"What sort of action might that be?" Geoffrey asked, on his guard again.
"Well, first, to discover if my interference was warranted, or if things were all right as they were," Magnus said, "but I had judged well from such historical records as I had, and from my reconnaissance in orbit; only one of those planets did have a government that suited the people, though it was very hard to discover."
"And the rest?" Geoffrey demanded.
"I set out to overthrow their tyrants, of course," Magnus said, "and to make planets proof against SCENT's machinations. With the sublime audacity and supreme arrogance of youth, I never stopped to think that I had no more right to meddle than SCENT had—but, like them, I was certain I was doing it for the people's own good."
"Supreme arrogance indeed." Geoffrey frowned.
"At least I chose planets on which the bulk of the population were clearly oppressed," Magnus said. "The first solo I tried was on a planet called Melange, where the colonists had made their own try at the ideal society—essentially an eighteenth-century culture, periwigs and kneepants, paniers and pompadours—and had cloned the few servants they had brought along into a massive underclass. Having made them, of course, they feared them, and ruled them with iron oppression. They kept modern technology, but only for themselves."
"Which rather negated the advantages of any gadgetry you might have brought along!"
Magnus nodded. "Therefore I went down to the planet with only a peasant's clothes on my back and my spaceship in orbit."
"Foolishly strolling into danger, brother!"
"Of course," Magnus said in surprise. "Don't try to tell me you would have done anything else, Geoffrey."
Geoffrey stared at him a moment, then broke into a shamefaced smile. "Well, but that is me, brother. I would not see you imperilled."
"No more than I would you," Magnus returned. "After a week of skulking about like an outlaw, trying to learn the inside of the society and failing, I had the good luck to make a local contact—Dirk Dulaine."
Geoffrey frowned. "I thought you said he was a spacer."
"He was, but he had been born a churl—that's what they called their clones—and escaped as a boy, whereupon he had been recruited into an organization of other escaped churls, one that had been going on for more than a century. Their founders had managed to hitch rides off-planet, work their way up to riches, and buy a foundering interstellar cargo line, which bought out the supply rights for Melange—so Dirk was a local boy from a backward culture, but had a modern education. He was also a trained commando…"
"Like yourself," Geoffrey interjected.
"There were a few similarities," Magnus admitted. "We strolled the land looking for ways to overthrow the lords. Dirk told me the time was right; there was a prophecy that DeCade, the leader of a centuries-old rebellion, would rise from the dead to lead them again, and if he was ever going to wake up, the time was near. Unfortunately, I was captured by a lord who decided I would make a perfect gladiator …"
He went on, telling of his battle in the arena, and Geoffrey listened, enthralled, as his brother told a fantastic tale of a pitched battle between gladiators and lords, of automated hideouts for aristocrats and a sojourn in a madhouse—a horrible place for a telepath; it had driven Magnus into catatonia—and of Magnus himself finally becoming DeCade.
Thrilled and shocked by turns and appalled at the dangers Magnus had faced, Geoffrey cursed himself for not having been there to protect his big brother—never stopping to think that he had been far too young.
"A MINSTREL! THERE'S a minstrel come to the common!"
"New songs! News!"
Suddenly all the young folk were running back to the village, leaving the grain to stand unharvested another day. Diru dropped his scythe and went to run with them, but Hirol elbowed him in the ribs and Arker kicked a foot between his ankles, saying, "Keep your place, lummox!"
Diru stumbled and fell; Hirol and Arker laughed and ran on. Lenar and her friends ran past, giggling. Dim heard one say, "He can't even keep on his feet!!"
Face crimson, Diru struggled up and lumbered after, limping now. He managed to ignore the shoots of pain that went up his shin every time his left foot hit the ground; it wasn't really much, certainly less than the embarrassment of having the girls watch him fall—tripping over his own feet again, they probably thought.
Diru was a little shorter than the other boys but a great deal more bulky. It was all muscle—well, mostly—but it didn't look that way. Too much muscle—he was slow; all the other boys could punch much faster, and did. He was moon-faced with a snub nose, small thin-lipped mouth and narrow eyes with sparse, dun-colored hair—certainly no prize to look at, as his mother kept reminding him. He knew she was right, because the village girls looked right past him and never seemed to see him unless he was being more clumsy than usual.
He hated them for it. Hated the boys, too, for making fun of him and beating him if he dared talk back. Some day he'd find a way to get even, some day …
But not now. The young folk fell silent as they dodged between huts into the village common, and Dim could hear the plucking of strings. Way behind the others and only a little ahead of the grown-ups, he lumbered into the common, slowed, and stopped, gasping for breath but already listening.
"When the wind blows cold o'er the stream at night, (All along, down along, out along lea!) The Monster King gathers his swords for the fight, Horsemen and pikemen and catmen with glee!
Then when the mist rises o'er the river at dawn, (All along, down along, out along lea!) His legions burst forth, every dire dreadful pawn, Boneless and ogres and redcaps they be!
"But they cannot come nigh of their own desire, (All along, down along, out along lea!) Unless some fool asks them, they're bound to their mire, Every fang-toothed and sword-clawed nightmare we see!"
The minstrel went on; describing the horrors that had burst from the mist over their nearby river the year before. He didn't mention how they'd been chased home—everyone knew the Gallowglasses had defeated them, with the king's army right behind to cut down the few monsters who had escaped. It was a tale that made Diru's blood sing, that called up wonderful pictures of heroic young folk like himself— but the minstrel didn't sing of that, he sang only of the deed that had allowed the monsters to burst out of their mist-bound realm, the foolishness of the villagers who had sought to appease the hideous creatures by inviting them to come, thinking they would be spared by showing friendship—but their leader hadn't; the giant cat Big Ears had killed him where he stood before the wizards could send it back where it had come from.
"So never invite, never think to appease," the minstrel sang, "For the Monster King's favored ones swing in the breeze!"
But Diru was suddenly fired with inspiration. That wasn't true, couldn't be true! Anyone these spiteful villagers feared had to be Diru's friend! And a way to gain revenge on them all… He shuddered and thrust the idea from him; even they didn't deserve to be torn apart by nightmares. He paid closer attention as the minstrel began to sing a happier song and hoped the horrid vision would fade.
ALLOUETTE ROSE FROM lotus position and went silently away. Instantly concerned but delayed by the depths of his trance, Gregory let his consciousness drift upward until, minutes later, he surfaced and raised his head, frowning. He rose and went after his wife, soft-footed.
He found her by a window in their solar. "What troubles you, love?"
Allouette kept her back turned to him, only waving him away—but even without reading her mind, Gregory could feel the apprehension radiating from her. He came up behind her, arms open to embrace, but had the good sense not to touch her. "Is it Magnus?"
Thirteen
"YOU MUST NOT READ MY MIND IF I DO NOT invite you!"
"I do not," Gregory said, "nor do I need telepathy to guess the cause of your concern. Love, be sure—Magnus forgives you as completely as any man may. As he comes to know you, even this current… awkwardness … between you will pass."
"You cannot mean he will learn to trust me!"
"I mean exactly that," Gregory said, "for you are as unlike the woman who hurt him as any could be, save for your beauty and your spirit."
Allouette strangled a sob.
"Yes, I know you did not consider yourself a beauty then—but you were, even without projecting any idealized image. Still and all, you did project it, and it is that image he associates with hurt, not your true self."
"Then why is he still so chill toward me?" Allouette spun about, and Gregory saw her cheeks were wet and her eyes red. "How can we possibly go on in our lives with my unspoken guilt hanging between us?"
"It will pass," Gregory assured her. "It is only there now because, in all ways, you are a stranger to him."
"A stranger and a horrid memory!" Allouette finally came into his arms and buried her head on his shoulder. "Oh, Gregory, how shall we fare with your family now? I had begun to believe your sister and brother had really begun to accept me, and their spouses, too! This throws it all agley!"
"If I know them," Gregory said drily, "Magnus's dislikes will have no effect. His pain might, but you are no longer a cause of that."
"But I am!" Allouette raised her head, staring into his eyes. "He and Alea so clearly care for one another, but he will not admit it even to himself—and why? Because of the hurt I gave him ten years ago!"
"It cannot be your hurt alone that chains him," Gregory protested. "Besides, what of Alea? Why will she not admit her attraction to him?"
"There are signs." Allouette's own fears became secondary as she spoke of someone else's. "Even without reading her mind, I can see that she was hurt, and deeply— more than once, or I miss my guess."
Gregory studied her, frowning. "But they have journeyed together for four years. Would the hurt throttle her for so long?"
"Oh, yes! So I have no doubt it still troubles your brother." Her eyes brimmed again. "Oh, Gregory, he will poison the others against me, even if he does not mean to do so!"
"Against us," Gregory said firmly, "and if for no other reason, he will learn to like you for my sake."
"But if he holds true to his promise to your father, he will become chief of you all and turn Cordelia and Geoffrey away from me!"
"You and Quicksilver have become the sisters Cordelia never had," Gregory said firmly. "She will not give you up at Magnus's order—nor will he give such orders, for he knows that would set us against him. He may have ruled us when we were children, or thought he did, but he certainly will not now that we are grown."
"Gregory, the man has immense power, I can feel it! More than he did ten years ago, much more! And he has learned subtlety and manipulation on his travels. I shall not dare to go to court while he is there."
"Then we shall stay here in our ivory tower." Gregory pressed her closer. "You are certainly world enough for me. What need have I for anything else, so long as you are by me?"
Trembling, Allouette lifted her head. "Oh, you and this tower are certainly all I need, too. I have had enough of the world, and I shall let it have no more of me!"
They gazed into each other's eyes a moment, then kissed. Allouette closed her eyes and let Gregory's embrace be her universe, concentrated on nothing but the feel of his lips, his arms, his hands …
Hours later, when she was soundly asleep, Gregory rose from their bed and dressed quietly. He left a note assuring her he would be back the next day, only had to attend to a brief errand. Then he went down the spiral stair to the base of the tower and, with several floors between them to absorb the noise, disappeared with a bang of imploding air.
EVANESCENT BECAME AWARE of the sounds around her but lay still a while longer, probing her surroundings with her mind. Satisfied that there was no danger near, she opened her eyes and lifted her head. Stipples of moonlight floored the glade where she had chosen to sleep for the day. She admired the beauty of the scene until her stomach reminded her it was time to hunt. She rose, stretched, then padded out into the glade and stood, mind questing for something edible. Though her visible teeth were those of a carnivore, the molars behind them were adapted for plants. The small people were so very protective of their forest that she decided it might be the course of prudence to seek out some nuts and berries.
Not that she was afraid of those diminutive beings, of course—well, not much. Her own extrasensory powers were so strong that no single one of them, not even the one who called himself the Puck, would stand much chance against her—no, not even if he drew on the powers of five or six of his fellows.
The trouble was that he was apt to come with twenty or more.
No, the course of prudence dictated a vegetable diet for a while—at least, until Evanescent was more certain of the Wee Folks' intentions. She padded in among the trees, night-vision alert for anything that looked edible. Leaves, shrubs, fungi…
The alien stopped, frowning, to stare at a mound of something that looked like moss. She lowered her head to sniff; it didn't smell like moss. In fact, its scent was that of fungus.
Witch-moss! She remembered it from Magnus's thoughts. Wondering if it really was sensitive to telepathy, she aimed a thought at it, a memory of a large and luscious fruit from her home planet—and stared in wonder as the mound pulled in on itself, rounding on one end and pointing on the other, its color deepening to mauve, until her homeworld fruit lay before her.
Hunger rumbled again; she lowered her head to sniff and found its aroma exactly as it should be. She wondered if it would be good to eat but decided on the course of prudence.
She sat back on her haunches, head tilted to one side, considering the fruit. Was it frozen in that form now, or could she make it into something else? She stared at it, thinking of a stick she had seen the day before, one that had caught her attention because of its curious knobbed shape.
The fruit shrank in on itself, its color darkening, as it stretched, roughened, and turned into the stick.
Evanescent stared. Then she grinned and batted at the stick with a paw; it rolled over just as a real stick would do. In fact, it felt like a real stick. She tilted her head to the side again, thinking of Alea's dagger, then of a ball she had seen children play with on one of the planets they had visited, then a woman's mortar and pestle—and watched as the lump of witch-moss changed from one form to another.
Evanescent lay down, staring at the mortar and pestle intently. What of something that could move? She thought of an elf, and the lump began to change—but Evanescent realized the small people might be angry if she imitated them, or anything that had a mind. She changed her thought at the last moment; the lump sprouted legs and a chest, but nothing more. She decided to make it look like a stick again, then told it to move, and a little stick man marched up and down before her.
There was a rustling in the underbrush.
Evanescent was on her feet in the blink of an eye, whirling to face the sound—and saw half a dozen more stick men come marching out from the fallen leaves. She stared, then grinned, realizing what had happened—she hadn't limited her thoughts; other lumps of witch-moss had taken on the same shape as the one she'd been playing with and had come marching to the one who had thought them up.
More rustling; she whirled, and saw more stick figures marching out of a thicket. Rustling again; she spun about and saw another dozen striding out from some brambles. She lay down and grinned, thinking directions at them, and the stick figures came together, formed ranks, and marched out into the glade.
Hunger forgotten, Evanescent lay in the moon-shadow of an oak, watching her new-made toys march and countermarch in ever-more-intricate formations.
GREGORY APPEARED IN the solar of Castle Gallowglass with the sound of a firecracker as his sudden presence compressed the air about him. He looked about him to discover no one there in the early morning, then strode down the hall to his brother's suite. No one answered his knock. Frowning, he opened his mind to the world around and found no other mind within the suite, but felt Magnus's prese
nce above. He would have been ashamed to teleport so short a distance, so he ran up the stairs.
"HO THE CASTLE!"
The sentry stepped up to the battlement wall and waved to the man he had been watching ride up, then saw the shield slung at the horse's rump and the coat of arms emblazoned on it. He didn't recognize those arms, but it didn't matter—the man was a knight at least, possibly a lord. "Aye, good sir. I prithee attend while I take tidings of you to my lord."
"Well, be about it quickly," the stranger knight called back, clearly not pleased with the answer. "I've ridden long and would rest and drink."
The sensible thing would be to raise the portcullis and let the man in on the spot, but it wasn't the sentry's decision to make. He called his mate and ran off to tell the Captain of the Guard.
The Captain knew the forms, and the precautions with them; he bade the porter lower the drawbridge and raise the portcullis, then conducted the stranger into the guest chamber of the manor house. He was sitting at his ease with a glass of wine in his hand when his host of necessity came in. "Welcome, Sir Knight!"
"Lord Anselm Loguire!" The knight rose and bowed. "I am Sir Orgon of Needsham, knight errant."
He was clearly a rather unsuccessful knight, to be errant at his age—forty if he was a day. His doublet and hose were of good cloth but worn, and his boots, though well-polished under the dust of travel, were equally worn.
"You are welcome, Sir Knight." Anselm Loguire might have had the stranger thrust upon him, but he was by no means a reluctant host. News was rare and treasured, as was a new face—and if the man turned out to be unpleasant, why, he was only staying the night. "Have you travelled far, Sir Orgon?"
The knight sighed. "Over hill and dale, milord duke …"
"Sir Loguire, if it please you," Anselm said firmly, but bitterness tightened his face. "I am only a knight, like yourself, and was never rightly duke of Loguire."
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