need Elba right now, eh, Tingle?”
Thus Morgan’s grim expression, Tingle remembered as he nodded his head in agreement with Albrecht’s assessment. He knew. His already favorable estimation of the warrior clicked up a notch as he stored that knowledge along with the rest.
Albrecht looked around as if someone might be listening even though the alehouse was empty except for the two of them, and leaned closer to Tingle. “The five they left behind skulked about looking into the remains of the smithy. They disappeared suddenly, though, after another week or two, right about the same time a young man nobody knew came to town and was asking the same kinds of questions as they had been. Everybody here breathed a sigh of relief that they were gone, but then the dark happenings began. Crops have withered or gotten the blight. Lambs and calves and piglets have all been stillborn. There is illness and worse.”
He looked around once more as if to convince himself they were, indeed, alone. “And there have been evil things seen lurking in the shadows both day and night since shortly after old Bork’s death. Some say they’ve seen ’em and swear they’re not human. Others say they look like men but that they’re as pale and white as death, and their eyes are as white as the rest of them. I’ve not seen them myself, you understand, but I can feel them. The feeling when they’re around is the same as you used to get when you were a child alone in a dark room imagining a bogeyman behind you. You know, when you get the shivers all up and down your back and you can feel your ears trying to twist toward whatever’s there, like a cat’s ears do.
“The first time I heard about ’em was when young master Samuel told me he had gone out to attend to his sheep one night when he heard them bleating loudly. He thought maybe a wolf or something was after them. He found one of those pale men leaning over the ewes’ pen. It straightened up and looked at Samuel after he called out to him, and he said its eyes looked like cooked egg whites. It didn’t seem spooked or anything and it just turned and sort of glided away from the pen. When Samuel got there, he found all the lambs had been born early and that all of them were withered and dead.
“That’s why I’ve got no customers, Tingle,” he concluded. “Folks a
re just too scared to leave their homes.”
“What about you, Albrecht?” Tingle asked. Why aren’t you hiding also?”
“I am,” came the reply. “This is where I live, after all, and you don’t see me leaving it any more than any of the other folks hereabouts unless I absolutely have to. Fact is, other than those two beggars out front, you’re the first customer I’ve had here in over a week.”
That caught Tingle’s attention. “Those two tried to get the price of a pint out of me,” he said. “If nobody’s out in the streets, where do they get the wherewithal to buy a pint from you?”
“Don’t know, Tingle. They just come in and buy a little to eat and a pint each, then leave.” Tingle’s eyebrows went up just a fraction of an inch before he reached into his purse and placed a coin on the table.
“I don’t have enough on hand to make change for this, Tingle,” Albrecht said apologetically. “The ale’s on me this time. You can make it even next trip.”
“Keep it, Albrecht,” Tingle said with genuine warmth in his smile. “I suspect you’ll need it more than I do before this is all through.” The barman smiled his thanks as he slipped the coin off the counter and into his own purse.
“I’ll be in my wagon just down the street tonight,” Tingle continued. “Holler if you need anything, although as quiet as this town is right now, I’d probably hear you if you just whispered.”
