Sorcerer's Son (42 page)

He scrambled to his feet, dodged behind the nearest tree, and the black knight and his dark horse followed relentlessly. Now Cray’s opponent had the advantage of height, and Cray raised the shield to protect his head, taking blows on the steel sheet that shook his whole body. Desperately, though it was an unchivalric act, he cut at the dark horse’s legs. The animal foundered, throwing its rider to the forest floor.

Cray ran toward Gallant, waiting quietly under the trees. Most men, he knew, could not rise from a fall in plate armor, but behind him he heard the squeak of metal on metal, and then the rattle and clank of an armored man running. The sound came close, too close, and Cray had to turn, though Gallant was still half a dozen paces away. The black knight loomed toward him, huge and ponderous, like some great beast driven by madness. His sword arm swung at Cray, who tipped his shield up to receive the blow and danced away. Cray was light, spurred by desperation; the black knight was heavy but tireless. They moved through the forest, away from the horses, to where only the overhanging trees would judge their wild combat.

Cray saw the opening and took it without thinking—he drove the point of his sword into the exposed eye slit of the black knight’s helm, and the helm broke loose of its moorings and slipped upward, blinding the knight and toppling him backward. Cray leaped to the man’s chest as he went down, one foot pinning an armored shoulder, the other stamping hard on the mailed hand that held the sword, crushing it to the earth and forcing the pommel out of the clenched fist. He grabbed up the sword then and tossed it as far as his strength would allow, and then he dropped to his knees on the black knight’s body, one knee hard against the man’s chain-covered throat. He forced the black helm completely free of the man’s head. Although Cray’s sword had lodged in the eye slit, it had not penetrated to the flesh, and there was no blood on the face that he exposed.

He recognized it.

Years had passed since he had seen those features, but he had no difficulty recalling them. That salt-and-pepper fringe of beard, that bald dome—they belonged to the landlord of the very first inn he had stopped at, at the beginning of his long quest. The man had given him directions to Falconhill.

“You!” said Cray. “A knight?”

The man stared up at him, saying nothing.

“Yield yourself to me, sir, or I cut your throat!”

In answer, the man thrust upward with his shield, and Cray went tumbling.

Cray lunged for the other sword, scooped it up and bounced to his feet. The black knight circled him warily, helmless, his shield held stiffly before him.

“This is nonsense!” shouted Cray. “I have no wish to kill you!”

The black knight eased closer.

“Let us stop here and now!” said Cray. “I declare a truce!”

The black knight thrust his shield toward Cray, like a battering ram on the end of his long, thick arm, and Cray danced sideways, striking a light blow on the edge of the shield with one sword and a heavier one on an armored thigh with the other.

“You have no weapon,” said Cray, thinking quite otherwise as he watched the shield move. “Leave off!”

The black knight slammed his shield against the sword in Cray’s left hand, and the blade shivered with the strength of the blow, and Cray’s left fingers, unused to curling about a pommel, went numb; he was barely able to hold onto the weapon.

Cray found himself backing off, and suddenly his shoulders were against a tree trunk and he could not sidestep fast enough. The black knight came on, and Cray raised his sword far to his right and then swept leftward with a blow too weak to dent plate armor, but strong enough and high enough to cleave a human skull. The steel bit deep into the black knight’s head, and in the instant that Cray expected to see bright blood gush from the sundered pate, the black knight burst into flame.

Cray screamed once, and his sword arm, freed, fell to his side, the blade rapping bark with a hard, dull sound. Fire engulfed him, no warmer nor yellower than afternoon sunlight. He looked at the forest through it as through a gauzy veil, and when he had blinked a few times and straightened up and twitched his shoulders free of clinging scraps of bark, he said, “Gildrum?”

The flame retreated from him, shrank to a short pillar, and solidified into her familiar form.

“He bade me kill you,” she said, “before you found another master.”

Cray’s grip on both swords tightened. “Why?”

“He is afraid of what you might find out. Still.”

“But I already know.”

“I didn’t tell him that. But it wouldn’t matter. He would be even more afraid then.”

“I don’t plan to find another master.”

“Not your mother?”

He shook his head.

“You may change your mind.”

“Not if I know you’ll kill me if I do.”

She clasped her hands behind her back. “He doesn’t realize what he said. He wants you dead now, that I know. But that is not what his command was, as you so clearly perceive. Still, I must have something to tell turn when I return. And I cannot lie outright, only sidestep the truth.”

Cray raised the sword. “What, then? You’ve tried once and failed.”

“Purposely, I’m a better knight than that. Still

” She smiled her guileless smile. “It was a pretty show, wasn’t it?”

“Don’t toy with me, Gildrum.”

“Master Cray, I don’t want to kill you. I hope you understand that.”

“Then don’t do it.”

“I must obey my lord’s commands.”

“But he left you an out. If I never apprentice again

”

“Eventually, he will call me back and give another command. One which will not be subject to variable interpretation. There are compulsions attached to ring-slaves, Master Cray. Our wills are not our own. Though we may fight hard, still the master is the master.”

“Then why do you delay?” Cray cried. “Why do you torture me with conversation? Why not kill me and have done?”

“Because I have a plan.”

The sword tip wavered and dropped to the ground, as if the blade were as exhausted as Cray himself. He eased his body to the mossy hollow between two of the tree’s roots, using the swords as staffs to lean upon. He crossed his legs tailor-fashion, though they ached unmercifully from riding and running and dodging. “What is your plan?”

“If I must kill you before you find a new master, then you must return to an old one instead.”

“Return? But you said he wants me killed—”

“Not to Lord Rezhyk. To me.”

Cray shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

She sank to her knees before him and took one of his hands in both of hers, brushing the sword out of his palm as if it were a dead flower. “You have a bold heart,” she said. “Now I ask you for the boldest decision of your life. I ask you to come with me to my own world and continue your studies until you are so strong that Lord Rezhyk has more to fear from you than you from him.”

“Your world?”

Gildrum nodded. “It is a fearsome place to human senses, and you will be the first human ever to visit it. But you will be safe there; I will be able to tell my lord that you no longer walk the earth.”

“And in return, I suppose you still want your freedom?”

“Yes.”

“You have risked so much to get that freedom, Gildrum, What if he discovers this new treachery?”

“I will chance that. He has never suspected me of treachery before.”

Cray tried to read her eyes, but all he saw was darkness in them. “Is it so precious to you, Gildrum? So very precious?”

“Yes. Yes.”

“Why?”

She looked away from him, still clutching his hand. “When I am free I will be able to tell you.”

He leaned toward her. “It has something to do with me? With my birth?”

She said nothing, only gripped his hand harder. “Did you know, Gildrum, that Lord Rezhyk once asked my mother to marry him? And she said no?”

When the demon made no reply, he added, “Was that when he went to her and made me?”

She turned her gaze to him once more. “Don’t ask me such things, Master Cray. I have done my best to help you find the truth yourself. I have walked the narrowest path a demon ever trod, between obeying my master and obeying my heart. Or whatever it is that demons have instead of hearts. Sometimes I am so close to forbidden ground that my mouth opens and no words come—it is the power of the ring, holding me back. Believe me, I want to tell you everything!”

Cray shook his head sadly. “At this moment, the only thing I want to know is

how could she love him—him, Rezhyk, whatever his form.”

Gildrum let go his hand. “Yes,” she said. “I would wonder at that, too.”

“I am not surprised that he could love her.”

“No, that doesn’t surprise me either.”

Cray eyed her sidelong. “You’ve met her?”

Gildrum looked down to the moss at her knees.

“You’ve met her?” Cray asked more loudly.

Gildrum did not raise her eyes.

Cray reached for her shoulders and shook her sharply. “Is that part of the secret, that you’ve got ”

“You cannot shake answers out of me, Master Cray,” the demon said softly. “Nor beat them, nor burn them. This is not human flesh that you hold between your hands.”

“No,” said Cray. “This is demon flesh, masquerading as human. It looks so fragile, so deceptively fragile. Yet a little time ago you were taller and broader than I am. What other forms can you take, Gildrum?”

“I have been a squirrel. And there are others.”

“Show me the others. All of them.”

In rapid succession, Gildrum displayed the squirrel, the old man, an oak sapling, a pebble. She shrank, she grew, she sprouted fur, wrinkles, and green leaves with equal facility. And when she had done with all four shapes, she returned to the young girl in the blue dress, kneeling on the moss.

“Is that all?” Cray asked of her. He had sat silent while her semblance warped and flowed before him. Only his eyes had moved, lids narrowing momentarily with each change. “Are there no more?”

“You saw the black knight.”

“And

?”

Her lips pursed, and she said nothing.

“Is there another yet—one that I am not supposed to see?”

Still, no reply.

Cray rose to his feet and turned his back to her, one hand raised to the rough texture of the tree trunk. He picked at the bark, crumbling the fragments that came free between his fingers. Finally he said, “So it was you. Not Rezhyk. My mother fell in love with you. Well, it does not seem quite so impossible that way.” His fingers clawed against the tree, scraping bark under his nails. “Do you deny it, Gildrum?”

She made no sound.

“He should have instructed you to deny it. He shouldn’t have merely forbidden you to speak of it. You could have lied to me then.” He looked down, leaning the crown of his head against the trunk. “I can almost see you charming her, Gildrum. You are so much more

human

than he is. How did it make you feel to deceive her so, demon? You have feelings, I know.” He tipped his face sideways, to see her. “But of course you can’t tell me.”

She sat on the moss with her head bent, her face buried in her hands, the butter-yellow braids falling forward over her shoulders. “I have feelings” she murmured, her voice muffled by her fingers

“Are you ashamed of what you did?” He reached out suddenly, jerked her hands away from her face. On her cheeks he saw two wet streaks, demon tears. “Do you weep for shame, Gildrum?”

“Set me free,” she whispered, “and you shall know everything.”

He pushed her away, tumbling her backward over the exposed roots of the tree. “Freedom, freedom!” he shouted. “That’s all I hear from you—freedom! You’re freer than I am, demon! You do as you will, even to betraying your master, cunning creature. Your silence has told me as much as words could.”

“I would that were truly so,” said Gildrum, propping herself up on her elbows. “There is too much that you do not know, Master Cray. Believe me.”

“What will you do with your freedom, Gildrum? Kill him?”

“No. I care nothing for him.”

“You have some other target, then.”

“Not for death.”

“For what?”

Her eyes pleaded with him.

“What a mad discussion!” Cray cried, throwing his arms out to the forest as to a jury. “I keep finding myself carrying on both sides!” He glared down at her. “Your plans for life after gaining your freedom involve me?”

She shook her head.

“Who, then?” His brows knit tight. “My mother?”

Silence.

He took one step toward her and reached down to clutch hard at her shoulder. “You shall not harm her!”

“I shall harm no one,” said Gildrum.

“What, then? You want to explain? You want to apologize? Better you stay away from her, Gildrum. Better she should never know what happened. She has her memories, and they, at least, are only bitter with tears. She loved you.” He ripped his fingers away from her and straightened, still looking down at her deceptively human shape at his feet. “Oh, my poor mother; how she loved you.”

“Free me, Master Cray,” she whispered. “You shall not regret it.”

“Do you promise me that?”

“Yes.”

“But you have made promises before and broken them.”

“Not to you.”

“To her.” He shook his head. “How can I trust your promises?”

“Sometimes,” said Gildrum, “a demon makes a promise and the master prevents the keeping of it.”

“Prevents the keeping of it?” He crooked his elbows and set his hands on his hips. “Come, come, Gildrum—am I to believe that you meant it when you told her you would return when your duty was done? Perhaps five hundred more years of slavery to Lord Rezhyk was the duty you meant, or however much time remains until he dies. Do you take me for a fool?”

“Sometimes

promises are made from the heart, not the head.” She lifted a hand to him in supplication. “Set me free, Master Cray. You are my only hope.”

His frown deepened. “Hope for what?” he said.

She groped for his near hand, found it, slid her fingers into his palm, levering it away from his hip. “Please,” she said. “My throat is thick with words that will not pass my lips. Set me free. You must know what I will do with my freedom. You must.”