The Warlock Heretical

Chapter Fourteen

As Rod moved through the darkened forest, he began to feel the presence of other people around him. Soon he could hear them whispering to one another, with the occasional nervous giggle, as though they were a bunch of schoolchildren sneaking off to do something forbidden. Then, through a gap in the leaves, he saw orange light with silhouettes of his fellow travelers before it. The light expanded, and Rod came out into a clearing.

A monk stood on a stump at its far side, flanked by branches stuck into the ground, with their tops flaring torches— makeshift candelabra. The sight of the man's tonsure and robe was enough to raise Rod's hackles. Are you up there, Cordelia? To play safe, he was thinking in the family mode Gwen had invented, and he heard Cordelia's answer in the same compressed fashion: Aye, Papa. 'Tis like looking down on a church from the choir loft.

I don't think that's accidental, 'Delia. Now, remember—we just listen; we don't do anything.

I shall be mindful of it, Papa, she thought, with some asperity.

The unvoiced thought was: Will you? It was nice of her not to think it, though. Rod had to admit she had a point; he was the one with the temper.

"Dearly beloved!" the monk cried, holding up both hands.

The crowd quieted.

"I bring thee news from our Most Reverend Archbishop," the monk called, and the crowd muttered with enthusiasm. The hairs on the back of Rod's neck prickled; they were in Tudor's demesne, and Tudor was a Papist. These peasants, apparently, were the ones who were partial to the Church of Gramarye—or at least curious about it. No wonder the keeper had passed the word in secret.

"The Archbishop doth delight in thy steadfast adherence to him," the monk continued, perhaps overstating the case. "The godly lords gather to him at the monastery, and prospects prosper for the Reign of Right!"

The crowd cheered, though not exactly with great vigor. The friar ignored the fact. "He doth send thee now word of his latest search for truth. Thou knowest all that priests may not wed; thus hath Rome ruled down the ages."

A mutter began with some foreboding in it. Rod didn't blame the peasants; he didn't think he was going to like what was coming.

"This ruling was made for base causes," the preacher lectured. "For the first thousand years of the Church, there was no bar to priests wedding and rearing up families. Yet those sons who, like their fathers, took the cassock, did frequently serve in the same parish that their fathers had. Thus did one parish pass from father to son for many generations, till the authority of that parish, and the income from it, was the priestly family's, not Rome's. The Pope could not abide such a challenge to his rule, nor the thought of all the shillings that did not come to him; therefore he did forbid priests to marry."

The crowd burst into incredulous jabbering.

Is't true, Papa? Rod could feel the disturbance in Cordelia's thoughts. Partly, 'Delia, he answered. There were other reasons, too, more spiritual ones. Bet this preacher doesn't mention them, though.

Nay, he would not, would he? Her doubts quieted, and Rod felt his daughter's natural strength of will returning. He smiled, and listened as the preacher began calling again. "Our good Archbishop doth think this reasoning specious, and unworthy of a Pope entrusted to concern himself only with men's souls. Therefore hath he declared that priests need no longer hold themselves apart from family life…"

The crowd's noise swamped him before he could finish the sentence, and here and there, people turned away into the forest.

"He doth declare!" the priest cried, waving his hands. "He doth declare!"

The people finally quieted enough to hear him.

"He doth declare, our noble Archbishop, that priests may marry!"

Then it was all over. The people argued furiously among themselves, and many of them turned and went away, walking as quickly as they could into the dark forest. But some stayed and crowded around the priest, asking questions at a furious rate. He did the best he could to answer each separate objection.

Can there be good in this. Papa? Rod could hear the trepidation in Cordelia's thought.

What could he say? It's debatable, 'Delia—there's a lot to say on both sides. Me, I feel more comfortable with a priest who doesn't have to worry about being home on time for dinner.

I, too…

The people began to leave, and the knot around the priest loosened as they stepped aside to argue among themselves. The friar stepped down from the stump, his exhaustion showing.

" 'Twas nobly said, Father." A village girl stepped up a little too close to the priest, hands behind her back, skirts swaying, smiling up at the priest, then blushing and lowering her eyes. "Assuredly, if the priests are the best of us, they should rear up sons, should they not?"

The priest took an involuntary step back, blanching, and the girl took another step forward with a dazzling smile.

Why, the shameless hussy! Cordelia thought, scandalized. She doth woo him!

Well, that's the other side of it. Suddenly Rod was concerned for his daughter. If you let the priests marry, they're not safe from predatory females any more.

"Why… aye, there's truth in that." The priest rallied bravely. "Yet 'twould be an ill life for a woman, lass. A priest must ever be out and about, tending his flock."

"The more reason, then, why he would need a woman he could trust, in his house," the girl returned. "And, too, he would then not need trouble himself o'er the temptations of the flesh."

The priest's eyes widened; apparently he hadn't thought of that aspect of it. He began to smile, and stepped closer to the girl. "Aye, he would not, would he? For such impulses would then become virtuous, even as they are for any married man. What is thy name, daughter?"

She'll not be his daughter—she'll bear him one! Cordelia thought, fuming. How can he be so blind as not to see that she doth desire not him, but his rank?

Men are generally pretty dumb about that. Rod thought about a few episodes from his own past and winced. He appreciated the irony of her reaction, but also realized that her faith in the clergy had been shaken, and with it, her faith in her religion. Just remember, dear—men being weak doesn't make God any smaller.

There were no words in answer, only a feeling of confusion, and Rod decided his daughter needed his presence. He stepped back into the forest, thinking, Come on down. I think it's time to go home.

He caught Cordelia's quick mental image of free flight through the crisp night air, and the feeling of cleanliness she associated with it. His mouth tightened; his little girl was beginning to have some vague notion that people could be dirty in soul as well as body.

Including archbishops, of course. Sure, John Widdecombe could have been very sincere about the theological reasons why priests should be allowed to marry—but Rod doubted it.

" 'Twas a thing of witch moss, then?" Brom frowned.

"Aye, milord," Puck affirmed. "The dog's tracks led there—and we.saw him make a walking tree."

" 'Twas but a wee one, though," Kelly qualified. "In truth, 'twas scarce more than a sapling."

"I doubt not it will grow, whensoe'er it doth chance upon another batch of witch moss," Brom rumbled. "Thou hast the right of it, Robin. And he wrought it quickly?"

"It could not have taken more than the quarter of an hour, Majesty, if that."

"Most expert, then—only the Lady Gwendylon could do better." Brom stifled a fatuous smile. "And he had a tonsure?"

"He had, my lord, unless he'd chanced to lose his hair in so perfect a circle."

"Still, he was old enough for it to have done so," Kelly maintained.

"What, art thou his advocate?" Puck rounded on the elf. "Be still, abbey lubber!"

"Who dost thou call lubber, lob of spirits? I'll have thee know—"

"Thou'lt have him know naught," Brom boomed. "Wilt thou waste all our time in contention, while this Archbishop doth afright all the peasants into bringing down the King? Nay, go thou and wait by the crafter's cot, that thou mayest follow his every step doth he go out! Go there, and bide in patience, till Their Majesties' troops can come!"

The door crashed open, and the peasant bolted up off his pallet—but two soldiers caught his arms behind him even as he staggered to his feet, and another whipped rope about his wrists. Dazed, he blinked about him at the hard-faced men in mail shirts with pikes in their hands. "What… what dost thou? Wherefore hast thou sprung upon me? I have naught thou couldst wish!"

But the soldiers turned him to face a man wearing a light helmet and a hauberk with a sword at his hip, standing with arms akimbo, glaring at him. "Thou hast made monsters and set them to afright the poor folk." Without taking his eyes off the peasant, he called out, "He is secure, my lady!"

Then a beautiful, shapely redhead stepped into the hut, and the peasant blanched, for he recognized the Lady Gwendylon.

"Do not seek to deny it," she advised him, "for we have report from two who saw thee make a walking tree. Tell me now why thou hast done it."

The peasant's face gelled. "Nay. Thou shalt learn naught from me."

And he meant it, Gwen knew, for his mind seemed totally empty; mentally, she perceived him only as a blank, smooth curve. Then, suddenly, an imperative thought leaped out of that globe, a command to come, to fight, and Gwendylon spun toward the door.

The thing burst in with twin howls of rage, eyes burning in both its heads. The knight whipped about, his sword drawn; but Gwendylon scowled, staring at the two-headed dog, and its form began to blur even as it leaped at her, like wax on a hot rock. The knight yelled and leaped in between Gwen and the dog, but what thudded against his chest was no longer a beast, only a formless mass of churning gray. It bounced off him and fell to the floor, and the knight stepped back, turning a delicate shade of avocado; but Gwen glared at the mass of witch moss, and it split in half. Both halves split again, and again and again, until it lay in forty little, shapeless blobs. Each blob sprouted a shoot, which fractured into leaves, turning yellowish brown—and a bushel of onions rolled about the floor.

The peasant stared at them, his face ashen.

Gwen turned her glare on him. "I advise thee not to seek to make them turn to aught that might think to strike a blow."

"I… I will not, Lady." It was as good as an admission of defeat.

"Tell me, then," she commanded, "wherefore thou hast left thy monastery to come unto this wood."

He looked at her, appalled; then his expression hardened again. "An excellent device, seeking to shock me into speaking; yet I do know 'twas but a fortunate conjecture."

"Thou hast too perfect a bald spot for a common peasant," Gwen pointed out, "and thou art too well fed for a forest hermit. Nay, further, thou hast not the wild look of one who dwells apart. Wherefore shouldst thou not say truth?"

"I will not hold with heretics." And his mind was still a bland, smooth globe.

Gwen frowned at him, weighing her chances. Then she smiled, and her voice softened amazingly. "Yet thou art alone, here in the fearsome wood by thyself, and far from human company. Truthfully, thou must needs miss thy comrades greatly, Father."

"Not 'Father,'" he said automatically. "I can claim not that—" Then he stopped, annoyed at his own slip. She could see his thoughts work by the look on his face, though she could not hear them; he hadn't really let any information out, hadn't actually said he was a monk. She poured the oil on. "Come, thou art a good man, and hast ever sought to be—and thou art caught clearly now; there is no chance thou mayest return, till this coil's unwound. It must be hard for thee, to be constrained to making devices that will terrify poor good folk." Doubt in his face, now, and the first signs of weakening; Gwen gave him her saddest, most sympathetic smile. "Belike thou art troubled sorely about the rift, and those monks who have gone off to found their own chapter. Come, dost thou not ache for their good company?"

The peasant's mouth tightened with chagrin, and he admitted, "I do miss them sorely, Lady."

"And art worried for their safety? Nay, why not say it?"

"I am," he admitted, "for they are truly my brothers in spirit."

Gwen nodded. "Closer than thy mother's sons could be, I wot. Nay, say thy name, good friar, so that I may know to whom I speak."

He gazed at her, then gave up with a sigh. "I am Brother Clancy, Lady, and I ken not how thou couldst pierce my shield and con my thoughts. Thou art the Lady Gallowglass, art thou not?"

"I am," Gwen confirmed, fighting not to let show the soaring triumph that she felt. "If thou knowest me by repute, good friar, thou must needs know there's only honor in having maintained thy silence against me for so long."

"Thou art a most puissant dame," Brother Clancy admitted, "and thou hast the right of it—I do regret most shrewdly the making of false haunts to afright poor villagers."

The soldiers lifted their heads, outrage in their faces, but at a look from Gwen they bit their tongues. "I am sure thou must needs be so, for thou hast ever sought to give only aid and comfort, hast thou not?"

"Aye, I have," Brother Clancy said, with a sad smile. " 'Tis more the office of our order."

"And belike thou dost regret the rift with Rome."

Gwen wasn't prepared for the huge wrench of anguish that distorted Brother Clancy's features. "Oh, Lady! I am so filled with dread! All my life I have sought to serve the Church and Pope, for thereby serve I God—yet to have that prop and fundament broke out from 'neath my feet… ! Oh, 'tis agony, 'tis deepest doubt, that doth prey upon my soul both day and—" Suddenly his eyes cleared as he realized what he'd been saying, and he stared at her in horror.

Gwen tried to look her most commiserating.

"Eh, thou'rt skilled, thou!" he breathed. "Thou hast brought me from beginning to speak only what thou dost already know, to say what thou canst only guess at! Ah, but thou'lt have no further word from me!" He shut his mouth so hard she could hear his teeth snap against each other.

Gwen shook her head sadly. "Thou hast said little enough, good friar." She turned to the knight. "Come, escort him to the castle, Sir Fralkin, and see him housed with what comfort a tower cell can afford." And she stood aside, sighing and shaking her head as they led him out-—then let her spirits loose to soar with a silent cry of triumph. True, he had told her fairly little—but he had confirmed her most important suspicion. He was not a hireling warlock who had allied with the Archbishop, but one of the monks themselves, a Cathodean friar disguised as a peasant! There was not only the one monastic magic-worker—the projective orator Tuan had caught—but this other, a witch-moss crafter.

Her mood steadied at a thought that gave her pause: if there were two esper monks, there might be others.

Just how many of them were there?

"Both monks?" Catharine stared.

"I might comprehend one as the working of chance," Tuan said, "yet two?"

" 'Tis scarcely an undue number, of their hundreds," Brom rumbled. "Yet I own amazement; I had thought the monks opposed to witchfolk."

"They have seemed so," Tuan said, frowning, "though we have ever judged them, of necessity, by those we met without the monastery. Mayhap those of the cloister are more tolerant."

Gwen spread her hands. "If they are so, mayhap the cloister doth draw such spirits, Majesties."

"Wherefore?"

"For that 'tis one place wherein they need not fear for their lives," Gwen guessed.

Tuan nodded slowly. "A good thought, Lady Gallowglass."

"Yet better would be one to counter them." Catharine frowned, her anger almost an aura about her. "How doth one oppose such witchfolk?" Then her face cleared as she heard her own words. "Why, with more witchfolk, doth one not?"

Tuan nodded, eyes glittering. "In this instance, sweet wife, I will not scruple to use the Royal Coven."

The woods were dark and gloomy, with just a few shafts of moonlight to make them seem more eerie. Elsa picked her way carefully over the roots in the trail, holding her torch high, heart racing with fright. The branches loomed close, twigs crooked to catch at her hair, and she felt eyes on her back constantly—but when she turned to look, nothing was there. She shuddered and hurried onward. Not for the King himself would she have dared this forbidding woodland at night—but for a chance of seeing Orlof again, of at least hearing his voice… ! And this spirit-man who had built his hut in these woods this week past, seemed to have the gift—at least, so said old Cressida, who had first found him, and who said she had spoken with the ghost of old Lothrain…

There it was, a brush lean-to in a clearing, almost a thicket by itself—but the weird old man sat by his fire before it, chanting as he fed herbs into a small, steaming kettle. Elsa's heart leaped into her throat, and she almost turned and fled, then remembered sweet Orlof, lying with his bright blood around him where Sir Grimal had run him through, for nothing but trying to protect his wife Elsa from the knight's advances! Hatred burned up in her, and guilt, for Orlof would still be alive if he had not wed her! Desire welled up, desire to speak to him, to hear him say he forgave her, and she stepped forward into the clearing.

The weird old man looked up at the sound of her footfall. "Come, child. Do not fear me."

But it was hard not to, with the firelight streaming upward, making his features look unearthly, and with the steam from his kettle wreathing his face. Still, she came, though she felt her heart must shake her apart, and knelt near his fire, grounding her torch.

"Thou dost wish to speak to the shade of thy dead husband," the old man sighed. "Well, I shall conjure him for thee. Yet what shalt thou give me for fee?"

Elsa blushed and lowered her eyes. What could she give, save herself? But surely Orlof would hate her for it! He might forgive her for what Sir Grimal had done—that was forced, not given. But this? She touched her ring, remembering Orlof and his love.

"Nay." The old man's voice was the sound of the breeze among twigs. "Thy ring is sacred; I'll not take it for witch work. Yet I shall shear thy hair, for I've use for it."

Elsa looked up, startled and frightened. Her hair? Her long, glistening flow of hair, that Orlof had so loved? What use could—

She bit down on the thought. What use the witch-man might have for her hair, she did not wish to know—and she could surely grow more. It was fitting, too, to give it for Orlof. "Take it, then," she breathed, and untied her kerchief, bowing her head.

It was quickly done, a few strokes with great shears, and she bound her kerchief about her head again with a sob, to hide the ragged ends; but she felt a certain satisfaction; it was fitting, for mourning.

The witch-man spread the rich fall of hair across his knees and nodded. " Tis well." Then he sat back, rolling his eyes up and intoning, "Oh, Orlof, come forth! Come now from that other world; come speak to the one who most loves thee, come forth, come forth, come forth…" His words trailed off into a moan; his eyes were open, but only the whites showed. Elsa shuddered, looked away…

And saw the steam coalescing above the kettle.

It slowed as it welled up from the brew, swirling into a globe, a ball the size of a head. Indeed, it took on the semblance of a head; it eddied into eyes, nose, and mouth; it peaked as a peasant cap peaks; it was Orlof's head, floating there above the kettle, Orlof's lips that opened and hissed,

Elsa, do not believe! This is not Orlof's face, but a clever dream only!

The weird old man snapped forward, his eyes rolling down, staring. Then he scowled furiously, glaring at the wraith—but it stayed, and its lips formed more words in spite of him. This witch-man cannot bring Orlof back, but can only give thee an image that he doth craft himself! 'Tis not thy dead husband would speak, but this old witch-man only!

Elsa screamed, rising to her feet, screams that formed into words as her hands hooked into claws, and the old man jolted up and away from her, kicking over his stool and raising his hands to protect himself; but thunder shook the grove and three young men stood behind him, reaching for him. He took one horrified look at them and screamed, then exploded and was gone.

Elsa screamed still, screamed and screamed, feeling her mind begin to shred, but a young woman stepped forth from the trees, a peasant her own age, hands uplifted, arms wide, saying, "Oh, poor lass, poor lass! What vile things have they done to thee, these wretched, twisted men!"

Elsa's screams wrenched off; she stared, amazed, as the young woman stepped forward, her face all sympathy, crooning, "Poor Elsa, poor, poor lass!"

Elsa took one halting step forward, then collapsed into the stranger woman's arms, sobbing and sobbing as the pieces of her mind began to pull themselves together again, and her heart began to realize the horror was past.

"Oh! Tis so great a scandal, Maria!" the woman said as she hauled her bucket across the village common.

" 'Tis in truth, Rillis! That Their Majesties should so defy the Abbot!" Maria answered, hefting her own bucket.

"The Archbishop, thou dost mean," Matilda sniffed. "An thou wilt hold Their Majesties wrong in opposing him, goodwives, thou must needs call him 'Archbishop' now."

A goat looked up and bleated as they passed.

"I will not say that, Tilda." Maria frowned. "Who hath raised him, eh? Only himself."

"Hath he not the right to so do, Maria?" Rillis demanded. "He is the highest priest of the land!"

"Why, so might thine husband proclaim himself squire, Rillis. Would that make him so?" Maria demanded as they came to the village well.

Rillis started to giggle, and clapped a hand over her own mouth. "For shame, Maria! To make me laugh at mine own husband! Wherefore didst thou not speak of thine own?"

"For that her Rolf would not dare to term himself aught she might decry." Matilda swung her bucket up to the well curb. "My Jack, now, scarce would have pride enough to term himself a plowman."

"Only for that he would then have to plow, Matilda. He might, though, call himself a layabout."

Matilda managed to convert her peal of laughter into an indignant snort.

"Well, so much for the follies of mankind, my godsibs," Maria sighed, laying hold of the crank. "Now for the wisdom of womankind. Shall we have some water for the cleansing of our houses?"

"And for the pot." Rillis set her hands on the crank from the other side. "Up with the bucket, now!"

"I shall have a sip of it first," Matilda decided, bending over to peer down into the gloom. "Ah, 'tis so cool and… ahhhl" She screamed.

Maria nearly let go of the crank, but not quite—which was a good thing, because Rillis did. "Matilda! What—"

But Matilda was past speaking; she cowered back, hands over her mouth, pale and trembling.

"What can it be she hath seen?" Rillis turned to look, and drew back with a gasp. "Maria! Let go!"

"What dost thou see?"

"A dragon's worm! Tis a horrid thing, with a gaping maw and scales of sickly yellow! Its wings have sprouted, and its tail hath a sting! Maria, let go't"

Maria heard a furious hiss from the well, seeming to fill all the air about her. She let go of the crank as though it were a live coal. It spun, and the well rang with a scream so high-pitched they could scarcely hear it, dwindling, gaining echo, till the bucket splashed.

The three women stared at one another, horrified. Rillis found her voice first. "What now shall we drink?" She whispered.

"Drink be hanged, godsib! What shall we do when 'tis grown!"

"It shall not grow."

The three spun about.

She couldn't have been older than twenty-five, but she bore herself with the authority of a knight's lady. She wore peasant's clothes, as they did, but of a richer fabric and more vivid colors, and she came toward them with a gentle smile, but a look of grim purpose in her eyes.

"Who art thou?" Maria breathed.

"I am a witch of the Royal Coven," the stranger answered. "As for thy worm, behold!" She stepped up to the well and frowned, gazing down at it.

The three women glanced at one another, then plucked up their courage and stepped up to peek.

They saw the worm shrink and harden, hissing furiously as its wings grew and spread, till the hissing stopped and there was scarcely any body at all. But the wings were huge, a foot across at least, and of so marvelous a swirl of rainbow hues as to make the women gasp. It drifted up from the well, a magnificent butterfly—but, harmless though it was, they ducked out of its way as it rose above the curb and hovered inside the well for a moment. The stranger frowned at it, and it sped away, rising to glide off into the forest on a vagrant breeze.

The stranger relaxed, and there was a sheen on her forehead as she turned to the three women. " 'Twas no true worm, but a crafting of witch moss. 'Tis sped now, and shall trouble thee no more."

The women stared; then Maria found her voice. "Who… who crafted it?"

"Some malicious witch who doth strive 'gainst Their Majesties' rule."

"What if that witch doth transform it to a worm again?"

"Why, then, I shall banish it again—I, or another like me." The young woman gave them a radiant smile. "Fear not, goodwives—the King and Queen do ward and care for their folk."

She turned and moved away into the forest. The three women stared after her in the heat of the midday sun.

Then Matilda straightened, a gleam in her eye. "Well, godsibs! Shall we have a tale to tell this even!"

Dinner was done, and the grown-ups wandered out of their cottages to stand in groups, chatting, while the children ran about, tagging each other and wrangling—a normal Gramarye village evening.

"Hear the Word of the Lord!"

Where the preacher had come from, no one knew, but they all stilled and looked at him, with .more dread than surprise on their faces. The clergy had not been bringing good news lately.

" 'Put not your trust in princes,' saith the Lord! And in truth, he who would put his faith in our princes, in Tuan and Catharine today, would be foolish indeed!"

The people stared, galvanized by the words of treason they were hearing. Even the children began to realize something was wrong, and one by one ceased their games and turned to listen.

"Tuan and Catharine have sought to usurp the powers of the Church! The King and Queen have scorned the word of the Lord Archbishop! They have adhered to a profligate and sinful Church in defiance, and have thus rent this land of Gramarye asunder! And as is done with the people of the land, so is done with its substance! Even now forces build to rend the very soil itself! Verily I say unto thee, in three minutes' time the earth shall quake!"

The villagers burst into a panic of yammering disbelief. Here and there rose a cry of despair, and a few turned toward their cottages.

"Naught will be damaged!" the priest cried. "Or at the least, very little! The ground will shake, aye, but shall only tremble; it shall not heave! This is but the Lord's warning, not His devastation! Hearken! Heed!"

Somewhat reassured, the peasants turned back to watch him again. The priest straightened, smiling, sure of his control…

And the seconds passed.

And passed. And passed.

The priest frowned, and the folk began to murmur. "Assuredly three minutes have come and gone!"

"Aye, most surely! Hast thou felt a quake?"

"Nay, not so much as mine oxen make as I follow the plow."

The preacher was scowling now, fists clenched, forehead beading with sweat. People saw, and fell silent again, staring at him—but nothing happened.

" 'Tis a mountebank," somebody muttered.

"Aye, 'tis a jester who did cut his own tonsure," a goodwife agreed.

"Dost seek to mock us, fellow?" A bulky peasant stepped forward, anger in his voice.

"I am a true friar of St. Vidicon!" the priest shouted.

"Any may don a robe and paint a bit of wood for his breast," another beefy peasant sneered. "What, fellow! Dost take us for fools?"

"Stand away from me," the priest commanded, but trepidation hollowed his voice, and he stepped backwards, and backwards again, as the big peasants closed in on three sides. Behind two of them he saw a slighter man smiling, and glared at the man. But the peasant only smiled wider, and it was a hard and threatening smile.

"Mend thy ways!" the preacher cried. "Cease to follow these false monarchs—or, I warn thee, the ground shall shake!" And he turned to hurry away into the forest, his face burning with embarrassment—and with anger at the young man with the hard smile who was, he was certain, the warlock who had held the earth still with his mind, when the preacher had sought to shake it.