The Warlock Enraged

12

He did notice the squirrel peering at him from the branches, and the doves stopping their preening to watch him from the roof of the inn, as they pulled the cart into an innyard. Rod climbed down and stood, surprised how much his joints ached from the four-hour ride. He tied the reins to a hitching post, and turned back to see Flaran climbing down from the cart also, and Simon stretching his legs carefully.

“Don’t worry,” Rod assured him, “they still work.”

Simon looked up, and smiled. “The question is, do I wish they wouldn’t?”

“Just at a guess, I’d say you’re still having fun.” Rod turned into the inn. “Shall we see what the kitchens hold?”

The question was as much good business as hunger; Rod was able to trade a bushel of produce for three lunches. Flaran insisted on paying Rod the penny he’d been planning to spend on beer, and Simon matched him. Rod protested, but wound up accepting.

Dinner came with a liberal supply of gossip. “Ye come off the road?” the landlord asked, as he set their plates in front of them. “Then say—is’t true, what they say of Alfar?”

“Uh—depends on what you’ve heard,” Rod said, feeling wary. “Myself, I’ve heard a lot about the man.”

“Why, that he has dropped from sight!” A peasant leaned over from another table. “That none have seen him since he took Castle Romanov.”

“Oh, really?” Rod perked up noticeably. “Now, that’s one I hadn’t heard!”

“ ‘Tis most strange, if ‘tis true,” the peasant said. “Here’s a man who hath appeared from nowhere, conquered most of the duchy—and vanished!”

“Ah, but there’s reason, Doln,” an older peasant grinned. “Some say he was stole away by a demon!”

“Eh, Harl—there’s some as says he is a demon,” chirped a grandfather.

“Well, that would certainly explain why he appeared out of nowhere,” Rod said, judiciously.

The third peasant caught the note of skepticism, and looked up with a frown. “Dost’a not believe in demons?”

“Dunno,” Rod said, “I’ve never seen one.”

“Such talk of demons is nonsense, Kench,” Doln scoffed. “Why would demons take him away, when he’s doing good demons’ work?”

“Some say he’s roaming the land, clad as a peasant,” Harl grunted.

“Wherefore should he not?” Kench grinned. “He is a peasant, is he not?”

“Aye, but he’s also a warlock,” Harl reminded, “and they say he seeks through the land for folk who would aid him well in his governing.”

Doln looked up, with a gleam in his eye. “That, I could credit more easily.”

“Thou wilt credit aught,” Kench scoffed.

“Belike he doth prowl unseen,” Harl mused. “Would he not seek out traitors?”

Flaran and Simon stiffened, and Rod could feel little cold prickles running up his spine.

The peasants didn’t like the idea, either. They glanced quickly over their shoulders, twisting their fingers into charms against evil. “How fell it is,” Harl gasped, “to think that one could spy on thee, and thou wouldst never know it!”

Rod thought of mentioning that spies usually tried very hard to make sure nobody noticed them, but decided not to.

“Take heed of those rumors, and thou dost wish it,” the landlord chuckled. “For myself, I note only that the land is well-run.”

The others turned to look at him, lifting their heads slowly.

“That’s so,” Doln nodded. “Dost’a say, then, that Alfar’s still in his castle?”

“Belike,” the landlord shrugged. “ ‘Tis that, or his captains govern well in their own rights.”

“That, I doubt.” Rod shook his head. “I never yet heard of a committee doing any really effective governing. There has to be one man who always has the final say.”

“Well, then.” The landlord turned to Rod with a grin. “I must needs think Alfar’s in his castle.” And he turned away to the kitchen, chuckling and shaking his head. “Rumor! Only fools listen to it!”

“In which case, most people are fools,” Rod said softly to Simon and Flaran. “So, if there’s a rumor going around that you don’t want people to believe, the thing to do is to set up a counter-rumor.”

“Which thou dost think Alfar hath done?” Simon had his small smile on again.

“No doubt of it. Just look at the results—anybody who might ‘been thinking of a counter-coup while Alfar was gone, would be thoroughly scared off. On the other hand, he might really be roaming the countryside in disguise.”

“Would that not make witch folk loyal to him?” Flaran grinned. “For would he not be most likely to choose his own kind, to aid him in his governing?”

With his usual unerring social grace, he had spoken a bit too loudly. Harl looked up, and called out, “All witch folk would be loyal to Alfar. Wherefore ought they not to be?”

Flaran and Simon were instantly on their guard.

Rod tried to pull the sting out of it. He turned to Harl, deliberately casual. “For that matter, wouldn’t every peasant be loyal to him? The rumor’s that he’s looking for talented people for his, uh, reign.”

“Why… ‘tis so.” Harl frowned, suddenly doubtful.

Doln looked up, eyes alight. “Aye! He could not find witches enough to do all the tasks that are needed in governing, could he?”

“No.” Rod repressed a smile. “He certainly couldn’t.”

Doln grinned, and turned to discuss the possibility with Harl and Kench. Rod reflected, with some surprise, that even a Gramarye peasant could have ambition. Which, of course, was perfectly natural; he should have foreseen it. He’d have to discuss the issue with Tuan when he went back to Runnymede; if it wasn’t planned for, it could become dangerous.

He turned back to Flaran. “We can’t be the only ones who’ve figured this out. Now, watch—the common people will all of a sudden start being really loyal, to Alfar—because they’re going to think they have a chance to rise in the world.”

“Indeed they may.” Flaran grinned. “Would not the lowborn have opportunity under the rule of an upstart?”

Rod frowned; the comment was a little too Marxist for his liking. “Yeah, if they happen to be the lucky ones out of thousands, the ones he wanted.”

“Yet I should think that he has these by him already,” said Simon. “He hath chosen his people ere he began this madcap climb. I would not look for him to place any great trust in those new to his banner.”

Flaran frowned; he had definitely not wanted to hear that.

“But the hope of it could make a lot of people like him,” Rod pointed out. “Just the idea that a lowborn peasant’s son has come to rule a duchy, will pull an amazing amount of support to him.”

“Can rumor truly do so much?” Flaran breathed.

“That, and more,” Rod said grimly. “Which is the best reason of all for thinking Alfar’s still in his castle.”

Flaran stared. Then he closed his eyes, shook his head, and opened them again.

“I, too, am puzzled.” Simon frowned. “How can a rumor mean…” His voice trailed off as his face cleared with understanding.

Rod nodded. “All he has to do is stay inside the castle and make sure the rumor gets started. Once it’s running, it’s going to keep building peasant loyalty on the one hand, and make everybody a little more wary about thinking disloyal thoughts, or doing any plotting, on the other—for fear Alfar himself might be listening in.”

Flaran shuddered, and glanced quickly about the room—and, suddenly, Rod had a sinking feeling in his stomach. Alfar could indeed be in that very taproom, could be one of the peasants, could be the landlord, lying in wait for one of Tuan’s agents to come by—such as Rod himself. He could be about to spring the trap on Rod, any second…

Then chagrin hit, and hard on its heels, anger. This was just what Alfar wanted Tuan’s agents to be thinking. It was called “demoralization,” and it had almost worked. Rod’s respect for the sorcerer went up, as his animosity increased. He was amazed that a medieval peasant could be so devious.

On the other hand, maybe he had some help…

Simon leaned over to Rod and murmured, “Do not look, or disguise it if thou must—but yon wench hath kept her eye on us, since we came through the door.”

“That is a little odd,” Rod admitted. “None of us is exactly what you’d call a model of masculine pulchritude.”

“True enough,” Simon answered, with a sardonic smile. “Yet ‘tis not with her eyes alone that she’s kept watch over us.”

“Oh, really?” All of a sudden Rod’s danger sensors were tuned to maximum—not that they’d done much good so far. He pulled out a coin, flipped it—and made sure it “accidentally” flipped her way. As he turned to pick it up, he managed a quick glance at her, and decided it wasn’t much of a surprise that he hadn’t noticed her sooner. She was average size, no heavier than she ought to be, with a pretty enough face and dark blond hair.

Rod picked up the coin and turned back to Simon. “Not exactly your stereotyped witch, is she?”

Simon frowned. “A very ordinary witch, I would say.”

“That’s a contradiction in terms. She’s also not very experienced at hiding her interest.”

“Oh, she doth well enough,” Simon demurred. “Yet I’ve more experience at this sort of hiding than most, Master Owen—and, when one of us doth say that which doth amaze her, her shield doth slip.”

Rod frowned. “Then why didn’t she head for the door as soon as we started talking about her?”

“Because thy mind is hid, let alone thy thoughts—and for myself, I’m thinking one thought and saying another.”

He grinned at Rod’s surprise. “Be not amazed—what women can do, we men may learn to do also. As for Flaran, I speak so softly that he cannot hear.”

Rod glanced quickly at the klutz; he was looking rather nettled. Rod turned back to Simon. “Then there’s no real danger, is there?”

“Oh, there is alarm in her.” Simon glanced at the serving-wench, then back at Rod. “We had best be on our way, Master Owen, and quickly, ere she calls another who doth serve Alfar.”

Rod turned toward the girl, considering risks and coming to a quick decision. “No, I don’t think that’s really necessary.” He beckoned to the wench. Fear leaped in her eyes, but she had no reason for it, and did need to keep her cover while she studied them—so she came. Slowly, as though she were being dragged, but she came. “What may I offer, goodmen? Ale? Or more meat?”

“Neither, just now.” Rod plastered on a friendly smile. “Tell me—does it bother you that I’m not here, when I really am?”

She stared at him in shocked surprise, and Simon muttered, “Well done; she is quite disarmed. Certes, Alfar’s her master. She holds watch for witches.”

Rod’s dagger was out before Simon finished the first sentence, its point touching the wench’s midriff. She stared at the naked steel, horrified.

“Sit.” Rod kept the smile, but it had turned vicious.

“Sir,” she gasped, gaze locked on the blade, “I dare not.”

“Dare not disobey me? No, you don’t. Now sit.”

Trembling, she lowered herself to the empty stool. Rod took her hand, gave her a glowing smile. “Simon, dig around and see what you can find.” He let the smile turn fatuous, clasped both hands around hers, and leaned forward, crooning, “Now, pretty lass, sit still and try to pay no heed to the fingers you’ll feel in your mind—and if their touch disgusts you, be mindful that you would have spoken words with your mind, that would have sent soldiers to slay us.” He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed it, then beamed at her again. “I know—you feel like nothing so much as leaping up and screaming. But if you do, my knife is close at hand—and do not think that you can snatch it with your mind faster than I can stab—for, in this case, the hand is quicker than the mind.” He saw her glance at the knife, and warned, “I assure you, I’ve dealt with witches before.” Which, he reckoned, was his understatement for the year.

Her gaze darted back to his face, terrified. “But… why dost thou kiss mine hand, when thou’rt mine enemy?”

“So that anyone watching… there, young Doln is staring at me—no, don’t look!—and his gaze is anything but friendly. In fact, I think he favors my heart for the main course. No, don’t hope—I assure you, I’m a better fighter than he, far better.” He saw the flicker of fear in her eyes, and decided to press it. “Sit very still, now. You wouldn’t want me to hurt him, would you?”

“Oh, do not!” she cried. Then, realizing she’d given away more than military secrets, she blushed and dropped her eyes.

“Aye, well done,” Simon purred. “Gaze at the tabletop, there’s a good lass, and naught else; think of naught but its grain, and its color… Now!”

The girl stiffened with a gasp, head flung back, eyes shut; then she slumped in her chair.

“Stand away from her!” Doln was on his feet, knife out.

Rod stood slowly, his grin turning wolfish, knifepoint circling. “Why, it shall be as you say—I shall stand away from her. Shall I stand toward you, then?”

Harl scowled and stood up behind Doln, but the youth’s eyes showed doubt. He stood his ground, though—swallowing hard, but he stood.

“Gently, now, gently,” Simon soothed. “She sleeps, lad—she but sleeps.”

Doln glanced at him, then at the unconscious girl, and the white showed all around his eyes.

“Softly, lad.” Rod followed Simon’s lead. “We’re not hurting her.” He darted a quick glance at Simon. “Nay, unless I mistake, my friend seeks to aid her.”

“What manner of aid is this, that steals away her sense?” Doln cried.

“What manner indeed!” Flaran huddled back in his chair, eyes wide with terror.

Kench’s glare would have killed a viper, and Harl gathered himself and stepped up behind Doln.

The girl sighed, and her head rolled back.

“Ask her,” Rod said softly. “She’ll be awake in a minute.”

Doln’s gaze darted to her. Her eyelids fluttered, then opened. She looked around her, uncomprehending, then suddenly realized where she was, and her eyes widened; she gasped.

“Marianne!” Doln dropped to one knee, clasping her hand. “What have these fellows done to thee!”

Her gaze darted down to him; she shrank away. Then she recognized him, and relaxed a little. She looked around, and her gaze centered on Rod. Slowly, it turned to Simon, then back at Doln, and her lips quivered with a smile. “Nay, be not afeared for me, good Doln. I am well—aye, more well than I have been for some weeks.” She turned back to Simon, frowning, then back to Doln. “These goodmen have aided me.”

Doln looked from one to another wildly, “What manner of aid is this, that makes thee to swoon?”

“That, thou dost not need know,” Simon advised. “Stand away, now, I beg thee, for we must have further converse with thy Marianne.”

“I am not his,” she said, with a touch of asperity, then instantly balanced it with a dazzling smile at Doln. “I did not know thou hadst concern of me.”

Doln swallowed heavily, and stood, but his eyes were still on her. “I… I do care for thy welfare, Marianne.”

“I know it, now—and I thank thee.” Her color had come back completely, now. She clasped his hand, and looked up at him through long lashes. “Most deeply do I thank thee. Yet I prithee, do as this goodman doth bid thee, and stand away, good Doln, for truly must I speak with them.”

Reluctantly, Doln backed away from the table—and bumped into Harl, who muttered a curse, and turned away to his stool. Doln did, too, gaze flicking from Simon to Marianne, then to Rod, then back to Marianne again. Then Kench muttered something, and Doln turned to him, frowning, then fell to muttering with Harl and the gaffer, casting frequent glares at Rod and Simon.

He didn’t notice Flaran. But then, who ever did?

Marianne turned back to Simon with a happy smile, patting her hair into place. “I must needs thank thee for more things than one. Nay, ask what thou wilt. I will most gladly answer.”

Rod rubbed a hand over his face to cover a smile, then turned to Simon. “Mind telling me what went on there?”

“Only what thou hast seen aforetime,” Simon answered. “She labored under a spell. I have broken it.”

“A spell?” Rod stared at Marianne, appalled. “A witch!!?!”

“Even so.” The girl bowed her head in shame. “I see now that I must have been.”

Simon reached out and caught her hand. “There’s no shame in it, lass. ‘Tis no fault of thine, that thou wert enchanted.”

“But it is!” She looked up at him, wide-eyed. “For I hid my witch power from the goodfolk, full of guilt and embarrassment—till I began to believe that I was better than they, for I could read minds and make things move by mere thought, whilst they could not. Nay, it did come to seem to me that we witch folk were the true nobility, the new nobility, who could and should rule the world—aye, and better than the lords do!”

“This, thou dost count fault of thine own?” Simon asked, with a smile.

“Is’t not?” She blushed, and looked down. “Alas, that ever I thought so! Yet I did—and no other witch did seem to feel as I did, no honest one; for I listened for their thoughts, and heard them afar. Nay, none thought to lead the witches to their rightful place—not even within the Royal Coven. Thus, when Alfar began to reach out for vassals, declaring he would lead the witch folk on to glory and to rule, I declared him my leader on the instant, and pledged him my fealty. All that he asked, I swore I would do.”

“And the service that he asked of thee?”

“Only this.” She gestured around at the inn in disgust. “Here is my glory and rule! To work as I had done, and watch, then speak to them of any witchfolk I found who, in either deed or thought, did struggle ‘gainst Alfar. So I did—and most joyously.” She plunged her face into her hands, “Eh, what a bitch I have been, what a vile, dastardly traitor! For three witches have I delivered unto them—poor, weak souls, who only sought to flee to safety!” She lifted tragic eyes to gaze at Simon. “Yet truthfully did it seem to me that any witch who did not acclaim Alfar, must needs be a traitor to her own kind. Therefore did I summon aid from Alfar’s coven, and soldiers came, under the command of a warlock, to take those witches away, and…” She buried her face in her hands again. “Aiee! What did they to those poor folk!”

Her shoulders shook with weeping. Simon reached out to touch her, clasping her shoulder. “Nay, be not so grieved! For thou didst these things not of thine own free will and choice!”

Her gaze leaped up to his, tears still coursing down her cheeks. “Yet how could it be otherwise?”

“When first thou didst begin to think thyself greater than thy neighbors, the sorcerer’s folk had already begun their vile work on thee.” Simon’s smile hardened. “These first thoughts, that witches ought to govern by right of birth, were not truly thine. But they were oh, most gently and skillfully worked in, among thoughts of thine own, that thou mightst think them so.”

“Truly?“ she gasped, wide-eyed.

Simon nodded. “Be sure. I have myself slipped through thy thoughts, witch—I must ask they pardon—and I know.”

“Oh, the pardon is instantly given!” she cried. “How can I thank thee, for breaking this spell?” Then her face lit up, and she clapped her hands. “I know! I shall wander northward, and myself seek to break spells that bind goodfolk!”

Rod darted a quick glance at Simon, and saw the foreboding in his face. He turned back to Marianne. “Uh—I don’t think that would be the best idea.”

Her face fell. “Would it not? What, then…”

“Well, basically the same thing—just do it right here.” Rod managed to smile. “What Alfar was having you do, but for our side. Keep working as a servingwench, and spy out witch folk who’re going south. But when you find them, don’t report them to Alfar’s henchmen.”

“But that is so small an aid!” she cried, disappointed.

“Those whom thou dost save will not think it so,” Simon assured her.

“But they would be just as much saved if I were not here at all.”

“Not so.” Rod shook his head. “If you left this post, Alfar’s men would find it out quickly enough, and they’d send some other witch here to do the job. The only way you can protect the fugitives, is to stay here and cover for them.”

“Assuredly there must be work of greater import I can do!”

An imp pricked Rod with temptation. He grinned, and succumbed. “There is, now that you mention it. You can find another witch or two, who plan to stay.”

“Others?” She stared, amazed. “How will that aid?”

“Because each of them can find two other witches,” Rod explained, “and each of those, two more, and so on and on—and we can build up a network of witches opposed to Alfar, all throughout the duchy of Romanov.”

She frowned, shaking her head. “What aid will that be?”

“King Tuan will march North, sooner or later. When he does, we’ll send word through the net, for the witches to gather where the battle’s going to be, to help.”

“Help in a battle?” Her eyes were round. “How?”

“We’ll send word about that, too. Just be ready to do it.”

Slowly, she nodded. “I do not fully comprehend—yet I do trust in thee. I shall do as thou dost bid.”

“Good lass! And don’t worry, you’ll understand plenty. It won’t be very complicated—just to gather at a certain place, and attack whatever part of the sorcerer’s army you’re assigned.”

“An thou sayest it.” She still seemed doubtful. “But how shall I know what to do, or when?”

“Someone will tell you. From now on, your name is, uh, ‘Esmeralda,’ to anyone else in the anti-Alfar network. So, if someone comes in and says he has word for Esmeralda, from Kern…” Again, Rod wished he hadn’t chosen that name. “…you’ll know it’s a message from me.”

“But wherefore ought I not to be called Marianne?”

“So nobody can betray you. This way, if they tell Alfar or his men they’ve a traitor named ‘Esmeralda,’ they won’t know who it really is.”

“And ‘Kern’ is thy false name?”

I sure hope so. “It’s as good a name as any. The whole idea is that we don’t know each other’s real names, remember. Will you do it—be Esmeralda, and watch for witches to not report?”

Slowly, she nodded. “Aye—if thou dost truly believe this is the greatest aid I can offer.”

“Good lass!” Rod clasped her hand, relieved—she was too young, and really too sweet, to wind up in Alfar’s torture chambers. Better to leave her where it was safe. “Now, uh—would you please go reassure your friend Doln, there? I can’t help this feeling that he’s just dying to shove a knife between my ribs.”

“Certes.” She flushed prettily, and stood. “I thank thee, goodman.” She turned away, becoming shy and demure as she neared her swain.

“I think she hath forgot thee quite,” Simon said, with his small smile.

“Yes. And that’s the way it should be, isn’t it?” Rod was watching Doln, whose gaze was riveted to Marianne’s face. He caught her hand, and Rod turned back to Simon and Flaran with a sigh. “Young love! Isn’t it wonderful?”

“In truth.” Simon watched the young couple over Rod’s shoulder. “Yet I cannot help but think, friend Owen, that there’s some truth to her words—not that her thoughts of overweening greatness were her own, nay, but that, shall we say, Alfar’s seeds fell on fertile ground?”

“Oh, well, sure! People can’t be hypnotized if they really don’t want to be—and this particular kind of long-range telepathic hypnosis couldn’t have worked so well if she didn’t already have a bit of that resentful attitude—it’s called ‘feelings of inferiority.’ ”

“Inferiority?” Flaran stared. “Yet how can that be? Witch power makes us greater than other folk!”

Rod didn’t miss the ‘us.’ “Yeah, but they don’t feel that way. All they know is that they stand out, that they’re different, and that if people find out just how different, nobody’ll like them.” He shrugged. “If nobody likes you, you must be inferior. I know it doesn’t really make sense, but that’s how our minds work. And, since nobody can stand to think so little of themselves pretty soon, the warlock starts telling himself that he’s not really inferior—it’s just that everybody’s picking on him, because they’re jealous. And, of course, people do pick on witches—they’ve been doing it, here, for hundreds of years.”

“Aye!” Flaran seized the thought. “Tis not merely a matter of our telling ourselves others bully us—‘tis true!”

“Oh, yeah, it’s easy to feel persecuted, when you really are. But that must mean you’re worse than inferior.” He made a backwards arc with his forefinger. “If people’re picking on you, and they’re nice people, ones you ordinarily like, and all of a sudden, they’re picking on you—then you must be worse than second-rate; you must be evil! But who can stand thinking they’re outright evil?”

“Evil folk,” Flaran answered quickly.

“And there you have it.” Rod spread his hands. “Instead of saying, ‘I’m second-rate,’ they’re saying, ‘I’m evil’—they’d rather be first-rate evil than second-rate good.”

Flaran stared, lost.

“Or!” Rod held up a forefinger. “Or you decide that you’re not evil, and you’re not second-rate, either—they’re just picking on you because they’re jealous. So their picking on you proves that you’re better than they are. They’re just afraid of the competition. They’re out to get you because you’re a threat to them.”

Flaran’s head lifted slowly, and Rod could see his eyes clearing with understanding.

Rod shrugged. “All the witch folk probably have that attitude to some degree—it’s called paranoia. But they keep it under control; they know that even if there’re wisps of truth attached to the notion, there’s more truth in thinking of their neighbors as being basically good folk—which they are. And if the witch has even a grain of humility, she’s as much aware of her faults as she is of her powers—so they manage to keep their feelings of persecution under control. It’s a sort of a balance between paranoia and reality. But it does make them ready, even eager, victims, for Alfar’s style of brainwashing—uh, persuasion.”

Flaran turned away, staring at the table. The color had drained out of his face, and his hands trembled.

Rod watched him, shaking his head with a sad smile. The poor kid, he thought, the poor innocent. In some ways, Flaran probably would have preferred to just go along from day to day for the rest of his life, feeling inferior and picked-on. And it must’ve been very demeaning, to find out that his feelings were, if not normal, at least standard for his condition—it was bad enough being born an esper, but it was worse finding out you weren’t even exceptional.

He turned away, to catch Simon’s eye. The old man had a sympathetic look, and Rod smiled back, nodding. They both knew—it was rough, learning the facts of life.

Back on the road, Rod and Simon tried to strike up a cheerful family topic conversation again; but the mood had changed, and it was an uphill fight all the way. When they each realized that the other guy was trying just as hard, they gave it up.

Of course, the ambiance wasn’t helped much by Flaran riding along on Rod’s other side sunk in gloom, glowering at the road.

So they rode along in silence, the unease and tension growing, until Rod’d had about as much as he could take. “Look Flaran, I know it’s hard to accept the idea that Alfar’s turning the whole population into puppets—but that is what he’s doing. So we have to just admit it, and try to go beyond it, to figure out what we can do about it. See? Feeling lousy won’t do anybody any good.”

Flaran looked up at Rod, and his attention came back, as though from a great distance. Slowly, his eyes focused. “Nay. Nay, ‘tis not that which hath me so bemused, friend Owen.”

Rod just looked at him for a moment.

Then he said, “Oh.” And, “Really?”

He straightened in his seat and tilted his head back, looking down at Flaran a little. “What is bothering you?”

“These thoughts which the servingwench hath uttered.”

“What—about witches being naturally superior?” Rod shook his head. “That’s nonsense.”

“Nay, ‘tis good sense—or, if not good, at least sense.”

Flaran gazed past Rod’s shoulder at the sky. “Truly, witches should rule.”

“Oh, come off it! Next thing I know, you’ll be telling me how Alfar’s really a good guy, and is really freeing the peasants, not conquering them!”

Flaran’s eyes widened. “Why—that is true.” He began to nod, faster and faster. “In truth, ‘tis all true. He doth free the peasants from the rule of the lords.”

Rod turned away, his mouth working, and swallowed heavily. He looked up at Simon. “Check him, will you? Give him the once-over. He sounds as though the spell’s beginning to creep over him.”

“Oh, nay!” Flaran said in scorn, but Simon frowned, gazing off into space for a moment. Then he shook his head. “I do not read even so much as he doth utter, Master Owen—only thoughts of how goodly seem the fields about us, and the face of the wench who served us.” His eyes focused on Rod’s again. “Still, those are not the thoughts of a spellbound mind.”

“Spellbound? Nay, certes!” Flaran cried. “Only because I speak truth, Master Owen?”

“Truth?” Rod snorted. “Somebody must have warped your mind, if you think that’s truth!”

“Nay, then—lay it out and look at it!” Flaran spread his hands. “It doth seem the common people must needs have masters…”

“I could dispute that,” Rod growled.

“But not gainsay it! From all that I have seen, ‘tis true!” Flaran craned his neck to look over Rod’s shoulder at Simon. “Wouldst thou not say so, Master Simon?”

“Someone must govern,” Simon admitted reluctantly.

“And if one must govern—why, then, one must be master!” Flaran slapped his knee. “And is it not far better for the peasant folk to have masters who were born, as they were, peasants? Who know the pain of poverty, and the grinding toil of the common folk? Is that not far better for them than the rule of those who are born to silver plates and ruby rings, in castles, who have never known a hard day’s work, nor a moment’s want? Nay, these lords even look down from their high towers, and speak of we poor folk as though we were chattels! Things to be owned! Cattle! Not men and women!”

Rod stared, horrified. “Where’d you hear that line of rubbish?”

Flaran reddened. “Can there be truth in rubbish?”

“I don’t know who you’ve been talking to,” Rod said, “but it sure wasn’t a lord. Most of ‘em don’t say things like that—and where would you have had a chance to hear ‘em talking, anyway?”

“Mine ears do be large, Master Owen. I may be foolish in my speaking, but I am wise in my listening. I have spoken with folk who serve the lords, and thus have I learned how they speak of us. And, too, I have hearkened to my neighbors, to their groans and cries of grief under the lords’ rule—and I cannot help but think that they do not serve the best of masters.” Flaran shook his head. “Nay, the words of that servingwench do make most excellent sense—for who could better know the people’s wants, than those who can hear their thoughts? And who can better guard them in their labors, than one who knows what it is to labor so?”

“Excuses,” Rod growled. He turned away, and saw, in the distance, a party of peasants coming out of a side road, clad in rough homespun and bowed under the weight of huge packs. “There!” He stabbed a finger at them. “That’s the kind of sense you’ve been making! Poor people, wandering the roads, lost and alone, because their homes have been destroyed in battle! Folk bereft, whose villages still stand, but who have packed what they can carry and have fled, because they fear the rule of an upstart they don’t trust!”

“Yet peasants’ homes do ever burn in wars,” Flaran cried, “ever and aye, when the lords do seek to resolve some private quarrel with their armies! This time, at the least, the war may bring them some benefit, for he who wins will have been born among them!”

“Excuses,” Rod said again, “rationalizations!” He turned to look squarely at Flaran. “Let me tell you what that is—a rationalization. It’s giving something the appearance of rationality, of reason, when it doesn’t have the reality of it. It’s finding a way to justify what you want to do, anyway. It’s finding an excuse for something you’ve already done—a way to make it seem to be good, when it really isn’t. That’s all you’re doing here—trying to find a way to make the wrong things you want to do, seem right. All your arguments really boil down to, ‘I want power, so I’m going to take it.’ And the real reasons are envy and revenge!”

He noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that the peasants had stopped, staring up at them, on both sides of the cart. All the better—let witnesses hear it!

“Yet how canst thou speak so?” Flaran frowned, cocking his head to the side. “Thou hast thyself an enormous power!”

Rod froze. How had he let his cover slip? “What… power… is… that?”

“Why, the talent of not being seen by the mind! Our friend Simon hath said it—to a thought-hearer, thou dost not seem to be here at all!”

“Nay, then!” the younger man cried, “even I have noticed it, weak though my powers are!”

Rod shrugged; that was explanation enough, for the moment.

“How great a talent that is!” Flaran cried. “What great advantage must it needs give thee, if one doth seek thee with evil intent! If thou wert of Alfar’s band, he would surely create thee Duke of Spies!” He smiled, leaning forward, eyes glittering. “Would that not be most excellent, Master Owen? Wouldst thou not be delighted to be a duke?”

“I’d say it would be horrible,” Rod grated. “Do you realize what that would mean? I’d be helping to enforce one of the harshest tyrannies humanity has ever known! Stop and think!” He held up a forefinger. “Even under the tightest dictatorships Old Terra ever knew, people have still been able to have one thing that was theirs, alone to themselves—their minds. At least their thoughts were free. But Alfar’s trying to change that; he’s trying to set up a tyranny so complete that nobody can even call his thoughts his own!”

“How small a thing that is!” Flaran waved away the objection. “Thoughts are naught, Master Owen—they are gossamer, mere spiders’ webs! What are free thoughts against a filled belly, and an ease of grinding toil? What is freedom of thought, against freedom from want? What worth hath the secrecy of the mind, when weighed against the knowledge that the King doth hold every least peasant to be his own equal? But think!” He gazed off into space, eyes glittering. “Think how sweet this land could be, an witches ruled it! What an earthly paradise we could make here for ourselves, an folk of good heart could labor freely with their minds, to build it!”

Rod stared, astounded by the younger man’s enthusiasm.

Then he leaned back, letting his mouth twist to show his skepticism. “All right—tell me.”

“Why! What could they not do, an witches could use their power openly? Never would there be drought or flood, for witches could move the storms about so as to water all the land! Never would murrain slay cattle or other stock, for witches could be open in their curing! Nor, for that matter, would folk need to die from illness, when witch-physicians could be by to aid them! Never would the peasants go hungry, to give their substance unto their lord, that he might deck himself with finery, or gamble through the night! Never would the people grumble in their misery, unheard, for a warlock would hear their thoughts, and find a means of ending that which troubled them!”

“Yeah, unless those peasants were grumbling because the king-warlock was doing something they didn’t like! Then he’d just shut them up, by hypnotism!”

“Oh, such would be so few!” Flaran gave him a look of disgust. “Why trouble thyself for a mere handful of malcontents? Ever will some few be discontented with their lot!”

“Right—and Alfar’s one of them! But it wouldn’t be just a few malcontents, if the witch folk ruled—it’d be the vast majority, the normals, who’d be feeling like half-humans, because they didn’t have any witch power! And they’d resent the governing ones who did—but they’d know the witches would wipe out anybody who dared utter it! So they’d keep quiet, but live in terror, and their whole lives would be one long torture! Just ordinary people, like these men around us!” He gestured at the peasants, who were pressing close all about them, eyes burning. “Better move along, boys. I’m having trouble keeping my temper; and when warlocks fight, bystanders may get hit with stray magic.”

“Ah, art thou a warlock, then?” Flaran cried.

Rod ground his teeth in frustration, furious with himself for the slip he’d made; but he made a brave try at covering. “According to you, I am. Didn’t you just say my invisible mind was a great talent?”

“In truth I did—and if thou art a warlock, then art thou also a traitor!” Flaran leaped to his feet, face dark with anger, suddenly seeming bigger—almost a genuine threat.

Rod wasn’t exactly feeling pacific, himself. “Watch your tongue! I’m a King’s man, and loyal to the bone!”

“Then art thou a traitor to witchhood!” Flaran stormed. “Naught but a tool for hire, and the King’s pay is best! Nay, thus art thou but a tool of the lordlings, a toy in their games—but it is we who are their pawns and moved about the land for their mere amusement! And thou dost abet them! Thou, who, by blood, ought to join with Alfar and oppose them! Nay, thou’rt worse than a traitor—thou’rt a shameless slave!”

“Watch your tongue!” Rod sprang to his feet, and the cart rocked dangerously. But Flaran kept his footing easily, and, for some reason, that ignited Rod’s anger into a blowtorch. “Beware who you’re calling a slave! You’ve fallen so far under Alfar’s spell that you’ve become nothing but his puppet!”

“Nay—his votary!” Flaran’s eyes burned with sudden zeal. “Fool thou art, not to see his greatness! For Alfar will triumph, and all witch folk with him—Alfar will reign, and those self-sold witches who do oppose him, will die in torments of fire! Alfar is the future, and all who obstruct him will be ground into dust! Kneel, fool!” he roared, leaping up onto the cart-seat, finger spearing down at Rod. “Kneel to Alfar, and swear him thy loyalty, or a traitor’s death shalt thou die!”

The thin tissue of Rod’s self-control tore, and rage erupted. “Who the hell do you think you are, to tell me what to swear! You idiot, you dog’s-meat gull! He’s ground your ego into powder, and there’s nothing left of the real you! You don’t exist anymore!”

“Nay—I exist, but thou shalt not!” Flaran yanked a quarterstaff from the peasant next to him and smashed a two-handed blow down at Rod.

Rod ducked inside the swing, coming up next to Flaran with his dagger in his hand, but a dozen hands seized him and yanked him back, the sky reeled above him, framed by peasant faces with burning eyes. He saw a club swinging down at him—and, where the peasants’ smocks had come open at the necks, chain mail and a glimpse of green-and-brown livery.

Then pain exploded through Rod’s forehead, and night came early.