The Warlock Insane

Chapter Four

It was one of those nights that seem to last forever. As soon as Rod realized that, he developed suspicions. "Fess, how long has it been since I left the family?"

"Approximately three hours, Rod."

"Is that all?" Rod was appalled to realize how much had happened in so short a time. "Is something wrong with my time sense?"

"Perhaps," the robot said slowly, "since you have experienced a multiplicity of events during that period."

"Well how long has it been since I found Granny Ban with her arm stuck in that tree?"

"Was that her difficulty? From the sound, I thought perhaps she had been ensnared by a troop of bandits."

"Not that I saw." Rod frowned. "Or should I say, 'That's not what / saw.' Anyway, how long?"

"Two hours and forty-three minutes have elapsed, Rod."

"You're kidding! That was two hours, if it was a minute!"

"It was more than a minute, Rod, but considerably less than two hours. It is nearly midnight."

"I could have sworn it was the wee hours, not the hours of wee folk. Y'know, I should be feeling sleepy by now."

"Perhaps you will be when the adrenaline ebbs."

" 'If,' not 'when.' What's that light up ahead?"

Fess expanded his video image. "I see no light but the moon's reflection, Rod."

"Not another hallucination! Well, I suppose I might as well get it over with." Rod dismounted. "Stay close, okay? And don't let me hurt anybody."

"I will endeavor to prevent damage, Rod—but I believe there is no cause for concern. I see absolutely nothing."

"Wish I could say that." Rod turned away, gathering his cloak about him, but he still shivered as he plowed his way through the snow toward the glow ahead.

In the distance, the bells of the Runnymede cathedral chimed midnight.

Rod stopped on the edge of a little clearing. In its middle, a campfire burned—a tiny campfire, its flames guttering. A man knelt before it, his back to Rod, wearing a cowled cloak. Rod wondered what a monk was doing out at this time of night, then remembered that foresters' cloaks looked very much like monks' robes—especially when you couldn't make out colors. Whoever he was, he was racked with shivers as he groped in the snow. At last, he brought up a small branch, knocked the snow off it, and threw it on the fire.

There had been enough light for Rod to see the boniness of the hand. There was no doubt that the man was old, quite old. Rod felt a surge of sympathy and stepped out into the clearing, kicking up the snow, bending to pick up fallen branches and sticks. "Here, Grandfather!" He stepped past the old man and knelt by the fire, holding one of the smaller sticks in the flame till it caught, then laying it carefully on the coals and setting a small branch over it. "We'll have it burning merrily in no time."

"It is good of you," the old man whispered, sitting back on a fallen tree.

"Glad to help. Glad of the warmth, too." Rod put a three-inch branch over the others, then turned to the oldster. "There you go, Grandfather."

He froze, staring.

"Thank you, Grandson." From under the hood, the old eyes glinted with amusement. "But then, you always were a generous, warmhearted boy. I am glad to see you have grown into so fine a man."

"Grandfather," Rod whispered again. "My real grandfather. "

And it was—Count Rory d'Armand, in the flesh. Or seemingly.

"You can't be real." But Rod stretched out a hand anyway. "You died twenty-six years ago."

Count Rory winced. "Hardly generous of you, my boy."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Grandfather! But how did you get here? I mean, Gramarye is light-years and light-years away from this solar system!"

"Why, I came with you, Rodney." The old eyes glowed into his. "In your genes—for surely, as long as you live, so does part of me. And in your heart and mind, too, I would like to think!"

"Oh, be sure of that! If the foundation of my personality is Mother and Father, you're the foundation of the foundation!"

"The sub-basement, eh?" Rory smiled, amused. "And all that I have thought and dreamed, Rodney—what of that?"

"I can't say 'all,' " Rod said honestly, "but a large part of it—yes. I think your ideals are within me, too—for they're embedded in the stories you told me, and those stories will always be with me."

"Ah. My stories, yes." The Count nodded, turning his gaze to the fire. "And if you live within my stories, then Rodney, you certainly can have no question as to how I came to be here."

"What?" Rod frowned. "I think I missed something."

"Why, I am Rory, Lord Chronicler." The old man lifted his gaze to Rod's again. "For surely we are in the realm of Granclarte."

Rod stared at him.

"Yes, surely," he said softly. "Why didn't I realize ^hat?"

"Because you had not thought of it," the Lord Chronicler said, smiling. "Yet did I not tell you the tales of this magic kingdom would ever be your shield and your refuge?"

"Why, so they have been, in metaphor," Rod said slowly, "but I never thought they could be so, in actuality."

Rory tossed his head impatiently. "There is a sickness of the soul upon you, my boy, a darkness of the spirit. Where else could you shelter from that night, except in the Courts of Great Light?"

"Yes." Slowly, Rod sat down beside the old man, on the log. "God bless you, Grandfather, for giving my soul a shield against its own lances."

"Be not so sure they are its own, my boy, for you have many enemies, with many weapons. Yet do be sure that, in the realm of Granclarte, you shall find a magic guardian to shield you from any of them."

"I'll remember that," Rod said fervently. "But Grandfather, I've gone mad on Gramarye. How can I be in the realm of Granclarte?"

"Because you inherited it from me, Rodney, inherited it within your soul, just as your body inherited my genes. The events and ideals within its Chronicles are part of the sub-structure of your personality, of the way you see the universe around you. It is yours now—I bequeath it to you."

"I'm not worthy…"

"On the contrary, you are eminently worthy; you have proved yourself so. Even as the Four Kings strove to avoid war, so have you—and even as they strove mightily when war could no longer be avoided, so have you."

Rod was quiet; he couldn't deny his accomplishments, but was too modest to speak of them. Granclarte, after all, had been founded as a neutral meeting place by four kings who sought to spare their subjects the devastation of war; they had reigned all from the same palace over their adjoining realms. How could he compare himself to any one of them? "The Four Kings were enlightened, Grandfather, and all inspired with the same idea at the same moment—to have a common court, and thereby bring knowledge, wisdom, and peace. I have had no such moment of enlightenment in my life."

"Perhaps you had, but did not recognize it. Perhaps you are having it now. Or perhaps this is the beginning of the greatest period of your life."

"Now, when I'm forty-seven? That's too late for the glory of youth, too early for the wisdom of age."

"Yet it is also the time when wisdom and energy most thoroughly blend—just as the pinnacle of the Courts of Granclarte came in its middle years, when the knight Beaubras set forth in quest, and returned with the Rainbow Crystal. Its light suffused the nobility and, aye, all the folk of the court, with harmony and generosity."

"And its effect spread out from them through all the Four Kingdoms, yielding a Golden Age of peace, prosperity, and happiness. But Granclarte endured only through the generation of the Four Kings, Grandfather. In the time of their sons, the sorcerer Obscura stole away the Rainbow Crystal."

"Yes, in vengeance for King Alban's refusal."

Rod nodded. "The King refused to grant Obscura the hand of his daughter Lucina, the most beautiful damsel of the court—for he knew Prince Dardinel loved her, and that she loved him."

"He knew also that their union would more tightly bind his kingdoms with that of Dardinel's father, King Turpin. But Obscura did steal the Great Crystal, and cast a death-spell on King Alban—and without its light of harmony and grace, the king sickened and died. His son Constantine became king in his place—but the young kings, whose hearts knew not the importance of Glancarte, fell to vying with one another in richness and pomp, then in their champions' passages at arms."

"And tournament gave way to battle," Rod said, remembering, "and the confederation fell apart. But why did the young kings have to tear down the palace, Grandfather?"

"Because each feared that the other might use it as a stronghold, reaching out to conquer all three other kingdoms. Thus is it ever—the center suffers the greatest strain, when balance is lost. As it was, certainly, when Obscura ingratiated himself with King Agramant, and persuaded him to attack King Turpin."

"And King Turpin died in battle, so Prince Dardinel became King before he had learned restraint," Rod mused. "Then Obscura planted a rumor that Lucina had been imprisoned by her brother, so Dardinel declared war on King Constantine. But the knight Beaubras awoke from his enchanted sleep, and came forth to rid the earth of the evil sorcerer.''

"Yes, Grandson, but he was slain himself in that battle. Oh, do not grieve, for I promised you that Beaubras shall rise again; Beaubras shall ever rise again. Yet in his death, King Dardinel realized his folly and made peace with King Constantine. But their realms had been devastated, so King Agramant allied with King Rodomont, and invaded."

"They conquered," Rod said, remembering, "but their own lands were devastated in the process, for Dardinel and Constantine fought like demons, to protect fair Lucina."

"Aye, and though they died, they sold their lives dearly. Agramant and Rodomont held dominion, but then began to vie for power.''

"And their armies were too weak to both guard their castles and maintain law and order—and there were many, many soldiers who had fled defeat, and were desperate for food and shelter. So banditry became rife."

"Then the contest of diplomacy failed, for Rodomont thought himself strong enough to conquer Agramant."

"But he was wrong."

"Aye; they were evenly matched, and tore one another to bits. Thus the Golden Age ended, and the Four Kingdoms sank into the barbarism from which they had risen."

Rod sighed, gazing off into space, his head ringing with the shouting and cries of great battles, with the thunder of hooves and the clash of weapons. He was shocked to feel tears in his eyes. "Can it not live again, Grandfather?"

"Aye—every time we tell its tale. I have begun it for you this time, my grandson. You are now on the verge of its greatest of days, for the knight Beaubras has but now set forth on his quest, and the Rainbow Crystal is yet to be found."

"Yet to be found?" Rod whirled, eyes widening. "But that means that Ordale hasn't come forth to show him the Faerie World yet—and Olympia still waits at the crest of Mount Stehr! It's all still to come—the glory, the wonder, the enchantment!"

"Aye, all yet to come." The old man nodded, his eyes aglow. "And we have talked away the night, my grandson, and the east is burgeoning with the sun. The hour is come when poor, tenuous ghosts, wandering here and there, must troop home to churchyards."

"No!" Rod cried in a panic. "Don't go! We have so much still to talk about!"

"All that truly matters has been said." The count had risen and was backing away. "The history of Granclarte, and the good it sought to bring."

"But I need you! I can't be without you!"

"Nor will you be." Mist was rising from the clearing, all about the old man. "I am within your heart and your mind, Rodney—you cannot be without me. None can take me from you."

"But what of Granclarte?" Rod cried. "How will it endure without you?"

"Through you, mine heir. I bequeath it to you, root, stock, and branch. Let it rise again, Rodney. Let it grow, let it ever grow." And his voice was fading now, as his outline softened and his substance blurred into the mist, suffused with the golden light of dawn. "The night has gone, and the day comes—your day, my grandson, and your realm now. Live in it; fare well in it.

"Farewell…"

Rod stood, petrified, scalp prickling, seeing the ghost diffuse and fade, hearing his voice dwindle, speaking again, but so softly that it might have been the cry of a distant songbird: "Farewell…"

Then it was the cry of a bird, far away, calling, summoning…

Rod turned away from the clearing in the glory of the newly risen sun and plodded back through the forest, his heart leaden, but his soul exalted.

"He was there, Fess," he said softly. "He was really there."

"So I judged, from the words I heard you say, Rod," the great black horse answered. "It is inspiring."

But he didn't sound joyous. Rod frowned, peering closely, then understood, with a surge of sympathy. "Hard on you, isn't it, Old Heart, to be reminded of your former master?"

"Robots do not grieve, Rod."

"Nor computers delight. Sure." Rod swung up into the saddle again. "But how could the time pass so quickly all of a sudden?"

"It did not really, Rod. The passage of time was no faster than in the evening."

"It just felt like it." Rod shook his head. "Well, then, I'm safe in a way, Fess. I'm in Granclarte."

"Yes, Rod, safe in many ways—but remember the perils the good knight confronted."

"How could I forget them?" Rod replied. "But how did I come to be here, Fess? Why did I go crazy so suddenly?"

"I have given you my best answer," the robot said softly. "You must find your own now."

"I think I have." Rod nodded. "Yes, I think I have."

"In your grandfather's stories?" The robot sounded surprised.

"Yes. After all, it makes sense, doesn't it? The knight Beaubras, I mean. He's just beginning his quest now. He must have sent for me, must have called me here. There must be some way in which I can help him."

The robot was quiet for a second, evaluating the statement. Then it said, "Beaubras rode alone, Rod."

"Yes, but there were mighty deeds wrought by other knights in other places, and their accomplishments helped him find the Rainbow Crystal, Fess. Maybe he needed one more." Rod's eyes glittered. "Just think—somewhere in this magic land, the knight Beaubras is riding his good steed Balincet, right this minute!"

Fess was silent, weighing, planning for contingencies.

Lucidity pierced for a gritty moment. "Fess—I'm really far gone in delusion, aren't I?"

"There is always a way back, Rod," the robot said quietly.

"Yes." Rod nodded. "Yes, there is, isn't there?" He turned the horse's head toward the east. "And if it's always there, then it won't matter if we go a little farther in before we turn back out. Right, Fess? Yes, of course right. We'll give it a chance to wear off, at least. Shall we go?"