"I have told him your true nature and title," the pouka informed Matt.
"Well, now I'll have to make shop talk," Matt sighed. "Ask him—"
The pouka interrupted him. "I will not. You have named the princess as leader of this quest. She must speak."
"But he is truly the leader!" Rosamund protested.
"Not here," the pouka told her. "Come forth, maiden, and speak with the druid!"
Rosamund obeyed, wide-eyed and uncertain. "What shall I ask him?"
Matt started to answer, but the pouka forestalled him. "Whatever is in your heart."
Slowly, Rosamund turned to the leader and asked, "Can you tell me where Prince Brion lies?"
The druid answered in Gaelic.
"He asks why you wish to know," the pouka interpreted.
The answer came rushing out. "Because he was the companion of my youth! Because of all the brothers, he was the only one who did not torment me or insult me! Because he protected me from them, because he is and always has been honest and fair-minded! Because he cared enough that my barbs could hurt and anger him, and oh! How I wish I had never spoken such sharp-edged words! How could I ever have done so?"
"Belike because you were in love with him, but could not admit it," the pouka told her. "After all, you were betrothed to his brother."
Rosamund turned to her, trembling. "How can this druid have said such a thing!"
"He did not," said the pouka. "I did." Then she turned to the druid and spoke a single sentence.
Gravely, the druid bowed his head and answered.
"He says that of course you have the right to know the prince's fate," the pouka translated.
"What did you tell him?" Rosamund demanded.
"That you are his rightful fiancée, since you were engaged to the future King of Bretanglia," the pouka replied.
Rosamund gasped, but had no time to deny it, because the lead druid stepped aside, bowing and gesturing her toward the grove. The other six stepped aside as well, also bowing and gesturing.
"Am I to step within?" Rosamund asked.
"You know you are," the pouka told her. "Have courage."
"We'll be right behind you," Matt assured her, and was very glad when the pouka didn't contradict him.
Rosamund led them down the aisle of druids. Matt suddenly realized the pouka wasn't with them, and glanced back to see her talking with the lead druid. Turning forward again, he saw Rosamund hesitate at the pointed archway of living oak branches that formed the entrance to the grove.
"Courage, lass," Sir Orizhan said at her shoulder. "Whatever lies within is vital if you wish to save your prince."
"He is not mine!" Rosamund said hastily.
Sir Orizhan was wise enough not to contradict her.
Trembling, she went forward into the grove, step by reluctant step, and it seemed as though they were stepping into a lightless cave.
Bait as they passed through the leafy archway, light seemed to glow into being all about them. Myriad fireflies sparkled throughout the grove, and moonbeams shone through gaps in the leaves overhead. It was enough light to show them that the interior of the grove was clear, a broad open expanse of clover and moss. At the far end the branches interlaced so heavily as to form a roof, through which a broad shaft of moonlight struck to form a pool of silver light.
In that pool stood a bier, four feet off the floor—a bier holding a coffin with no lid, and in that coffin lay a body, skin waxen and pale, paler than the light itself.
Rosamund gave a little cry, quickly stifled by her own hand.
"Yes, it is Brion," Sir Orizhan said gravely. "But they would not leave him here if he were fully dead, my lady. Approach, and look more closely."
Footsteps dragging, Rosamund went to the coffin, trembling as though with a fever. As they came closer, Matt saw two druids sitting by the body, watching. Silently, they rose and moved back as Rosamund came up.
She stepped to the coffin, looking down, and gasped with horror. Hesitantly, she reached out to touch the long, gaping wound that showed where a sword had sheared through the mail between helmet and breastplate, driving down.
Sir Orizhan frowned, studying, then said, very softly, "The angle is wrong—the stroke could not have pierced his heart, though it let out a great deal of blood."
With a cry of despair, Rosamund threw herself on the pale, still form. "Oh, Brion, why didn't I know you for the darling you were? How could I have been so blind as not to see the gentleness, the kindness you showed me? How could I ever have denied the trembling within me that came whenever I looked upon your handsome face, your speaking eyes? Now must I suffer for my folly, suffer the pangs of heartbreak all the rest of my life, and be lonely all my days no matter how many folk I gather about me!"
The tears flowed freely now, bathing his face as she lifted her head a little to demand, "Yet give me this at least, that I should have taken in life but must now seek of your corpse—this alone, that I may treasure in my heart of hearts and imagine as having the sensation of life!" Her hair swung forward to brush his face as she lowered her own, to press her lips against his mouth. She lingered, exploring the sensation thoroughly, for the memory of it would have to last her all the rest of her days. Gradually, her lips loosened, expanded, until they seemed to devour his...
The prince's whole form stiffened. Then his head moved ever so slightly, and his lips opened to envelop hers. Rosamund went rigid with surprise, but never for an instant relinquished his mouth, then relaxed again, lips working around his with fervor as she wept anew, bathing Brion's face with her tears. Slowly, stiffly, steadily, one iron-clad arm rose to encircle her shoulders, but did not rest there, only touched very lightly, as though Brion were afraid she might break.
Finally, they ran out of air, and Rosamund lifted her head, eyes wide and wild, staring down at him in amazement and wonder and, yes, in fear, too—but not of anything supernatural. "I never knew," she whispered. "I never guessed... it could be..."
"And I only dreamed." The prince's voice was rusty, grating, but soft and caressing. "I could never know—but now that I do, I can only want more." Then the arm about her shoulders grew heavier, pressing her down to him, and she went willingly, covering his mouth with hers, then nibbling his lips, then kissing him fully again.
Matt stepped up beside Sir Orizhan. "He does have to breathe now and then, you know."
The knight turned to Matt, beaming and radiant, with tears in his eyes. "There will be time enough for breathing later, Lord Matthew—time enough, now that she has wakened him. Let her give him all the reason she can, to wish to live."
"Maybe we should turn away," Matt suggested, "leave them a little privacy."
Sir Orizhan shrugged. "It is you who are the healer."
"We'd better stay," Matt said automatically.
When he decided there was a distinct danger of their lips bonding together permanently, he stepped in on the next gasping break for air and said, gently but firmly, "Enough, maiden. Your kiss may have started the flow of blood again, but it hasn't given him back any of the gallon or so he lost."
Rosamund glanced at Brion's wound, then stepped back with a cry of anguish. Looking down, Matt saw blood seeping all along the sword line.
"How can... I... lack blood... when she has set my heart... to pounding so fiercely?" Brion panted.
His body tensed, but Matt pressed him back down before he could start to rise. "Just as you've said, Your Majesty. Your heartbeat slowed and became so rare that everybody thought you were dead, and wondered why you didn't start to decay. All your body's systems slowed with it, and they'll take a while to work up to their normal rate again. Push them, and you really will die."
"Lie still!" Rosamund commanded her prince, face pale with fear. She pressed him back, palm against his breastplate.
But his mailed hand still lay on his breast where she had dropped it, and Brion covered her hand with his own, beaming up into her face. "Why, so I shall, if you wish it—but I beg that yo
u give the touch of that hand to flesh that can feel it, not to the iron that covers it."
Rosamund stared down at him in surprise, then pulled her hand out from under his gauntlet and pressed it to his forehead. "You are so cold!"
"I shall warm amazingly at your touch," he promised her.
"Yes, and if you feed him plenty of chicken soup and small beer," Matt told her, "whenever he'll take it." He took off his pack and began to rummage in it. "Sergeant, get that armor off him—but gently!"
Sergeant Brock stepped up to obey, but Rosamund said fiercely, "Touch him not! That is my office!"
The sergeant stepped back in alarm, and she relented. "You may take the pieces from me, though, and lay them aside to clean and burnish. Here."
She began to unbuckle Brion's armor. Brock had to help her lift the breastplate, it being more awkward than heavy. Then Rosamund frowned over the next problem, and opted to have him help a bit more. "I shall lift my prince, Sergeant, and you shall slide his armor from beneath him." She slid an arm under Brion's shoulders and strained, raising his torso. Sir Orizhan stepped up to help, but Rosamund said fiercely, "No! He is mine!"
"Why, so let it be," Brion murmured, his face only inches from hers, his eyes adoring. "So let it be, for the rest of my life."
She looked down at him in surprise, then blushed and looked away. "Is the plate out, Sergeant? Yes, thank you!" She lowered Brion and unfastened the chain mail about his head and neck. He sighed happily at her touch, and she blushed again.
"My turn now, Princess," Matt said softly but firmly, elbowing her aside. Reluctantly, she gave way, but not very far.
"Water, please," Matt told the druids, and one stepped up, holding a metal bowl, watching Matt curiously and closely. Matt took one of his home-sterilized cloths, dipped it in the water, and bathed the wound, with Rosamund studying his actions as closely as the druids. Then Matt said, "Hold your breath, prince."
Rosamund bent to kiss Brion.
"Well, that's one way," Matt acknowledged. He painted the wound with his home-made antiseptic, largely alcohol, but Brion didn't even stir. "Talk about anesthetic," Matt muttered, and stoppered the bottle, then put it aside. "Okay, Highness, you can let him go."
Reluctantly, Rosamund ended the kiss. She made up for it by helping Matt apply the bandage, then wind clean cloth about it from Brion's neck to his armpit, making him sigh with happiness again.
Matt stepped back, eyeing the prince narrowly. "That's all I can do. We'll have to check that dressing periodically, but as far as I can tell, all his enemy did was pierce muscle tissue and give him one hell of a concussion."
"I shall watch him closely," Rosamund promised.
"Well, maybe not so closely as all that." Matt picked up his pack and turned toward the entranceway, then turned back with an afterthought. "Oh, and get the rest of that armor off him." Then firmly to knight and squire, "Come on, gentlemen. I'm sure the druids can help her with anything else she needs."
Reluctantly, and with many backward glances, they followed him out.
There, Matt found the high druid waiting for him. Before the man could say anything, Matt dropped his pack and demanded, "Now, why did you help the son of your enemy?"
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
"Why, because he is our enemy." The old man smiled. "All us Irish hate Drustan, you know."
"Or at least are very angry with him, yes," Matt acknowledged. "I understand he tried to conquer you and failed."
"Failed indeed." The high druid's face tightened, and his assistants turned grim, too. "He failed, but his soldiers slew a great number of our warriors, raped many, many women, and burned nearly a hundred villages before we were able to expel them. No, we have no love for Drustan of Bretanglia."
"Then why help his son?"
"Do you think us ignorant savages?" another druid burst out.
The leader raised a hand to restrain him. "We hear the news from Bretanglia only a few days after it happens, my lord, as we hear word of events in all of Europe—aye, and the rest of the world, too. Credit our magic with some effect."
"I'm impressed," Matt told him. "Did the Mongols conquer China?"
The old man blinked in surprise, but said, "By 'China' do you mean that broad country far to the east, or the one south of it?"
"The eastern one," Matt said. "I take it the Mongols conquered India, too."
"If by that you mean the land of Hind, no, but not for lack of trying. The Mongols call the eastern land Khitai."
"Cathay, in Western pronunciation." Matt nodded; it was interesting that the major social forces seemed to hold in both his home universe and this one. "Not many who know magic would think to use it to gain more knowledge—especially knowledge of the world."
"They do not live so closely to a land that has tried to conquer them before, and will no doubt try again," the high druid said, smile strong with irony.
"So you see the need to stay informed of everything that happens in Bretanglia." Matt nodded. "That means you must have known about Petronille's rebellion against Drustan."
"We did, and rejoiced," the high druid told him. "We knew also of Brion's part in that affair."
"We know, too, of his reputation for chivalry and justice," another druid said.
"He is Erin's best hope for peace," said a third.
"We could not let him die on the battlefield if we could do anything to prevent it," the leader concluded.
"So it was you who bore him away by your magic."
The high druid smiled. "There is this weakness to the pretender's plan to subvert all of Bretanglia by converting its folk to a mockery of the druid faith—that a true druid can pass among them unseen and unknown. Yes, several of us went to Bretanglia as soon as the rebellion broke out and followed Brion closely. When he was wounded, we cast a spell upon him that froze his life as it was, then bore his sleeping body here."
"A spell that could only be broken by the kiss of a virgin," Matt deduced.
"A virgin who loved him," the high druid corrected.
"I thought it might be something like that," Matt said. "You knew Rosamund would be coming, then."
"We did what we could to help her escape, and to turn her footsteps in this direction," the druid confirmed.
"Including turning me," Matt said, chagrined. "You know, I really take it as an insult when people try to move me around like a chess piece, especially when they succeed. I take it you know King Drustan has died?"
"We do," the high druid confirmed, "but from what we know of John, he is likely to be worse than his father was."
Matt nodded. "Just as much greed, but less ability. Besides, I don't think Drustan had all that much genuine malice in him—it just never occurred to him that other people had feelings. John, though, is out for revenge—on the whole human race."
The high druid shook his head sadly. "We feared as much. Besides, was this John not Drustan's favorite?"
"He was," Matt said, "but not because he was like Drustan. He was just very good at bowing, scraping, and ingratiating."
"If you suffer him to remain king," the high druid advised, "the people of Bretanglia will remember him as the worst monarch they have ever had."
"I don't doubt it." Then, remembering the history of his own universe, Matt added, "He'll be so bad that the people of Bretanglia will swear never to have another king named John."
"He is like to win that distinction merely by supporting the... how did you call these false druids?"
"Synthodruids" Matt said. "The 'syntho' means their chief rolled a lot of ideas that had nothing to do with your faith into his parody of a religion."
"Aptly named," the high druid said dryly. "They do not even call the gods by their British names, but mix in the Irish and Gaulish, too."
"Thanks for the vote in favor of my label. By the way, do I dare say their chief druid's name here?"
"Do you fear to attract his attention?" A wispy smile touched the high druid's lips. "Do not hesitate. His magic is not st
rong enough to register each time someone somewhere mentions his name, and even if it were, our warding spells are surely more powerful than his enchantments."
He said it with such total certainty that Matt guessed they'd run a test of some sort. He felt very much reassured. "So you think John's supporting Niobhyte and his synthodruids is bound to win him the Worst King Ever award, all by itself?"
"I do not doubt it," the high druid assured him. "Our spies send reports, and our scryers peer where people cannot go. The false druids have wasted no time. They have converted all of southern Bretanglia already, that neck of land that bulges out from Merovence, and have sent their missionaries into the midlands. Behind, in the lands they hold, their false priests whip the people into frenzies that make them cheer the spectacle of human sacrifice. They stretch victims upon their altars and stab their hearts with copper knives. They preach that might makes right and that whoever can take his neighbor's goods, deserves them—so every man's hand is turned against his neighbor, and the strong slay the weak, then gather their wives and daughters in to serve their own pleasure. Before, the peasants feared the looting and raping of soldiers in wartime—now they fear the knives and scythes of their neighbors, every day. The southernmost counties churn in chaos, but the midlands, drunk on the druids' wine and lured by their orgies, are deaf to the cries of anguish blown on the wind from the south."
"That's Bretanglia's problem, though." Matt frowned. "They're your enemies. Why should you care what happens to them?"
"Why should you?" the high druid returned. "Do not tell me that you do not, for you have come here seeking to aid them!"
"Easy." Matt shrugged. "I want to make sure Bretanglia doesn't bring war to Merovence—and now that I've seen what the synthodruids are doing, I want to make sure I stop them before they try to spread their madness to my own country."
"Is that all?"
"What are you trying to make me say?" Matt demanded. "That the people themselves aren't my enemies, only their king and this Niobhyte? All right, count it said!"
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