“This, thou dost count fault of thine own?” Simon asked, with a smile.
“Is’t not?” She blushed, and looked down. “Alas, that ever I thought so! Yet I did—and no other witch did seem to feel as I did, no honest one; for I listened for their thoughts, and heard them afar. Nay, none thought to lead the witches to their rightful place—not even within the Royal Coven. Thus, when Alfar began to reach out for vassals, declaring he would lead the witch folk on to glory and to rule, I declared him my leader on the instant, and pledged him my fealty. All that he asked, I swore I would do.”
“And the service that he asked of thee?”
“Only this.” She gestured around at the inn in disgust. “Here is my glory and rule! To work as I had done, and watch, then speak to them of any witchfolk I found who, in either deed or thought, did struggle ‘gainst Alfar. So I did—and most joyously.” She plunged her face into her hands, “Eh, what a bitch I have been, what a vile, dastardly traitor! For three witches have I delivered unto them—poor, weak souls, who only sought to flee to safety!” She lifted tragic eyes to gaze at Simon. “Yet truthfully did it seem to me that any witch who did not acclaim Alfar, must needs be a traitor to her own kind. Therefore did I summon aid from Alfar’s coven, and soldiers came, under the command of a warlock, to take those witches away, and…” She buried her face in her hands again. “Aiee! What did they to those poor folk!”
Her shoulders shook with weeping. Simon reached out to touch her, clasping her shoulder. “Nay, be not so grieved! For thou didst these things not of thine own free will and choice!”
Her gaze leaped up to his, tears still coursing down her cheeks. “Yet how could it be otherwise?”
“When first thou didst begin to think thyself greater than thy neighbors, the sorcerer’s folk had already begun their vile work on thee.” Simon’s smile hardened. “These first thoughts, that witches ought to govern by right of birth, were not truly thine. But they were oh, most gently and skillfully worked in, among thoughts of thine own, that thou mightst think them so.”
“Truly?“ she gasped, wide-eyed.
Simon nodded. “Be sure. I have myself slipped through thy thoughts, witch—I must ask they pardon—and I know.”
“Oh, the pardon is instantly given!” she cried. “How can I thank thee, for breaking this spell?” Then her face lit up, and she clapped her hands. “I know! I shall wander northward, and myself seek to break spells that bind goodfolk!”
Rod darted a quick glance at Simon, and saw the foreboding in his face. He turned back to Marianne. “Uh—I don’t think that would be the best idea.”
Her face fell. “Would it not? What, then…”
“Well, basically the same thing—just do it right here.” Rod managed to smile. “What Alfar was having you do, but for our side. Keep working as a servingwench, and spy out witch folk who’re going south. But when you find them, don’t report them to Alfar’s henchmen.”
“But that is so small an aid!” she cried, disappointed.
“Those whom thou dost save will not think it so,” Simon assured her.
“But they would be just as much saved if I were not here at all.”
“Not so.” Rod shook his head. “If you left this post, Alfar’s men would find it out quickly enough, and they’d send some other witch here to do the job. The only way you can protect the fugitives, is to stay here and cover for them.”
“Assuredly there must be work of greater import I can do!”
An imp pricked Rod with temptation. He grinned, and succumbed. “There is, now that you mention it. You can find another witch or two, who plan to stay.”
“Others?” She stared, amazed. “How will that aid?”
“Because each of them can find two other witches,” Rod explained, “and each of those, two more, and so on and on—and we can build up a network of witches opposed to Alfar, all throughout the duchy of Romanov.”
She frowned, shaking her head. “What aid will that be?”
“King Tuan will march North, sooner or later. When he does, we’ll send word through the net, for the witches to gather where the battle’s going to be, to help.”
“Help in a battle?” Her eyes were round. “How?”
“We’ll send word about that, too. Just be ready to do it.”
Slowly, she nodded. “I do not fully comprehend—yet I do trust in thee. I shall do as thou dost bid.”
“Good lass! And don’t worry, you’ll understand plenty. It won’t be very complicated—just to gather at a certain place, and attack whatever part of the sorcerer’s army you’re assigned.”
“An thou sayest it.” She still seemed doubtful. “But how shall I know what to do, or when?”
“Someone will tell you. From now on, your name is, uh, ‘Esmeralda,’ to anyone else in the anti-Alfar network. So, if someone comes in and says he has word for Esmeralda, from Kern…” Again, Rod wished he hadn’t chosen that name. “…you’ll know it’s a message from me.”
“But wherefore ought I not to be called Marianne?”
“So nobody can betray you. This way, if they tell Alfar or his men they’ve a traitor named ‘Esmeralda,’ they won’t know who it really is.”
“And ‘Kern’ is thy false name?”
I sure hope so. “It’s as good a name as any. The whole idea is that we don’t know each other’s real names, remember. Will you do it—be Esmeralda, and watch for witches to not report?”
Slowly, she nodded. “Aye—if thou dost truly believe this is the greatest aid I can offer.”
“Good lass!” Rod clasped her hand, relieved—she was too young, and really too sweet, to wind up in Alfar’s torture chambers. Better to leave her where it was safe. “Now, uh—would you please go reassure your friend Doln, there? I can’t help this feeling that he’s just dying to shove a knife between my ribs.”
“Certes.” She flushed prettily, and stood. “I thank thee, goodman.” She turned away, becoming shy and demure as she neared her swain.
“I think she hath forgot thee quite,” Simon said, with his small smile.
“Yes. And that’s the way it should be, isn’t it?” Rod was watching Doln, whose gaze was riveted to Marianne’s face. He caught her hand, and Rod turned back to Simon and Flaran with a sigh. “Young love! Isn’t it wonderful?”
“In truth.” Simon watched the young couple over Rod’s shoulder. “Yet I cannot help but think, friend Owen, that there’s some truth to her words—not that her thoughts of overweening greatness were her own, nay, but that, shall we say, Alfar’s seeds fell on fertile ground?”
“Oh, well, sure! People can’t be hypnotized if they really don’t want to be—and this particular kind of long-range telepathic hypnosis couldn’t have worked so well if she didn’t already have a bit of that resentful attitude—it’s called ‘feelings of inferiority.’ ”
“Inferiority?” Flaran stared. “Yet how can that be? Witch power makes us greater than other folk!”
Rod didn’t miss the ‘us.’ “Yeah, but they don’t feel that way. All they know is that they stand out, that they’re different, and that if people find out just how different, nobody’ll like them.” He shrugged. “If nobody likes you, you must be inferior. I know it doesn’t really make sense, but that’s how our minds work. And, since nobody can stand to think so little of themselves pretty soon, the warlock starts telling himself that he’s not really inferior—it’s just that everybody’s picking on him, because they’re jealous. And, of course, people do pick on witches—they’ve been doing it, here, for hundreds of years.”
“Aye!” Flaran seized the thought. “Tis not merely a matter of our telling ourselves others bully us—‘tis true!”
“Oh, yeah, it’s easy to feel persecuted, when you really are. But that must mean you’re worse than inferior.” He made a backwards arc with his forefinger. “If people’re picking on you, and they’re nice people, ones you ordinarily like, and all of a sudden, they’re picking on you—then you must be
worse than second-rate; you must be evil! But who can stand thinking they’re outright evil?”
“Evil folk,” Flaran answered quickly.
“And there you have it.” Rod spread his hands. “Instead of saying, ‘I’m second-rate,’ they’re saying, ‘I’m evil’—they’d rather be first-rate evil than second-rate good.”
Flaran stared, lost.
“Or!” Rod held up a forefinger. “Or you decide that you’re not evil, and you’re not second-rate, either—they’re just picking on you because they’re jealous. So their picking on you proves that you’re better than they are. They’re just afraid of the competition. They’re out to get you because you’re a threat to them.”
Flaran’s head lifted slowly, and Rod could see his eyes clearing with understanding.
Rod shrugged. “All the witch folk probably have that attitude to some degree—it’s called paranoia. But they keep it under control; they know that even if there’re wisps of truth attached to the notion, there’s more truth in thinking of their neighbors as being basically good folk—which they are. And if the witch has even a grain of humility, she’s as much aware of her faults as she is of her powers—so they manage to keep their feelings of persecution under control. It’s a sort of a balance between paranoia and reality. But it does make them ready, even eager, victims, for Alfar’s style of brainwashing—uh, persuasion.”
Flaran turned away, staring at the table. The color had drained out of his face, and his hands trembled.
Rod watched him, shaking his head with a sad smile. The poor kid, he thought, the poor innocent. In some ways, Flaran probably would have preferred to just go along from day to day for the rest of his life, feeling inferior and picked-on. And it must’ve been very demeaning, to find out that his feelings were, if not normal, at least standard for his condition—it was bad enough being born an esper, but it was worse finding out you weren’t even exceptional.
He turned away, to catch Simon’s eye. The old man had a sympathetic look, and Rod smiled back, nodding. They both knew—it was rough, learning the facts of life.
Back on the road, Rod and Simon tried to strike up a cheerful family topic conversation again; but the mood had changed, and it was an uphill fight all the way. When they each realized that the other guy was trying just as hard, they gave it up.
Of course, the ambiance wasn’t helped much by Flaran riding along on Rod’s other side sunk in gloom, glowering at the road.
So they rode along in silence, the unease and tension growing, until Rod’d had about as much as he could take. “Look Flaran, I know it’s hard to accept the idea that Alfar’s turning the whole population into puppets—but that is what he’s doing. So we have to just admit it, and try to go beyond it, to figure out what we can do about it. See? Feeling lousy won’t do anybody any good.”
Flaran looked up at Rod, and his attention came back, as though from a great distance. Slowly, his eyes focused. “Nay. Nay, ‘tis not that which hath me so bemused, friend Owen.”
Rod just looked at him for a moment.
Then he said, “Oh.” And, “Really?”
He straightened in his seat and tilted his head back, looking down at Flaran a little. “What is bothering you?”
“These thoughts which the servingwench hath uttered.”
“What—about witches being naturally superior?” Rod shook his head. “That’s nonsense.”
“Nay, ‘tis good sense—or, if not good, at least sense.”
Flaran gazed past Rod’s shoulder at the sky. “Truly, witches should rule.”
“Oh, come off it! Next thing I know, you’ll be telling me how Alfar’s really a good guy, and is really freeing the peasants, not conquering them!”
Flaran’s eyes widened. “Why—that is true.” He began to nod, faster and faster. “In truth, ‘tis all true. He doth free the peasants from the rule of the lords.”
Rod turned away, his mouth working, and swallowed heavily. He looked up at Simon. “Check him, will you? Give him the once-over. He sounds as though the spell’s beginning to creep over him.”
“Oh, nay!” Flaran said in scorn, but Simon frowned, gazing off into space for a moment. Then he shook his head. “I do not read even so much as he doth utter, Master Owen—only thoughts of how goodly seem the fields about us, and the face of the wench who served us.” His eyes focused on Rod’s again. “Still, those are not the thoughts of a spellbound mind.”
“Spellbound? Nay, certes!” Flaran cried. “Only because I speak truth, Master Owen?”
“Truth?” Rod snorted. “Somebody must have warped your mind, if you think that’s truth!”
“Nay, then—lay it out and look at it!” Flaran spread his hands. “It doth seem the common people must needs have masters…”
“I could dispute that,” Rod growled.
“But not gainsay it! From all that I have seen, ‘tis true!” Flaran craned his neck to look over Rod’s shoulder at Simon. “Wouldst thou not say so, Master Simon?”
“Someone must govern,” Simon admitted reluctantly.
“And if one must govern—why, then, one must be master!” Flaran slapped his knee. “And is it not far better for the peasant folk to have masters who were born, as they were, peasants? Who know the pain of poverty, and the grinding toil of the common folk? Is that not far better for them than the rule of those who are born to silver plates and ruby rings, in castles, who have never known a hard day’s work, nor a moment’s want? Nay, these lords even look down from their high towers, and speak of we poor folk as though we were chattels! Things to be owned! Cattle! Not men and women!”
Rod stared, horrified. “Where’d you hear that line of rubbish?”
Flaran reddened. “Can there be truth in rubbish?”
“I don’t know who you’ve been talking to,” Rod said, “but it sure wasn’t a lord. Most of ‘em don’t say things like that—and where would you have had a chance to hear ‘em talking, anyway?”
“Mine ears do be large, Master Owen. I may be foolish in my speaking, but I am wise in my listening. I have spoken with folk who serve the lords, and thus have I learned how they speak of us. And, too, I have hearkened to my neighbors, to their groans and cries of grief under the lords’ rule—and I cannot help but think that they do not serve the best of masters.” Flaran shook his head. “Nay, the words of that servingwench do make most excellent sense—for who could better know the people’s wants, than those who can hear their thoughts? And who can better guard them in their labors, than one who knows what it is to labor so?”
“Excuses,” Rod growled. He turned away, and saw, in the distance, a party of peasants coming out of a side road, clad in rough homespun and bowed under the weight of huge packs. “There!” He stabbed a finger at them. “That’s the kind of sense you’ve been making! Poor people, wandering the roads, lost and alone, because their homes have been destroyed in battle! Folk bereft, whose villages still stand, but who have packed what they can carry and have fled, because they fear the rule of an upstart they don’t trust!”
“Yet peasants’ homes do ever burn in wars,” Flaran cried, “ever and aye, when the lords do seek to resolve some private quarrel with their armies! This time, at the least, the war may bring them some benefit, for he who wins will have been born among them!”
“Excuses,” Rod said again, “rationalizations!” He turned to look squarely at Flaran. “Let me tell you what that is—a rationalization. It’s giving something the appearance of rationality, of reason, when it doesn’t have the reality of it. It’s finding a way to justify what you want to do, anyway. It’s finding an excuse for something you’ve already done—a way to make it seem to be good, when it really isn’t. That’s all you’re doing here—trying to find a way to make the wrong things you want to do, seem right. All your arguments really boil down to, ‘I want power, so I’m going to take it.’ And the real reasons are envy and revenge!”
He noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that the peasants had stopped
, staring up at them, on both sides of the cart. All the better—let witnesses hear it!
“Yet how canst thou speak so?” Flaran frowned, cocking his head to the side. “Thou hast thyself an enormous power!”
Rod froze. How had he let his cover slip? “What… power… is… that?”
“Why, the talent of not being seen by the mind! Our friend Simon hath said it—to a thought-hearer, thou dost not seem to be here at all!”
“Nay, then!” the younger man cried, “even I have noticed it, weak though my powers are!”
Rod shrugged; that was explanation enough, for the moment.
“How great a talent that is!” Flaran cried. “What great advantage must it needs give thee, if one doth seek thee with evil intent! If thou wert of Alfar’s band, he would surely create thee Duke of Spies!” He smiled, leaning forward, eyes glittering. “Would that not be most excellent, Master Owen? Wouldst thou not be delighted to be a duke?”
“I’d say it would be horrible,” Rod grated. “Do you realize what that would mean? I’d be helping to enforce one of the harshest tyrannies humanity has ever known! Stop and think!” He held up a forefinger. “Even under the tightest dictatorships Old Terra ever knew, people have still been able to have one thing that was theirs, alone to themselves—their minds. At least their thoughts were free. But Alfar’s trying to change that; he’s trying to set up a tyranny so complete that nobody can even call his thoughts his own!”
“How small a thing that is!” Flaran waved away the objection. “Thoughts are naught, Master Owen—they are gossamer, mere spiders’ webs! What are free thoughts against a filled belly, and an ease of grinding toil? What is freedom of thought, against freedom from want? What worth hath the secrecy of the mind, when weighed against the knowledge that the King doth hold every least peasant to be his own equal? But think!” He gazed off into space, eyes glittering. “Think how sweet this land could be, an witches ruled it! What an earthly paradise we could make here for ourselves, an folk of good heart could labor freely with their minds, to build it!”
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