M'Lady Witch

by Christopher Stasheff

  "Yet how if I love two?" Cordelia asked, still quite small. "And how if both love me?"

  "Wait," Gwen advised. "Wait until thine heart has spoken for one, and only one, for the other is a liar. Wait, daughter—only wait."

  In the sitting room of her suite, Chief Agent Finister paced the floor, still disguised as Lady Delilah. The mask of innocence was dropped; the clinging vine had fallen away, to be replaced by the whiplash. Her eyes flashed fire, every movement tense with barely suppressed rage.

  Her lieutenants stood in respectful silence against the walls of the room, three of them men, two women. The men were nearly salivating, feeling themselves galvanized by the mere sight of their leader, felt every cell of their bodies respond, even now, when the lady was not being at all seductive—even now, when she was enraged and might very well attack one of them with lethal intent. But she was completely beautiful; every line, every gesture, every curve kindled desire within them.

  The two women watched in mixed awe and envy—awe that a woman had gained the foremost position of power among the anarchists of Gramarye; envy of that power, and of the beauty that she had used as a tool and a weapon, to rise to that position.

  "How dare she outshine me!" Delilah fumed as she paced the room. "How dare she win the Prince's eye—and how dare he be merely courteous to me, yet burning with. ardor for her!"

  No one dared answer.

  "We must do away with her!" Delilah spun on her heel, jabbing a finger at one of the women. "Did Gerta take her that cup of poisoned wine?"

  "Five or ten minutes ago, Chief," the woman said quickly. "As soon as you ordered it, the wine was prepared and sent up."

  Delilah nodded, eyes burning. "We still dare not attempt an open assault—these Gallowglasses have proved too powerful in the past. But a poisoned cup, here in our headquarters, where everyone around them is one of our agents—aye, here we may have at them." She burst into rage again. "Where is the silly goose?"

  There was a knock at the door. One of the men reached to swing it open, and Gerta entered.

  "Well?" Delilah pounced upon her. "Did she drink it?"

  "N-n-no, Chief."

  "Not drink it! Did you not press it upon her?"

  "I ... I couldn't, Chief. She wasn't there."

  "Not there!" Delilah halted, staring. Then, finally, she probed with her own mind, her eyes glazing for a moment. It was true—wherever Cordelia was, she was beyond Delilah's range.

  Chief Agent Finister was a very powerful esper, but her range was very limited. Within that range, she was formidable, especially in the area of projective telepathy. She excelled at the crafting of witch-moss, and at inserting her own commands and thoughts into another person's mind at so deep a level that it amounted to instant hypnosis. This also made her able to kindle passion in any man, to make herself seem infinitely desirable. It was this last trait that she had used to win her office—coupled with extortion and assassination.

  "Her broomstick was gone, too, Chief," Gerta supplied. "After all, she is a witch."

  "She could be anywhere!" Delilah threw up her hands in disgust, turning on her heel to pace again. "Did the sentries not see her go? Did no one see where she sped?"

  "None, Chief."

  "Of course not!" Then, suddenly, Delilah stopped, lifting her head, a strange, feral gleam coming into her eye. "She is gone, she is fled. Now might we slay the Prince and be one step closer to loosing anarchy upon Gramarye!"

  "He has a younger brother," one of the men protested. "And when he comes of age to be susceptible to me, I shall slay him likewise! Then, when the King and Queen die, the barons shall vie to see who shall have the Crown—and war shall be loosed upon this island! Let us not waste the opportunity! Creep into his chamber, stab your daggers into his heart, run him through with your swords!" Her voice sank low, with an intensity that` raised the hairs of her lieutenants. "For I will see his blood!"

  Her men stared at her, appalled. Not a single one of them doubted the true reason for this murder. Oh, surely, it was excellent policy for the anarchists. Baron against baron, duke against duke—a chaos of war out of which a few strong warlords would arise. They would tear the land apart in their own turn until the peasants, sickened by war, would rise up and cut them down.

  Then, guided by the anarchist cells, they would establish their own local governments which, carefully guided, would wither away, and the land would be left without government, without law, without oppression, guided only by custom and the natural morality inherent in each human being, the innate nobility of the species. This was their dream.

  Of course, they blinded themselves to a few unpleasant truths that disagreed with their vision. They ignored some of the more base impulses of human beings, and the savage aspects of the natural social rules that arise even in the animal kingdom, plus the fact that there are always unbalanced humans who are motivated more by greed than by concern for their fellows—but all dreamers overlook a few things they do not wish to gaze upon.

  Still, those reasons of policy were scarcely what had motivated Delilah to order this assassination. All of them knew that she had intended to captivate Alain, then marry him. What would have happened then was open to speculation. Many of them suspected that her real goal was personal power, and that she would forget the anarchist cause in an instant when it had served her purpose—or even turn against them, seek to wipe them out, as threats to her own position.

  That didn't affect their loyalty, of course. It was based on fear and lust, on the men's side, and on the women's, on admiration and fear.

  So none of them really believed Alain's assassination was a matter of policy. They all knew that Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and that, somehow, incredibly, unbelievably, Prince Alain had scorned their leader, the Lady Delilah, Chief Agent Finister, whom any one of the men would have given his life for—if, before death, he could have shared the ecstasies of her bed.

  "His comrade," one of them ventured, "Geoffrey Gallowglass. He is a warlock, and a powerful one."

  "Moreover," said another, "he is highly skilled with weapons—perhaps the most expert in all the land." Delilah smiled, with cruel anticipation. "I made an appointment with him, to play a game of chess; he expects me even now."

  The men all stiffened in jealousy.

  "But he shall not find me." Delilah turned to one of her female lieutenants. "His weakness is women. Send him your most voluptuous, most accomplished assistant—and when he is deep in his revels with her, ignoring the world around him and least expecting attack, drive a dagger under his ribs. Then bring me his head."

  The men all shuddered, but their jealousy was the only guarantee she needed.

  "And what of the bandit Forrest?" one of the men protested. "Might he not come to the Prince's aid?"

  "I doubt it, since they both sue for the same woman." Delilah tossed back her head, eyelids drooping. "But we shall make sure of him. I shall see to the bandit myself. He is not worth killing, that one—but he is certainly worth a few moments' attention." She glided out of the room.

  The men all stared after her.

  The women knew why Delilah was willing to do it—it was her victory over Cordelia, if not as she had originally planned it.

  At that moment, each of the men would have slain Forrest happily, if by doing so, they could have changed places with him.

  But since they could not, they went to slay Alain.

  CHAPTER 15

  Alain dreamed that Delilah was bending over him, loosening the fastenings of her gown—but she changed even as she loosened, becoming Cordelia; and even as she was sliding the gown down over her hips, she was murmuring with excitement, "Alain! Alain, wake up!"

  But why was her voice urgent instead of seductive? And why were her ears growing into points? In fact, why was she turning into an elf?

  "Crown Prince! Awaken!"

  Alain's eyelids snapped open. It must have been a dream. Cordelia would never address him by his title. He lay very still
, and heard the voice again. "Waken, Crown Prince!"

  Alain lay unmoving, his gaze flicking about the room. Then he saw the brownie woman, hanging from the bedpost, calling down, "Crown Prince, awaken!" She glanced nervously up at the door. "Waken, Prince Alain!"

  "I have waked." Alain sat up.

  "Praise be!" the elf breathed. "They come to slay thee, Prince! Catch up thy sword and flee!"

  More than his sword—Alain, like most medieval folk, slept naked. He leaped out of bed and seized his hose. Fortunately, he had left all the points tied, and had only unbuckled the belt. Now he had only to wrestle the hose on, not pausing to smooth them out, and buckle up.

  "Quickly, quickly!" the brownie woman hissed. "Wilt thou lose thy life for a pair of drawers? Surely 'tis better to live naked than to die clothed!"

  If they had sent a male elf, Alain probably would have agreed—but as it was, he was embarrassed to be seen naked by a woman. Standing up, he buckled his belt, then caught up his baldric, throwing it over his head and drawing both sword and dagger.

  Just in time. The door swung open, slowly, without a squeak.

  Alain held his breath and stepped back against the wall. His impulse was to leap out and start stabbing, but he needed to be sure that the men were truly hostile before he would let himself strike a blow that might kill. If they were, he intended to make sure he had them all in sight before he began work.

  One ... two ... and they held swords and daggers drawn! Three ... four ... five ... none more came in; they moved toward the bed.

  Silent as a cat, Alain circled opposite their direction, slipping behind the tapestry that hung on the wall. Peering around its edge, he watched the five men gather around the bed in the darkness. What cowards were they! So many men, to slay one poor sleeping knight! Anger boiled within him at the treachery. He tried to let it ebb, but not too far, for it held at bay the fear that had begun to pool in his stomach. He remembered what Geoffrey had told him—that all the swordsmen Alain had ever fought would never have dared to beat the Crown Prince. Had the bandits known who he was? Had the witch's henchmen?

  But these men did not, or if they did, they did not care. Alain realized that he was about to discover whether or not he really was a capable swordsman. Why they wished to kill him, he did not ask—there would be time enough to understand it later.

  "Light," the first man hissed.

  A beam speared out. Alain blinked with surprise—he had not heard the sliding of a metal shutter, nor did he smell the flame-heated tin of a lantern. What manner of men were these?

  He stepped out from behind the tapestry, circling behind their backs toward the door.

  "He is fled!" the leader hissed. "Where ...?"

  "There!" another man shouted, his forger spearing at Alain.

  The leader spun wide-eyed, as Alain threw himself forward in a lunge, howling, "Havoc!"

  The nearest man fell back, barely getting his sword around in time to parry—which was perfect, because Alain whirled his thrust into a slash, coming in low and cutting upward. The man cried out and fell back, holding his hands to his side. Alain braced himself and yanked the sword free as the man fell—but even as he did, he was catching the second swordsman's blade on his dagger. Not quite well enough—the blade nicked his shoulder, but Alain ignored the pain. He didn't even take time to riposte, only pulled the sword straight out of one man and stabbed it into the next. The second's sword managed to parry at the very last second, but Alain slipped his blade around the parry and thrust, scoring the man's thigh. The man howled and collapsed.

  Alain sprang aside as the third man lunged. The edge scored the Prince's ribs and the pain burned, but he ignored it and swung backhanded, striking the man on the back of the head with the heel of his hilt even as he raised his dagger to block an assault by the fourth man. He leaped back as the two remaining men crowded him, their blades flickering. He parried, blocked, then slammed a kick into the midriff of the nearest and spun away toward the door.

  The leader shouted and charged at him. He leaped aside at the last second, and the man slammed into the wall. Before he could recover, Alain was out the door.

  The leader shouted a curse, and his thrown dagger struck Alain on the back of the head. Dizzy for a second, he reeled back against the wall. Then his head cleared, and he leaped to his right, plastered himself back against the wall—and sure enough, the leader came charging out, yelling, "Stop him! Guards! Stop that man!"

  Alain caught him in the right shoulder with his dagger. The man spun around, saw Alain's blade chopping down, and sprang aside with a howl of fright. His sword fell from numbed fingers—and one of the other men dragged himself out the door, gasping for breath, but cutting at Alain with his sword.

  Alain leaped aside, then cut low, slicing the man's calf. It would have been a foul blow in a foil match, but here, it spared his opponent's life. The man cried out and collapsed.

  But the leader was running away down the hall, crying, "A rescue! A rescue! Seize him!"

  Alarm, and the old instinct to chase when you're winning, almost sent Alain after him, but prudence dictated that he find an escape.

  "Flee, King's Son!" cried the brownie from the lintel. In answer came shouting from around the corner, and the sound of boots running. The rattle of steel punctuated the drumming.

  Alain whirled about and ran down the hallway, not knowing where he was going, a wild exhilaration beating in his breast, for he was alive, and his enemies were disabled. He decided that perhaps he was as good a swordsman as he had thought.

  A section of panelled wall swung out before him. He jarred to a halt, dagger up, sword on guard, panting, the feet and the shouting swelling closer behind him. Alain stood, ready for whatever danger would come at him out of this secret door ...

  An elf leaped through, crying, "Inside, King's Son! Quickly, ere they come in sight of thee!"

  Alain didn't argue. He ducked down and shot into the hole behind the panelling. The door clapped shut behind him, and he knelt in the darkened space, holding his breath, though his lungs clamored for air. The pounding feet came closer, the shouting was louder and louder, and his heart was hammering within him ...

  Then the feet were fading away, and the shouting with them.

  Alain let the stale air explode out of his lungs, and gasped in fresh.

  Little lights suddenly sprang up all about him. He pushed himself back against the wall, his blades coming up to guard, then saw elfin faces by the candle-sized flames of miniature torches.

  "We will lead you to safety, Crown Prince!" the largest of them said. He was quite tall by their standards, a foot and a half high, with a look of incipient mayhem in his eyes.

  "You are the Puck!" Alain panted.

  "I am, and come to save you from the peril into which your own foolish glands have brought you. Will you come?"

  But Alain stayed where he was, pushing himself upright slowly, wary of a ceiling that might strike his head. "Nay," he gasped, "I cannot flee!"

  "What nonsense is this?" Puck demanded. "Let us hear no foolishness of proving your valor, youngling! This is no time to play games of honor! Come, and come quickly!"

  "I cannot," Alain said. "The Lady Cordelia ... if they have sought to slay me, they may seek to slay her ... I must find her!"

  Puck calmed, staring at him. "Even so," he said.

  For a moment, it occurred to Alain to worry about Geoffrey ...

  Then he realized that he was being ridiculous. "Follow," the elf told him. "I will lead you to a place that is near to her chamber."

  "I follow," Alain answered. He slipped down the passageway after the ring of fairy lights, barely able to see where his next step should be. "I thank you, Wee Folk." Puck exchanged glances with one of the other elves. It was rare that they met a mortal with a proper sense of gratitude. "Thou dost credit to thy parents and thine upbringing," Puck answered.

  Then, suddenly, he came to a halt. Tiny feet pattered toward them, a little torch bobbing up
and down, lighting a brownie's face.

  "What moves?" Puck demanded.

  "Not the Lady Cordelia," the elf answered. "Her room is empty; she is fled."

  "Thank heavens!" Alain sighed, then suddenly stiffened. "Or has she been taken?"

  "We shall seek," the elf promised.

  "Aye, we shall find her, if any may," Puck said. "Come now, King's Son. Thou must needs leave this house with us."

  "Not until I know that she is fled, not taken!" Alain protested. "Nay, do not stay by me, good folk, but go seek her indeed! Although, if you would be so good as to leave me a light, I shall be safe enough here. Do you seek her out..." Then, as an afterthought, "And you might spare a thought for her brother. Warn him, too—I doubt not he shall need it."

  Puck regarded him for a moment, weighing his instructions against one another. The lad was safe enough—and he did need to prove himself to himself .. . "We shall attempt it. Are you sure you shall be well, though, King's Son?"

  "I am certain," he said. "Go. I shall amuse myself by prowling these secret hallways, to discover where they lead. Who knows but it may be of benefit?"

  "Even as thou sayest," Puck pronounced. "Take care, and do not seek to fight a whole army by thyself."

  "I shall not," Alain promised.

  Of course, he didn't say anything about a squadron. Puck went away with his little troop, well aware that he could not depend on the Prince to play it safe—not at his age, or with his overdeveloped sense of responsibility (or his being in love).

  Of course, Puck wasn't about to let him really be alone. Alain thought he was, though, and felt the sense of abandonment creeping in. He threw it off and, lit only by the miniature torch (which, he noticed, was not burning down at all), prowled the secret passage. What he was really seeking, of course, was another door into the manor house's rooms—in fact, as many doors as he could locate. If Cordelia was in the slightest danger, he intended to leap to her defense by the quickest route he could find.

  Cordelia, of course, was in no danger at all, except, perhaps, from her own emotions.