The Warlock's Last Ride

by Christopher Stasheff

  Magnus looked down with a fond smile. "Not at all, sister. It is simply that it's beautiful, and a promise that some of the world, at least, is clean of humankind's more sordid doings."

  Cordelia wondered what had happened to the cheerful, optimistic big brother of her youth, then reminded herself that two years' difference in age didn't mean much between adults. "You rise early only for this moment of contemplation?"

  "It would be worth it." Magnus turned back to look at the sun. "But I wake early without meaning to now. I've become accustomed to rising with the sun on my travels, and my body does it whether I wish it or not."

  "This is your idea of sleeping late, is it?" Cordelia turned to gaze at the great glowing ball, too. She let a few minutes pass, steeling herself to confrontation, then asked, "And do you mean to become the sun to us stay-at-homes, expecting us all to revolve around you?"

  Magnus's shoulders shrugged with a stifled laugh. "Scarcely."

  "I mean it, brother." Cordelia's voice gained steel. "You have little knowledge of what has passed on this world in these last ten years. You are in no position to give orders, no matter what Papa has said—and neither Alain nor I would obey you if you did!"

  "Dad did not say to give orders."

  Cordelia's eyes widened in surprise.

  "He told me to take care of the land and people of Gramarye," Magnus went on. "He did not say that I had to command a cadre of officers in the doing of it."

  "Surely you do not think you can answer every challenge alone!"

  "If there is an emergency to which I must respond, Alea may choose to come with me."

  "Well… so shall I, if it comes to that." Cordelia turned to look at the sun again. "But that is a matter of choosing, Magnus, not of responding to an order."

  Magnus nodded. "It will be your choice, Cordelia, not mine."

  Cordelia snapped a sharp glance up at him, frowning. "Do I hear overtones of emotional blackmail in that?"

  "If you do, they are of your own making." Magnus smiled down at her, amused. "You may infer them, but I do not imply them."

  Cordelia stared at him a moment, frowning. Then she said, "So you will go kiting off on the spur of the moment to answer some fancied challenge and expect Alea, and the rest of us, to come chasing after you "

  "I shall not expect that." Magnus locked gazes with her. "I shall not expect anything."

  Cordelia frowned, trying to puzzle him out. "Do you think you can meet all threats alone?"

  "Not really. But I have no right to command anyone who has not elected me to the task. I have authority only over myself, so I shall go to meet every challenge by myself."

  "Is it thus that you overthrew governments as you careered through the stars?"

  "No," Magnus said. "I began alone, truly enough—on Melange, and again on Midgard. On all other planets, I had Dirk Dulaine, then Alea, for companions, and redoubtable they were, I assure you."

  "And the two of you were proof against all encounters?" Cordelia didn't try to keep the skepticism out of her voice.

  "Not alone, no." Magnus turned to gaze at the sun again. "We generally found a local refugee or two to advise us, then gradually built up groups of disaffected people and found some way for them to communicate with one another. Twice there was some event, some unusually harsh burst of arrogance from the local lords that triggered an uprising, and we rose with them and made sure of their victory. More often, we put the individual cells of resistance on the road to eventual victory and left them to grow and flourish."

  Cordelia stared, appalled. "You shall never know whether you condemned them to defeat or assured them of victory?"

  "I don't suppose we'll ever have it confirmed," Magnus acknowledged, "but we never left until the crisis had passed and the machinery was in place to guarantee their eventual triumph. It is better, after all, for a system of government to grow rather than be grafted; it has a stronger chance of survival."

  Cordelia frowned, searching his profile. "There is no need for revolution here, brother."

  "No," Magnus agreed, "though SPITE and VETO may still foment discord and attempt upheavals, each in its own style. If they do, I shall do all in my power to thwart them, for I've no more wish to see totalitarians impose a dictatorship on our people than for Dad to foist on them a democracy that would be wrong for them."

  "But democracy is not wrong for them!"

  Magnus turned to her, amused. "Is it the future queen who speaks?"

  Cordelia's lips pressed thin. "A constitutional monarchy can become a form of democracy, Magnus. You know that!"

  "Yes, I do." Magnus met her eyes again. "Sharing power between a parliament and the crown is a way-station on the road to democracy, and I have no wish to block that road. In fact, I'll do all I can to make sure it is open for the people to travel." He frowned, suddenly intense. "But it must be a living thing, this democracy—it cannot be a corpse animated like a puppet. And to live, it must grow of its own and take what form is natural to it."

  Taken aback by his intensity, Cordelia said, "That is all I wish, brother."

  "And Alain?" he demanded, still intent.

  "He, too," Cordelia said. "How could you think otherwise?"

  "Because I have little knowledge of what has passed here these last ten years." Magnus relaxed and turned to face the sun, now risen. "Little knowledge, and I shall not be foolish enough to try to act without it. Be sure, sister, I shall go my own way and trouble no one—unless armed conflict arises."

  "No one?" Cordelia frowned.

  Magnus shrugged. "I may wander about the land to catch the temper of the people and tell a few stories—tales of heroes who overthrew despots, or of peacemakers who reconciled warring factions—but nothing more."

  Cordelia, however, was sharper than most Magnus had dealt with. "Building your cells again?"

  Magnus turned to her, smiling with pleasure. "You have lost none of your quickness, I see. Yes, I may plant cells throughout this land—but they shall all respect the Crown and the commonweal."

  "The will of the people, and the burdens they bear in common?" Reluctantly, Cordelia said, "I cannot quarrel with that."

  Magnus nodded, turning to the east again, but without speaking.

  Watching his face, Cordelia saw that he was really gazing at the mist rising from the meadow. After a few minutes she said, "Magnus… when Alain becomes king and I queen…"

  "I hope to be first to kneel to you at your coronation—and be sure that I shall obey my sovereigns in every order they may give."

  "Unless it goes against your conscience."

  "I cannot conceive of that," Magnus said—with no delay.

  Cordelia knew by that sign that he had given the matter careful thought. The implication, of course, was that if she and Alain ever did become tyrants, Magnus would fight them tooth and claw—and she had no illusions as to just how formidable an enemy he could be. However, she couldn't conceive of either herself or Alain turning into despots either, so she felt warmed by her brother's pledge of loyalty. She stood beside him, watching the mist burn off in the sun's heat, and after a while, she slipped her hand into his.

  Geoffrey always liked coming down to town. Oh, the castle on the hill was a fine place to live, after his parents' renovations, but it could still be socially claustrophobic to be around the same people day after day—and always being surrounded by walls went against the grain of a man who was in his element when he was in field and forest. So, if there were no fields or forests close at hand, the town on the lower slopes of the castle hill would do nicely as a change of scene.

  He reined in as he came to a tavern, jumped down, and beckoned to a hostler standing near. "Hold my horse, lad, and there will be coin for you when I come out."

  The hostler came over and took the reins. "Does he need currying, my lord?"

  "Only 'sir,' " Geoffrey corrected. "I am a knight who hopes never to be a lord."

  "Oh, aye—for now that your elder brother is back, it is he who w
ill inherit the title, will he not?"

  Geoffrey looked more closely at the man, frowning. He hadn't realized the townsfolk followed the goings-on at the castle so closely. "The title is not hereditary, goodman. It was bestowed on my father only for his lifetime."

  The hostler nodded, stroking the horse's neck. "Yet surely your brother-in-law will raise one of you to the title when your father passes away—and as surely, it will be the eldest."

  "There is no promise of either." Geoffrey's frown deepened. "Nor any cause to expect it."

  The man feigned surprise. "You do not mean it could be you who would be raised to lordship!"

  Frankly, Geoffrey had never thought about the issue, but he was nettled by the man's bland assumption. "It could be. If there is war, I may well earn the honor in battle."

  The man grinned, showing yellowed teeth, one broken. "Come, my lord! All the land knows that it is your brother who will command, now that he has come home!"

  "Then all the land knows falsehood!" Geoffrey snatched the reins back and mounted again. "My brother gives me no orders, nor do I take them from him!"

  "Surely, Sir Knight." But the hostler's smile said he knew better than to believe so obvious an untruth.

  Really angry now, Geoffrey turned his horse toward the road back to the castle.

  "But the tavern, my lord! Your pint of ale!"

  "Drink it yourself!" Geoffrey slipped a coin from his purse and tossed it back over his shoulder.

  The hostler let it lie in the dust, grinning as he watched Geoffrey ride back up to the castle.

  Geordie walked out under the early sun, enjoying the coolness of the morning and the feeling of cleanliness that always came with dawn. Long shadows striped the land, dew clung to the grass, and his tenants were already abroad. Geordie drew in a deep breath and rejoiced. He was young, in his mid-twenties, with half his father's estate to manage and, most importantly of all, a beautiful, intelligent, spirited wife, and they were very much in love. No matter what went wrong in the world, everything would be right when he came home to her. Life was good.

  Good for his tenants, too, it seemed. The earth was green with the sprouts of the new crop, and children were driving the cows out to pasture.

  But their parents were hurrying from their homes to the granary when they should have been out to the fields. Frowning, Geordie quickened his pace; what had gone wrong?

  In minutes he was twisting his way through the throng of peasants inside the shadows of the barn, lit by stripes of sunlight where the boards failed to meet; Geordie's shadow walked long before him as he said, "Room, Willikin, there's a good lad… Good morn to you, Corin, and let me by…"

  The peasants opened a lane for him in the coolness and fragrance of the barn—but the aroma was wrong; instead of the richness of stored grain, he scented something sour, acrid.

  " 'Tis the garnered grain, my lord," old Adam said. He lifted a hand, letting the kernels sift through his fingers—but only powder came out, and it was far darker than it should have been.

  Geordie stared. "What rot has struck?"

  Old Adam shrugged. "One I've never seen, my lord…"

  "Don't call me that," Geordie said with the weariness of one who knows it will do no good. "My father was attainted."

  "A lord you are by the way you walk and bear yourself toward others," the old man sighed, "and there's naught the king can do or say that will change that."

  The throng of men muttered assent for the fiftieth time, nodding agreement.

  "But if it will please you better, I'll call you squire," old Adam said, "for such you are, in the heed you pay your lands and the concern you give your people."

  "Concerned I am," Geordie said with a frown, "for we've a summer to live through before the new crop comes. Is all the stored grain like this?"

  "All, my lord," said burly, grizzled Tavus, "save for the last layer of kernels that cover it—and I'd not dare to eat of them."

  "No, of course not." Geordie scowled, brain racing.

  "What shall we eat, my lord?" one of the men asked, voice low and heavy.

  "The first carrots and turnips will be grown in a few weeks," Geordie said. "We'll have to plant more. Until then, we shall have to manage off what we can scavenge in the forest."

  The people muttered, for the forest was as all forests were—the property of the Crown and the hunting preserve of the nobility.

  "There's no law against our gathering nuts and berries," Geordie called over their voices, "or anything else that grows from the earth there."

  "But the keepers will think we are poaching, my lo… squire," said Hobin.

  "We'll all go gathering together, and I'll speak with the keepers for you," Geordie told them.

  Relief washed over the people's faces, but the older ones still looked glum. "There can't be enough wild oats and squirrel's hoards to keep us until the harvest, squire."

  "True enough," Geordie said. "We'll have to stretch it with porridges and stews."

  "Stews need meat, squire," old Adam pointed out.

  "So do you, all of you, even if it be only an ounce or two a week—and aye, even slaying so much as a badger is poaching, I know. Still, if the beasts come out of the wood, they're ours."

  The peasants muttered their misgivings, and Hobin said, "Don't know what the keepers will say to that, squire."

  "Let me worry about the keepers," Geordie said. "Take your children and go searching the hedgerows first—we'll certainly find there enough food for the day." He turned and stalked away.

  The peasants watched him go, every face grooved with worry.

  "What will he be doing, Adam?" Corin asked.

  "What any good lord would do if his people starve," Adam said grimly, "feed them."

  "The keepers will take him then!"

  "That they will," said Adam, "and he's not noble no more. We'll have to keep a watch on that lad."

  "Aye, and keep him from doing something foolish," Hobin agreed.

  But they all knew how skilled a woodsman Geordie was, and wondered if they could find him to guard him if he didn't want to be found.

  Geoffrey was still seething as he rode through the gatehouse. He dismounted in the courtyard and tossed the reins at a hostler running toward him, then strode up the stairs to the keep's double door. It was time to have it out with Magnus for once and for all.

  He strode toward the stairway, and a footman came running. "Is there aught you wish, Sir Geoffrey?"

  "Nay, unless you know where Sir Magnus is."

  "Why—in his chamber, I should think."

  Geoffrey started to say, "Yes, you should," but caught himself in time. He wasn't one to take out his bad temper on his subordinates. Geoffrey gave the man a curt nod and a "thank you" instead, then all but ran up the stairs.

  He had no need to knock at Magnus's door; it was wide open, and his brother was at work with pen and ink, on a table in front of the wide window.

  "What have you there?" Geoffrey demanded as he came into the room.

  Magnus looked up in surprise. "Some notes on Alea's homeland, brother." He laid aside his quill and leaned back in his chair. "You seem agitated."

  "You might say that." Geoffrey shut the door with a bit more force than necessary.

  Magnus raised his eyebrows at Geoffrey's anger—and at the obvious insistence on confidentiality. "Sit down, why don't you, and tell me what has set you off this morning."

  Geoffrey wasn't about to take even that much of an order. He strode up to Magnus's desk and demanded, "Do you know that the word is all over the town that you shall be master of us all, now that Papa has gone off wandering?"

  "Is it really!" Magnus exclaimed. "No, I didn't know."

  "It is not true, brother," Geoffrey snapped. "He may have won from you a promise to care for the people of this land, but he did not give you authority to command me!"

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  "Even if he had, I would not," Magnus told him. "I have no right to command any of you."<
br />
  That brought Geoffrey up short. He stared; then his eyes narrowed in disbelief.

  "I have trouble enough of my own, trying to become used to my homeland again," Magnus said. "I am quite content to leave command of the army to you."

  Geoffrey turned his head a little, eyeing Magnus sideways. "You, who have commanded legions? You do not wish to command them again?"

  "I never really commanded any army," Magnus corrected. "I may have advised those who did, but I did not myself command more than a company."

  "Oh, aye, and they did not follow your advice to the letter!"

  "More often than not," Magnus admitted.

  "Do not think I shall, brother!"

  "I do not," Magnus said, and spread his hands. "I may have a gift for warfare, Geoffrey, but you have a positive genius for it. I know my own limitations."

  "But Papa made you promise to care for the people," Geoffrey protested. "You gave him your word you would ward Gramarye from its enemies."

  "So I shall—but our old adversaries of SPITE and VETO are not often countered by force of arms."

  Geoffrey lifted his head slowly as understanding sank in, lifted until he looked down his nose at his brother. "So you shall be commander in chief; you shall retain civil command! You think to tell the generals where to go and when!"

  "No," Magnus said. "That authority is Queen Catharine's and will someday be Alain's."

  "But King Tuan cozens the queen into wise deployments, as you think to cozen your brother-in-law Alain."

  "Cordelia would have my head if I even tried," Magnus said. "Indeed, she is all the advisor that Alain will really need."

  Geoffrey scowled at him, trying to puzzle out what he was not saying. "And if Alain asks your opinion?"

  "I shall give it to him honestly," Magnus said, "but I shall wait to be asked."

  "And shall not cozen him into asking?" Geoffrey asked sourly, then answered his own question. "Cordelia will know it if you do!"

  "She will indeed," Magnus agreed, "and will counter me most effectively. No, if Alain asks my advice, it will be his doing, not mine."