The Warlock Enraged

11

They were up at first light, and on the road by dawn. With the main issues out of the way, the two of them chatted together easily—Simon the innkeeper, and Owen the farmer. And if, as morning wore on, Owen’s tales of his children bore a startling resemblance to the experiences of Rod Gallowglass, it can scarcely be surprising. On the other hand, all the stories had nothing to do with juvenile witch powers; Rod stayed sufficiently on his guard not to make that particular slip.

It wasn’t easy. Rod found they had a lot in common—wives, and children. He also found Simon to be surprisingly refreshing. Instead of their usual dire predictions about the horrors of adolescence that lay in store for the unwary father, Simon restricted his anecdotes to childhood disasters—though, when pressed, he admitted that all his children were grown, and the tale of his daughter’s impending first birth was quite true. Rod immediately began insisting, all over again, that Simon turn back to the South and his daughter, the more so because Simon had mentioned earlier that his wife had died quite a few years ago; but the innkeeper merely informed Rod that his daughter really lived north of his home village—wherefore, he had been doubly cowardly to flee. There wasn’t much Rod could say to that, so he relaxed and enjoyed Simon’s company. So, by the time they came to the first village, Rod was feeling in fine form—which was fortunate, because they were greeted by a mob.

The peasants stormed out of the village, howling and throwing stones and waving pitchforks—but not at Simon and Rod. Their target was a small man, who sprinted madly, managing to stay a dozen yards ahead of them.

“Slay the warlock!” they cried. “Stone him!”

“Stab him! Drain his blood!”

“Burn him! Burn him Burn Him BURN HIM!”

Simon and Rod stared at each other, startled. Then Simon snapped, “He could not be of Alfar’s brood, or soldiers would even now be cutting down these peasants! Quickly, Owen!”

“You heard him!” Rod cracked the whip over Fess’s head, keeping up the act. “Charge!”

Fess leaped into a gallop. Cartwheels roared behind him.

Rod pulled up hard as they passed the fleeing warlock, and Simon shouted, “Up behind, man! For thy lifeblood’s sake!”

The running man looked up, startled, then jumped into the cart, as Simon rose to his feet and cried out, in a voice that seared through the crowd’s shouting:

“I, too, am a magic worker! Two warlocks face thee now! Dost thou still wish wood to kindle?”

The crowd froze, the words of violence dying on their tongues.

Simon stood relaxed, but his face was granite. Slowly, he surveyed the crowd, picking out individual faces here and there. But he didn’t say a word.

Finally, a fat little man stepped forward, shaking a club at Simon. “Step aside, fellow! Withdraw thy cart and horse! Our quarrel’s with this foul warlock, not with thee!”

“Nay,” Simon answered. “To the contrary; every warlock’s business is every other’s, for there are few of us indeed.”

“Every warlock?” the fat man bleated in indignation. “Is Alfar’s business also thine?”

His words set off an ugly murmur that increased in ugliness as it built.

“Alfar’s business ours?” Simon’s eyes widened. “Why would it not be?”

The noise cut off as the crowd stared at him, frozen.

Then the people began to mutter to one another, worried, a little fearful. One scrawny warlock by himself was one thing—but two together, with Alfar’s backing…

Simon’s voice cut through their hubbub. “Twould be better an thou didst now go back unto thine homes.”

“What dost thou speak of!” the fat little man cried. “Turn to our homes? Nay! For we have one who must be punished! What dost thou think thyself to…”

His voice ran down under Simon’s stony glare. Behind him, the crowd stared, then began to whisper among themselves again. Rod heard snatches of “Evil Eye!”

“Evil Eye!” He did the best he could to reinforce the idea, staring at the fat little leader with his eyes narrowed a little, teeth showing in a wolfish grin.

“Thou wilt go,” Simon said, his voice like an icepick.

Rod could scarcely believe the transformation. He could’ve sworn Simon was at least two inches taller and four inches broader. His eyes glowed; his face was alive and vibrant. He fairly exuded power.

Cowed, the crowd drew in upon itself, muttering darkly. Simon’s voice rose above. “We have shown thee plainly wherein doth lie the true power in this land—but it need not be turned against thee. Go, now—go to thine homes.” Then he smiled, and his aura seemed to mellow—he seemed gentler, somehow, and reassuring. “Go,” he urged, “go quickly.”

The crowd was shaken by the transformation. Their emotions had been yanked back and forth; they didn’t know whether to resent Simon, or be grateful to him. For a moment, they stood, uncertain. Then one man turned away, slowly. Another saw him, and turned to follow. A third saw them, and turned, then a fourth. Then the whole crowd was moving back toward the village.

The fat little man glanced at them, appalled, then back toward Simon. “Retribution shall follow,” he cried, but fear hollowed his voice. “Retribution, and flames for all witches!”

Rod’s eyes narrowed to slits, and he gathered himself; but Simon laid a restraining hand on his shoulder, and said mildly, “Go whilst thou may—or retribution there shall be indeed, and I shall not lift one finger to stay it.”

The little man glanced at Rod in sudden terror, then whirled about, and hurried to follow the villagers back toward the houses.

Rod, Simon, and the stranger only watched him, frozen in tableau till he’d disappeared among the buildings. Then, the moment he was out of sight, Simon heaved a long sigh, going limp.

“I should say,” Rod agreed. “You do that kind of thing often?”

“Nay.” Simon collapsed onto the board seat. “Never in my life.”

“Then you’ve got one hell of a talent for it.” Privately, Rod had a strong suspicion that Simon was at least a little bit of a projective, but didn’t realize it.

Even with his nerves ajangle from facing down a mob for the first time, Simon remembered the fugitive. He turned, looking back into the cart. “Art thou well, countryman?”

“Aye,” the stranger wheezed, “thanks to thee, goodmen. And thou hadst not come, there had been naught but a bloody lump left of me. E’en now I tremble, to think of them! From the depths of my soul I thank thee. I shall pray down upon thee one blessing, for every star that stands in the sky! I shall…”

“You shall live.” Rod couldn’t repress the grin. “And we’re glad of it. But if you’re a warlock, why didn’t you just disappear?” Then a sudden thought hit him, and he turned to Simon. “Is he a warlock?”

“Aye.” Simon nodded, his eyes on the stranger. “There is the feeling I’ve had, twice aforetime, when I’ve met another warlock and heard his thoughts—that feeling of being in a mind enlarged, in a greater space of soul.”

Rod knew the feeling; he’d met it himself. With a variant form and intensity, it was one of the great benefits of being married to another esper—and one of the curses of being an esper himself, when he was near another telepath whom he didn’t like. He’d decided some time ago that it was mental feedback—but controlled feedback. It must’ve been, or it would’ve torn both minds apart. The born witch, he thought, must develop a perceptual screen in infancy, a sort of blocking mechanism that would reduce the recycled mental energy to comfortable levels.

“He is a warlock,” Simon said again. “Why, therefore, didst thou not disappear, goodman?”

“Why, for that I could not.” The stranger smiled apologetically, spreading his hands and cocking his head to the side. “What can I say to thee? I am a very poor warlock, who can but hear others’ thoughts, and that only when they’re hard by me. E’en then, I cannot hear them well.”

“I, too,” Simon said, with a sad smile. “I can but hear one that’s within the same house as I.”

“And I, only when they are within a few yards,” the stranger said, nodding. “But so little as that is enough, I wot, so that, now and again, summat of others’ thoughts do come into mine head, unknowing—the thought comes that so-and-so is a-love with such-and-such, or that this one wishes the other dead. And, again and now, I let slip an unguarded word or two, and the one I’m speaking to doth stare at me, in horror, and doth cry, ‘How couldst thou know of that? None have heard it of me; to none have I spoken of it!’ ”

“So they figured out what you were.” Rod nodded.

“Aye; and it cost me what few friends I had, from my earliest years; yet it made me no enemies; for I am, as I’ve said, a most powerless warlock, and all, thankfully, knew that I meant no one harm.”

Rod could believe it. The stranger was short, slump-shouldered and concave-chested, flabby, with a little potbelly. His hair was dun-colored. He had large, pale eyes, a snub nose, and a perpetual hangdog look about him. He couldn’t have been much over thirty, but already his cheeks were beginning to sag. In a year or five, he’d have jowls. A schlemiel, Rod decided, a poor soul who would never intentionally hurt anybody, but would always be clumsy, both physically and socially. “Nobody really wanted you around, huh? But they didn’t mind you, either.”

“Aye,” the stranger said, with a rueful smile.

“I know the way of it,” Simon sighed. “There was such a lad in my village.”

“There always is,” Rod said. “It’s a necessary social function. Everybody needs somebody whose name they can’t quite remember.”

“Well said.” Simon smiled. “And thou dost touch my conscience. How art thou called, goodman?”

“Flaran,” the stranger answered, with the same smile.

“Flaran,” Simon repeated, thoughtfully. “Tell me, Flaran—when Alfar the sorcerer began to rise to power, did thy fellows expect thee to hail him?”

Flaran’s smile gained warmth. “They did that. Thou hast endured it thyself, hast thou not?” And, when Simon nodded, he chuckled. “So I thought; thou hast spoke too much of what I have seen myself. Aye, all my neighbors did think that, solely because I’ve a touch of the Power, I should cry that Alfar was the greatest hope this duchy hath ever seen. Yet I did not. In truth, I said I did not trust the man.”

Simon nodded. “Yet they thought thou didst give them the lie.”

“They did,” Flaran agreed. “Straightaway, then, mine old friends—or neighbors, at least—began to mistrust me; in truth, as Alfar’s fame and power have grown, they have doubted me more and more.”

“Still, thou’rt of them.” Simon frowned. “When last came to last, thou weit of their clan and kind. I would think they would not hound and stone thee.”

“Nor did I—and still I misdoubt me an they would have. But folk began to pass through our village, pushing handcarts and bearing packs upon their backs; and, though we did not have great store of food or ale, ‘Stay,’ we urged them. ‘Nay,’ they answered, ‘for the sorcerer’s armies do march, and we do flee them. We dare not bide, for they’ll swallow up this village also.’ Then they turned, and marched on toward the South.”

Rod and Simon exchanged a quick glance. Simon nodded in corroboration. Rod understood; Simon had been one of the ones who had come marching through the village, and had not stayed. “And this small ball of a man with the great mouth?” Simon turned back to Flaran. “Was he of thy village, or of the strangers?”

“Of the strangers,” Flaran answered, “and he did come into our village crying doom upon all who had any powers.

None could be trusted, quoth he, for all witch folk must needs hate all common men, and must needs fight them; therefore, any witch or warlock must needs be an agent of Alfar’s.”

Simon’s eyes burned. “Indeed? Would I could have done more than send him back to thy village.”

“Nay, friend. Thou wouldst but have made my neighbors certain in their hatred. Even as ‘twas, he did turn my fellows against me—though, in all truth, the news from the North had made them so wary, they needed little turning. I came into the inn for a pint, but when I stood near to the landlord, I heard his thoughts, his rage and mistrust, his secret fear that the fat little stranger might be right, that mayhap all witch folk should be stoned. Nay, I dropped my flagon and fled.”

“And, of course, they all ran after you.” Rod reflected that the pack instinct must have taken over.

Flaran shuddered. “Tis even as thou dost say. ‘Twas not even an hour agone. I dodged and hid, then dodged and ran. At last they found me out, and I could hide no longer. Nay, I fled off down the road—but I was wearied, and must needs fight to stay running. Heaven be praised that thou didst come up the High Road then, or I had been a paste of a person!”

Simon reached out to clap Flaran on the shoulder. “Courage, friend—this bloodlust shall fade, as it hath aforetime. Ever and anon have they come out hunting witches—and ever and anon hath it passed. This shall, also.”

Flaran braved a small smile, but he didn’t look convinced.

Rod wasn’t, either—the whole thing had too much of the deliberate about it. It was preplanned, well-organized whipping-up of sentiment, and there was only one group organized enough to do the whipping-up—but why would Alfar be trying to work up antiesper sentiment?

The answer hit him like a sap, in instant balance to the question: Alfar would whip up the witch hunt to eliminate his competition. After all, the only force in the duchy that could stand against him, were the witches who hadn’t signed up with him. Left alone long enough, they just might band together in self-defense—as Simon and Flaran were doing, even now. If they organized a large enough band of fugitive witches and warlocks, they would constitute a power that might actually unseat him. And what better way to eliminate the independents, than the time-tried old witch hunt?

When you looked at it that way, it made excellent sense—especially since the unaligned espers would tend to be opposed to him; they’d be the most sensitive to his kind of hypnotic tyranny. “Say, uh—did either one of you ever feel one of Alfar’s men trying to take over your mind?”

Both men looked up, startled. Then Simon nodded, gravely. “Aye. It was…” he shuddered, “…most obscene, friend Owen.”

“I could barely feel it,” Flaran added, “yet it turned my stomach and made my gorge to rise. And it raised such a wave of fear in me, that I thought it like to shake me to pieces. To feel fingers of thought, stroking at thy mind…” He broke off, looking queasy.

“Try not to think of it,” Rod said, cursing his impulsiveness. “Sorry I brought it up.” And these two, he reflected, were the gentle kind. What would happen when Alfar’s men tried to take on a warlock who had a bit more arrogance? Or even just one who liked to fight? He would have flown into a rage, and gone hunting for Alfar.

And Rod couldn’t blame him. The thought of someone meddling with his mind started the sullen flow of anger. He recognized it, and tried to relax, let it drain away—but the image of Gwen and the children rose up in his mind, with the instant thought of some overbearing young warlock trying to touch their minds—and the rage exploded with a suddenness that left him defenseless against it, shaking his body with its intensity, wild and searing, searching for a target, any target, striving to master Rod, to make him its instrument. He held himself still, fighting to contain it, to keep it inside himself, to keep it from hurting anyone else.

But both warlocks were staring at him. “My friend,” Simon said, wide-eyed, “art thou well?”

Such a mild question, and so well-intentioned! But it broke the fragile membrane of Rod’s control.

He hurled himself away from the cart, off the road and into the field beside. Don’t hurt them. Let it blow, but don’t hurt them. He needed some way to channel the anger, some way to let it spend itself harmlessly, and running was as good as anything else.

A boulder loomed up ahead of him, a rock outcrop four feet high, with smaller boulders around the base. Rod seized one about a foot across, hefting it up above his head with a grunt of agony. He stood for a moment, poised, glaring at the boulder, then hurled his rock with all his might, shouting, “Blast you!”

The rock hit the boulder with a crack like a gunshot. Stone chips flew, and the smaller rock split and clattered to the base of the boulder.

“Burn in your own magic!” Rod screamed at it. “Fall down a rathole, and forget how to teleport! Jump into the sky, and don’t come back down!” He raged on and on, a five-minute stream of incoherent curses.

Finally, the anger ebbed. Rod sank to one knee, still glaring at the boulder. Then, slowly, he bowed his head, gasping for breath, and waited for the trembling to stop.

When his heartbeat had slowed, he stood up, swaying a little. Then he forced himself to turn back toward the cart, fifty yards away—and saw Flaran staring at him.

But Simon stood near him, leaning on his staff, waiting, watching him with gentle sympathy.

That was what stung—the sympathy. Rod winced at the sight; it magnified his chagrin tenfold. He turned away, muttering, “Sorry about that. I, uh… I don’t do that too often.” I hope.

“Thou didst only as I did feel,” Simon assured him.

“Well… thanks.” That didn’t really help. “I just get outraged at the thought of someone trampling on other people, without even thinking about them!”

Simon nodded. “And when the object of thy wrath is not nigh thee, ‘tis harder to forebear. Indeed, thou didst well to seek a thing of stone unfeeling, to wreak thy vengeance on.”

“But the force of it’s wasted—is that what you’re thinking? Why spend all that energy, without hurting the thing I’m angry at?”

Simon scowled. “I had not thought that—but aye, now that thou dost say it. Tis better husbandry, to contain thine anger till thou canst use its force to right the wrong that angers thee.”

“Easy enough to say,” Rod said, with a sardonic smile. “But how do you contain your anger? I know it sounds simple—but you should try it, sometime! You would…” He broke off, staring at Simon. Slowly, he said, “You have tried it, haven’t you?” Then, nodding, “Yes. I think you have. That last line had the ring of experience behind it.”

“ ‘Tis even so,” Simon admitted.

“You had a temper? You flew into rages? You? Mr. Nice Guy himself? Mr. Calmness? Mr. Phlegmatic? You?”

“Indeed,” Simon admitted, and, for the first time, his smile was tinged with irony. “ ‘Tis not so easy, friend Owen, to hide thy knowledge of others’ thoughts. ‘Tis most tempting, in moments of anger, to use those thoughts against them—to say, ‘Me a coward? When thou didst face the battle with panic clamoring through thy veins, and would have fled, had thy captain not stood behind thee with his sword?’ For indeed, he had marched forward, and none who saw him would have thought him less than brave. Yet I knew, I—and was fool enough to speak it aloud. Then, to another, ‘How canst thou call me a lecher, Father, when thou hast thyself lusted after Tom Plowman’s wife?”

Rod whistled. “You don’t take on the clergy!”

“Aye, but in my youthful pride, I thought that I had power o’er all—for I had but newly learned that I could hear other’s thoughts and, in my delight and careless strength, did hearken to the thoughts of all about me. No person in that town was free from my thought-hearing. When one did sneer at me, I used my hoarded knowledge of his darkest secrets and proclaimed his shame for all to hear! He did swell up with rage, but durst not strike where all might see, and know the truth of what I’d said. Nay, he could only turn away with snarls—and I would gloat, rejoicing in my newfound power.”

Rod frowned. “How long did you get away with that?”

“Thrice.” Simon grimaced, shaking his head. “Three times only. For when the anger passed, the folk I’d wronged began to ponder. They knew they’d never spoken of their secret fears or lusts to any person living. By chance, they spoke to one another…”

“By chance, my rabbit’s foot! You’d insulted each one publicly; they knew who to compare notes with!”

“Like enough,” Simon sighed. “And once they all knew that I’d spoken things none of them had ever said aloud, ‘twas but a small step to see that I must needs be a warlock, and one who would not hesitate to use what knowledge I gained, from others thoughts to their harm. They spread that word throughout the town, of course…”

“ ‘Of course’ is right,” Rod murmured, “especially with the village priest in there. Who’d doubt his word? After all, even if he did covet his neighbor’s wife, at least he didn’t do anything about it.”

“Which is more than could be said for most of his flock,” Simon said, with a tart grimace. “Aye, he too did speak of my ‘fell power’—and the rumor ran through all the town, to harry all my neighbors out against me.” His face twisted with bitterness. “I’ truth, ‘twas no more than my desert; yet I felt betrayed when they came against me as a mob, screaming, ‘Thought thief!’ ‘Slanderer!’ and ‘Sorcerer!’—betrayed, for that most of them had gossiped ‘gainst me, one time or another—yet I’d forgiven them.”

“Yes—but you had a weapon they couldn’t use.”

“Aye—not ‘wouldn’t,’ but ‘couldn’t.’ ” Simon’s grimace turned sardonic. “And for that reason, they did raise the hue and cry, and harried me from their town.” He shuddered, closing his eyes. “Ah, praise Heaven that I have no powers other than thought-hearing! For in mine anger, I would have turned and hurled great stones at them, fireballs, sharp knives; I would have raised these folk up high, and slammed them to the earth!” He shuddered again, and his eyes sprang open, staring.

Rod could see the anger rising in him again, and spoke quickly, calmly. “Easy, easy. It was a long time ago.”

“And the wrong’s been righted. Aye.” Simon managed to dredge up his smile again. “I did learn the error of my ways; I did repent, and did full penance. For when I fled my native village, I wandered, blind with rage, immersed in bitterness, neither knowing nor caring whither my steps progressed. Forty leagues, fifty leagues, an hundred—till at last, worn out with hatred, I sank down in a cave and slept. And in my slumber, a soothing balm did waft to me, to calm my troubled spirit. When I waked, I felt refreshed, made new again. Wondering, I quested with my mind, to seek out the agency that had wrought this miracle. I found a well of holy thought which, in my slumber, I had drawn upon, unwitting. ‘Twas a company of holy brothers and, by great good fortune, the cave I’d tumbled into was scarce an hundred yards from their community.” Simon gazed off into the distance. “My soul did seek their solace, and did lead my steps unto them.”

“Possible,” Rod agreed. “But I thought there was only one monastery in this land—the Abbey of St. Vidicon, down South.”

“Nay; there’s another, here in Romanov, though ‘tis not overlarge.”

Rod nodded, musing. He knew that the main monastery was a conclave of espers, who knew about the outside universe and modern technology, and who were continually experimenting with their psi powers, trying to find new ways to use them. Could this northern monastery be the same type of thing? Maybe not, if they hadn’t noticed Simon’s troubled spirit so close by.

On the other hand, maybe they had… “So just being near the monks, healed your soul.”

Simon nodded. “Indeed, their peace pervaded me. I made a broom, and swept the cave; I made a bed of branch and bracken. As the days passed, I made a cozy house there, and let the friars’ peace still my rage, and fill my soul.” He smiled, gazing off into the past. “Their serenity abides within me still, so deeply did it reach.” He turned to Rod. “After some weeks, I did begin to ponder at their peace and calmness. What was its source? How did they come by it? I hearkened more carefully to their thoughts. And of them all, I found most wondrous were those that dwelt on herbs and their effects. So I commenced to spend much time within the minds of the monks who labored in the stillroom, distilling liquors and elixirs. I drank up every fact, each notion.

As the leaves turned toward winter, I built a door to my cave; I tanned furs and made a coat, then sat down by my fire and hearkened all the more closely; for the monks were pent up for the winter. The snows lay deep; they could not venture forth. Then even friends could grate each upon the other’s nerves. The brotherhood was ripe for rifting. Quarrels did erupt, and I hung upon their every shout, eager to see if they might still be holy. Yet I was amazed; for, even when their tempers flared, the monks remembered their devotions. They forgave each other, turned away!“ Simon sighed, shaking his head. ”How wondrous did it seem!”

“Damn straight!” Rod croaked. “How’d they do it?”

“By their devotion to their God,” Simon said, with a beatific smile, “and by being ever mindful that He, and His Way, were more important than themselves, or their pride—or, aye, even their honor.”

“Their honor?” Rod stiffened, staring. “Hey, now! You can’t mean they thought that God wanted them to be humiliated!”

Simon shook his head. “Nay, quite the contrary! They trusted their God to prevent such!”

Rod felt a certain foreboding creeping over him. He turned his head to the side, watching Simon out of the corners of his eyes. “How was He supposed to do that?”

“By giving them to know, within themselves, which deeds were right to do, and which were wrong. Then, even though a man forebore to do some deed that other men did expect of him, he might yet know himself to be worthy, even though his fellows did jeer. Thus might he turn aside in pride, without a trace of shame—for look thou, when all’s said and done, humiliation is within thee, not something visited upon thee by thy fellows.”

Rod frowned. “Are you trying to tell me a man can save face, even though everybody else is pointing the finger of scorn at him?”

Simon shook his head. “There was never need to. For if any man stepped aside from a quarrel, and another ridiculed him for it, the first had but to say, ‘My God doth not wish it,’ and the other would comprehend, and only respect him for his forebearance. Indeed, ‘twas not even needful for the first man to say aught aloud; ‘twas only needful that he say unto himself, in his heart, ‘My God hath commanded me to love my neighbor,’ and he would not think less of himself for retreating.” He looked directly into Rod’s eyes. “For this ‘honor’ that thou dost hold dear, this ‘face’ thou speakest of, is most truly but thine own opinion of thyself. We commonly suppose that ‘tis what others think of us, but ‘tis not so. ‘Tis simply that most of us have so little regard for ourselves, that we believe others’ opinions of us to be more important than our own. Therefore have we the need to save our countenances—our ‘faces,’ which term means only what others see of us. Yet we know that only by what they say they think of us—so our ‘faces,’ when all is truly said, are others’ opinions of us. We feel we must demand others’ respect, or we cannot respect ourselves.“ He shook his head, smiling. ”But ‘tis false, dost thou see.”

“Surprisingly, I think I do.” Rod frowned. “If any man really has a high opinion of himself, he won’t care what others think of him—as long as he knows he’s good.”

In the cart, Flaran shifted impatiently. He had been following the conversation from a distance and seemed displeased by its direction.

Simon nodded, eyes glowing. “ ‘Tis true, ‘tis true! Yet few are capable of that. Few are so sure of themselves, that their own opinion can matter more to them than all the rest of their fellows’ regard—and those few who are, be also frequently insufferable in their arrogance.”

“Which means,” Rod pointed out, “that they really don’t have much faith in themselves—or they wouldn’t have to make such a show of their supposed superiority.”

“ ‘Tis true, by all accounts. Nay, most of us, to have any sure sense of worth, must needs rely on some authority that’s above us all, that doth assure us we are right. It will suffice, whether it be law, philosophy—or God. Then, should tempers flare, and thou dost draw back thine hand to smite me, and I, in wrath, set mine hand upon my dagger—one of us must needs retreat, or there will be mayhem sure.”

“Yes,” Rod agreed, “but what happens if neither of us is willing to? We’d lose face, we’d lose honor.”

Simon nodded. “But if I can say, ‘I will not strike, because my Lord hath commanded me to love mine enemy’—why, then can I sheathe my dagger, step back, withdraw, and think myself no less a man for the doing of it.” His smile gained warmth. “Thus may my God be ‘the salvation of my countenance.’ ”

Rod nodded slowly. “I can see how that would work—but you’d have to be a real believer.”

“Indeed.” Simon sighed, and shook his head. “Tis the work of a saint, friend Owen—and I am certainly none such.”

Well, Rod had his own opinion about that.

“Yet there was sufficient of the monks’ peace that did invest me so that, when the seasons turned to spring, and a villager came to beseech me for a cure for his cow, which was a-calving, but had taken ill—why, in my loneness, I delighted in his company, even for so short a while. I did distill the herbs that he did need, and sent him on his way. Some weeks later, another came—then another, and another. I welcomed their company, and strove to gain their liking—yet I minded me what I had learned of the good brothers—that the folk themselves were of greater import than their actions, or careless words. Thus did I learn to contain mine anger, and never reveal in wrath aught that I might have learned from their thoughts. Eh, but there were times it was not easy; for though their lips spoke courteously, their minds could hold insults grievous about the weird wood-hermit whose aid they sought.” He smiled, amused at the memory of himself, the staunch innkeeper, as a wild-eyed anchorite. “Yet I was mindful that they were my fellow men, and of infinite worth thereby. Sorely tried I was, from time to time, to utter words that would have blasted pride—the hidden truths about themselves that would have made them shrink within. Yet I forebore, and was ever mindful that they were for cherishing. I served them all, from the poor peasant to the village priest, who first felt me to be a challenge yet finally came to respect me.”

Rod smiled, amused. “Yes. I suppose if you can deal with those who wear their authority like mantles, you can deal with anything.”

“Aye.” Simon frowned, leaning forward. “And even as I have done, so mayest thou do also.”

Rod stared at him a minute, then turned away. He started back toward the roadway, to avoid having to meet Simon’s gaze. “What—withhold my anger, even against such a sink of corruption as Alfar?” He shook his head. “I can’t understand how you can do that, with someone who’s caused so much misery to so many people!”

At the mention of Alfar’s name, Flaran climbed out of the cart, and came to join them where they stood.

“Loose anger at the deeds,” Simon murmured, “but withhold it from the man.”

Rod ground his teeth. “I hear your words, but I can’t comprehend their meaning. How can you separate the man from his actions?”

“By being mindful that any human creature is a precious thing, and can turn aside from his own evil, if he can but recognize it.”

“Can, sure.” Rod’s shoulders shook with a heave of inner laughter. “But, will? What are the odds on that, Master Simon?”

“Any person may be misled.”

Rod shook his head. “You’re assuming that Alfar’s basically good—just an ordinary man, who’s given in to the temptation for revenge, discovered he can actually gain power, and been corrupted by it.”

“Certes.” Simon peered up at him, frowning. “Is it not ever thus, with those who wreak wrong?”

“Maybe—but you’re forgetting the possibility of evil. Actual, spiritual evil.” Rod looked up, and noted Flaran’s presence. He weighed what he was about to say, and decided that he didn’t mind Flaran’s hearing it. “Sure, all human souls have the potential for goodness—but in some, that potential is already buried before they’re two years old. And it’s buried so deeply that it’s almost impossible to uncover it. They grow up believing that nobody’s really capable of giving. They themselves can’t love, or give love—and they assume everybody who talks about it is just putting on an act.” He took a deep breath, and went on. “Though it’s not really necessary to talk about that. All you really need is the word ‘corruption.’ Alfar succumbed to the temptation to do something he knows is wrong, because he loved the idea of being powerful. And now that he’s tasted power, he’ll do anything rather than give it up. No matter who he has to hurt, how many he has to kill, how much suffering he causes. Anything’s better than going back to being what he really is—just an ordinary, humdrum human being, who probably isn’t even very well-liked.”

Flaran’s eyes were huge; he stood frozen.

“Yet be mindful, he’s human,” Simon coaxed. “Hath that no meaning for thee, friend Owen?”

Rod shook his head. “Don’t let the fact that he’s human, make you believe that he thinks you are. He can’t—he’s treating people as though they were bolts for a crossbow—something to use, then forget about. He tramples through other minds without the slightest thought. Doesn’t he realize these are real, feeling people, too?” He shook his head. “He can’t, or he wouldn’t be doing it. He’s got to be totally without a conscience, totally calloused—really, actually, evil.”

“Yet he is a person withal,” Flaran piped up, timidly. “Even Alfar is not a devil, Master Owen.”

“Not in body, maybe,” Rod grunted. “I can believe he doesn’t have horns, or a barbed tail. His soul, though…”

“Yet he doth have a soul,” Flaran pleaded. “Look you, he may be an evil man—but he’s a man nonetheless.”

Rod drew a deep, shaky breath, then let it out slowly. “Friend Flaran… I beg you, leave off! I’ve seen Alfar’s works, and those of his minions. Let us not speak of his humanity.”

Flaran was silent, but he stared at Rod, huge-eyed.

Rod steeled himself against the look and picked up the reins. He slapped them on Fess’s back, and the robot-horse started forward.

When the silence had grown very uncomfortable, Rod asked, “That fat little loudmouth, who was leading that mob—how did he figure out that Flaran was a warlock?”

“Why… he heard my neighbors speak of it. I would guess…”

“Doesn’t seem likely,” Rod said, frowning. “He was a stranger, after all. How would he find out about the local skeletons, so quickly?”

“I think,” Simon said, “that Alfar doth have adherents, minor witches and warlocks who can do little but read minds, salted here and there about the duchy—and their prime duty is to espy those of Power.”

“Oh?” Rod held himself still, kept his tone casual. “How’d you hear about that?”

“I did not; but now and again, I’ve felt the touch of a mind that quested, but did not seek anything, or anyone, of which it was certain. And, anon, I’ve caught snatches of thought clearly between warlocks, warning that such-and-such had some trace of Power.”

“How did they not espy thee?” Flaran asked, surprised.

Simon smiled. “I am, as we’ve said, rather weak at warlockery. And, too, I’ve learned to hide what poor weak powers I have, thinking like one who hath none at all, keeping the surface of my thoughts ever calm, and quite ordinary. Tis the key to not letting slip the odd comment that doth reveal thee—to think like an ordinary man; then you’ll speak and act like one.”

Flaran nodded, gaze locked onto Simon’s face. “I will hearken to that. I will heed thee.”

“Do so; ‘twill save thee much grief. Nay, begin to think like John Common even now, for we never know when Alfar’s spies may be listening.”

Flaran started, darting a quick glance over each shoulder, then huddled in on himself.

“And, friend Owen, there’s naught to fear for thee,” Simon reassured Rod, “no spy would even know thou’rt there!”

Flaran looked up, astounded. “Why! How is that?”

“Oh, I’m, er, uh—invisible. To a mind reader.” Rod said it as nonchalantly as he could, and tried to throttle down a burst of anger. How dare Simon let slip information about him! Serves you right, he told himself, in an attempt at soothing. And it was true; he should’ve known better than to confide in a stranger. But Simon was so damn likeable…

“Ah, if only I could so hide me!” Flaran cried. “Nay, then, tell! How dost thou do it?”

“Nice question,” Rod grated. “I really couldn’t tell you. But I think it has something to do with my basic dislike of all human beings.”

Flaran stared at him, shocked.

“When you really get down to it,” Rod admitted, “I guess I just don’t really like people very well.”

That rather put a damper on the conversation for a while. They rode on northward, each immersed in his own thoughts.

For his part, Rod couldn’t help feeling that both of his companions were trying to become immersed in his thoughts, too. Not that they didn’t both seem to be good people—but Rod was beginning to be very suspicious. The talk about mental spies had made him nervous, and he found himself remembering that Simon and Flaran were both strangers, after all.

A wave of loneliness hit him, and he glanced up at the skies. In spite of the longing, he was relieved to see the air clear, with a singular dearth of winged wildlife. At least his family was safe from getting mixed up in the mess.

Odd, though. He wasn’t used to having Gwen listen to him.