The Warlock Enraged-Warlock 4 (2 page)

That brought a hint of smile. "I did think we had, mayhap, borne him back from Tir Chlis, my lord."

"Ah, yes!" Rod stared out over the plain again. "Tir Chlis, that wonderful, magical land of faeries and sorcerers, and—Lord Kem."

"Even so," Gwen said softly.

"My other self," Rod said bitterly, "my analog in an alternate universe—with magical powers unparalleled, and a temper to match."

"Thou weit alike in many ways," Gwen agreed, "but temper was not among them."

"No, and witch powers weren't either—but I learned how to 'borrow' his wizardry, and it unlocked my own powers, powers that I'd been hiding from myself."

"When thou didst let his rage fill thee," Gwen reminded gently.

"Which seems to have also unlocked my own capacity for wrath; it wiped out the inhibitions I'd built up against it."

"Still—there were other inhibitions that thou didst leam 8 Christopher Stasheff

to lay aside, also." Gwen touched his hand, hesitantly. Rod didn't respond. "Was it worth it? Okay, so I had been psionically invisible; nobody could read my mind. Wasn't that better than this rage?"

"I could almost say the sharing of our minds was worth the price of thy bouts of fury," Gwen said slowly, "save that..."

Rod waited.

"Thy thoughts grow dim again, my lord." Rod only sat, head bowed.

Then he looked up. "I'm beginning to hide myself away from you again?"

"Hast thou not felt it?"

He stared into her eyes; then he nodded. "Is that any surprise? When I can't trust myself not to explode into wrath? When I'm beginning to feel as though I'm some sort of subhuman beast? Sheer shame, woman!"

"Thou art worthy of me, my lord." Her voice was soft, but firm, and so was her hand. "Thou art worthy of me, and of thy children. I' truth, we are fortunate to have thee." Her voice shook. "Oh, we are blessed!"

"Thanks." He gave her hand a pat. "It's good to hear.

... Now convince me."

"Nay," she murmured, "that I cannot do, an thou'lt not credit what I say."

"Or even what you do." Rod bowed his head, and his hand tightened on hers. "Be patient, dear. Be patient." And they sat alone in the wind, not looking at each other, two people very much in love but very much separated, clinging to a thin strand that still held them joined, poised over the drop that fell away to fallow lands below. Magnus turned away from the window with a huge sigh of relief. "They come—and their hands are clasped."

"Let me see, let me see!" The other three children shot to the window, heads jammed together, noses on the pane.

"They do not regard one another," Cordelia said dubiously.

"Yet their hands are clasped," Magnus reminded.

"And," Cordelia added, troubled, "their thoughts are dark."

"Yet their hands are elapsed. And if their thoughts are dark, they are also calm."

"And not all apart," Gregory added.

"Not all—not quite," Cordelia agreed, but with the full, frank skepticism of an eight-year-old.

"Come away, children," a deep voice bade them, "and do not leap upon them when they enter, for I misdoubt me an they'd have much patience now with thy clasping and thy pulling."

The children turned away from the window, to a foot and a half of elf, broad-shouldered, brown-skinned, and pug-nosed, in a forester's tunic and hose, wearing a pointed cap with a rolled brim and a feather. "Geoffrey," he warned. The six-year-old pulled himself away from the window with a look of disgust. "I did but gaze upon them, Robin."

"Indeed—and I know that thou'rt anxious. Yet I bethink me that thy parents have need of some bit more of room than thou'rt wont to accord them."

Cordelia flounced down onto a three-legged stool. "But Papa was so angered. Puck!"

"As thou hast told me." The elf's mouth tightened at the comers. "Yet thou dost know withal, that he doth love thee."

"I do not doubt it...." But Cordelia frowned. Puck sighed and dropped down cross-legged beside her.

"Thou couldst scarce do otherwise, if he did truly become as enraged as thou didst tell." He turned his head, taking in all four children with one gaze. "Gentles, do not reprehend; if you pardon, he will mend." They didn't look convinced.

"Else the Puck a liar call!" the elf cried stoutly. The door opened, and the children leaped to their feet. They started to back away, but Puck murmured, "Softly," and they held their ground—warily.

But their father didn't look like an ogre as he came in the door—just a tall, dark, lean, saturnine man with a rough-hewn face, no longer young; and he seemed dim next to the red-haired beauty beside him, who fairly glowed, making the question of youth irrelevant. Still, if the children had ever stopped to think about it, they would have remarked how well their parents looked together.

They did not, of course; they saw only that their father's 10 Christopher Stasheff

face had mellowed to its usual careworn warmth, and leaped to hug him in relief. "Papa!" Magnus cried, and "Daddy!" Geoffrey piped; Cordelia only clung to his arm and sobbed, while Gregory hugged the other arm, and looked up gravely.

"Daddy, thou hast come back again."

Rod looked into the sober gaze of his youngest, and somehow suspected that the child wasn't just talking about his coming through the door.

"Oh, Papa," Cordelia sniffled, "I do like thee so much better when thou'rt Papa, than when thou'rt Lord Kern!" Rod felt a chill along his spine, but he clasped her shoulder and pressed her against his hip. "I don't blame you, dear. I'm sure his children feel the same way." He looked up over the children's heads, at Puck. "Thanks, Robin."

"Now, there's a fair word!" Puck grinned. "Yet I misdoubt me an thou wilt have more such; for there's one who doth attend thee." He jerked his head toward the kitchen.

"A messenger?" Rod looked up, frowning. "Waiting inside the house?... Toby!" A dapper gentleman in his mid-twenties came into the room, running a finger over a neatly trimmed mustache. Hose clung to well-turned calves, and his doublet was resplendent with embroidery. "Hail, Lord Warlock!" Gwen's face blossomed with a smile, and even Rod had to fight a grin, faking a groan. "Hail, harbinger! What's the disaster?"

"Nay, for once, the King doth summon thee whiles it's yet a minor matter."

"Minor." The single word was loaded with skepticism. Rod turned to Gwen. "Why does that worry me more than his saying, 'Emergency?'"

" 'Tis naught but experience," Gwen assured him. "Shall I 'company thee?"

"I'd appreciate it," Rod sighed. "If it's a 'minor' matter, that means social amenities first—and you know how Catharine and I don't get along."

"Indeed I do." Gwen looked quite pleased with herself. Catharine the Queen may have spread her net for Rod, but it was Gwen who had caught him.

Not that Catharine had done badly, of course. King Tuan Loguire had spent his youth as Gramarye's most eligible

bachelor—and it must be admitted that Rod had been a very unknown quantity.

Still was, in some ways. Why else would Gwendylon, most powerful witch in circulation, continue to be interested in him?

Rod looked up at Puck. "Would you mind. Merry Wanderer?"

The elf sighed and spread his arms. "What is time to an immortal? Nay, go about the King's business!"

"Thanks, sprite." Rod turned back to Gwen. "Your broom, or mine?"

Gwen bent over the hanging cradle swathed in yards of cloth-of-gold, and her face softened into a tender smile.

"Oh, he is dear!"

Queen Catharine beamed down at the baby. She was a slender blonde with large blue eyes and a very small chin.

"I thank thee for thy praise... I am proud."

"As thou shouldst be." Gwen straightened, looking up at her husband with a misty gaze.

Rod looked around, hoping she was gazing at someone else. On second thought, maybe not....

Catharine raised a finger to her lips and moved slightly toward the door. Rod and Gwen followed, leaving the child to its nanny, two chambermaids, and two guards.

Another two stood on either side of the outer doorway, under the eagle eye of the proud father. One reached out to close the door softly behind them. Rod looked up at King Tuan, and nodded. "No worries about the succession now."

"Aye." Gwen beamed. "Two princes are a great blessing."

"Well I can think of a few kings who would've argued with that." Rod smiled, amused. "Still, I must admit they're outnumbered by the kings who've been glad of the support of their younger brothers."

"As I trust our Alain shall be." Tuan turned away. "Come, let us pass into the solar." He paced down the hall and into another chamber with a wall of clerestory windows. Rod followed, with the two ladies chattering behind him. He reminded himself that he and Gwen were being signally honored; none of the royal couple's other subjects had ever 12 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK ENRAGED 13

been invited into their majesties' private apartments. On the other hand, if Gwen had been the kind to brag, they might not have been invited in, either.

And, of course, there was old Duke Loguire. But that was different; he came under the alias of "Grandpa." And Brom O'Brien; but the Lord Privy Councillor would, of course, have access to the privy chambers.

On the other hand. Rod tried not to be too conscious of the honor. After all, he had known Tuan when the young King was an outlaw; exiled for courting Catharine; and hiding out in the worst part of town, as King of the Beggars—

and unwitting party to the forming of a civil war. "As long as they grow up friends," he reminded Tuan, "or as much as two brothers can."

"Aye—and if their friendship doth endure." A shadow crossed Tuan's face, and Rod guessed he was remembering his own elder brother, Anselm, who had rebelled against their father, and against Queen Catharine.

"Then must we take great care to ensure their friendship." Catharine hooked her arm through Tuan's. "Yet I misdoubt me, my lord, an our guests did come to speak of children only."

"I'm sure it's a more pleasant subject than whatever he had in mind," Rod said quickly.

"And 'twould have been cause enow, I do assure thee," Gwen added.

Catharine answered with a silvery laugh. "For thou and I, mayhap—but I misdoubt me an 'twould interest our husbands overlong."

"Do not judge us so harshly," Tuan protested. "Yet I must own that there are matters of policy to be discussed." He sighed, and turned away to a desk that stood beneath the broad windows, with a map beside it on a floor stand.

"Come, Lord Warlock—let us take up less pleasant matters." Rod came over, rather reassured; Tuan certainly didn't seem to feel any urgency.

The young King tapped the map, on the Duchy of

Romanov. "Here lies our mutual interest of the hour."

"Well, as long as it's only an hour. What's our bear of a Duke up to?"

'"Tis not His Grace," Tuan said slowly. Rod perked up; this was becoming more interesting;

"Something original would be welcome. Frankly, I've been getting a bit bored with the petty rebellions of your twelve great lords."

"Art thou so? I assure thee," Tuan said grimly, "I have never found them tedious."

"What is it, then? One of his petty barons gathering arms and men?"

"I would it were; of that, I've some experience. This, though, is a matter of another sort; for the rumors speak of foul magics."

"Rumors?" Rod looked up from the map. "Not reports from agents?"

"I have some spies in the North," Tuan acknowledged,

"yet they only speak of these same rumors, not of events which they themselves have witnessed."

Rod frowned. "Haven't any of them tried to track the rumor to its source?"

Tuan shrugged. "None of those who've sent word. Yet I've several who have sent me no reports, and mine emissaries cannot find them."

"Not a good sign." Rod's frown darkened. "They might have ridden off to check, and been taken."

"Or worse," Tuan agreed, "for the rumors speak of a malignant magus, a dark and brooding power, who doth send his minions everywhere throughout the North Country."

"Worrisome, but not a problem—as long as all they do is spy. I take it they don't."

"Not if rumor speaks truly. These minions, look you, are sorcerers in their own right; and with the power they own, added to that which they gather from their sorcerer-lord, they defeat the local knights ere they can even come to battle. Then the sorcerers enthrall the knights, with their wives and children, too, and take up lordship over all the serfs and peasants of that district."

"Not too good a deal for the knights and their families," Rod mused, "but probably not much of a difference, to the serfs and peasants. After all, they're used to taking orders—

what difference does it make who's giving them?"

"Great difference, if the first master was gentle, and the 14 Christopher Stasheff

second was harsh," Tuan retorted. His face was grim. "And reports speak of actions more than harsh, from these new masters. These sorcerers are evil."

"And, of course, the peasants can't do much, against magic." Rod frowned. "Not much chance of fighting back." Tuan shuddered. "Perish the thought! For peasants must never resist orders, but only obey them, as is their divinely appointed role."

What made Rod's blood run cold was that Tuan didn't say it grimly or primly, or pompously, or with the pious air of self-justification. No, he said it very matter-of-factly, as though it were as much a part of the world as rocks and trees and running water, and no one could even think of debating it. How could you argue about the existence of a rock? Especially if it had fallen on your toe... That was where the real danger lay, of course—not in the opinions people held, but in the concepts they knew to be true—especially when they weren't.

Rod shook off the mood. "So the chief sorcerer has been knocking off the local lordlings and taking over their holdings. How far has his power spread?"

"Rumor speaks of several baronets who have fallen 'neath his sway," Tuan said, brooding, "and even Duke Romanov, himself."