The Warlock Enraged

4

The family watched the little company march off southward. When they had disappeared into the woodland, Rod turned back to his family. “Thank you, children. I was very proud of you.”

They blossomed under his praise. Cordelia caught his hand and returned, “And I was proud of thee, Papa, that thou didst not lose thy temper!”

Rod fought to keep his smile and said only, “Yes. Well, every little improvement counts, doesn’t it?”

He turned to sit on a convenient rock. “We could use a little rest, after all that excitement.”

“And food!” Geoffrey plopped himself down on the grass in front of Rod. “May I hunt, Papa?”

“No,” Rod said slowly, “there are those laws against poaching, and this tinker disguise still seems to be useful.”

“But it doth not deceive the sorcerer and his coven,” Magnus said, folding himself down beside Geoffrey.

“True, but it does seem to make the folk we encounter more willing to talk. Grathum said things to the tinker, that he was careful to hold back from the Lord High Warlock.”

“Indeed,” Gwen confirmed. “He was so overawed that his true feelings did not even come into his mind, when he knew thou wert noble.”

“Which I still don’t believe,” Rod noted, “but he did. That’s what’s important. So we remain a tinker family, on the surface.”

“Then, no hunting?” Geoffrey pouted.

“Yes,” Rod nodded. “No.”

“But we’re hungry!” Cordelia complained.

“There is an answer to that.” Gwen opened a bundle and spread it out. “Biscuits, cheese, apples—and good spring water, which Magnus may fetch.”

Magnus heaved a martyred sigh and went to fetch the bucket.

“I know,” Rod commiserated. “It’s not easy, being the eldest.”

Magnus set the bucket down in the center of the family ring and scowled at it. With a sudden slosh, it filled with water.

Rod gazed at it, then lifted his eyes to his eldest. “I take it you remembered the last brook we crossed?”

Magnus nodded, folding himself down cross-legged. “Though milk would be better.”

“You may not teleport it out,” Rod said sternly. “How do you think the poor cow would feel? Besides, it’d take too long to cool, after Mama pasteurized it.”

“She could heat it in the cow,” Cordelia offered.

“Haven’t we done that poor beast enough meanness already?”

“Rabbit would be better,” Geoffrey groused.

Gwen shook her head. “There is not time to roast it. We must yet march northward a whiles this day, children.”

Geoffrey sighed, and laid a slice of cheese on a biscuit.

“Will we cross into Romanov this night, Papa?” Magnus asked.

“Not if I can help it. That’s one border crossing I want to make in daylight.”

“There are surprises enough, under the sun,” Gwen agreed. “We need not those of the moon, also.”

Cordelia shrugged. “We know the range of witch-powers. What new thing could they smite us withal?”

“An we knew of it,” Gwen advised her, “ ‘twould not be surprise.”

“Besides,” Rod said thoughtfully, “I don’t like what your Mama said, about that depth-hypnosis not having any feel of the mind that did it.”

The children all stared up at him. Magnus voiced for them. “What dost thou think it may be, Papa?”

But Rod shook his head. “There are too many factors we don’t know about.”

“We do know that the Tyrant Sorcerer is aged,” Gregory piped up.

The others stared at him. “What makes thee say so?” Cordelia demanded.

“I heard the soldier speak thus, when he told Papa of the battle with Count Novgor.”

“Such as it was.” Rod searched his memory, and realized Gregory was right. But it was such a slight reference! And “venerable” didn’t necessarily mean “old.” He glanced at Gwen, and found her eyes on him. He turned back to Gregory. “Very good, son. What else do we know?”

“That he has gathered other witches and warlocks about him!” Cordelia said quickly.

“That they are younger than he,” Magnus added, “for Grathum did not mention age when he spoke of the warlock Melkanth.”

“He did not say Melkanth was young, though,” Gregory objected, “and neither he nor the soldier said aught of the other sorcery folk.”

Magnus clamped his jaw, and reddened. “Other than that there were more than a few of them—and enough to defeat a dozen armed men!”

“Well, he did use the plural,” Rod temporized, “and Grathum and Arlinson both probably would’ve mentioned it, if they’d been old.”

Magnus glanced up at his father gratefully.

“Still…” Rod glanced at Gregory, whose face was darkening into obstinacy. “…that is something we’ve guessed, not something we know. We’ve got to be ready to change that opinion in a hurry.”

Gregory’s expression lightened.

“We know there is a crafter of witch-moss among them,” Gwen said slowly, “and I would presume ‘tis the one we met with two nights agone.”

“Probably,” Rod agreed, “and at least one of their witches is good enough at telekinesis, to come up with fireballs.”

“That doth take skill,” noted Gwen, who could light both a match and a barn a mile off.

“And a projective who can manage a quick hypnotic trance that’s good enough to hold a dozen demoralized soldiers,” Rod mused. “Presumably, that’s the tyrant himself.”

“Thou dost guess, Papa,” Gregory reminded.

Rod grinned. “Good boy! You caught it.”

“And one among them can plan the use of all these powers, in such wise as to easily defeat an armed force,” Geoffrey said suddenly.

Rod nodded. “Good point—and easy to miss. What was their strategy?”

“To gobble up first the peasants, then the knights,” Geoffrey’s eyes glowed. “They began with the small and built them into strength, then used them to catch something larger. They should therefore attack Duke Romanov and, after him, some others of the Great Lords—Hapsburg and Tudor, most likely, sin’ that they are nearest neighbors. Then they might chance attack on the King and Queen, sin’ that they’ll have the Royal Lands encircled—or, if they doubt their own strength, they might swallow up Bourbon, DiMedici, and Gloucester ere they do essay King Tuan.”

The family was silent, staring at the six-year-old. Rod reflected that this was the child who hadn’t wanted to learn how to read, until Rod had told him the letters were marching. “That’s very good,” he said softly, “very good—especially since there wasn’t much information to go on. And I did say strategy, when I really meant tactics.”

“Oh! The winning of that one battle?” Geoffrey shrugged. “They sent witch-moss monsters against the armed band, to busy them and afright them. Then, the whiles the monsters held their attention, the other warlocks and witches rained blows on them from all sides. ‘Twas simple—but ‘twas enow; it did suffice.”

“Hm.” Rod looked directly into the boy’s eyes. “So you don’t think much of their tactician?”

“Eh, I did not say that, Papa! Indeed, he did just as he should have—used only as much force as was needed, and when and where it was needed. I doubt not, had Count Novgor proved stronger than he’d guessed, he’d have had magical reserves to call upon.” Geoffrey shook his head. “Nay, I could not fault him. His battle plan in this skirmish may have been, as thou hast said, simple—but he may also be quite able to lay out excellent plans for elaborate battles.” He shrugged. “There is no telling, as yet.”

Rod nodded slowly. “Sounds right. Any idea on the number of subordinate warlocks and witches?”

“Four, at the least—one to craft witch-moss, and direct her constructs; one to fly above, and drop rocks; two, at least, who did appear and disappear, jumping from place to place within the melee, wreaking havoc and confusion. There may be a fifth, who threw fireballs; and also a sixth, who did cast the trance spell.”

“Hypnosis,” Rod corrected.

“Hip-no-siss.” Geoffrey nodded, with intense concentration. “As thou sayest. And, of course, there was the Tyrant-Sorcerer, this Alfar; it may have been he who cast the trance spell, which would make his lesser warlocks and witches only the five.”

Rod nodded. “So. We can be sure there’re Alfar, and four subordinates—but there may be more.” He checked his memories of Gavin Arlinson’s account, but while he was checking, Gregory confirmed, “‘Tis even as Geoffrey doth say. Word for word, he hath counted them.”

Geoffrey cast him a look of annoyance. “Who did ask thee, babe?”

Gregory’s face darkened.

“Children!” Gwen chided. “Canst thou not allow one another each his due share of notice?”

Cordelia sat up a little straighter, and looked virtuous.

Rod leaned back on his hands, staring up at the sky. “Well! I didn’t know we knew all that much! I expected you children to help out on the odd jobs—but I didn’t expect this!” He looked down at his brood, gloating. “But—if they’ve got all that going for them—why did they worry about some escaping peasants? Why did they send their brand-new army to chase them down?”

“Why, ‘tis simply said!” Geoffrey looked up, startled. “ ‘Twas done so that they might not bear word to Duke Hapsburg, or Earl Tudor—or e’en Their Majesties!”

They were quiet again, all staring at him.

Geoffrey looked from face to face. “But—‘tis plain! Is’t not?”

“Yes, now that you’ve told us,” Rod answered. “But what bothers me, is—why doesn’t Alfar want anyone to know what he’s doing?”

“Why, ‘tis even plainer! He means to conquer the Duke, and doth not wish any other Lord to send him aid!”

His brothers and sister watched him, silent.

Rod nodded, slowly. “Yes. That’s what I was afraid you were going to say.”

Count Drulane and his lady rose, and all their folk rose with them. At the farthest end from their dais, the family of tinkers rose, too—though Gwen had to prod Geoffrey into putting down his trencher long enough to remember his manners.

“A good night to you all, then,” the Count intoned. “May your dreams be pleasant—and may you wake in the morning.”

The habitual phrase fell rather somberly on their ears, considering the tenor of the table conversation. The Count may have realized it; certainly, his departure through the door behind the dais, with his lady, was a bit brusque.

Gwen leaned over to Rod and murmured, “Is such fear born only of silence?”

Rod shrugged. “You heard what they said. The peasants are used to meeting Romanov peasants at the markets, and suddenly, they’re not there. And the Count and Countess are used to the occasional social call—but there haven’t been any for two weeks, and the last one before that brought rumors of the Romanov peasants being upset about evil witches.”

“I would fear,” said Magnus, “if such visits stopped so suddenly.”

“Especially if you had relatives up there,” Rod agreed, “which most of them seem to. I mean, who else are the knights’ daughters going to meet and marry?” He clasped Magnus’s shoulder. “Come on, son. Let’s help them clean up.”

“Geoffrey, now!” Gwen said firmly and the six-year-old wolfed the last of his huge slice of bread as he stepped back from the table. Then he reached out and caught his wooden cup just as Rod and Magnus lifted the board off its trestles and turned it sideways, to dump the scraps onto the rushes.

“Tis not very cleanly, Papa,” Cordelia reminded.

“I know, dear—but when you’re a guest, you do what your hosts do. And make no mistake—the Count and Countess are being very kind, to let a family of poor tinkers spend the night in their castle.”

“Especially sin’ that their own smith doth mend their pots,” Magnus added, as he turned to carry the board over to the wall. Rod followed, and they waited their turn to drop their board onto the growing stack.

“It must be that the witches have done it,” the serf in front of them was saying to his mate. “When last I saw Horth—mind thou, he that is among Sir Orlan’s hostlers?—he did say an evil warlock had come among the peasants, demanding that they pay him each a penny ere Midsummer.”

“And Midsummer hath come, and gone.” The other peasant shook his head. “What greater mischief ha’ such warlocks brewed, ere now?”

As they dropped their board, Magnus looked up at Rod. “Such words strike greater fear into my breast than doth the silence itself, Papa.”

“Yes,” Rod agreed, “because it threatens us, personally. That’s the real danger, son—and not just to us.” He clasped Magnus around the shoulder as they went back. “The peasant reaction. Your mother and I, and Queen Catharine, with Tuan’s help, were beginning to build up the idea that espers could be good guys—but one power-grabber can undo all that, and send the peasants out on witch-hunts again.” He broke off, grinning at the sight of Cordelia and Geoffrey, struggling toward him with one of the trestles between them. “Hold it, you two! You’re just not big enough to handle one of those things, yet—with just your hands, anyway!”

Cordelia dropped her end and glared up at him, fists on her hips. “I’m a big lass, Papa!”

“Not yet, you’re not—and you won’t be, for at least five more years.” Under his breath, Rod added, God willing. “But you’re a real sweetheart, to try and help. Mama needs you, though, to help clean a spot for our blankets.”

Cordelia shuddered, and Geoffrey pointed out, “It’d be more pleasant outside, Papa.”

“We’re after gossip, not comfort.” Rod turned him around and patted him on his way. “Go help Mama; she needs someone to talk a cat into staying near us all night.”

Geoffrey balked.

“Cats fight rats,” Rod reminded.

Geoffrey’s eyes gleamed, and he scurried back toward Gwen.

Rod picked up his end of the trestle. “Okay, up!”

Magnus hoisted his end, and turned toward the wall. “E’en an witches could conquer all of Gramarye, Papa, they could not hold it—against such peasant fear and hate.” He shrugged. “We number too few.”

“Watch the personal references.” Rod glanced quickly about, but none of the peasants were close enough to have heard. “Good thing none of them wants to be seen near a tinker… No, son, an evil esper, such as this Alfar, could hold power—but only by a very harsh, cruel, absolute rule.”

Magnus scowled. “Tis as bad as witch-hunts.”

“Worse, for my purposes—because it’d stifle any chance of democracy on this planet. And I want Gramarye’s telepaths to be the communications system for an interstellar democracy, some day.” Rod straightened, eyes widening. “So that’s it!”

Magnus looked up, startled. “What, Papa?”

“Where the futurians come in—you know, the villains who kidnapped us all to Tir Chlis?”

Magnus’s face darkened. “I mind me of them—and of the peril they placed us in. But what sign of them is there in this coil, Papa? I see naught but an aged wizard, who hath at long last struck out in bitterness and sense of being wronged.”

“That’s what they want you to see. Okay, son, up onto the stack—heave!” They swung the sawhorse up onto the top of the stack, and turned away to go get the other one. “But if there’s the likelihood of a repressive government showing up, there’s a high probability of totalitarians from the future, being behind it.”

Behind his ear, a methodical voice intoned, “Generalizing from inadequate data…”

“But surely that is not enough sign of their presence,” Magnus protested, “only the harshness of Alfar’s rule!”

“You’ve been talking to Fess again,” Rod accused. “But keep your eyes open, and you’ll see more signs of their hand behind Alfar. Myself, I’ve been wondering about what your mother said—that there’s no trace of a mind, behind that ‘instant’ hypnosis spell Alfar used on these soldiers.”

Magnus stared in consternation. “But… Papa… how could that…”

“Up with the trestle,” Rod reminded, and they bent to pick it up, and started toward the wall again. “Think, son—what doesn’t? Think, that is. What can do things, but doesn’t think?”

Magnus was silent as they hoisted the trestle to the top of the stack. As they turned away, he guessed, “A machine:”

“You have been talking to Fess, haven’t you?” There was a brief, nasty buzz behind his ear. “I’d call that a good guess.”

“But only a guess,” Magnus reminded him.

“Of course.” They strolled up to Gwen where she knelt, just finishing spreading their blankets out over the rushes. “Managed to banish the vermin, dear?”

“Indeed.” She glanced at him. “Cordelia and I did think to gather fresh rushes the whiles we were on our way here, so we’ll sleep sweetly enow.”

Something about the phrase caught Rod’s attention. He stared down at the blanket, then lifted his gaze slowly to look deeply into Gwen’s eyes.

She tilted her chin up and turned to her sons. “And bear thy manners in mind, for we sleep in company, here.”

The children stared at her, then frowned at one another in puzzlement, then turned back to her. “Why wouldst thou think we might not?” Magnus asked. Geoffrey piped in, “We’re good boys, Mama!”

“Aye,” Gwen answered, turning to Rod, “and so must thou all be.”

In the middle of the night a low groan began, swelling in volume and bouncing back and forth between the stone walls, until it filled the whole hall.

Rod shot bolt upright, panic clamoring up inside him jarring his brain. Rage answered, and struggled against it.

A bluish white light filled the hall, showing all the servants shocked upright, staring in fear and horror. Cordelia screamed, burying her face in Rod’s midsection, and Gregory burrowed into Gwen’s skirts.

Magnus and Geoffrey glared truculently upward, even as they backed away against the wail.

Above them all, the great hall was filled with a throng of pale, glowing spectres in antique gowns and ancient armor, all blue-white, and translucent.

And facing the Gallowglass family.

The male closest to them lifted an arm with the weight of centuries, and his voice rolled out, thundering, “Thou! ‘Tis thou who dost disturb our rest, thou and thy get! Name thyself, and step forth from thy craven guise!”

Gwen laid a restraining hand on Rod’s arm, but the rage was building, and he shrugged her off, incensed that she should dare to remonstrate with him. He glared up at the ghost, throwing his shoulders back and issuing his words one by one. “I am Rodney Lord Gallowglass, High Warlock of Gramarye! And who are you, who dares so address me?”

“I am Arendel, first Count of Drulane!” the ghost bellowed. “Tis in my hall thou dost stand! Wherefore hast thou come, and why hast thou disturbed my rest—mine, and all of my line’s! Speak, sirrah! Now!”

The rage surged higher. “Speak with respect to thy betters, feeble ghost! Or from this place I shall banish thee, to leave thy wraith wailing in the void between worlds!”

The ghost stared a moment, with the empty darkness of its eyes. Then its face creased, and broke open, and laughter spilled out—harsh, mocking laughter, that all the ghosts echoed, ringing from one to another, clamoring and sounding like brazen gongs, until all the Great Hall rang with it, while spectral fingers pointed at Rod.

And the rage built to fill him, striving to master him; but he held himself rigid against it and, in a last attempt to avoid it, cried, “Fess! To me, now! In the great hall!”

“Why, then, mannikin, work thy will!” the ghost sneered. “Hale me down, and grind me under! Work thy wonders! Show us this power thou canst employ, against ghosts!”

Steel hooves rang on stone, and the great black horse charged into the hall, rearing to a halt bare inches from a peasant couple, who scrambled away in panic.

Arendel turned his wrathful gaze on Fess, staring in outraged anger. “What beast is this thou dost summon! Hast thou no shred of courtesy within thee, that thou wouldst bring thine horse into a lord’s hall?”

“Fess,” Rod bellowed in agony, “What are they?”

“Rrr… Rrrodd… th-they awwrr…” Suddenly, Fess’s whole body heaved in one great convulsion, neck whiplashing; then his head plummeted down to swing between his fetlocks. He stood spraddle-legged, each knee locked stiff.

“Seizure,” Rod snapped. “They’re real!”

Arendel stared in disbelief for a moment; then he threw back his head, and his laughter rocked the hall. “Elf-shot! He summons his great aid, his model of all that is powerful and perfect—and ‘tis elf-shot!” And his merriment rolled forth, to batter against Rod’s ears.

Then Rod’s own natural fury broke loose, his indignation that anyone should mock disability, make a joke of the truest companion he had known from earliest memory—and that fury poured into the building rage to boil it over the dam of Rod’s willed control. The red haze enveloped him, and the icy, insane clarity stilled his thoughts, ringing one clear idea: Ghosts could be exorcised. Rod bent his brows, eyes narrowing, and a thunderclap exploded through the hall, crashing outward from a short, balding man wearing spectacles and a green chasuble over a white robe. He blinked about him, stupefied. “I was… What… How…”

“Welcome, Father,” Rod breathed, in a voice of dry ice.

The priest blinked, seeking Rod out with watery eyes. “But I was even now saying Matins, in the monastery chapel! How came I here?”

“Through my magic,” Rod grated, “in response to the ill manners of this churlish dead lord! Exorcise him, Father—for his soul’s barred from Heaven whiles he lingers here!”

The ghost roared with rage, and his fellows all echoed him, with screechings and roarings that made the priest wince and cry, “ ‘Tis a foretaste of Hell!”

“Banish them,” Rod cried, “ere they linger to damn themselves!”

The priest’s face firmed with resolve. “Tis even as thou sayest.” And he held up one palm toward the ghosts while he fumbled in a pocket with the other, beginning a sonorous Latin prayer.

Lord Arendel shrieked, and disappeared.

With a wave of wailing despair, the other ghosts faded.

In the sudden, soft darkness, Magnus cried, “There! Against the eastern wall! Nay, stop her, seize her! Mother, a light, I prithee!”

Sudden light slashed the darkness—a warm, yellow glow from a great ball of fire that hung just below the ceiling, and Magnus and Geoffrey were diving toward a woman in a blue, hooded cloak, who hauled out a broomstick and leaped onto it, soaring up through the air to leave them in a wake of mocking laughter. Magnus shouted in anger, and banked to follow her, but she arrowed straight toward the window, which was opened wide to the summer’s night. She trilled laughter, crying, “Fools! Dost not know the witches are everywhere? Thou canst not escape Alfar’s power, nor hope to end it! Hail the Lord Sorcerer as thy master, ere he doth conquer thee—for Alfar shall rule!”

With a firecracker-pop, Gregory appeared, directly in front of her, thrusting a stick toward her face. It burst into flame at its tip. The witch shrieked and veered to the side, plummeting toward the open door, but Cordelia swirled in on her broomstick to cross the witch’s path, hurling a bucketful of water. The fluid stretched out into a long, slender arrow, and splattered into the witch’s face. She howled with rage and swirled up and around the great hall while she dashed the water from her eyes with one swipe of her hand. Magnus and Geoffrey shot after her, closing in from either side. At the last second, the witch clutched at a great whorl of an amulet that hung on her breast, cried, “Hail, Alfar,” and disappeared in a clap of thunder.

The hall was silent and still.

Then a low moan began, and spread around the outside of the chamber. It rolled, building toward a wail.

Magnus hung in the center of the hall, beneath the great fireball, his eyes like steel. Slowly, his mouth stretched wide.

Gwen’s voice cut like a knife blade. “Nay, Magnus! Such words are forbidden thee, for no gentleman may use them!”

For an instant, shocked stillness fell again. Then one woman began to giggle incredulously. Another gave a little laugh, but another laughed with her, then another, and another, and the horror in the hall turned into full-throated laughter—with an hysterical edge to it, perhaps, but laughter nonetheless.

Then the Count of Drulane stood on the dais with his quaking wife behind him, gazing out about his hall silently.

One by one, his servants and thralls saw him, and fell silent.

When the whole hall was quiet, the Count turned to a waiting servant. “Light fires, that we may thank this lady for her good services, and be done with her flaming light.”

The servant turned to the task, and others leaped to join him.

The Count turned to the priest and said gravely, “I must thank thee, reverend Father, for thy good offices.”

The priest bowed. “My office it was, and there was small need to thank me.”

“Naetheless, I do. Still, Father, I own to some concern, for these were the spirits of mine ancestors. Are their souls destroyed, then?”

“Nay, milord.” The priest smiled. “I’ troth, I misdoubt me an a soul can be annihilated. Yet even an ‘twere, ‘twould not be now; for I saw no need for exorcism. Nay, I merely did bless this hall, and pray for the souls of all who have dwelt here, that they might find rest—which they did.”

“And I had feared thou wouldst attempt to blast them with power of thine own,” Gwen said softly to her husband. “How is’t thou didst think of the clergy?”

But the rage had ebbed, and Rod was filled with guilt and remorse. He shrugged impatiently. “Just an odd fact.”

“It was, i’ truth, for thou hast never been greatly pious. Where didst thou learn it?”

The question poked through Rod’s miasma; he frowned. Where had he learned that ghosts could be banished by clergy? “Common knowledge, isn’t it?” He glowered at her. “Just came to me, out of the blue.”

“Nay,” said little Gregory, reaching up to catch his hand. “ ‘Tis not from the blue…”

“Who asked you?”

Gregory flinched away, and self-disgust drowned Rod’s irritation. He reached out to catch the child around the shoulders and jam him against a hip. “Oh, I’m sorry, son! You didn’t deserve that!”

The priest was still reassuring the Count. “They have fled back to their graves, milord—and, I hope, to their well-earned afterlives.”

“For some, that will be a blessing,” the Count said non-comittally.

Rod looked up from the shame filled ashes of his wrath. “Shall I send you home now, Father?”

The priest looked up, appalled, and the Count said quickly, “Or, an thou dost wish it, Father, we can offer thee hospitality and, when thou art rested, guardsmen and a horse, to escort thee south, to thy monastery.”

“I thank thee, milord,” the priest said, not managing to hide his relief.

The Count inclined his head. Then, slowly, he turned to Rod; and he spoke softly, but his words cut like fire. “ ‘Twas ungentlemanly of thee, Lord Warlock, to come, unannounced and disguised, into mine household.”

Rod met his gaze, despite the shame that permeated him. He’d lost his head in fear and panic, and aimed at the wrong enemy—and now, to top it off, the Count was right.

How dare he be!

It worked; he summoned up enough indignation to raise his chin. “Deeply do I regret the need for such deception, milord Count—but need there was.”

“What?” The Count frowned. “Need to wake mine ancestors from their sleep?”

Rod answered frown for frown. “Be mindful, milord—that raising was no work of ours. ‘Twas the doing of a vile wi—uh, sorceress.”

“Aye.” The Count seemed embarrassed. “ ‘Tis even so, milord; I had forgot.”

“But the witch would not ha’ been here,” Geoffrey whispered, “had we not been.”

“Shut up, kid,” Rod muttered.

“I prithee, judge not all us witches by her,” Gwen pleaded. “There be only a few such wicked ones. And, as thou hast seen, ever will they flee the might of the Royal Coven.”

The peasants didn’t seem all that much reassured.

“Make no mistake,” Rod advised. “The Tyrant Sorcerer, Alfar, does send his agents out to prepare his conquests—and, as you’ve seen, he has come this far to the South already.” He turned back to Count Drulane. “That is why we have come in disguise—to learn all we can of Alfar’s doings.”

The Count gazed at him for several seconds, then nodded slowly. “Aye, I am captain enough to understand the need of that.”

“I thank you for your understanding,” Rod gave him a slight bow. “But we must not trouble your keep further this night. The witch has fled, and we have learned all that we can.” Especially now that our cover’s blown. “We will thank you for your hospitality, and take our leave.”

The count returned the bow, not quite managing to hide his relief.

Rod smiled, turned, and marched toward the door.

Magnus blinked, then jumped to follow his father, shoulders squared and chin high.

The other children looked about them, startled, then hurried after Magnus, with Gwen shooing them along.

The peasants pressed back, making way for them.

Rod stopped by Fess and reached under the saddle for the reset switch. He threw it, and the robot’s head came up slowly. Rod caught the reins and led the black horse away with them.

They came out into the open air, and Geoffrey heaved a sigh of relief.

“Clean!” Cordelia gasped.

Rod was silent for two paces; then he nodded. “Yes. You did want to sleep outdoors, didn’t you?”

“Crickets be more musical than snores,” Magnus assured him.

“And if I must needs sleep with animals, I had liefer they be large enough to see clearly.” Gwen brushed at her skirts. “Faugh!”

“No argument there,” Rod assured her. “Come on; we’ll just go a quarter-mile or so past the gate, and bed down for the rest of the night.”

They passed through the gatehouse, across the drawbridge, and out into the night.

After a few paces, Rod let a sigh explode out. “Now! Next time you disagree with me, Gregory, please wait until we’re alone! Because you never know, I might be right.”

“Yes, Papa,” the little boy said, in a little voice.

Rod frowned. “I don’t mean to be hard, son—but there’s a very good chance that, if that witch hadn’t been there to harry us, there might’ve been another one of Alfar’s crew, to try to spy out the territory and spread rumors that’d worry the folk. I mean, all that worried dinner-table talk was probably genuine—but it is strangely convenient for Alfar, isn’t it?”

Gregory was silent.

To cover his guilt feelings, Rod turned to Fess, muttering, “Recovered, Circuit Rider?”

“Nearly,” answered the robot’s voice. “I had never encountered convincing evidence of the existence of a medium, before this night.”

“Well, maybe you still haven’t,” Rod mused.

“Who hath not what?” Magnus looked up with a frown. “Oh! Thou didst speak with Fess.” He nodded, satisfied; the children had long ago learned that they could not hear Fess’s thoughts, unless he wanted them to.

“Mayhap he still hath not what?” Cordelia asked.

“Seen a medium,” Rod explained, “a person who can talk to ghosts, or make them appear.”

“Oh.” Cordelia nodded. “Thou speakest aright, Papa. He hath not.”

“Oh, really? Those ghosts looked genuine, to me.”

“They were not,” Magnus assured him. “They had no greater thought than a mirror.”

Rod frowned. “Odd simile.”

“Yet ‘tis apt,” Gwen affirmed. “They had no true thoughts of their own; they mimicked what was there laid down for them.”

“Laid down?” Rod still frowned. “By whom?”

“By the witch,” Magnus explained. “She did call up the memories laid in the stones, and throw them out to us.”

Rod stared. After a few seconds, he said, “What?”

“Some witches there be, milord,” Gwen explained, “who can lay a hand on a ring, and gain the full sense of the person who wore it, even to the pattern of his or her thoughts.”

Rod gazed off into space. “Yeah… I think I’ve heard of that. They call it ‘psychometry,’ don’t they?”

Gwen shrugged. “I know not, my lord; such are the words of thy folk, not ours.”

“Tis all one,” Cordelia added.

“Thanks for the lesson,” Rod said sourly. “But how did you know about this, Magnus?”

The boy reddened. “I did not wish to trouble thee, Papa…”

“Oh, really?” Rod looked the question at Gwen; she shook her head. “Didn’t want to worry Mama either, I gather. Which is fine, until we find out about it. From now on, we’ll always be worried—that you’ve discovered a new way to use your power, and are trying dangerous experiments without letting us know.”

Magnus looked up, startled. “I had not meant…”

“I know. So don’t. Worry me, son—that’s what I’m here for.” For a second, he wondered if that was truer than he knew.

Magnus sighed. “Well enough, then. I have found thoughts in things people have used, Papa.”

Rod nodded. “Let Mama be near next time you experiment with it, okay? So much for the ‘calling up’ part. I take it the ‘throwing out’ is talking about projective telepathy?”

“By that,” Gwen explained to the children, “he doth mean a witch or warlock who can send their thoughts out to folk who have not witch power.”

“Oh!” Cordelia nodded. “Such she was, Papa. What she saw in her mind, she could make others see, also.”

Rod nodded. “So we weren’t seeing real ghosts—just reflections of the memories ‘recorded’ in the rocks of that hall… uh, Gwen?”

“Aye, my lord?”

“Remember those ghosts we met, way back when, in Castle Loguire?”

“Aye, my lord. Mayhap they were, at first, raised in just such a manner.”

“Why the ‘at first’?”

“Why, for that they endured after the witch who raised them—long after, by accounts.”

“Oh, yeah.” Rod nodded. “That’s right—that castle was supposed to have been haunted for a century or two, wasn’t it?” He glared at the sudden gleam in Magnus’s eye. “Don’t go trying any surprise visits. Those ghosts weren’t harmless.”

“Save for thy father.” Gwen couldn’t resist it.

Rod gave her a glower. “That was diplomacy, not necromancy. And, come to think of it, this witch of Alfar’s wasn’t too bad at persuasion, herself.”

“Aye,” Gwen agreed. “Her words, when we had unmasked her, were meant more for Count Drulane and his folk, than they were for us.”

“Trying to boil up all the old fears of witches, to boost their Reign of Terror,” Rod growled. “Never mind what the peasants might do to the witches in the rest of the kingdom.”

“Nay, do mind it!” Gregory cried. “For if they take fright, and are hurted enough to become bitter and hateful, might they not flee to Alfar, and swell his strength?”

Rod thought about it, then slowly nodded. “I hate to admit it, son, but you’re right.” He turned a somber gaze on Gwen, then dropped his gaze to look at his children, one at a time.

“What thoughts dost thou engender, husband?” Gwen asked softly.

Rod lifted his gaze to her again. “This mission has definitely turned dangerous, darling. Time for you and the children to go home.”

The night was silent for a moment. Then: “ ‘Tis not fair!” Cordelia cried.

“Only now doth it gain interest!” Gregory protested.

“Nonetheless…” Rod began.

“Tis the tactics of magic!” Geoffrey cried. “Assuredly, Papa, thou’lt not deny me the chance to witness such!”

“You’re apt to get hurt!” Rod snapped. “And preventing that, is my main job in life!”

“Then wither wouldst thou be, without us?” Magnus demanded, catching at his sleeve.

“Lonely,” Rod snapped, “but effective. A lot more effective than if I’m worrying about you while I’m in the middle of a fight!”

“Yet thou hast no need to fear for us!” Cordelia cried.

“Send an army ‘gainst us, ere thou dost fear!” Geoffrey howled.

“Yeah.” Rod’s jaw tightened. “You’d just love to have an army to box with, wouldn’t you? Unfortunately, it just might have a stronger arm than you, and…”

“Husband.” Gwen’s low voice bored through his building anger. “Thou didst say, even now, that thou didst protect them.”

Rod’s head snapped up, indignation flaring. “Are you implying…?”

But Gwen was already talking to the children, rapidly. “Thy father has said there is danger in this; and if thou dost believe thyselves strong, only think—how wouldst thou fare if thou didst confront a grown warlock, at the height of his powers, an thou wert alone? If thou hadst been split away from thy brothers and sister—how then?”

Geoffrey started to answer.

Gwen pressed a hand over his mouth. “Nay, do think carefully ere thou dost speak! There is a thrill of pleasure in it, aye—but only till thou dost truly fear! Then all of thy joy in it doth die a-borning.” Her gaze came up to meet Rod’s. “ ‘Tis even as thy father doth know, for he hath been in peril. Nay, if he saith ‘tis dangerous, then assuredly the danger could strike deepest fear in thee, could kill thee.”

The children stared up at her gravely, thinking they understood.

“Yet, husband, be mindful.” Gwen looked straight into Rod’s eyes. “The foes Alfar hath sent against us thus far, have scarce begun to tax our powers. Were Alfar to send all his force against us, ‘twould be great danger, aye; but I misdoubt me an he would risk more than a moiety of his force, when he knoweth not the true depth or breadth of our power. Were he to send an army, in truth, we ought then to flee; yet if he sends only witches, the High Warlock and his family have little to fear.”

“Only enough to make it fun, eh?” Rod managed a harsh smile.

“I could not deny it,” Gwen admitted. “ ‘Tis but exercise, for a brood such as ours.”

“Yes…” Rod frowned. “He’s testing us, isn’t he?”

Geoffrey spun around, wide-eyed. “Papa! Wherefore did I not see that?”

“Experience,” Rod assured him. “But that means the attacks will become stronger, until he thinks he knows our limits. Then he’ll hit us with twice the force he thinks he needs, just to make sure.”

Geoffrey had a faraway look in his eyes. “Therefore… it doth behoove us to use as little power as we must, to defeat them.”

Rod nodded. “Which we haven’t exactly been doing, so far.”

“We may stay then?” Cordelia cried, jumping up and down.

Rod fixed them all with a glare.

They pulled themselves into line, hands clasped in front of them, heads bowed a little—but looking up at him.

“Do I have your absolute promise that you’ll all go right home, without any argument, the next time I say to?”

“Oh, yes, Papa, yes!” they cried. “We will flee, we will fly!” Cordelia avowed.

“We wouldn’t want to stay, if this sorcerer really were dangerous, Papa,” Magnus assured him.

“But you don’t believe he could be, eh?” Rod fixed his eldest with a glare.

“Well…”

“That’s all right.” Rod held up a palm. “I’ve got your promises. It’s okay—you’re still on board, at least until the next attack. And if it’s too close to being dangerous, home you go!”

“Home,” they averred.

“Still don’t believe me, eh?” Rod looked up at Gwen. “How about you? Promise?”

“I shall heed thee as strongly as ever I have done, my lord,” she said firmly.

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Rod sighed. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to be content with that. C’mon kids, let’s set up camp.”

Gwen threw her head back with a happy sigh. “Ah, ‘tis good to be aloft again.”

“I’m glad for you.” Rod gripped the broomstick tighter and swallowed heavily. His idea of flying was inside a nice, warm spaceship, with a lounge chair and an autobar. “This shooting around on a broomstick is strictly for the birds. On second thought, strike that—even the birds wouldn’t touch it.”

“Oh, certes, they would, Papa.” Cordelia shot up alongside, matching velocities. A robin sat on the tip of her broomstick, chirping cheerily.

Rod gave the bird a jaundiced glance. “Odd friends you’re making, up here.”

Gregory shot past them, flipping over onto his back to look back and wave bye-bye.

“Show-off,” Rod growled, but his heart sang at the sight of a smile on the face of his sober little son. It was good to see him be a child again.

“Regard thy way,” Gwen called after him. Gregory nodded cheerfully and flipped over onto his tummy again.

Magnus swung up alongside. “I thank thee, Papa! We are free again!”

“Delighted.” Rod tried to mean it. “Might as well, since Alfar knows who we really are, anyway.”

“Yonder.” Magnus pointed ahead. Rod looked up, and saw a line of hills, blued by distance. Magnus informed him, “Tis the Titans’ Rampart.”

“The Romanov boundary.” Rod felt his stomach suddenly grow hollow. “Somehow, I find myself less than eager to cross it.”

“But ‘twill be exciting, Papa!” Geoffrey cried, flying up on his port side.

“That’s a kind of excitement I think I can live without. Besides, I’m hungry. Darling, what do you say we find a town large enough to have an inn, this side of the boundary?”

“I misdoubt me an they’d welcome folk so poorly dressed as we, my lord.”

“Yeah, but they’d let us sit in the innyard, if we buy our food with real silver.”

“Hot sausage!” Geoffrey cried.

“Stew!” Magnus caroled.

“Toasted cheese!” Cordelia exulted.

“Hungry children,” Gwen sighed. “Well, husband, an thou dost wish it.”

“Great. Land us in a nice little copse, about half a mile out, will you? Tinkers they might accept in the innyard, but not if they use it for a landing strip.” He stared ahead hungrily. “Terra firma!”