Warlock and Son wisoh-12

by Christopher Stasheff

  Rod turned to the fugitives. "We're probably safe for the night here, so you might as well bed down. My son and I will keep watch."

  "I thank thee, milord," Roble said slowly. "I cannot thank thee enough."

  "Just have a happier life than you have already-and don't think it's going to be easy. You'll still have to work for a living, and you'll probably find the lord of your manor to be just as overbearing as the bishop."

  "But from a lord one might expect it!" Neil burst out. "They are no holier than we; they are not supposed to be more perfect!"

  "I suppose that makes it easier to bear," Rod admitted, "though I think my wife might give you an argument about what's expected of a nobleman. Anyway, good night, folks."

  It took a little more talking and soothing to get them settled, and Hester pointedly slept on the other side of Roble, rather than right next to Neil-but she gave the lad a few looks that made it clear it was more by duty than by desire. The whole pantomime even evoked a tired smile from the bereaved father, who made a few reassuring noises of his own, and finally got them settled down and breathing evenly. Privately, Rod thought that the byplay between the young folk must have given Roble a pang of grief, reminding him of his own Ranulf and the joy the lad had never had-but if his tears flowed in the moonlight, surely there was no one to see but himself.

  Magnus drew Rod aside over a very small, well-shielded watch fire. "And now, assuredly, thou wilt lecture me over the sinfulness of a theocracy."

  "No, really-I had in mind discussing the perils of do-ityourself religion."

  Magnus frowned, not understanding.

  "That's one way of looking at a cult," Rod explained. "Somebody dreams up a new religion, or a new version of an old one, which exactly meets his own taste and whim-and, even if he's sincere, Truth is apt to get lost in the process."

  Magnus nodded. "More to the point, given time he will remold his religion to assure his own power and wealth."

  "Yes-and if he's mentally unstable, he'll lead all his people into lunacy."

  "Say rather, delusion," Magnus offered, "yet those delusions he will present them will be most attractive ones, so that many will wish to join him-and be subject to him." He frowned. "Dust thou truly think the first of these spurious bishops, Eleazar, was so cynical as to pretend to a lie, in telling his folk the Abbot had elevated him to an episcopal see?"

  "No, now that you mention it." Rod frowned. "He probably managed to justify it to himself-other people found it easy to believe his lies, but that made him feel guilty, so he start believing them, himself."

  "And thus is delusion born." Magnus nodded. "Still, for those who are content, and even happy, to live in such a community, who are we to tell them nay?"

  "The ones who are supposed to be their leaders," Rod countered. "We're supposed to protect the ones who aren't happy under that system."

  "And assure them the right to leave? Aye, that we should-but if that right is given, and those who dislike the theocracy are filtered out without hurt, we would be wrong to attempt to change it."

  Rod heaved a sigh. "I'm afraid that's something we'll never agree on, son. I suppose I'm a bit of a fanatic, myself-I can't rest easy knowing there's a government in power that I can see only as being false, exploitative, and morally wrong."

  Magnus started to contradict his father, then caught himself and forced a smile. "'Tis even as thou hast said-we will never agree."

  "That's what I thought," Rod said, with a sardonic smile. "Well, if we're going to be able to protect the rights of these people tomorrow, son, we'd better get some sleep tonight. You want to take first watch, or shall I?"

  9

  They saw the peasants to the edge of the forest. When they could see the cleared land through the trees, Rod stopped. "You're safe now. You'll be out of the forest in another ten minutes." He reached into his purse and came out with a handful of silver coins. Distributing them, he said, "Use these wisely, and they'll get you a fresh start. Good luck."

  "Good fortune to you all," Magnus said, and without waiting for an answer, turned and strode away, back into the forest. Rod looked up after him, taken aback, then turned to finish the goodbyes before he hurried after his son. Fess paced along behind him, ever faithful-but ever tactful, too. Father and son needed to talk in private, if at all.

  Rod caught up with Magnus and panted, "A little abrupt, wasn't that?"

  "They had had all they needed of us, my father," Magnus said, his face grim, "and more than they may have deserved." Rod guessed that Hester had taken a stronger hold on the young man's fancy than he had let show.

  "If thou art so concerned for them," Magnus went on, "wherefore dost thou not accompany them to the nearest village, and see them set up in their new lives?"

  Rod glanced back over his shoulder. "I should, I suppose-and I should take them to the Abbot, for that matter. But I find I'm not ready to come out of the trees yet."

  "Nor am I," Magnus said shortly. "In truth, I am not ready for human converse, either. If thou wilt excuse me, my father, I must needs walk alone awhile." And he increased his pace, swinging off through the trees.

  Rod slowed to a halt, watching after his son. "Touchy, touchy," he murmured, but wondering if it should perhaps have been "Touche, touche." He was being a bit of a nosy parent, he supposed-and the kid was a grown man now, and able to take care of himself.

  All but his heart ...

  "Shall we follow him, Rod?"

  Rod almost jumped out of his skin, then looked up to see the great black horse coming up beside him. "Follow? Of course not! It's just that, coincidentally, I happen to be going in the same direction. Think we can find a path, Fess?"

  Disgusted with himself and the rest of the human race, Magnus paced through the trees, hoping to tire himself enough to be rid of the restless energy that seemed to push him onward. He did not notice that the leaves had begun to fall, or that occasional glimpses of sky showed leaden. He paced forward, not particularly caring where he was going, reviewing his most recent disasters. The witch of the tower, who had sought to entrap him by lust pure and simple; the Queen of Elfland, who had sought to bind him to her service by promises never stated nor meant to be kept (he wondered about the reality of that episode); Hester, a shallow and blatant flirt who sought to attract him just long enough to use him as her means of escape....

  "A rag, a bone!"

  Magnus looked up, startled, apprehension coiling through him.

  He came weaving his way between the trees, crying out, "A rag, a bone! Aught thou dost not wish, I'll have! A rag, a bone!" He stopped next to Magnus, grinning up at him, showing a broken tooth. "Good day, young master! Hast aught for which thou hast no use?"

  It was the ragpicker, of course.

  "Not a whit," Magnus said, through stiff lips.

  "Eh, now! Come! Thou hast a weakness for the ladies, hast thou not? Thou hast no use for it-it hath brought thee naught but misery! Give it over, young master, give it over to me! Lose thine Achilles' heel-though 'tis scarcely thy heel, is't now? Lose it to me, and gain invulnerability for thine heart!"

  Magnus was shocked to realize that he was sorely tempted. The notion of emotional invulnerability had become very appealing.

  "Thrice before have I exhorted thee," the ragpicker reminded. "Thrice hast thou refused me-and gained sore pain as the price of thy stubborness."

  "Thou wilt exact a greater price yet," Magnus ground out, though he no longer believed it.

  Indeed, the ragpicker was shaking his head. "There is no price but the armor itself, young wizard. Come! Wilt thou not accept another's magic? Or must thou be hurted yet again, and again once more?"

  For a moment, Magnus almost gave in, for something within him clamored for that imperviousness with an intensity that left him shaken. Perhaps for that reason he steeled himself against the pull and forced out the words. "Away with thee! Avaunt! And trouble me never again!"

  The ragpicker sighed. "Ah, the suspicious nature of this younger ge
neration. Well enough, lad, even as thou wiltyet I'll come again, when thou shalt need what I offer. Farewell!" He turned away, sauntering back into the forest and calling out, "A rag, a bone!"

  Magnus watched after him, hearing his cries grow fainter, then cease, wondering all the while if he had been wise or foolish to turn down the fellow's offer. He would be well served indeed never again to be susceptible to a woman's charms, never to fall into the traps of love, never again to be used as a woman's plaything....

  But, no, he reminded himself as he started walking again. No, he wanted to fall in love, wanted the true, deep intimacy that could exist only between a man and a woman, to have the peace and security of heart that he saw in his parents, in King Tuan and Queen Catharine, and with a few other couples he had watched as he grew. . . .

  Peace?

  Well, his parents had had their episodes, that was true. Marriage was not an end to a struggle, but a beginning to a long process of working together, against vanities and false pride and arrogance. And that intimacy was a prize to be won, again and again, every day. It was not the fruit of a magic spell worked by a priest at the altar. He knew that well, and was braced for it, even eager. . . .

  No. He had to admit that, looking within himself, he was no longer eager for it. He had come to realize that the chances of being hurt, badly hurt-maimed even-in a place not even he himself could see, were too great. To take a risk like that would require a rare woman indeed, a gentle, tender but strong, loving, giving woman who would pay greater heed to him than to herself-and one with whom, moreover, he would be well and truly in love, even as she would be with him-and he had begun to wonder whether such a woman could exist. In fact, he wondered if he would ever meet a woman who could love him for himself alone, not for the social position or wealth he could give her-a woman who could love without seeking to use him.

  He stopped stock-still, struck by a sudden realization. He could never find such a woman as long as he lingered in Gramarye, where everyone knew him as the son of the High Warlock, destined for power and wealth. No. No woman could meet him here without thinking how he could bring her to the most influential post in the land. Of course they could not love him for himself alone--they couldn't even come that far in their consideration!

  Which meant he would have to leave Gramarye.

  He shied from the notion-it was unthinkable! Though as soon as he had thought of it, a yearning welled up in him, to be someplace where no one would know him as anything but Magnus, just Magnus, by himself, alone, and able to establish his own reputation ...

  And discover his own abilities?

  He shrugged the matter off and paced away through the forest all the harder, grim and angry.

  Then, suddenly, the trees opened out into a meadow, gay with autumn flowers and the colors of the changing leaves. It struck him with a shock that, this year, he hadn't even noticed when the trees had begun to turn.

  Then a woman stepped out from the glory of those leaves, and they faded into insignificance. Magnus stared, suddenly aware of her, and only of her. Her gown clung to her, showing how her thighs threshed as she walked; her whole body moved with each step; evoking the thought of sensuous music. Her hair was long and jet-black, her figure perfect (and the gown clung in just the places to make that clear). She was delicate, small-boned, and with a face finely featured, stepping so lightly that she scarcely seemed to touch the meadow grass. She reminded Magnus of the Faerie Folk of Tir Chlis, though she was nowhere near as tall, nor so elongated in form-almost as though she were a child of their kind. Then she came close enough so that he could see her eyes clearly, and she seemed even more like those eldritch creatures-for those huge orbs were at once gay and sad, and wild, wild. They held his gaze, those eyes, and he lost all awareness of himself, knowing only that she was the most entrancing woman he had ever seen, and that all he wanted was to be with her.

  "I greet thee, Sir Knight," she said in a rich, husky voice as she neared him. "Wilt thou dally with me awhile?"

  "Gladly!" Magnus reached out, but hesitated, not daring to touch so divine a creature.

  She saw, and smiled with a strange delight, and stepped in to sway closer, her lips almost touching his, but not quite. "Wilt thou not, then, carry me away?"

  "Aye, far away, where there will be no world but our own!" Magnus turned and gave a high whistle. She laughed, and took up the pitch, making it high and eerie, avoiding the order of notes.

  Magnus's horse stepped forth from the forest. Little wonder its nostrils were flared, its eyes wild, for Magnus had just teleported it from the place where he had left it grazing, near the forest village of Wealdbinde, to the verge of this meadow. The poor beast was alarmed and confused, though it hadn't really noticed much change just a very strange sensation.

  Magnus wasn't thinking of that, though. He wasn't thinking of anything, except the faerie child.

  He caught her by the waist and swung her high, up to the saddle, then sprang up behind her. The horse danced sideways, disconcerted by the woman, but settled as Magnus kicked his heels against its sides, then began to trot.

  "Faster!" the girl cried. "Faster! Faster!"

  Magnus kicked the horse into a canter, and the girl clapped her hands. Magnus made a frantic grab at her waist to keep her from falling. She laughed, a high, manic cry. "Faster! Faster!"

  Magnus spurred the horse into a gallop, and they rocketed around the meadow three times-widdershins, he was to realize later-and the wood seemed to change around them in some subtle fashion.

  "Away!" the girl cried, and Magnus felt the overwhelming urge to please her. He swerved the horse into the forest path. It whinnied in fear and protest, but Magnus had thought only for the girl's wishes, and for the thrill that went through him as he heard her wild, shrill laughter. They went careering through the wood, somehow missing overhanging branches and narrowly avoiding slamming into tree trunks. The girl leaned from side to side, and just as Magnus, in a panic for her safety, would reach to hold her, she would lean far to the other side, all the while singing in a high, lilting, eerie tone, a song in a language Magnus did not recognize, clear and wild and thrilling every fiber of his being.

  At last the trees opened out to show them a lake, with steep hillsides sloping down toward the water. "Enough!" the lady cried, and Magnus reined in. He leaped down to help her alight, not noticing that the poor horse was lathered and white-eyed. He only turned aside from it, leaving it to stray where it would as he accompanied her along the hillside. "Yon!" She halted suddenly, pointing down.

  "What, lady?" Magnus looked, but saw nothing save fading grass.

  "Beneath the ground! A tuber sweet! Pray dig it for me, for I crave it!"

  Without the slightest thought of denial, he was on his knees and digging with his knife. Sure enough, the roots were there, and he ran down to the lake to wash them, then came running back with his offering.

  "I thank thee." She took the tuber, bit of it, then held it out to him with a merry glint in her eye. "Partake!"

  He did, at her word, and found the taste sweet, but strange and exotic. When he looked up, the world about them seemed to have become dim and dun; only she had color and life.

  "Come!" She moved past him, almost dancing, and he followed.

  She paused by a hollow tree. "Honey! Surely the bees may spare some! Fetch it for me!"

  He didn't even consider arguing, just thought sleepy thoughts at the bees as he reached in and took out a honeycomb. Her eyes went wide at the sight of the unconscious bees that fell from it, but she took the comb, stuck out her dainty tongue and dribbled sweetness onto it, then proffered the comb to him. He dribbled honey into his own mouth and found it far sweeter than any he had ever tasted, with a strange wild tang-and looking at her, found that her form seemed almost to glow.

  She danced away from him, laughing, and he followed, frantic at the thought that she might slip away from him. She seemed to know where she was going--and, sure enough, they came to a little grotto car
peted with green moss and bordered by crocuses and tulips, its rocky sides bedecked with stones, roses and anemones and poppies growing out of its myriad crannies. Magnus was delighted to see spring flowers in the autumn, but she was the fairest blossom of all.

  "I thirst," she said. "Fetch me water."

  "Where is there a spring?" Magnus looked about. "There is none, but there is dew on the rocks."

  At her word, he turned to sweep the moisture from the stones, and was amazed to see it gather in large drops on his palm. She caught up his hand to sip the water from it, and the touch of her lips waked echoes in his chest and loins. But she pushed his hand up and said, "Drink," and he did, licking the last of the droplets-and looked at her, and could have sworn that the glow of her eyes was all there was in the world. She swayed close to him, murmuring something in the strange language-and, though he knew not the words, a thrill charged through him, for he understood her well, that she had said, in her most intimate form, "I love thee true." He reached out to take her in his arms, but she turned and twisted, and he held only empty air, her tinkling laugh resounding through his head.

  Suddenly, though, a sadness seemed to sweep over her. She folded herself to the ground, drooping and dispirited. "What doth ail thee, lady!" Magnus cried, dropping to his knees before her. "Tell me what will cheer thee, and thou shalt have it, though I must needs scour the world for it!" She looked up, with a shy, sly smile. "'A crown of flowers would cheer me, knight." She pointed. "Those flowers, yon." Magnus turned on the instant, and was busy plaiting roses and moss roses and violets into a fragrant circlet. He set it on her head, and was rewarded by a single laugh before she drooped again. "I have no bracelets!"

  "Thou shalt have them!" He turned to pluck flowers for her and returned, plaiting them into ringlets and slipping them over her slender, dainty hands. She looked up with a mischievous smile, then wilted again, sinking back against a pillow of ferns. Her body moved, restless and bewitching, with a twist of hips and an arch of back. Magnus stared, no thought in him but that slender body and the delights it promised-but her eyes streamed tears, and the movements of her breasts were sobs.