Quicksilver's Knight

by Christopher Stasheff

  Geoffrey frowned. "How is it you Elven Folk have not simply put this witch to sleep? Or..."

  Gregory coughed discreetly into his fist.

  Geoffrey glanced at Quicksilver and finished, "... or otherwise dealt with her according to your own taste and fashion?"

  Quicksilver felt a prickle of apprehension envelop her back. What ghastly punishments did the Wee Folk practice, that Sir Geoffrey feared to offend her delicate sensibilities? Her mind instantly conjured up so many horrible tortures that she did not even scold him for it.

  The elf sighed. "Ay de mi! 'Tis so hard to judge you mortal folk! She doth humiliate the women of the villages, aye, and send the men to double their work—but she doth trouble not the children, nor doth levy any greater tax than the peasant folk have formerly paid; indeed, she has lightened that burden. In sum, we have not smitten her because we think she may be, at bottom, a good person, and could be swayed to be a force for Right and Justice."

  "Here is no simple matter of chastising a wrongdoer." Geoffrey frowned. "Why do you seek to send me? I am no judge!"

  "Yet in this instance, I may be." Quicksilver held up a palm to stay him. "Perhaps this witch is worth your study—or mine. What is her name, Old Thing?"

  "Moraga," the elf told her. "She is a peasant born, so owns only the one name."

  "It is enough," Quicksilver acknowledged. "We shall undertake it," Geoffrey sighed.

  The elf grinned. "Blessings on thee, mortal folk! And blessings there shall be, for we of the Folk shall watch!" He sprang back up into the branches before Quicksilver could protest that such spying might not be exactly what they would want.

  Instead, she turned on Geoffrey. "Why, a fine lackey are you! Are you a mere errand boy, to go hither and yon at the bidding of one not a tenth of your size?"

  "Small in stature, yet great in power," Geoffrey reminded her, but Gregory frowned. "Why, how is this, lady? You but even now spoke of undertaking this matter yourself."

  Quicksilver turned a black look upon him. "Never marry. You think far too much of what is right, and makes sense."

  "Quicksilver!" Geoffrey barked, shocked. She swung about to him, eyes glittering with the anticipation of battle...

  But that confounded boy held up a hand to restrain his brother. "Never rebuke one for speaking truth, Geoffrey. It is only one reason among many why I should never marry."

  Quicksilver stared at him, appalled, and the dread of the alien crept over her again.

  "As to his being a lackey, damsel," Gregory explained, "he goes not out of fear of the Wee Folk, but out of respect for the law."

  He was stealing a perfectly good argument away from her, and moreover one which she could easily abandon at any time, because she knew it was really without basis. In anger, she turned to Geoffrey and snapped, "So you will go wherever you are bidden by any careless lord who happens by, simply because he invokes the name of the law?"

  But Geoffrey only seemed to be amused. "The King of the Elves is scarcely just anybody 'who happens by,' and the messenger spoke for him. Moreover, that King, too, is one to whom I owe fealty."

  "Indeed!" she said, fairly dripping with sarcasm. "And have you, then, sworn fealty to a mannikin?"

  The infuriating young man actually smiled wider at that! Worse, he exchanged a glance of secret amusement with his brother!

  "No, I have not sworn obedience," he said, turning back to Quicksilver, "but I have favors to repay—and a bond that I choose to honor and accept."

  "A bond, forsooth! What manner of bond is this, that it could hold between a mortal and the King of the Elves?" Geoffrey shrugged. "What matter, so long as it does hold? After all, it holds both ways—he will aid me as much as I aid him. Besides, would you truly choose to defy the Elven King without a really strong reason?"

  "I will defy any who try to order me about," Quicksilver replied hotly, "for Sir Hempen and Count Laeg had the right to do so, under the law, but they abused it most horribly, and sought to abuse me even worse!"

  "Aye, I know that well," Geoffrey said, suddenly somber—even sympathetic, which she found maddening; had he no sense of the right time or place?

  "There is no law so great that it cannot be perverted to the use of selfish and evil folk," Gregory said gravely, "but the poor folk would suffer far more, with no law at all."

  She wished he would be quiet, and let her argue with Geoffrey in peace!

  "But would you forswear an obligation that you had taken on freely?" Geoffrey asked, and he seemed suddenly very intent upon the answer, entirely too serious for a good, enjoyable spat. She forced herself to drop the spirit of play she had been trying to kindle and said reluctantly, "No."

  Geoffrey sat back in his saddle with a smile.

  He seemed entirely too complacent, so Quicksilver said quickly, "Only if it were not forced upon me in any way, and I had undertaken it willingly!"

  "Then beware of those who make you wish to bind yourself to them," Geoffrey said softly.

  She turned on him hotly, about to retort that she must then beware of him, but caught herself in time. Instead, she turned his own words back on him and said, "Then had you best not beware of me, sir?"

  "Oh, no," Geoffrey said softly, his eyes glowing. "No, most surely not."

  He nudged his horse closer, leaning from his saddle to take her in his arms and kiss her. Appalled, she pushed him away. "I am not a show for the avid, sir! Your brother is watching!"

  "Gregory," Geoffrey said, never taking his burning gaze from hers, "begone."

  There was a gunshot crack as the younger warlock disappeared, and Geoffrey's face was coming closer, and she would have resisted longer, but the memory of yesterday's kiss rose up and overwhelmed her, so that she did not push him away, but let her lips part as soon as his touched, and let herself be lost in the sensations that his kiss drew swirling up from within her.

  But when her body began to ache for his touch so strongly that it frightened her, Quicksilver broke away to slap him. Her palm cracked against his cheek, and his head rocked—but even so, he caught her hand before it could leave his skin, and stroked it, saying, "Even that harsh touch is a delight, when it comes from your hand, O sweet one!"

  "I am not sweet but bitter!" She yanked her hand back, blushing furiously. "Bitter toward men, and most sour toward you!"

  "Oh, no," he said softly, "for your kiss is nectar—nay, mead, for it intoxicates me quite!"

  "Then be drunk alone!" She turned away and rode ahead, thinking a peremptory summons: Gregory Gallowglass! Come back!

  Air exploded behind her, but she did not look back, only rode ahead with grim satisfaction.

  "Your pardon, brother," Gregory sighed. "This was one female summons I thought it best not to refuse."

  "That is quite understandable, my sib." Geoffrey grinned wickedly, watching the shapely, extremely upright back before him, swaying with the movements of the mare. "I would never be able to resist her either, if she bade me 'Come hither.' "

  They knew when they had come into Moraga's domain by the looks the peasant men shot them, where they worked in the fields. They were apprehensive, yes, but not exactly terrified—and they looked up at Geoffrey with a glimmer of hope.

  Quicksilver was not at all sure she liked that.

  She assumed Geoffrey would pay his respects to the local lord, or at least to the Crown's shire-reeve, but he did not. Instead, he turned to Gregory and said, "Lead us to the witch, brother, if you will."

  An abstracted look came over Gregory's face, as though he was listening to some music they could not hear. Quicksilver felt her back prickle with eeriness again, and found herself straining her own mind to hear whatever it was that Gregory did—but she could detect only the ordinary, very common thoughts that always filled her mind when people were about. The clamor would have driven her crazy if she had not learned how to shut it out when she wanted—and the battles between husband and wife would have angered her to murder. Resolutely, she closed her mind again, relieve
d that, at least at the moment, no village girl was being harassed by vulgar swains.

  Now that she thought of it, that was odd in itself. Perhaps there was something to be said for Moraga's form of revenge.

  Gregory led them to a meadow. Quicksilver looked up at the sound of hoofbeats, and saw a troop of armored horsemen pounding toward them. She turned to Geoffrey with a frown. "Why do the lord's knights ride?"

  "We have come too late," Geoffrey returned. "Whether Moraga's forces are ready or not, the lord attacks."

  "We must aid her!" Quicksilver swung back toward the knights, reaching for the sword that was not there, then crying out in frustration. "Give me my blade!"

  Without a word, Geoffrey passed it to her, but his gaze stayed on the horsemen. She stared at him, indignant that he took her obedience so much for granted that he did not even feel he had to guard against her! She was about to raise her sword to teach him a lesson, when she realized ...

  That he was trusting her.

  "Let us not ride if there is no need," Geoffrey said softly. "Nay, let us see the power of this Moraga." Quicksilver darted an anxious glance at the tons of metal that pounded toward the trees. "Only if you give your word that we shall pounce if they seek to harm her!"

  "We shall pounce most shrewdly," he promised her. "Gregory, be ready to strike."

  "Gs, watts, or BTUs?" Gregory asked.

  Quicksilver felt a moment's giddiness. Was this how witches talked?

  Before Geoffrey could answer, the knights snapped back in their saddles as though they had been hit with lances that knocked them down. They fell, and their horses kept on running, then realized they were lighter, and turned back to stand over their masters, as well-trained war-steeds do.

  Now the foot soldiers came in sight, a band of men running, pikes and halberds waving—until they saw their leaders' horses riderless. Then they stopped so quickly that Quicksilver thought they must have run into a morass.

  One of them, though, plucked up the courage to dash ahead and help a knight back up to his feet. "Moraga!" the knight screamed in fury and frustration. "Peasant witch! It is Count Nadyr who speaks! Show yourself, coward! That we may see our foe, and strike!"

  There was no answer.

  "Coward! Miscreant! Vile witch!" he screamed. "Fatherless, misbegotten mandrake's spawn! Farrowless sow! Raddled hag!"

  Still there was no answer.

  Quicksilver was red with anger. "Calls he himself a nobleman, and uses such terms on any woman?"

  "I despise his ethics," Geoffrey agreed, "though I must admit it is a sound tactic."

  "She seems to know, that, too," Quicksilver said, with irony. "She does not answer, but lets him rant." She gazed off into space a moment, listening with her mind, then shook her head. "I find no trace of her."

  "She hears him," Gregory assured her. "She delights in his rage."

  Quicksilver almost shuddered. How could he know? She solaced herself with admiration for Moraga.

  Finally, the Count gave up in disgust, and beckoned his footmen. Seeing nothing further happening, they approached, albeit somewhat hesitantly, and he sent them about their business with blows and curses. They helped the knights to their feet, then boosted them back into their saddles.

  "We are mounted again, and her purpose undone!" Count Nadyr shouted. "Onward to the village! We shall take again what is ours—for I doubt she'll have the courage to show her face!" He turned his horse and rode away, brandishing his sword. His men followed him, with considerably less enthusiasm.

  "Sir Geoffrey," Quicksilver said, "are you sure we fight on the proper side in this conflict?"

  "Not at all," Geoffrey said, thin-lipped, "though I mistrust any who defy the law."

  The sword went flying from the Count's hand. Something struck him out of his saddle.

  Quicksilver smiled. "Well done, witch!"

  "I saw what smote him, this time," Gregory said. "'Twas a rock, a common rock."

  "She is a telekinetic, then," Geoffrey said, "and one of might and skill."

  The footmen had crowded back in superstitious fear; the companions could hear their furious clamor. A few of the knights rode forward hesitantly, though, and took up station to either side of the lord. They barked to the men, beckoning, and a dozen came forward to heft the count back into his saddle—or across it.

  "He is unconscious, then," Geoffrey said. Gregory nodded. "The rock struck his helm."

  "Then he will be fortunate if he wakes," Quicksilver said, in a tone that indicated the nobleman would be better off dead.

  The knights turned away, accompanying their lord in silence, riding back the way they had come. After a moment, the soldiers followed.

  When they were almost out of sight, Gregory's face suddenly turned abstracted, and he slipped off Fess's rump, striding away across the meadow.

  Geoffrey looked up, startled. "Gregory?"

  "Come," the youth commanded, and strode ahead. Quicksilver bridled, indignant at being ordered aboutbut there was something in Gregory's tone that did not brook delay, so she swallowed her resentment and rode beside Geoffrey, following his brother.

  Gregory led them to a large old apple tree, two feet thick in the trunk, its branches tangled and gnarled. Unripe fruit glistened among its leaves.

  Gregory came to a halt and called, "Moraga! Come down!"

  There was a pause, just long enough for Quicksilver to wonder if the young man had taken leave of his senses. Then the leaves began to rustle with more than the wind, and a pair of stockinged legs appeared, descending to stand on the lowest branch. A long dark skirt dropped down to cover them, with a voluminous blouse above it, and a very plain-looking, very ordinary peasant girl's face above that. She had mousy hair, thin, short, and bound close to her head by an embroidered circlet—her only sign of ornamentation. She was plain, very plain, but not quite bad-looking enough to be ugly. Her nose was definitely too large; she squinted with nearsightedness; her cheeks seemed too full. Certainly they were far too pale, as though she had grown up inside a cave. "Who calls me?" she demanded.

  "Gregory Gallowglass," the youth answered. "You acted without honor when you did not appear in answer to Count Nadyr's challenge, Moraga."

  The very ordinary face came alive with anger and bitterness. "Honor! Honor is for the rich and the idle! We cannot afford honor, we who must labor from sun to sun! For us, honor is a word men use to cozen us into dying so that they may live!"

  "Why, how dare you speak so!" Geoffrey cried in indignation.

  But Moraga was running at full steam, not about to stop for him. "Honor? Did he have honor when he rode against me with a dozen knights and fifty footmen at his back? Nay! Do not seek to cozen me—knight! Honor is for fools!"

  "'Honor is all that prevents the strong from exploiting the weak!" Geoffrey proclaimed.

  "Is it?" Moraga sneered. "I tell you truly, it was one of Count Nadyr's knights who dishonored me! Where was his protection of the weak, then? Where was his chivalry? What did he know of honor?"

  "Oh, I do not doubt that he knew of it," Geoffrey said with contempt. "He could not have won his spurs otherwise. But he chose to disregard it, and is not worthy of his rank."

  "A knight alone seldom degenerates so far, brother,"

  Gregory pointed out. "At the least, his lord should have punished him when he learned of the crime."

  "Truly spoken," Geoffrey acknowledged. "Therefore, his lord did not learn of the crime—or did not choose to punish it."

  "'Tis more likely the lord set the tone for his men, is it not?"

  "It is, most surely," Geoffrey said, in tones of utter censure. He turned back to Moraga. "Does Count Nadyr have so foul a reputation as his knight, damsel?"

  But their discussion had given Moraga time for thought. She turned to Gregory. "You are a stranger!"

  "Aye, to you and to this parish," he agreed.

  "How, then, did you know my name? How did you know who I am?"

  "The Wee Folk told us of you." Gr
egory was very bad at lying, so he didn't bother.

  "The Wee Folk!" Her eyes widened. "Did they lead you to me, then?"

  "Nay," Gregory replied. "I had only to follow the aura of your thoughts; as it grew stronger, I knew I was coming closer."

  Her eyes went round. "But my thoughts were shielded!" Quicksilver shrank away inside herself. If Gregory could detect Moraga's thoughts in spite of her shield, what might he have read of Quicksilver's?

  His answer reassured her, at least a little. "I could not read your thoughts," he said, "but only their aura. Think of your mind as being like a ship that sails the ocean, leaving a wake behind. Follow the wake, and you come to the ship."

  Even Geoffrey eyed him sidelong. He thought he knew what his brother was talking about—but in what medium did human thoughts leave residual waveforms?

  Obviously, in one Gregory could detect, and Geoffrey could not. It sent prickles up his back.

  "You are a warlock, then!" Moraga accused.

  "Well, a wizard," Gregory hedged, "for I am more concerned with study than with action. It is my brother who is a warlock." He nodded at Quicksilver. "And this lady is his prisoner."

  "As you would no doubt make me!" Moraga cried, and a rock shot up from the ground, straight toward Gregory's head.

  Quicksilver gave a shout and a dive, to catch the rock, but missed. Geoffrey lashed out a kick—but before boot hit rock, the stone crumbled, and Geoffrey's foot slashed through a cloud of dust.

  "You would have injured your foot, brother," Gregory explained.

  "Cheat!" Moraga cried, and a small boulder lifted up from the base of an oak.

  Gregory frowned at it, and it exploded.

  "Down!" Geoffrey threw an arm about Quicksilver and pulled her with him as he hit the ground. He managed to twist about, so that he landed first, breaking her fall.

  "What seduction is this?" she demanded, face inches from his.

  Geoffrey groaned. "Do not tempt me in mid-battle!" He struggled, and Quicksilver threw herself up to her knees with a look of contempt.

  Geoffrey was on his feet in time to see shards of rock bouncing off an invisible sphere that seemed to surround Moraga. She stared, shaken, but rallied and sent two long, straight branches whipping and drubbing at Gregory.