"Well, no, but by rights you should have been, should you not?" The stranger knight gave him a keen glance, then dropped his gaze. "But I presume. Let me tell you the news of the capital, as I had it from the knight with whom I broke a lance outside the keep of Rodenge."
"I hunger for it," Anselm said, eyes bright, "as I think you hunger for bread and meat. Come, Sir Orgon, let us find happier quarters than these. What of His Majesty?"
"Your younger brother is alive and well, though saddened by the loss of a friend." Sir Orgon fell in step with his host.
"A friend?" Hope brightened Anselm's eyes—or was it vindication? "Not the Lord Warlock, surely?"
"Nay, Sir Anselm—his wife."
Anselm stared in shock.
"It was neither sudden nor painful, they say," the knight began, and told as much as he knew of the event as he followed his host. He was remarkably well informed for one who had heard of it, not been there—he told of Magnus's return and of the funeral and the subsequent events as they dined.
They had finished their meal and were sharing a bowl of sweetmeats by the time he told of the Lord Warlock's departure into the wildwood, bound no one knew where.
Anselm had come alive with the description of Rod Gallowglass's trials. Now he leaned back, swirling the wine in his cup, and mused, "I have heard he has taken leave of his senses now and then. Perhaps he has done so again."
"I doubt it not, Sir Anselm—but by his going, he has left the Crown unguarded."
Anselm stilled. "What do you say?"
"Only that, if ever the lords wish to claim back their rights and powers, the time to strike is come." Sir Orgon leaned forward with glittering eyes. "But they will not rise without a leader, and who better to command them than the rightful duke of Loguire?"
Anselm sat frozen, not believing he was hearing talk of rebellion again after all these years—or how welcome that talk was, or how it roused a sudden yearning for revenge. He hated himself for it, but he listened all the more intently.
"The Crown has lost its two most stalwart supporters," Sir Orgon said. "There will never be a better time to rise."
For a moment, Sir Anselm's eyes burned; then he summoned the will to resist and forced himself to stand, pushing back his chair, and said, "I have no stomach for talk of treason, Sir Orgon. I will bid you good night."
He turned and stalked away, not waiting even to see Sir Orgon stand in respect—but the knight watched him go, eyes glittering, knowing that his fish was half-hooked. If he were not, if he were truly loyal down to his bones, Sir Orgon would have been clapped into irons on the spot and would have spent his night in a dungeon cell.
AS DARKNESS FELL, Rod found a stream, kindled a solitary fire for warmth, then went to the brook with his folding bucket, brought back water, and hung the bucket over the fire to heat for tea. Then he took jerky, cheese, and hardtack out of his saddlebag and sat down on a log to have dinner.
"That really is not adequate fare for an evening meal, Rod. You usually find wild vegetables and heat them with the beef as a stew."
"Yeah, but what's the point in cooking for just one, Fess?"
"Health, Rod."
"So what's it going to do—kill me?" Rod gave the horse a sardonic smile. "I'll gather vegetables as we go tomorrow—but right now, I'm tired."
A low growling began off to his right, swelling into a heart-rending moan.
Rod froze. "What was that?"
"A waveform of low …"
"Yeah, I could tell that much. What made it?"
"From the quality, Rod, I would assume it is a creature in distress."
Rod stood, came over to stuff his dinner back into the saddlebag, and led Fess off into the woods. "Can't ride— the trees are too thick. How far away is whoever made that moan?"
"It is difficult to tell with only the distance between my ears for triangulation, Rod."
The moan sounded again.
"Make a guess!" Rod said. "Whoever that is, they're in dire distress."
"Rod, you know my distaste for …"
"Okay, call it an estimate! Just tell me how far!"
Static crackled through Rod's implanted earphone— Fess's version of a sigh. "Perhaps two hundred meters, Rod."
"To carry this far, that would have to be a pretty loud moan. Let's hurry as much as we can, Fess—whoever that is, needs help in a bad way."
There was a little moonlight—not enough to show the roots or potholes that waited to trip Rod, but enough so that he could keep from blundering into tree trunks. As he went, though, the moonlight seemed to grow brighter. A little farther and he saw the cause—delicate strings of light hanging all about. With a shock, he realized they were branches, and the leaves that hung from them began to glow. Another few yards, and he found himself walking through a forest of crystal, adorned with berries that were gems and filled with the delicate silver glow of moonlight concentrated and refracted all about him. "What is this place?" he asked in a hushed voice.
The moan came again, much nearer. Rod turned to his right—and stepped across an unseen boundary. Everything about him was dark and dank; the branches hung bare, and mold squelched beneath his boots, filling his head with the stench of corruption. He found himself in a pocket of decay in the center of the crystalline wood. He half expected a skeleton to rise from the muck.
Not a skeleton, but right beside him rose a glowing figure hung with rags, its cheeks sunken, its skin withered and wrinkled, its eyes lost in the shadows under its brow, long trails of mucus streaking down its cheeks. It moaned, the sound so loud that Rod clapped his hands over his ears— but it drifted toward him, reaching out a skeletal finger to touch him.
Fourteen
ROD FLINCHED AWAY, BUT TOO LATE—HE HAD felt that touch graze his shoulder, and his arm suddenly weakened.
"Why come you here, foolish mortal?" the apparition demanded. "What has brought you so far down this road?"
"Time." Rod lifted his arm to fend off the spectre even as he backed away—but that arm seemed leaden, taking a titanic effort to lift, and wouldn't rise more than half-way. Rod gave it a quick glance and was shocked to see that the skin of his hand was wrinkled, the muscles of the arm shrunken. He backed away quickly, not stopping to wonder how the creature had come to be—on Gramarye, there was no doubt it was real, for all practical purposes.
"Turn aside," the creature advised, "for know that you have come to the place of Decay, where you shall waste away till you can neither walk nor lift, nor even raise your hands to eat."
"There is always the mind," Rod said. His arm was intolerably heavy; he fought to keep it high, but it drooped steadily. He had to let it fall; he needed all his attention to avoid the creature's next lunge.
"Your mind too shall waste away," the spectre intoned. "Go back, human creature. You may not be able to choose your death, but you can surely choose not to have this one."
"Can I?" Rod met the hollow gaze with a level stare. "My road goes on past this place, Decay. I will not turn aside; the one I love awaits upon the farther side."
"Then you are a fool, for you'll not pass," Decay answered. "Your hips shall seize up, your spine shall bend, your muscles shall waste away." It drifted closer, finger reaching out. "Beware my touch."
"Good advice." Rod stepped aside.
The spirit turned and came after him. "Forgo this land, go out from this forest—for even that creature that goes on four legs in morn and two legs at noon must walk on three when coming here—and shall leave on four again, if it goes at all."
"A human." Rod sidestepped the touch and backed away again. "That's an old conundrum, spirit. Surely you can do better than that."
"I have no need," Decay answered, "for your mind shall fade so gently as to escape your notice. Can you not feel your acuity slipping even as you speak?"
"No, for if it were to fade so gently that I didn't realize, how could I feel it?" Rod sidestepped another touch. "Fess, come up behind this creature and pull it away!"
/> "I see nothing, Rod, except a small clearing in the woods, like any other. You must tell me where to bite."
Illusion! Rod realized. But was it in his own mind, his old delusions returning, or was it the work of a projective telepath? Or even a witch-moss construct that was visible only to living creatures? Rod had no idea how such a thing could be made but didn't doubt that it could.
"You are liable to me, as are all living things," Decay told him. "You cannot turn me any more than you can turn that invader who roars across the land and whom even the Crown with all its soldiers cannot divert."
"The wind," Rod interpreted, "and we may not be able to turn it aside, but we can certainly harness it with windmills. Will you do as much work for us as it does?"
"I shall work upon you." All at once, the spirit darted forward, lunging to touch.
Rod ducked and said, "I have it! You yourself are a riddle!"
"Foolish human, I am nothing of the sort," Decay answered, still drifting toward him. "I am inevitable, if you are born to meet me."
"Not since DNA surgery was invented," Rod said, "and since my great-grandparents all had it, I'm exempt from your domain."
"Do you mean to say you are not human?" Decay kept drifting even as it spoke. "Then you are truly a fool! But how can a man not be a fool and still be a man?"
"When he's dead and gone," Rod said, then leaped aside to avoid another lunge. "All men are fools in some way— the more so because we can't agree on which behavior is foolish. Some of us are fools about money, some are fools about power and status, some are fools over women… The list is endless."
"Then cease your folly and hold still to receive my touch."
"Ah, but that would be the greatest folly of all." Rod still backed away, feeling an idea germinate. "After all, it's clear you're trying to distract me with riddles so that I'll slip and let you touch me. I've no desire to waste into an imitation of you."
"How shall you avoid me, then?" Decay asked. "All living things must age, and age is wasting."
"Yes, but you're the spirit of wasting disease, aren't you?" Rod countered. "More particularly, of inborn wasting conditions." Out of the corner of his eye, Rod saw Fess standing stolidly opposite him and knew that he had come half-way around the clearing. What a sight he must have made, backing away from a nonexistent creature!
"All must wither, soon or late."
"Later, thank you." Rod leaped high and far.
The spirit lunged forward with a cry of rage in one last attempt to touch Rod and infect him, but he landed outside the circle of mold on the glistening ground amid the crystalline trees, out of the shadow and back in the light of the moon.
"You cannot truly escape!" the spirit cried. "You must come to me some day!"
"No I won't," Rod countered, "because I have a friend to transport me beyond your reach. Over here, Fess."
The robot horse paced toward him across the darkened circle. With a glad cry, the spirit of Decay surged toward him, reaching out to touch—then crying out in dismay and rage. "This is no living horse, but a thing of metal!"
"Beneath the synthetic horsehair, yes," Rod confirmed, "and he's built to last considerably longer than I am."
"Even things of Cold Iron must rust away!" the spirit threatened, and floated beside Fess, darting its touch at Fess's withers, backbone, flanks.
"Well, yes, but Fess's body is a rust-proof alloy," Rod explained. "He's only metaphorically of Cold Iron—and even then, when this mechanical body breaks down, we can always get him another one. The computer inside him may be long outmoded, but it's made of materials that don't erode."
The spirit made one more lunge at Fess's retreating form and cried in anger, "You have cheated me! But one day I shall have my due!"
"You already have," Rod said grimly. "You've taken my wife, and with her, my heart. Be assured, if I could find a way to rid the universe of you, I would—and my children just may learn how."
"None can defeat me! Even you and your contraption have only avoided me!"
"I know," Rod said. "You're an aspect of Entropy and are inherent in the universe itself. But we can make humanity immune to you—and some day, someone will."
"You speak like Tithonus, foolish mortal!"
"What, to be wanting eternal life and forget to ask for eternal youth?" Rod shook his head. "Other way around, haunt of humans. I ask to be immune from the ravages of age—but I don't exactly want to live forever." His laugh was short, bitter, and sardonic.
"You laugh at nothing, Rod," Fess pointed out.
"Or at something that will come to nothing," Rod said, "and try to take me with it. Come on, Fess. We have moonlight enough to find a road through this wood."
He mounted and rode off, leaving the spirit to gnash its teeth and wail.
NEARBY A DOZEN elves sat spellbound among the crystal leaves, watching Rod ride away. Puck looked up at Evanescent. "Well done, strange creature. You have given him a foe to outsmart when he needed one. I did much the same myself, when he was young and had need of a dragon to combat."
"It was nothing," Evanescent answered. She certainly wasn't about to tell Puck that she spoke only but the truth. The illusion of the moonlight-filled, crystalline wood she had indeed made for Rod—but where Decay and its mouldering circle had come from, she had no idea.
GEOFFREY WENT OUT the door, and Magnus sat completely still for several minutes. Then he took a very long breath and turned back to the books and papers spread out on his desk. He studied them for half an hour with nothing registering; his mind kept going back to Geoffrey and their confrontation. He was finally beginning to be able to concentrate on the print instead of the problems with his siblings when he heard a knock. He sat very still for half a minute, then looked up at the sentry with a bland smile. "Yes, trooper?"
"Your brother, Sir Magnus."
Magnus stared, his thoughts still on Geoffrey, then smiled with relief as Gregory came in. Magnus stood, raising his arms—then lowered them as he saw Gregory's frown. He came around the desk slowly, smile still plastered on his face, and said, "Good morning, brother. Some tea?"
"Not now, I think, Magnus." Gregory took a chair without being invited.
Magnus took the point and sat across from him. Of course, Gregory couldn't know he was sitting where Geoffrey had only half an hour before. Well, actually, he could know, but he wouldn't—none of the siblings went in for mental eavesdropping without very strong cause; they'd been reared better than that. "You are well today, I hope— and Allouette, too?"
"I am well enough, brother," Gregory said, "but Allouette is very concerned."
So much for social pleasantries. "Concerned about me? I should be of no consequence to her—far away and unseen."
"She fears that you shall begin giving me orders and drive a wedge between us."
Magnus gazed at his youngest sib with bent brows for a few seconds, then said, "She still does not understand the depth or intensity of your love, then."
Gregory blushed and looked away. "She is very insecure, brother. I have told you of her past; you cannot wonder that she is slow to learn to trust again."
"Then I think she has made remarkable strides, considering how thoroughly Cordelia and Quicksilver have bonded with her."
Gregory nodded slowly. "They adventured together, and common enemies have a way of making faster friends quite quickly—as I am sure you know."
"Friendship grows slowly for me," Magnus said, "but I am fortunate in having made two close friends."
"Shield-mates."
Magnus nodded.
Gregory frowned at him, then said, "You seemed open enough to her until you heard her name, brother. Then, well though you tried to hide it, all of us could see how you hesitated. Why?"
It wasn't like Gregory to be so direct, but Magnus had heard love could cause such changes. " 'Allouette' was also the name of the woman who recruited me into SCENT, brother—not entirely by reason alone."
"Her beauty?" Gregory asked.
>
Magnus nodded. "I would scarcely say I was swept away, but I was very much aware of the attraction. Finister did that much for me, at least—that I became very slow to fall in love."
"Which is to say that you never have." For the moment, Gregory was full of sympathy. "I cannot tell you how deeply Allouette regrets what she did to you, brother. Whenever she thinks of it, she is filled with anguish again."
"Then it is a wonder she can bear to look upon my face." Magnus smiled. "This scarcely needed telling, Gregory—but I am glad that you did."
"I do not merely show concern," Gregory said anxiously. "I am concerned for your emotional welfare, brother."
"I have always managed to keep my wits about me," Magnus hedged, "so I was well aware that the other Allouette meant to use me and was enraged when I disobeyed orders and did what was right for the people of the planet I was supposed to subvert, rather than what was right for SCENT."
"So," Gregory said softly, "two women to whom you were attracted, hurt and abused you. No wonder you chilled on the sound of the name."
Magnus nodded. "But it is certainly no fault of your bride's, nor do I hold it against her."
"But her actions toward you ten years ago?"
"I can forgive, Gregory, and have. In time, I am sure I will forget them completely."
After a moment, Gregory nodded, though reluctantly, then sat forward, suddenly even more intent. "Understand, though, brother—even were you to attempt to command us, neither of us would obey."
"Then I shall give no orders."
Gregory's brows drew together; his intensity sharpened. "Do not think to use us as your magical tools, Magnus. You cannot know anything of our research."
"Absolutely nothing," Magnus admitted cheerfully, "and for that reason, I would not dream of telling either of you what to study and what not."
"And would not ask us to study certain uses of magic for the Crown?" Gregory asked suspiciously.
"I think the Crown can do its own asking," Magnus said. "After all, you are not exactly unknown to our sovereign and her husband, not to mention their younger son. Is your friendship with Diarmid still close?"
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