The Haunted Wizard

CHAPTER 24

But Matt didn’t even trust Niobhyte to lie straight. “Don’t tell me it was really John’s scheme!”

“Oh, yes,” the chief druid said. “Don’t believe the show of stupidity he puts on. He learned the pretense well while he was a child—it protected him from his brothers’ jealousy, and from ambitious courtiers who thought he might be a threat.”

“And saw other people punished for his crimes, because no one believed he was smart enough to figure out new ways of killing a cat or making dishes fall to the stone floor,” Matt said grimly.

Above on the hillside, Brion’s face turned gray. He began to walk his horse downhill, and the soldiers opened up an avenue for him.

“Ah, you knew of the last?” the chief druid asked.

Matt hadn’t—it had just been an example of a vicious boyhood prank. But he gave a contemptuous shrug, and Niobhyte interpreted it as assent.

“Not only duplicity—he also began to learn magic at a very early age,” the chief druid told him. “He fled into the wood when some courtiers humiliated him during a hunt. There, he found the hut of an old witch-woman. He threatened to bring the hunt down upon her unless she taught him magic, and thus he began. Once he had learned all she had to teach, he found grimoires aplenty—but he slew her so there might be no one to tell what he had learned.”

Matt shuddered. “Nice kid.”

“A lad of great promise, I assure you,” said Niobhyte, with a gleam in his eye. “I heard hints and rumors from other sorcerers, and came looking for this prince who had already devoted himself to evil in order to gain power. I tempted John with the notion of stabbing and poisoning his way to power. He seized the idea like a miser finding a gold coin in the dust—but was concerned that the Church might balk him. ‘Give me protection from the law,’ I told him, ‘and I shall build so strong a following that no Church shall be able to stand against it.’ He gave me a keen glance and said, ‘I had wondered what you expected to gain by helping me,’ and we have understood each other perfectly from that day.”

“Able to trust one another because you were each able to predict perfectly what the other guy would do,” Matt said dryly.

“Whatever would gain us more power and wealth.” Niobhyte nodded.

“Perfect prediction, perfect trust.”

“Even so—though I still must do as he commands.” The chief druid grinned. “But not much longer. I shall soon have so tight a hold on the land that John will virtually have to do my bidding.”

“Wait a minute.” Matt held up a hand. “He’s been giving orders to you?”

“Did you think I was the master?” Niobhyte laughed, with the ring of triumph. “Fool! No, John is quite evil enough to make Bretanglia miserable all by himself—and therefore have I been delighted to take orders from him. But it will be even more satisfying to give those orders when the king has become my puppet.”

Brion reined his horse to a stop, his brow thunderous. “John shall never be your servant, for I shall be crowned instead of him, and shall see you and your evil minions stamped out root and branch!”

So much for the parley. Matt groaned. Brion may have had honor, but he also had a lousy sense of timing.

“A curse upon you both!” Niobhyte recoiled, raising his staff. “So you thought to lull my suspicions with meaningless chatter while you surrounded my army and your wizard tailored a spell to hold me, did you?”

“I have not surrounded your army!”

“No, not yet! And you shall not!” Niobhyte raised his staff over his head, rattling out a verse in a foreign language that didn’t sound anything like Gaelic.

Matt started chanting, too, even faster. He couldn’t know what was coming, so he had to pull up something for a general purpose and hope it would give him time to shape a counterspell to match what came.

Of course, he didn’t see his parents muttering their own spells and gesturing behind him.

Matt called out,

Niobhyte’s staff snapped out, pointing at Matt, shuddering with the discharge of powerful energy—but Matt felt only a wave of weakness that passed him and left him feeling weary but still able. Brion sagged in his saddle, men forced himself upright. Behind him, commoners and knights alike cried out as the wave of fatigue hit them, then exclaimed in wonder as it passed. Matt realized his mother had diffused a spell aimed just at him, so that it widened and broadened to strike the whole army, and only weakened whom it was intended to destroy.

But Niobhyte dropped his staff, clutching at his temples with a cry of anguish, dropping to his knees. “What have you done, you oaf! You have sent my brain awhirl!”

Matt dashed forward to catch up the staff.

But Niobhyte scooped it from the ground and caught Matt by the tunic. He yanked Mart’s head close, and Matt found himself staring into a maniac’s eyes. “It shall gain you nothing!” Niobhyte screamed. “My power is no less! I shall call the energies from the very trees and grasses to roast your army!”

Matt tried to twist away, but Niobhyte held him with hysterical strength, lips curving wider and wider with insane glee as he raised his staff higher and higher, intoning a singsong rhyme. Matt caught the occasional name of a deity, and realized the man was reciting an ancient Phoenician spell. He shuddered within—and without, too; his skin began to crawl with the feelings of titanic energies gathering around Niobhyte, more intense than anything he had ever felt. Nausea seized him as he realized that his own spell, driving the chief druid nearly insane, had vastly increased the strength of his viciousness, even though the power of the spell might burn out his brain.

But it also might burn out Brion and his whole army. Matt couldn’t take the chance, He recited the first spell that came to mind, and as he recited, he realized that the fate of all the people in the kingdom really did hinge on that one verse. It actually was the moment of desperation that the real druids had foretold, and he thrust his face closer to Niobhyte’s, his own expression becoming more fierce as Niobhyte’s became more manic, Gaelic syllables pouring from Matt’s lips to clash against those erupting from Niobhyte’s, until Matt’s voice soared to the finish, triumphantly ahead of the false druid’s chant.

The earth shook beneath them.

Men cried out.

Niobhyte chanted more loudly, voice taking on a ring of desperation; his spell was nowhere near done.

“Down!” Matt shouted.

But Niobhyte pushed himself up to his feet with a burst of strength, shouting out syllables as he struck Matt’s hand away, raising his staff over his head.

The earth buckled beneath Niobhyte’s feet. He fell, screaming, the spell unfinished.

“Hit the dirt!” Matt shouted. “Before the earth knocks you down!”

His parents threw themselves to the ground. The peasants, seeing them, likewise dove for the turf. Brion dismounted, clinging tightly to the reins as he knelt. Whinnying in terror but obeying its training, the warhorse knelt with him. Rosamund and the other knights followed his lead.

But Niobhyte’s army wasn’t about to imitate their foes. With a cry of glee, they charged Brion’s men.

The earth bucked beneath their feet, then sank a yard.

Niobhyte’s men screamed as they fell, kicking and laying about at imagined enemies, stabbing one another in their panic—but Brian’s men clung to the grass, some crying out in terror, but a few, then more and more, calling out the words of a prayer, until most of his army was praying aloud to the God who held them all in His hand, and the earth they lay on, too.

“What have you done, you fool!” Niobhyte screamed. “What powers have you unleashed?”

“Tectonics,” Matt shouted back.

A huge explosion filled the air, turning into a roaring that echoed all about them, a barrage of sound that made strong men cling to the earth, howling in terror—but that very earth heaved and sank again. Then, in the distance, beyond and above the forest, he saw a huge gray mound rise up, and knew it was the sea.

It fell, and another rose in its place. Only then did the sound of its breaking batter against Mart’s ears. He realized there was now a coastline where there had never been one before.

The earth stilled.

Matt scrambled to his feet. “Back!” He waved Brion away. “Back to the high ground! This neck of land is sinking, and the sea is coming in!”

“Back, men of mine!” Brion levered himself up to cling to his saddle, then barked a command at his charger, and the horse pushed itself to its feet, dragging him upright. Matt ran to help him get a foot in a stirrup and push himself aboard. All over the field, squires ran to help their knights mount, and the whole army scrambled to its feet and turned as Brion led Matt and his companions back and away from the field of battle that they had striven so hard to find.

“Away!” Niobhyte screamed at his men. “To Merovence! We can be sure the wizard would not devastate his own country! Find the high ground to the south!”

Some of his horde turned to the south, but most howled in fright and ran to follow Brion, leaving their weapons in the grass. Niobhyte whirled, howling with anger, and threw fireballs after them. They exploded, and dozens of men screamed as they died, burned in seconds.

The rest ran all the harder north, howling in fear.

“Take them prisoner!” Matt shouted at Brion. “I think they’re ready to reconvert!”

Brion barked orders at his knights, and peasants and fishermen fanned out to take the enemy into custody. The synthodruids submitted meekly to having their hands tied behind their backs, as long as they were allowed to keep walking while Brion’s soldiers did the tying. Behind them Niobhyte screamed curses. His former congregation shuddered, but kept on striding north.

A cry of alarm went up from the men who were hiking south. Matt turned and looked; they were lifting and shaking their feet, exclaiming in fear. One phrase rose from the hubbub clearly, from hundreds of throats in fear and panic: “Flood! Flood!”

“Seek the high ground!” Niobhyte shrieked. “March quickly, fools, or you’ll drown!”

The men started running.

“That is well advised,” Brion told his men. “March quickly, before the water claims you.”

Mama and Papa caught up with Matt, panting. “Son,” said Mama, “what have you done?”

“Created the English Channel,” Matt told her. “A real druid in Ireland gave me the spell.”

“But all the people who live in that neck of land will be drowned!”

“Everyone left alive is in one of Niobhyte’s bands, or fled,” Matt said. “Refugee management is already a problem, right?”

“We have seen many fleeing north, yes,” Papa said.

“And everyone else has been sacrificed, or killed simply for the thrill of it by Niobhyte’s thugs, since he told them it’s just fine for the strong to prey upon the weak. There won’t be many drowned. I’ll tell Brion to send his fishermen out to pick up anybody they do find floating.”

Papa looked over his shoulder. “Where do you think the synthodruids will end up?”

“Stranded on some plateau that’s about to become an island.” Matt looked back, too. “Judging from where I think we are and the direction they’re going, I’d say they’ll end up in a new Jersey.” He turned back to follow Brion. “Hurry, folks. The land is breaking and crumbling, leaving sea cliffs behind, and they’ll stop tidal waves, but the sea will come in—more slowly and more gently, maybe, but it’s coming.”

“Time and tide wait for no man,” Papa agreed, and walked a little faster.

“You did not tell me you had such power as this,” a shaky basso said on Mart’s other side.

Matt looked up to match stares with Buckeye. “You didn’t ask. Besides, I’ll admit I didn’t know that spell when we met.”

“It is not the spell—it is the ability to gather and contain so much of the magical force!”

“Well, sure, but who’s counting?” Matt didn’t tell him that was due to the quality of the old Celtic poetry.

“Who is counting?” Buckeye cried. “I am counting! Counting the days left to me, and mightily relieved that you have been so merciful! Nay, I’ll play no more tricks upon you, or upon anyone of your blood!” He inclined bis head. “Have I your permission to leave your service?”

Matt’s heart soared, but caution lingered. “I might require one last service of you.”

“Done! Only call, and I shall be by your side!”

“Then you have my permission.” Matt grinned, holding up a hand in farewell. “It’s been a very interesting journey, Master Bauchan.”

“I shall never forget you,” Buckeye promised, “no matter how hard I try.” Then he turned away, dodged in among the peasants, and disappeared in the crowd.

Mama sighed. “If only you could solve all your problems so easily.”

“Yes.” Matt turned back to follow Brion and Rosamund, his face grim. “We do have one little problem left, named John—and something tells me he’ll be just as hard a nut to crack as Niobhyte was.”

Matt’s apprehension increased as they climbed the raw stair-steps in the land that led up to the new island of Bretanglia. He felt rather guilty at the thought that even these steps would probably be part of the ocean bed in very short order.

No one came out to harry them, no army came to confront them, though they took several days marching inland, with the sea never more than a mile behind them at nightfall, nor a few hundred yards at sunrise. There was plenty of time to arrange an ambush or even a pitched battle, but no enemy army showed itself.

“I can’t understand this,” Matt said. “John has the professional army, the trained and seasoned veterans! All you have are raw recruits fresh from the plow!”

“John is a coward,” Brion said, as though he had to force out the insult to his brother. “He will not fight me unless he has to, no matter how strong his odds. Even then he will take refuge in a castle, and hope that 1 will waste my strength battering at his walls.”

Matt looked back to exchange glances with his parents. They nodded. He turned back to Brion. “We can do something about stone walls. But which castle will he take?”

“The nearest,” Brion said. “You may be sure he was close when we met Niobhyte—near enough to look, but far enough away not to suffer.”

He was right. As they neared Hastings, they found an old Roman tower, and around it were an army’s tents. The army itself stood in a long line three deep between the tower and Brion’s force.

Brion drew rein. “I am loathe to kill mine own people, Lord Wizard, even if they do serve a usurper—especially since I doubt not that the commoners have been forced to it. Can you not crack him out of his shell of a tower?”

Matt was about to answer when a storm of raucous cries broke, and ravens swarmed upward from the tower. Cries behind Brion’s army answered, and the sky darkened with clouds of more ravens winging in to join the flock from the tower. The cawing and croaking passed overhead, and the peasants pressed hands over their ears, eyes wide with superstitious fear.

The incoming ravens joined the central flock, then all wheeled and dove upon Brion’s army.

A shout of terror went up from the ranks.

Brion fought to control his and Rosamund’s horses, calling, “Wizard, can you not bring them down?”

“Me? Why should I work?” Matt answered, and recited,

The answering roar seemed to shake the sky, and Stegoman came soaring from the nearby hills. He had followed faithfully, as he had told Matt he would. A twelve-foot tongue of flame preceded him, and the birds were singed and roasted before they passed down his gullet. He passed through the flock and, licking his chops, turned to pass again.

But the ravens had had enough. Squawking in fright, they wheeled and fled. Stegoman came roaring after in glee, each roar a four-yard flame.

They passed out of sight over the inland hills, and Matt turned back to the tower. “Now to some serious work.”

“That is my part first,” Brion said, his face hard. “I am loathe to spend men’s lives, especially good men who have had little experience of war, but it must be done.”

“It is what we have come for, my liege,” called the young Marquis of Simmery Mead. He turned and called to the peasants behind him. “How say you, men of hard hands? Do we fight or retreat?”

“Fight!” the army yelled with one voice, and lifted their weapons.

“So be it.” Brion turned to Rosamund with a courtly bow. “My dearest one, I have no armor to fit you. I beg the favor of your retiring to yonder hilltop, to await the outcome of the battle.”

“I suppose I must.” Teary-eyed, Rosamund pushed her horse forward and kissed Brion lingeringly, then pulled back and lowered his visor. He saluted, but she didn’t stay to see, only turned her horse and rode away.

Brion turned forward and couched his lance—then stared, for a dozen knights were riding forward, and the one at their fore held a white flag.

“Majesty, will you parley?” asked Sir Orizhan.

“I will.” Brion’s tone was iron, hiding relief. “Give me white cloth.”

Mama took off her kerchief—not as white as it had been at the beginning of their journey, probably, but white enough— and tied it to the tip of Brion’s lance. The king rode forth, with Matt, his companions, and half the knights of the company behind him.

The other half stayed with the army, to ride to the rescue if they had to—and every archer waited with his bow strung and an arrow nocked.

But as Brion rode up to the white flag, its bearer bowed in the saddle and cried, “Hail, Noble Sir!”

It was a nice piece of fence-sitting; the phrase applied to a prince, but could apply to a king, too. Brion raised his visor and frowned, not entirely pleased. “I greet you, Duke of Easbrenn.” No one asked how he knew; Brion could see the duke’s shield, and every knight had all the family coats of arms memorized. “Why have you called for parley?”

“Because, Noble Sir, we who serve King John have served under constraint—all except a few who are now under guard within their own army.”

“Only a few?” Brion asked, his tone skeptical. “What constrained you, then?”

“The sorcery of the chief druid Niobhyte and his coterie,” the duke replied. “We would gladly leave King John’s service and declare him to be a false king, if we could be sure of amnesty and pardon.”

Matt caught his breath; it took a lot of courage to defy a man’s ruler, false or not. It took even more to be the ringleader.

“Niobhyte may be able to work his magic from some distance,” Brion warned. “I doubt that he is drowned; rather, I think him to be alive on a new-made island.”

“We trust in the power of your wizards to protect us, Noble Sir,” the duke answered, and bowed to Matt. “We have heard that the Lord Wizard of Merovence travels with you.”

“Indeed, and I see that you have recognized him.” Brion didn’t bother mentioning the rest of the Mantrell family. “Very well, my lord, you have my royal word that all within this army shall have pardon and amnesty, save those we can identify as loyal to John for their own gain.”

“Then we declare him false!” The duke turned, and in a voice that carried to most of his own army, called out, “Hail Brion, True King of Merovence!”

“Hail King Brion!” the army shouted, and knelt in a vast wave rolling through the ranks.

Brion sat a bit taller and couldn’t keep the smile from his face. “I declare you good and loyal men—but I shall not ask that you turn against the lord for whom you fought but now. Only stand aside, that my men and I may ride through.”

“We shall, Your Majesty.” The duke bowed and turned, galloping back to his army, shouting orders. A wide avenue opened between Brion and the tower.

“My lord the marquis,” said Brion, “let our own men form a wall on each side, to keep that channel open—and let the rest of our army surround each half of these our new allies, in case their ardent loyalty should be threatened.”

“Your Majesty, I shall.” The marquis inclined his head and turned away to give the orders.

“Come, my lords,” Brion said. “I would as lief have you at my back when I meet my brother, for I trust him not and never have, and if even half of that which the false chief druid told us of his learning magic is true, I have no wish to face him without the benefit of wizardry.”

Matt waved goodbye to his mother and father. They nodded, understanding, and stood their grounds—it was for them to guard the army in his absence.

Matt turned to follow Brion into the old Reman tower, with Sir Orizhan and Sergeant Brock following them.

They could hear him a hundred feet from the doorway, though they couldn’t make out the words, only the screams of rage. When they rode through the door, they found John standing on a dais before a gilded, ornately carved chair in the tower’s Great Hall. Oaken rafters made the ceiling dark, and tattered banners hung on the walls, trophies of ancient battles won. But the rest of the floor was empty, and John trembled as he met his brother’s gaze, then glanced away.

“Brother,” said Brion, “you have taken what was rightfully mine.”

“What choice did I have?” John screamed. “You were dead so far as I knew, and so was Father!”

“The king was dead by your hand, and I by your orders,” Brion said grimly, “and so was Gaheris.”

“You always had everything!” John screeched. “Mama loved you! Papa taught you to fight! People fawned on you, loved your singing! The women all swooned, and the men acclaimed you a perfect knight! It was my turn, mine!”

“Not by treachery,” Brion said, his voice iron again. “Take off that crown.”

“I think not,” said a deeper voice, and Niobhyte stepped forth from the shadows behind the great chair.

Matt stared. “How did you get off that island?”

“Did you think I could not burn out a log to make a boat, nor direct it by magic?” Niobhyte returned. “Indeed, my followers are even now honing their skills by practicing the magical felling of trees and crafting of ships. They will land in a week’s time. Did you think this battle won?”

“Slay them for me, Niobhyte!” John commanded.

“Willingly, Majesty!” Niobhyte’s staff snapped down to point at Brion as he shouted a Sumerian verse.

Matt called out an all-purpose counter,

He was amazed when Niobhyte’s fireball exploded against an invisible shield five feet from Brion, then ran down into the stone floor. The warhorse screamed, trying to rear, but Brion calmed it and said, with a hard smile, “Our men of magic seem to be evenly matched, brother. Shall I call up my horses and my men?”

“Those who acclaimed you shall die most wretchedly!” John howled. His eyes were manic; Matt would almost have thought Niobhyte had purged his own near-madness by transmitting it to John.

He thought he’d better try to distract the false king. “Niobhyte told us you were giving him orders. I had trouble believing it.”

“Why, were you deceived by my pretended idiocy?” Instantly, John was preening. “I assure you that I am well-versed in it—I learned early that playing the fool lulled my enemies and gave me the advantage.”

“It almost worked,” Matt told him. “I never would have believed you were the one who engineered Gaheris’ assassination if Niobhyte hadn’t told me when he was sure he had me cornered.”

Niobhyte looked daggers at him, but the revelation didn’t seem to bother John in the slightest. He only grinned, delighted to be able to display his cleverness at last. “Even more—I spoke a few idiot’s phrases, whining to Mother and complaining to Father as to who should marry Rosamund. Thus 1 set them to screaming at one another, igniting the quarrel that led to actual warfare.”

“Then you sent Niobhyte to kill Brion,” Matt prodded.

“No, that was a spell of my own.” John grinned, delighted with his own cleverness. “I gave the suit of blue armor the semblance of life, then gave it the command to stab Brion when all others’ backs were turned and he was defenseless.” His smile curdled. “It worked well enough, but it was an idiot of a puppet who did only as it was told, exactly as it was told, and did not make sure that Brion was dead.”

Matt shuddered at the thought of a magical robot. He hoped John wasn’t writing his own grimoire. “Good thing it missed.”

“It struck closely enough,” John snapped. “Unfortunately, Brion has done too many good works, and said too many prayers, for evil magic to kill him—but it did take him out of my way, though not quite long enough.” He glared daggers at Brion. “Curse you, for coming back before my power was secure!”

“Your power would never have been complete as long as you treated the people so cruelly,” Brion snapped. “What did you do with Mother? Did you slay her, too?”

“Mother? Of course not!” John’s eyes glittered with contempt. “Really, Brion, you are unbelievably stupid!”

Brion strove to master sudden fury, and Matt wondered what ace John thought he had in the hole.

“I kept Mother alive, though also soundly locked in her gilded prison,” John said. “Fool that I was, I had some vague hope that, with you gone, she might lavish upon me the affections she gave to you, and which I craved. Twice foolish I was, for she was still in love with Father, no matter how she railed at him, and had no love to spare for me!”

“So when your father had served his purpose and declared you his heir,” Matt said, “you poisoned him.”

John frowned. “How did you guess that? No matter, for you are quite right—I commanded Niobhyte to bring me poison, and mixed it in my father’s wine. Then the archbishop declared me king, and I proceeded to lord it over everybody, deriving great satisfaction from seeing the ones who had treated me with contempt now fawning over me.”

“Except for Earl Marshal, and one or two others who would not fawn,” Brion said, tight-lipped.

“Yes, I shall tear down the earl’s castle when I am done with you.” John speared his brother with a venomous glance, apparently forgetting who had the upper hand—or confident that he himself did, which gave Matt cold chills.

Of course, John gave him cold chills, period, now that he had dropped his simpleton act.

“Yes, there were those who would not grovel,” John said, “or who had treated me far too badly to forgive—so I had them tortured and executed. I derived a great deal of pleasure from their screams, I assure you, except for those obdurate few who were determined to spoil my fun and refused to cry out. But I gained my greatest pleasure from the sense of power, proved by caprice—making people miserable, then occasionally freeing a felon or showing mercy for no good reason at all, then hauling him back and watching him hang.”

“Murderer!” Brion cried, his face darkening.

“Listen to him!” John said, lip twisting in scorn. “It matters not to him that I tried to slay his very self, but learning that I slew a blameless commoner ignites his rage! What a fool, to care more for another’s life than for his own!”

Brion’s face turned thunderous. He gripped his sword, moving his horse closer.

John waited, lips parting, eyes glistening.

“Yes, almost fool enough to lose his temper with you and give you an opening for hitting him with evil magic that would explode his brain,” Matt said quickly.

Brion froze, and John seemed to deflate with disappointment. He turned to glare at Matt, as though counting the tortures he would visit on him.

It was so venomous a stare that Matt shuddered. “You’ve dedicated yourself to evil,” he whispered. “You’ve sold your soul to the Devil.”

“What, sign a bargain with the Prince of Liars?” John sneered. “I am not such a fool! No, I have sold nothing—but I have seen that power is won not by virtue or justice, but by breaking every Commandment, especially since my enemies choose to let those absurd laws limit them!”

“As I said—you’ve sold your soul.”

John turned pale, trembling. “I have not! I am not damned!”

Matt wondered what had gone wrong in John’s childhood, but realized that he couldn’t know the whole of it. Some he could guess—that the child-prince had been ugly and scrawny and acquired zero social skills, so went after negative attention, and had his Oedipal feelings inverted because his mother so plainly favored Brion and barely tolerated him. That had set John to being eaten with envy, especially when she was quite willing to send him away with his father. But he had seen courtiers bowing and scraping to the king, imitated them and ingratiated himself with Drustan, and decided to become king himself by killing his brothers, which had gained him the added satisfaction of revenge.

“You can still repent,” Matt told him, “though I doubt that you will, when you take such pride in having assassinated your father and your eldest brother.”

“Yes, that was my doing—the planning, though not the actual stabbing.” Instantly, John was preening again, showing off his cleverness. “I would have loved to stick the knife in him myself, but I had to be far away at the time so that I could avoid suspicion.”

“You knew you’d have a chance when the family went visiting Queen Alisande,” Matt guessed. “When your brothers decided to go wenching—”

“Decided? It was I who put the idea into their heads!” John cried. “Or into Gaheris’, at least—I knew Brion’s stupid loyalty would make him follow, whether he wished such pleasures himself or not. I only regret that he went in disguise and my man could not find him in the melee.”

“So the disguises weren’t your idea?”

“They were indeed, but who would have guessed Brion would dress as a common soldier?”

Anyone who knew him, Matt thought, and realized that John didn’t—but this wasn’t the time to say it. “So you sent Niobhyte to do the actual killing.”

“No, only to see that it was done,” John said, grinning without the slightest hint of remorse.

“As the prince commanded, I waited until Gaheris was embroiled with his doxy, then slipped into the chamber and stole his purse,” Niobhyte said. “That I did myself, but could not slay Gaheris with my own hand, for I had to brew magicks that would make everyone quick to anger.”

“Why did you jump out the window, then?” Matt held up a hand, the answer dawning even as he asked the question. “No, let me guess—to draw attention away from the real murderer long enough for him to escape.”

“Or to avoid suspicion,” Niobhyte confirmed.

“Then who committed the actual murder?” Matt asked, more at sea than ever.

John threw back his head and laughed. “If you can guess that, Lord Wizard, I shall surrender my crown here and now!”

The offer of the reward, and of all the lives saved by avoiding John’s last-ditch magical assault, kicked Matt’s brain into overdrive. Suddenly, the teaming of chief synthodruid and false king made him connect a series of other facts, leading to only one possible conclusion. “I’ll take you at your word. It was Sergeant Brock.”