The Haunted Wizard

CHAPTER 18

Matt’s lips thinned; he could just imagine the kind of verse Buckeye was casting, one that would leave a taint of magic so strong that the least sensitive hound in the sorcerer’s kennel would smell it a mile away. His eyes narrowed and he chanted,

With satisfaction, he watched as the rubber-limbed figure seemed to move along the side of the trail, then farther and farther away from it. The last Matt saw of him, he was backing away far to the left, still gesturing and presumably chanting, as Matt backed up straight, reciting his masking verse over and over again.

Rosamund insisted on helping them pitch their new camp— it seemed she had learned something about living in the field when Sir Orizhan had taken her along with the princelings on childhood expeditions. Certainly she knew how to lay and light a fire that gave off remarkably little smoke. Sergeant Brock was scandalized at the thought of a princess doing menial tasks, though, and insisted on cooking the meal, so she busied herself in cutting boughs and making pallets.

Dinner consisted of equal amounts of stew and the inside story of the civil war, at least as much of it as Rosamund had heard. By the time she was done, they were all ready to sleep, and Sir Orizhan insisted on taking first watch, sitting on a rock and beaming down at his sleeping ward. Watching his face, Matt could see he wasn’t in love with the princess, but that she was obviously filling the place in his heart of the daughter he had never had. He went to sleep on that thought.

He woke up to a howling racket, but one far away. Everyone else bolted upright, too, and Sir Orizhan, on his feet, hissed, “What can that bedlam be, Lord Wizard?”

“The hunters and their hound,” Matt told him, just as the howl-baying turned to a high-pitched yelping that faded into the distance, followed by the shouts and howls of thoroughly spooked human beings. Something hooted derisively as it faded after them, yowling and clamoring with the voices of a dozen beasts.

“The hound followed the most prominent trail of magic it found,” Matt explained, “which led it to a very surprised bauchan who is now also very angry. Hopefully, he’ll satisfy that anger by chasing them, and by the time he runs out of gas, he should be too far away to make it back to us by morning.”

“What is a bauchan?” Princess Rosamund asked, and Matt lay back down while Sir Orizhan was explaining. When he was done, she said, “It seems a most helpful beast.”

“Only by accident,” Matt assured her, “this time, at least.”

As it turned out, they were a lot closer to the coast than they’d thought. The second day saw them into a fishing village, with half the afternoon left to find a boat. The fishermen were just coming in, tying up their vessels at the long dock, and Matt went from one to another, asking for passage to Erin. Everyone he asked turned away, avoiding his eyes, shaking heads and muttering. He found out why when he approached the oldest sailor there.

“Erin?” The grizzled fellow eyed the gold coin in Mart’s hand with longing. “I’d be happy enough to take you there, but the king’s men came riding by yesterday and told us anyone who carried strangers across the water would die a slow and lingering death.”

“Oh, did they?” Matt felt the bottom of his stomach go out. “Uh, I don’t suppose there’s any chance of swimming, is there?”

The old fisherman showed yellowed stubs of teeth in a grin. “Not likely, my lad. There’s a legend of a giant named Finn MacCumhail crossing once, but he waded.”

“Not MacCool at all,” Matt grumbled. “Anyone have a boat for sale?”

“For enough gold? Aye, if they didn’t stop to think what the soldiers would do once they found out.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Matt sighed. He turned away—and found an old woman in a tattered robe sitting on a piling, staring at him with wild eyes from an emaciated face framed by long, tangled hair that was blowing in the wind. Matt stopped and swallowed. “Uh—who’s that old dame sitting there staring at me?”

“Who, Old Meg?” The fisherman looked up, and his face showed pity. “Oh, don’t let her trouble you, lad. The sea took her betrothed fifty years ago, and she comes down to watch every evening in hopes that she’ll see his boat come in, and him step off it. If she troubles you, you’ve but to tell her your name and home, and she’ll let you pass without another word.”

“Thanks for the advice.” Matt went on down the dock, eyes on his own people—but as he passed Old Meg, a scrawny hand shot out and caught his arm with a grip so strong he almost cried out. Instead he said, “Uh, lady—could you go a little easier on the haberdashery?”

“Well, at least he knows a lady born when he sees one,” Old Meg said, gratified. “Do you wish to cross the water, lad?”

“Cross the … ?” Matt stared; it wasn’t what he’d been expecting. “Well… yes!”

“To Erin, is it?”

“It is.” Conscience stirred. “But the king’s men said not to take anyone.”

“King’s men!” Old Meg said with scorn. “What need to fear the soldiers of so weak a man? His grandfather Talorc, now—there was a king!”

Matt looked more closely at her, deciding she might be older than she looked. “I wouldn’t want you helping us just to have your life cut short.”

“There’s not that much of it left, lad,” she assured him. “I’ve a boat—not so big a one, but large enough to take you and those three friends of yours, and sound enough to take me out to catch my dinner every day. Will you sail with me or not?”

“Yes!” Matt said “See you at first light tomorrow.” He fished out the piece of gold again.

“I’ll have none of your coin,” Old Meg said sharply. “What I’ll do, I’ll do for the rightful king, not for pay—and you won’t meet me any time but now.” She hopped down off the piling. “If you want to sail with me, you come at once or not at all!”

Matt gulped “A night crossing in a small boat?”

“Who was only now worrying about the soldiers?” Old Meg returned “Will you come, or not?”

“We’ll come!”

Matt followed her down the dock to his companions and made the introductions. Rosamund stared into the old woman’s eyes and shivered. Old Meg only smiled at her and nodded slowly, but all she said was, “You’ll do,” and turned away, striding down the beach so fast Matt had to hurry to keep up with her.

Sir Orizhan matched his pace, and Matt told him, “Rare old lady, this!”

“I was thinking that, too.” Sir Orizhan watched Old Meg with a brooding gaze.

She led them past the end of the village to a weathered cottage with a moldy thatch that stood at the edge of the sand. There she turned sharply and paced down the beach to a small boat with a short mast. The companions followed after, skidding and sliding in their hurry. Then Matt came close enough to see the craft, and stopped dead staring in alarm.

The little sailboat was battered and patched its paint chipped and peeling, its ropes frayed and worn. It scarcely looked big enough for two people, let alone five.

“It lets a little water,” Old Meg told him, “and you’ll have to take turns bailing, but it will take you across the water.”

“If you say so.” Matt gave the little boat a jaundiced eye, but he came closer anyway.

“A little help, lad.” Old Meg held out her hand. Matt took it, and she climbed up the two pilings to which her boat was moored. They formed a rough staircase, and as she stepped down onto the seat by the mast, she told Rosamund “Lady, come aboard. You men can shove off and get your leggins wet before you climb in.”

Sir Orizhan handed Rosamund up—she didn’t look any happier about it than Matt felt—men joined Matt and Sergeant Brock in leaning against the bow and shoving hard. Sand slipped under their feet, and Matt wondered how the old dame managed without any help—probably just climbed aboard and waited for the tide to come in.

The boat floated, and seawater drenched Matt’s boots and hose. He grumbled as he hauled himself in over the gunwale and settled down on a bench, shivering and miserable already. At least he didn’t have to worry about getting his feet wet in the bilge. He took up the leather bucket and started bailing.

Old Meg had managed to haul up the sail and work her way back to the aft seat by the tiller. Now the wind filled the canvas, and she turned the boat into the breeze. Matt saw, with misgiving, that the sail was even more patched than the hull. He wondered what kept the boat afloat—magic? You never could tell, with these old semi-hermit women.

The three men huddled in the bow, shivering in the night breeze with their soaking legs, their faces grim and stoic—but Rosamund sat high and dry, slippers tucked under her skirts, which were gathered around her legs, listening wide-eyed as Meg explained how to sail the boat. “If the wind shifts, lass, the boom—that’s the pole that sticks out from the mast, with the bottom of the sail lashed to it—the boom will come about—that means it will swing, sometimes very quickly, and if you’re not watching sharply, it could strike you a nasty blow, or even knock you overboard. Beware the change of the wind…”

Matt listened closely, some sixth sense telling him he was going to need the knowledge someday, but growing more and more confused by the wealth of details the woman spewed out, not with any organization, but as they occurred to her in response to her trimming of the sail and leaning on the tiller. His stomach churned with the rocking of the boat and the constant conviction that they were going to capsize, and he became more and more befuddled as he watched the village grow smaller and smaller behind Old Meg. By the time it disappeared, darkness had fallen, and Matt had become thoroughly convinced that he could never have sailed the little boat.

Then, in the darkness between sunset and moonrise, rising and falling with the roll of the sea, Old Meg dropped the sail suddenly and, as the boat coasted to a stop, turned to Matt and demanded, “Why do you wish to go to Erin?”

Matt rocked back, jolted by her tone of accusation. Caution ruled, and he said the first partial truth that came to mind. “Well, we’re trying to escape a bauchan, you see, so we’re flitting.”

A gravelly basso from under his seat agreed, “Aye, Meg, we’re flitting, you see.”

Matt jumped a good six inches. It felt like a mile.

Sir Orizhan and Sergeant Brock turned and stared, astounded, and Rosamund looked alarmed, but Old Meg only narrowed her eyes and said, “A bauchan, is it? In my boat? You were not invited, creature, and you’re not welcome!

“Get you back to shore, And bother me no more!”

She followed the simple rhyme with a verse in a foreign language while she stirred the air with a forefinger, then jabbed it back toward the land. Something shot from under Matt’s seat with a hooting and whooping and went galloping back over the water toward the village, clutching its buttocks and howling in alarm.

Matt stared after the departing bauchan in amazement. “Wow! Wish I could do that!” Then the implication of the phrase hit him, and he turned back to find Old Meg staring straight at him, her eyes narrowed and her mouth a hard line.

“You didn’t tell us you were a magician,” Matt said.

“Nor did you tell me you were,” Meg returned, “not that I had any need to be told—and I’ll warn you, wizard, not to try your magic on me, or you’ll have a very unpleasant surprise.”

“If you feel that way about it,” Matt said, “why did you offer us a ride?”

“Out of the fear of the mischief you might breed if I left you in Bretanglia. If you’d been by yourself, be sure you’d have been dazed by a blow of magic and be lying unconscious this moment.”

Matt gazed at her a minute, then turned to Sir Orizhan. “Looks like it’s a good thing you guys came along.”

“Not them, foolish male!” Meg snapped. “The maiden! I’d toss the three of you overboard without a thought, but I’ll talk to her.” She turned to Rosamund. “How say you, lass? Why do you go to Erin?”

“Why,” Rosamund said, “because I seek to escape the king and Prince John, and that is where my protectors are going.”

“Protectors?” Meg turned back to the men. “How do I know you mean to protect the lass, not despoil her?”

Sir Orizhan’s head snapped back in outrage. “Why, because I have been her guardian these ten years, and would slay any who sought to harm her!”

Meg gazed at him a moment, then said, “A fair answer, and I feel the truth of it. But why do you travel with this wizard?”

“To learn who slew Prince Gaheris,” the knight said, “for this sergeant and I had been set to protect him.”

Again Meg gazed at him in silence, then glanced at Brock.

The sergeant sat bolt upright, staring at her in alarm.

“There is truth again,” Old Meg said, “though I sense there’s some missing. Still, I’m not sure you know of it.” She turned to Matt. “Now, wizard, the full truth: Why do you go to Erin?”

“To look for Prince Brion’s body,” Matt said. “There’s a rumor that he isn’t dead, only lying in a magical sleep. If that’s so, we mean to find him and wake him if we can, then bring him back to fight the false druids who are stealing the realm from the people.”

Rosamund gave a little, inarticulate cry, and Meg’s sharp eyes swung to her. “You did not know of this, maiden?”

“I did not,” Rosamund said. “I only sought to go as far from King Drustan and Prince John as I could, and these good men were taking me where I wished to go.”

“Would you have gone if you had known they sought Prince Brion?”

“Oh, yes,” Rosamund breathed. “Oh, most surely would I have gone, and with even better heart, if I had known!”

Meg studied her for a long while, men gave a nod of satisfaction. Turning, she raised the sail again. “Well enough, then, we go to Erin.” She set the sail by taking a bight around a cleat with a turn of her wrist.

Matt decided to keep his mouth shut, but curiosity got the better of him. “Why are you willing to help us? This isn’t your fight”

“But it is.” Meg turned back to Matt, her eyes burning into his. “Know, O Wizard, that you are not alone in your enmity to the mock druids.”

Matt only stared. So did Sergeant Brock.

“Learn that there were female druids, too,” Old Meg told him, “and that some are still abroad in the land.”

She waited while her words sank in, and to good effect— Matt had a very strange feeling, almost as though his skin were vibrating in resonance to old, arcane magic, and Sergeant Brock began to tremble.

“So,” Matt said softly, “you are a druid—a real druid.”

“I am, and can tell you the name of my teacher, and of her teacher, and her teacher’s teacher, back to the days when we held the island of Mona as our right. There are true druids in Erin, too, more than in Bretanglia, though not so many as there should be,” Meg told him.

Matt wondered about that “should,” but only said, “Why are you helping me, then?”

“Because I hate and despise these mock druids who defame and debase our noble religion!” Meg spat. “They seek to imprison the people, not to free their hearts and minds! They seek to use the gods as tools for their own ends, not to devote themselves wholly to the deities! And in their blasphemy, they shall make the reputation of we who truly hold to the Old Gods even worse than the milksop monks and nuns have done!”

“We have a common enemy, then?”

“Aye, and a common champion, too! I have told you I seek to aid the true king, and you know my opinion of Drustan!”

“But you think his son Brion is true,” Matt interpreted.

Rosamund gasped.

“True in heart, true in mind, but more importantly, true to the land and the people who dwell in it, far more true than either his father or his brothers have been! Nay, this much I can tell you—that Brion’s body is indeed in Erin, and that holy men have borne it there by magic!”

“But you can’t tell us whether or not he’s still alive,” Matt inferred.

“If he is, he looks most amazingly dead—though his body is not corrupted, unless the rumors that pass from druid to druid are false.” She fixed Matt with a burning eye. “But alive or dead, he shall bring you men to help you in your quest— this I know! Go to Erin, go to the Isle of Doctors and Saints, and bring back an army of truth to help you disperse the purveyors of lies who defame my Order!”

“I’ll try,” Matt said slowly, never taking his eyes from her, “but it’s apt to be dangerous. Maybe we should leave the princess with you—she should be safe enough”

“Oh, no!” Rosamund cried. “I must go with you to find Brion!”

“It is even as she says,” Old Meg agreed. “Her destiny does not lie in a small fishing village on the shore of Bretanglia. Take her to Erin, wizard, and let her read her weird.”

The room seemed gloomy, but there was no candle at his bedside, and King Drustan raised a hand to gesture as he called for light—but the hand would not rise at the command of his will, and he could hear only the harsh caw of his tongueless voice. Prince John stepped into his range of vision, and there was enough light to see him, at least. The boy bent low, his voice soothing. “The drapes are opened wide to the sunlight, Father; the room is as light as we can make it. Let the doctor examine you, and perhaps he can make the day seem brighter—though it is indeed gray and gloomy.”

Drustan grumbled something affirmative and relaxed. His stomach was roiling, making him faint with nausea. It had been getting worse for days.

John stepped back, and the doctor stepped forward. He held the king’s wrist for a little while, frowning in concentration, then leaned over to peer closely into his eyes. Brows bent, he straightened up and probed the king’s stomach.

Drustan bellowed in agony, eyes bulging.

“It has been too long since your bowels moved,” the doctor said with false heartiness, “only that, my liege, and nothing more. Rest, drink only small beer, and wait.”

But as he stepped back, Drustan’s nausea spread upward to heartsickness. He gargled a curse at the man, recognizing the falseness of the tone—and his heartsickness turned to panic as an archbishop stepped up to his bedside. Drustan tried to push himself upright, mouthing denials.

“Gently, gently, Your Majesty,” the archbishop soothed. “I have heard your confession every month, and given you the Eucharist every week, for six years. Surely there is no need to alter that now.”

A little relieved, Drustan sank back on his bed and muttered a querulous phrase.

“It has been a month, yes, a month and more.” The archbishop raised his head. “Your Highness, I beg you withdraw for some minutes. What His Majesty confesses is only for the ears of himself, myself, and God.”

“But how shall you understand his words? I must explain them to you!”

“God shall understand them,” the archbishop said, “and after sixty confessions, I fancy I shall recognize every word he says. Leave us, Your Highness—leave him to me and God.”

John stood outside the door and fretted. When the archbishop finally came out and said, “You may go in again,” John bolted through the door and smelled the aroma of the priest’s scented candles. He hurried to his father’s bedside and saw the gleam of anointing on his forehead. His smile had a vindictive quality as he bent over Drustan. “Gave you the Last Rites, did he? Well, that was wise of him, old man, for you’re dying now, and there’s no doubt of it.”

Drustan’s eyes widened; he gargled in anger.

“How dare I tell you that?” John grinned. “Because it’s true enough, you old goat, and in less than an hour you won’t be able to hurt anyone anymore! Aye, at last I’ll be safe from your whims and your rages! At last I’ll be able to build a life for myself! At last I’ll be rid of you!”

Drustan struggled to rise, face livid, mouthing outrage.

“Behold the king!” John mocked. “Behold the mighty Drustan, before whom all men tremble! Here, O Man of Power, hold this cup!”

He pressed a silver goblet into his father’s hand, then took his own hands away. The vessel clattered to the floor.

“If you cannot grasp a cup, how shall you hold a sword? No, the days when all men feared Drustan are done, for Drustan himself is done—and no man need fear you now!”

He thrust his face close, so close the reek of his breath nearly stifled Drustan as John spat, “How can I be so sure? Why, because it’s I who have done it, you poor benighted old fool! It’s I who brought you your cup and bowl, I who spooned the gruel into you, I who mixed poison with wine and porridge! It is I who have poisoned you, and I wish you had not confessed or taken Extreme Unction, so that you could have gone to Judgment with your sins on your soul!”

Drustan roared with rage, anger so intense that he actually managed to start up from his bed, to lift an anvil-heavy arm and grope for John’s throat. With a cry of terror, John sprang back, hands up to defend, shrinking into a corner—but the huge red swollen face before him abruptly turned white, and the king fell back, senseless, with eyes wide open.

John waited, heart hammering. He waited for what seemed an impossibly long time, then waited longer. Finally he dared creep up to the bed, dared even further to reach out and touch his father’s hand, ready to leap away and flee—but the hand stayed unmoving. Daring even more greatly, John took Drustan is wrist and felt for the pulse. It was a task he had done every day for weeks, so he knew exactly where to probe—but felt nothing. At last he plucked up the courage to touch the great vein in the king’s neck, felt and waited, dreading, hoping—and felt not the slightest tremor of blood moving beneath the skin. Finally, he dared to reach up and close Drustan’s eyelids. Triumph began to boil up inside him; his face split in an idiotic grin; but he held it in while he fished in his purse for two pennies, then laid them on his father’s eyelids. “Money for the ferryman! Copper to hold your soul away! Rest in agony, Father, as I have when I’ve dreaded your anger! Rest uneasily, rest angrily, rest painfully, but rest, rest, and never come back!”

There was more, all uttered in a hushed, intense tone, so that none might hear it except the corpse. At last John ran down and stood panting as he glared at the body of the man who had humiliated him so often, and only given approval when John had learned how to fawn upon him.

Then John stepped away from the bed and threw his head back with silent laughter, forcing himself to keep his shout of victory to a whisper, fists clenched in triumph.

A tapestry stirred in the shadows. John heard the slightest rasp of wood sliding against wood and dropped his hands, squaring his shoulders, doing the best he could to look regal—but he could not quite wipe the grin from his face.

Niobhyte stepped out of the gloom into the light of the deathwatch candle. “Is it done, then?”

“It is,” John told him, glee still in his voice. “He is dead, and shall trouble me no more. I thank you for the poison, Niobhyte. It did all that you said it would.”

The chief synthodruid made a deprecating gesture. “It was my pleasure, as it shall always be my pleasure to serve you— if you will.”

“Oh, yes,” John told him. “Oh, I shall always be glad of your service, Niobhyte—and you may be sure of my patronage. I shall see your religion rise, and these stumbling-block priests torn down! The Church shall fall, the Old Gods rise again, and I shall be the first to worship them openly!”

“I shall ever be Your Majesty’s faithful servant.” Niobhyte knelt to kiss John’s hand. “The king is dead—long live the king!”

“I thank you, my first and most loyal subject,” John told him. “Now, though, you had better step back into that secret passageway, for I must bring in the doctor and the archbishop to make Drustan’s passing the law of the land. Then I can begin to unmake their Church!”

“I am ever obedient to Your Majesty,” Niobhyte said, and backed away with bowed head to disappear behind the tapestry again.

John listened for the sliding of wood on wood, then turned to open the door and call in both physician and prelate. The came, they stared in apprehension—then they both turned and knelt, declaring as Niobhyte had, “The king is dead— long live the king!”

“Read my weird?” Rosamund asked. “What is my weird, and how shall I read it?”

They stood on land, watching the little boat skip away over the waves, its sail filled with the morning breeze. Behind them the sun struggled to rise over Erin. Admittedly, the distance between Erin and Bretanglia wasn’t great, but Matt was still surprised Meg had sailed it so fast.

“Your weird is a sort of a trap,” Sergeant Brock told her.

Matt looked up in surprise.

“It is what you were born into this world to do,” the sergeant went on, “the outcome of the sum and total of all the virtues and talents within you, the work in life for which you, and only you, are most singularly fitted. But you do not have to do it. You can turn away from it, if you lack the courage—or you can be too blind to see it. But if you have eyes clear enough to read it, and the courage to enter into it, your weird shall close about you, shall catch you up, and bear you onward to fulfillment in this world and joy in the next. Therefore must you read your weird.”

“That has the sound of fate,” Sir Orizhan said, frowning.

“Is that your southern word for it?” the sergeant asked.

“Not quite,” Matt said. “Fate happens to you whether you choose it or not—and whether you like it or not.”

“A weird is not always pleasant,” Sergeant Brock admitted. “Your… the Church sings the praises of martyrs to the faith, who have endured the tortures of burning in this world in order to rise to the glory of sainthood in the next.”

“True,” Matt said thoughtfully, “but there are other saints like St. Francis of Assisi, who sang his way through life with joy”

“Well, he had his hard times, too,” Sir Orizhan pointed out, “but what life does not? The importance of it, Your Highness, is that if you can read your weird and be brave enough to step into it, it may bear you on to joy or bear you on to grief, but it will never leave you feeling that your life was not worth having lived.”

“Then I shall find it,” Rosamund said with iron determination, “clasp it to my breast, let it fold about me, and go wheresoever it carries me!”

“Then let’s begin by finding Brion’s body.” Matt turned his back on the sea and the fading dot that was Meg’s boat. “She said holy men had carried him away. Let’s find a bishop.”

That by itself turned out not to be easy. They’d had to leave the horses in Bretanglia, of course—Meg’s boat just barely managed the four of them—so they had to walk along the beach until they came to a fishing village. It took about an hour, and the old men were sitting on the dock watching the last of the fishing boats sail off for their day’s work. Matt hailed them, waving, and the four gaffers looked up in surprise before their faces turned into masks.

“Hi, there!” Matt climbed up onto the dock with his companions right behind him and approached the nearest grandfather, a man who looked to be in his eighties but, given the harshness of medieval life, was probably only in his thirties. “Can you tell me how to get to the castle?” He didn’t ask which one—any castle would do.

The oldster frowned, looking very suspicious, and demanded something incomprehensible—it sounded vaguely like “Bail out this Arab, go lair in her hair.”

Matt didn’t bother looking around for a Near Eastern woman. “Great,” he sighed. “I’ve been living and traveling in countries that were pieces of Hardishane’s empire for so long that I forgot what happened in lands that weren’t connected to the continent!”

Sir Orizhan came up, frowning. “What is the trouble, Lord Wizard?”

“Trouble? Oh, nothing—except that these people speak a foreign language, probably Gaelic, and I haven’t the faintest idea what this old duffer’s saying!”