The Warlock Unlocked wisoh-4

by Christopher Stasheff

  Theofrin leveled the bow.

  Dimly, Rod was aware of that kindly, stern Presence with him again, reassuring, urging.

  Fervently and with his whole being, he wished the faery lord would go follow one of his own phantoms off a cliff—and wherever else it led him, all night long.

  Theofrin suddenly dropped his bow, staring off to his left.

  Rod stared, too. He glanced over toward where the Eorl was looking, then quickly back to Theofrin. He’d seen nothing.

  “Nay, pretty maiden,” Theofrin crooned, “come nigh to me!” And his horse began to move forward. “Nay, dost thou flee?” Theofrin grinned. “I’ll follow!” And his horse leaped into a gallop.

  Straight over the cliff.

  And on up into the sky—it was a faery steed, after all—with Theofrin caroling, “Nay, come nigh! Nay, do not flee! I’ll do thee no harm, but show thee great delights! Ah, dost thou fly still? Then I’ll follow thee, while breath doth last!”

  Rod stared after him, stupefied, until Theofrin was only a lighted speck off to the east, that sank below a horizon-line of trees, and was gone.

  “My lord!”

  He turned. Gwen came running up, clasping Elidor’s hand firmly. “My lord, I saw it all! Thou art untouched?”

  “Uh…” Suddenly, Rod became aware of aches all over. “I wouldn’t say that. Those pinches hurt! But nothing lasting—I hope.”

  “There shouldn’t be, if Terran folk-tales hold true here.” Father Al came puffing up. “But if he’d hit you with that crossbow-bolt, it might’ve been another matter.”

  “Oh?” Rod looked up, dreading the answer. “What kind of effects do those things produce, Father?”

  The priest shrugged. “Oh, epilepsy, rheumatism, a slipped disc, partial or full paralysis—it would be the same as any elf-shot, I assume.”

  “Oh, really.” Rod felt his knees turn to water. “Gee, isn’t it too bad he had to leave so suddenly.”

  “Yes, I was wondering about that.” The priest frowned. “What was he chasing?”

  Rod shook his head. “Hanged if I know, Father. All I know is, I was wishing with all my might that he’d go follow one of his own will-o’-the-wisps over a cliff—and he did.”

  “Hm.” Father Al’s face instantly went neutral. “Well. Another datum.”

  Rod frowned; then he leveled a forefinger at the priest. “You’re suspecting something.”

  “Well, yes,” the priest sighed, “but you know how foolish it is to state a thesis prematurely.”

  “Yeah.” Rod should know—Fess’d told him often enough. He sighed and straightened up. “Okay, Father—play ‘em close to your chest. I’ll just be real careful what I wish, from now on.”

  “Yes.” The priest nodded grimly. “I’d do that, if I were you.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A soft tinkling sounded.

  The whole company stilled.

  Reed pipes overlaid the tinkling; a flute underscored them.

  Rod turned to Gwen. “I think we’ve got company.”

  “Godmother!” Elidor cried.

  They turned to watch as he scooted over the grass to the wealth of woman beneath the firefly canopy. He leaped into her lap, arms outflung, and she gathered him in, pressing him against her more-than-ample bosom, resting her cheek on his head and crooning softly to him.

  “Ever feel superfluous?” Rod asked.

  “And never was so glad to feel so,” Gwen affirmed. “Yet I think there is some business for us here. Come, my lord.” She gathered her children’s hands, and marched forward.

  Rod sighed, caught Magnus’s shoulder, and limped after her, while Father Al did a fast fade.

  Gwen dropped a curtsey, and Cordelia imitated her. The boys bowed, and Rod bent forward as much as he could.

  The Grand Duchess noticed. “Does it pain thee so greatly, High Warlock?”

  Elidor looked up, startled.

  “Not that High Warlock,” Rod assured him. “And, well, I’ve felt this way before, Your Grace—say, the day after the first time I went horse-back riding. It won’t last, will it?”

  “Nay; ‘tis only soreness,” she assured him. “Yet trust me, ‘tis suffering well-endured; though hast given him good rescue, as I knew thou wouldst.”

  “I’m glad somebody did. Well, you’ve got him safe, now—so, if you’ll forgive us, we’ll be on our way. Come on, kids.”

  The Grand Duchess looked up, startled. “Thou wilt not take him to Lord Kern?”

  Gwen caught Rod’s sleeve. “Assuredly, an thou wishest it…”

  “Uh, Gwen…”

  “…yet will the royal lad not be safer with his godmother?” Gwen finished.

  The Grand Duchess smiled sadly. “Safer, aye; but he’ll not die ‘mongst mortal men—both sides need him. And duty doth summon him.”

  Elidor clung to her, and buried his face in her bosom.

  “Nay, sweet chick,” she crooned softly, “thou dost know that I speak aright. Nay, nay, I would liefer keep thee all thy life beside me—but therein would I wrong mine old friends, the King and Queen thy parents, who bade me see that thou wouldst grow into a King; and the folk of thy land, who need thee grown. And lastly would I wrong thee, for I’d abort thy destiny. Come now, sweet chuck, bear up; sit tall, and give thyself a kingly bearing.”

  Slowly, the little boy sat up, sniffling. He looked at her forlornly, but she pinched his cheek gently, smiling sadly, and he smiled in spite of himself, sitting up more firmly. Then he turned to face the Gallowglasses, straightening and lifting his chin, once again a Prince.

  “See thou, he is to be a King of men,” the Grand Duchess said, low, “and therefore must he learn what men are, and not from written words alone. He must live and grow among them, good and bad alike, that when he comes to be a king, he’ll recognize them both, and know their governance.”

  Gwen nodded sadly. “And therefore canst thou not keep him here, to hide him from the troubles of these times. But might thee not, at least, conduct him to Lord Kern?”

  The Grand Duchess sighed. “I would I could; but know this of us faery folk: we are bound to our earthly haunts. Some among us, like myself, can claim demesnes of miles’ width, and freely move within them; but few indeed are they who move wherever they please, and to none of those would I entrust this lad—or any folk, of whom I cared.”

  “But you would trust us.” Rod could feel it coming.

  The Grand Duchess nodded.

  Gwen looked up at him, pleading.

  “Oh, all right!” Rod clapped his hands. “Keeping track of children is mostly your job, anyway. Sure, Your Grace, we’ll take him along.”

  The children cheered.

  Elidor looked surprised; then he smiled, a slow, shy smile.

  Magnus ran forward, caught Elidor’s arm, and yanked him off the Grand Duchess’s lap. “We’ll keep thee close, coz! Yet mark thou, stay within mine eye this time!”

  “I will stay near,” Elidor promised.

  “As near as one of mine own.” Gwen gathered him in.

  “Of course,” Rod said, “it would help if we had someone to point us on our way.”

  “Elidor will show you.” The Grand Duchess was clasping her hands tightly, and her smile seemed a little strained. “He hath conned his charts, and doth know the shape of every track and pathway in his land.”

  “Well, that’ll help,” Rod said dubiously, “but real hills and lakes don’t match a map all that well. It’d be better to have someone who’s been there, too.”

  The Grand Duchess shook her head firmly. “The sprites cannot leave their lands or waters, as I’ve told thee.”

  “Tell us, then,” Gwen asked, “what we must do to see him safely to Lord Kern.”

  The Grand Duchess nodded, her eyes lighting. “Thou must first rid the Tower of Gonkroma of its Redcap.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I don’t really see what chasing some sort of elf has to do with getting safely to Lord Kern,” Rod called.r />
  Gwen said something back, but the roaring wind drowned out her answer.

  “Come again, dear?” Rod called. “Louder, please; it’s hard to hear, when I’m behind you, and the wind’s whistling in my ears.”

  He was riding pillion on a makeshift broomstick.

  “I said,” Gwen called, “that I know no reason, but do trust her judgement.”

  “That’s what it seems to come down to, here,” Rod sighed, “faith. Wasn’t that the medieval ethic, Father?” He looked back over his shoulder. Father Al was clinging to the broomstick for dear life, and was definitely looking a little green around the gills; but he swallowed, and nodded manfully. “Something like that, yes. It’s a little more complicated, though.”

  “Well, I like to deal in over-simplifications. You sure you’re okay, now?”

  “Oh, fine, just fine! But are you sure your wife can carry all three of us for so long?”

  “If I can bear four children,” Gwen called back, “I can bear two men.”

  “There’s some truth in that,” Rod acknowledged. “After all, she’s managed to bear with me for almost ten years now.” He turned to the children, floating beside him. “Geoff, you be sure and tell us if you start feeling sleepy, now!”

  “Fear not,” Gwen called. “They napped well ere we left the Grand Duchess.”

  “Yes, thanks to Magnus. But Geoff, make sure you tell me if you start feeling tired—after all, Cordelia can give you a lift for a few minutes.”

  “For an hour,” Cordelia caroled, swooping her broomstick in a figure-eight, “and not even feel it!”

  “Hey, now! Straighten out and fly right! We’ve got a long way to go; no time or energy for fancy stuff!”

  “Killjoy!” Magnus snorted. “Night flying’s fun!”

  “This, from the expert who thought I was wrong wanting to fly this time,” Rod snorted.

  “Well, Papa, you said yourself it’d attract too much attention.”

  “Yeah, but we’ve got a hundred miles to go before dawn; we don’t have much choice this time. Besides, we’re not too apt to be noticed at night; and if we are, by the time Duke Foidin can get troops after us, we’ll be out of reach. And we’re certainly going faster than any courier he can send!” He peered over Gwen’s shoulder. “How’s Elidor holding out, dear?”

  Gwen glanced down at the small shape huddled against her, between her arms. “Almost beginning to enjoy it, I think.”

  “He is the stuff of which kings are made,” Father Al gulped.

  Rod decided the priest could use a distraction. “Figured out how magic works here, Father?”

  “Oh, it seems to be fairly straightforward. I postulate three forces: Satanic, Divine, and impersonal. Most of what I’ve seen today, and tonight, falls in the ‘impersonal’ category.”

  Rod frowned. “What’s ‘impersonal?’ ”

  “Essentially, it’s the same force espers use. Everyone has it, to some degree. An esper has so much of it that he can work ‘magic’ by his own power; but everyone ‘leaks’ their little bit, and it goes into the rocks, the earth, the water, the air, absorbed into molecules. So it’s there, ready to draw on; and, in a universe such as this, a few gifted individuals have the ability to tap that huge reservoir, and channel its force to do whatever they want.”

  Rod nodded. “Sounds right. Seen anything here that would disprove that?”

  “No, but I think I’m going to have to come up with a corollary theory for the faery folk.”

  “You do that. Any idea why the whole world is still medieval, even though it’s 3059 AD?”

  “Well, at a guess, I’d say it’s because technology never advanced much.”

  “Fine.” Rod smiled. “So how come technology didn’t advance?”

  Father Al shrugged. “Why bother inventing gadgets, when you can do it by magic?”

  That gave Rod pause. He was quiet for the rest of the flight.

  Well, most of the time, anyway. “No, Cordelia—you may not race that owl!”

  “You sure you’re not getting tired, Geoff?”

  “Magnus, leave that bat alone!”

  The land rose beneath them, rippling into ridges and hills, then buckling into mountains. Finally, as dawn tinged the sky ahead and to the right, Elidor’s finger stabbed down. “Yonder it lies!”

  Rod peered ahead around Gwen and saw the ruins of a great, round tower, perched high on a crag. “Be fun getting up to that.”

  Magnus veered close and pointed downward. “I see a ledge of rock beside it, that trails away behind for a good hundred yards.”

  “Yeah, but then it blends back into the side of the mountain. How do I get to it in the first place?”

  “Why, I will land thee on it, when thou dost wish,” Gwen called back. “But, husband, we have flown half the night, and even I begin to weary. Would we not do well to rest ere we advance?”

  “Yes, definitely.” Rod looked around. “Where’s a good place to rest?”

  “There, and a safe one.” Father Al nodded down toward a valley, but did not point. “That little village, with the small steeple. There’s a patch of woods near it, to hide our descent.”

  Rod looked down. “Well, it looks snug enough. But will we be welcome? As I recollect, mountaineers aren’t generally too hospitable to outsiders.”

  “Oh, the parish priest will let us in,” Father Al assured him. “I have connections.”

  Rod shrugged. “Good enough for me. Wanna let me off this thing, dear?”

  “Aye, if thou wilt wait till I do land.” Gwen tilted the broomstick down. Father Al gulped, and held on tight.

  They found a clearing just big enough, and brought everyone in, in orderly fashion. Little Geoff fell the last two feet and pushed himself up out of the meadow grass, looking groggy. Rod ran over to him. “I told you to tell me when you were getting tired! Here, son, why don’t you ride a little, now?” He hoisted the boy up onto his shoulders, and turned to Gwen. “Now—which way’s the village?”

  They found it, webbed in the birdsong of early morning. The parish priest was just closing the back door as they came up.

  “Good morning, Father!” Father Al called cheerily, in spite of his rubber legs.

  The old priest looked up, blinking. He was bald, and his long beard was grey. He was slim with a lifetime of fasting, and rock-hard as his mountains. “Why… good morrow, Father,” he returned. “ ‘Tis early, for travellers to come walking.”

  “We’ve been on the road all the night; ‘tis a matter of some urgency,” Father Al replied. “I am these goodfolks’ protection from the powers that walk at night; yet even I must sleep sometime. Canst thou spare us hospitality for a few hours?”

  “Why… assuredly, for the Cloth,” the old priest said, bemused. “Yet there is only my poor small room, behind the chapel…”

  “No matter; we’ll sleep in the nave, if thou dost not object, under the Lord’s protection. We’ll need every ounce we can get.”

  “Father,” the old priest said severely, “one ought not to sleep in Church.”

  “Tell that to the goodfolk who must listen to my sermons.”

  The old priest stared for a moment; then he smiled. “Well said, well said! Avail thyselves of what little thou canst find, then—and pardon my poor hosting. I must bless three fields and see to a woman whose hands pain her.”

  “Arthritis?” Rod asked, coming up behind Father Al.

  “Nay, only a swelling of the joints, and pain when she moves her fingers. Elf-shot, belike. A drop of holy water, a touch of the crucifix, and a short prayer will set her to rights.”

  Rod stared.

  Father Al got the thoughtful look again. “Hast thou ever known the treatment to fail, Father?”

  “Aye; there do be stronger spells. Then must I ask the Bishop to come—or take my poor souls to him, if they can walk.”

  “And the blessing of the fields—are the crops in danger?”

  “Oh, nay!” the old priest laughed. “I c
an see thy mind; but do not trouble thyself, Father; thou hast journeyed long, and hast need of thy rest. Nay, ‘tis only the usual blessing, without which the fields will yield scarcely half their corn.”

  “Of course.” Father Al smiled. “Well, it doth no harm to be certain. Thou wilt send for me if thou dost need me, though?”

  “Be assured that I will—but be also assured that I’ll have no need. Be welcome in my home, and make thyselves free of what little thou’It find in the larder. Have no fear for me—the Lord will provide.”

  “And He probably will,” Father Al noted as they watched the old man leave, with an almost-youthful stride. “After all, magic works, here.”

  “Small magics,” Rod agreed, “daily ones. It seems the village priest is the mundane magician, here. How does that fit into your theories, Father?”

  “Perfectly. As I mentioned, I posit three sources of Power, and one of them is Divine—though I have a notion that some of his spells work more by ‘secular,’ impersonal magic than by God’s Power. Some trace of magical ability could well be a requirement for admission to the seminary.”

  “Probably,” Rod agreed. “But the old man’s abilities notwithstanding, I think it might be in order to keep our hands off his food, if we can.” He turned to his son. “Magnus, Geoff’s about tuckered. How much grub do you think you could scare up by yourself?”

  Magnus pulled a hare out from behind his back. “I was hungry, Papa.”

  “So was I.” Cordelia held out an apronful of birds’ eggs and berries.

  “Nice thing about kids—they never lose track of the important things,” Rod noted, to Father Al. “What do you say I take the skillet, Gwen? You’re looking pretty tired, yourself.”

  “Aye, but I wish to eat before noon.” Gwen caught up the hare and brushed past him into the “rectory.”

  “Come, Cordelia.”

  “Well, I guess we get to decide the fate of the world.” Rod sat down on the step as the door closed behind the ladies. “Magnus, keep your brother busy until breakfast, so he doesn’t fall asleep.”