For a moment, Rod wondered crazily if he had stumbled into mud or a pool of witch-moss. Then he realized that it wasn't crazy at all if the bog could take on a face and talk to him. "What manner of spirit are you?"
"I am the Spirit of the Waste," the mud-monster intoned, "and I spread sloughs for the unwary."
"I'm not sure you can actually spread a slough." Rod looked down at the mud. "But I'm not exactly in a position to argue."
"Nay, nor to struggle." A muddy hand shot out from the monster's body to touch Rod on the forehead. He shouted and recoiled, trying to avoid the oozing finger—but the mud sucked at his feet, and he fell on his back.
Fess neighed a protest, and Rod felt the mud pulling at his back and hips, dragging him down—but he saw no reason to resist. When he stopped and thought about it—and what else could he do, lying on his back in a bog?—there was no reason to struggle. Sure, there would be a few minutes of unpleasantness … well, pain … when the mud choked his lungs and he could no longer breathe, but if he went into a trance here and now, he wouldn't mind all that much—and what reason was there to live? The kids didn't need him any more—they had their spouses, all but Magnus, and he had Alea, a devoted companion who would give him all the emotional support he was willing to accept. The Crown didn't need Rod, either—Tuan was still amazingly devoted to Catharine, and she to him—nor did the nation; Magnus would defend it as well as he ever could, especially with his brothers and sister to back him up.
And Gwen was gone.
So why not just lie here and let the bog take him?
Rod felt as though a thin black cloud had fallen over him, dimming everything about him—not that he could see much from this point of view. Even the broad and cloudless noonday sky above him seemed dulled, its blue almost gray. Dimly, he was aware that there had been reasons to live once, but he couldn't remember them now. No, he could—they had been Gwen and the kids, and protecting Gramarye from the futurians. Even before that, the dreams that had kept him going were freeing oppressed peoples and finding a woman he could fall in love with, who would fall in love with him, something he had come to believe could never happen.
Then he had met Gwen.
Gwen, it had always been Gwen—even before he met her, there had been the hope of finding her.
Now she was gone.
So why not let the mud take him? There was no purpose in life any more, no reason for living, and certainly no joy, not without her. Sink down and die, and see her much sooner!
Something slapped his chest. Rod scowled down at it, resenting any interruption, now that he had finally made up his mind to die. Dimly, he was aware of someone ranting and raging at someone else who was poking in where he had no business, but he didn't really care. He saw the two-inch-thick stick lying across his doublet; it took him several seconds to realize it would probably hold his weight. Following it back, he saw the robot holding the other end in his mouth; Fess had somehow managed to find a fallen branch after all. He smiled sadly; it was a nice idea, but kind of tardy, after he had finally come to realize where his life really stood.
'Take hold of the end of the branch, Rod," the robot's voice said through the earphone embedded in the bone in front of his ear. "It will bear your weight, and I will pull you to firm ground."
"Why bother, Fess?" Rod said. "There's no point in going on. Go back to Magnus; he needs you. Go back to the ones who have reason to live."
"That is not your own thought, Rod," the robot explained. "It is a projection of this earthen elemental who seeks to drag you down."
"A projected thought?" Rod frowned. "Why would it bother?"
"For the same reason it spreads bogs for the unwary, Rod. It detests all life and seeks to purge the earth of living things. It sees all life as corruption, as obscenities that should not exist, and it seeks to cleanse its own element of all that grows or moves. It is the Spirit of the Waste because it makes wastelands. It finds in them a kind of purity."
"In my present state of mind, that almost makes sense." Rod turned to frown at the bulge in the bog. "Are you sure it's wrong?"
"Quite sure, Rod, but you will not be able to evaluate the idea objectively as long as you lie within its power. Take hold of the stick."
But the mud had covered his ears now, was sending a tendril across his chest; he could taste a trickle of it in his mouth. "It would be so easy …"
"Easy, perhaps, but not right. There are still people who need you, work that only you can do."
"Can't think of any, at the moment."
"No, and you never will as long as you lie within that creature's power. Seize the end of the branch."
But the monster stretched out a tendril again, reaching for Rod.
At the cold and clammy touch, something mulish and stubborn rose up in Rod. His mind, at least, had always been his own—until he had chosen to let Gwen share it. With both hands, he laid firm hold on the stick. The tentacle of mud poised over his face, then slammed down, but Rod managed to twitch aside, and it slapped into the bog, merging with the rest of the mud and losing its shape. The monster bellowed, and the tentacle began to reform—but it was moving away from him now. No, he was moving away, and the roaring monster was too slow in refashioning its boneless arm. Rod was actually making pretty good time considering he was ploughing through mud. Then firm ground slid up under his head; he tucked in his chin and solid earth jolted under his back. When it reached his waist, he flipped over and pushed himself to his feet, his legs sucking loose from the tug of the bog—and suddenly the world seemed to brighten, his spirits soared, and life was good again. Gwen was still a dream, one he could actually attain, one worth searching for.
The monster howled in frustration. "You are mine, mortal, and shall return to me!"
"All that lives will return to the earth sooner or later," Rod agreed, "but not today." He frowned, directing a thought at the creature, thinking of it melting back into the slough from which it had come. The monster roared rage even as it dissolved; the last roar was only a bubble in the mud.
"I have never seen a bog of witch-moss before, Rod."
"Nor have I," Rod said. "We'll have to call Toby and the Royal Witchforce to come clean it up."
"Speaking of cleaning up …"
Rod looked down at his doublet and hose to find them slathered with mud. "Might not have to throw them away. Let's find a pond and see what happens if I take a swim."
"If I were you, Rod, from now on, I would be wary of immersion in any medium."
"Yeah, but if we all gave in to that kind of impulse, no one would ever write a book." Rod turned to mount, then thought better of it. "I think I'll walk until we find enough water to rinse me. Lead on, Fess."
"I have no idea where to go, Rod."
'To the west, of course! That's where Tir Nan Og lies, doesn't it?"
"I have not noticed it on any map."
"Quit caviling. If you don't know where to go, any direction is as good as any other, and I choose west." Rod stopped for a moment, then said, "And, Fess—thanks for pulling me out of one more bog."
"That is why I exist, Rod."
MAGNUS WAITED FOR the seneschal to announce him. The man came out and bowed him into the royal solar. He came in and bowed himself. "Good morning, Your Majesties." Then he straightened and gave his parents' friends a bland smile that hid his scrutiny.
Catharine stopped pacing long enough to give him a courteous nod, while Tuan rose from his chair and came to press Magnus's hand with a smile. "Good morning, Sir Magnus. How do you find your old home?"
"There is some feeling of strangeness," Magnus admitted, "but the strangest thing of all is that it looks so familiar."
Tuan laughed. "I remember such a feeling when I returned from my exile. Be sure, it will pass."
"I am reassured." Magnus returned Tuan's smile; it was almost impossible not to. The man's good nature was infectious.
It was his first close meeting with them since the funeral, and he was in far better
condition to study the changes in them—but there didn't seem to be any, if you didn't count the crow's-feet and other new creases in their faces, and a little more thickness to their bodies. For a couple in their fifties, Tuan and Catharine were in excellent condition.
"We are quite curious," Catharine told him, "and very eager to hear of the strange sights and stranger customs you have witnessed—but we shall wait for that until you are feeling fully at home again."
"I am quite willing to tell you." Magnus smiled. "Your problem will be making me stop."
Both laughed, neither believing him. "We would not disrupt your day only for such pleasantries," Tuan said, "but we have heard reports that disturb us."
"Really." Magnus resisted the temptation to read their minds. "Reports of what?"
"Of peasants who gather in ever-larger bands, marching toward Runnymede." Tuan's smile faded. "They bear only the tools of their labor, but I know how well flails and scythes can harvest soldiers. Have you heard aught of such?"
"I have," Magnus said, "and have already spoken with Geoffrey."
"I thought you might have." Tuan nodded, pleased. "But our spies tell us more—that the agents who foment discontent and lead these bands answer to our old nemesis—the Mocker."
"How dare he!" Catharine burst out. "Surely the man is neither commoner nor lord—how dare he seek to lead the peasants against us!
"Worse," Tuan said, with a perfectly straight face. "How dare he, who was certainly in his sixties at least, now rise again and look no older than when we saw him last?"
"Surely it is his rising that matters, not his age!" Catharine declared indignantly, but turned to Magnus. Thirty years have passed! Surely he should be dead!"
"By the standards of this place and time, yes," Magnus said "or at least drastically enfeebled. Since he is neither, Majesty, it is clear he must have found a way to travel through time."
King and Queen stared. Then Catharine said slowly, "Your mother mentioned such a thing, when we were wondering what manner of men and women our children would become. It seemed only a fable at the time. Surely you do not mean to tell us it can truly happen!"
"My parents made it clear to me that it does," Magnus said, "and that, though the Mocker must only be seen using such weapons as we have, he may secretly have far worse."
"Of course—the future will have developed more lethal tools than we have, will it not?" Tuan said slowly. "Still, he cannot use them on any large scale, or the peasants will shy away from him as a witch."
"There is that," Magnus agreed, "but it makes him no less lethal if we meet him hand to hand."
"We would not ask you to take any great risk," Tuan said, still slowly, "but we dearly wish to learn what truth there may be in our spies' reports. Can you ascertain whether or not peasants are gathering to march on Runnymede?"
Magnus stared at him.
"Come, come, you cannot be surprised to hear us ask it of you!" Catharine said. "Your parents have told us that you yourself have skulked in the shadows and plotted to overthrow tyrants who oppressed their peoples!"
"Your mother with concern, your father with pride," Tuan said.
Now Magnus was surprised—he had assumed his democracy-fostering father would have been ashamed of a son who empowered any other form of government. Perhaps the good of the people had been paramount to his father after all. It was a warming thought. "I never overthrew a king or queen," Magnus said, "though there was one whose lords had already pushed him aside—and he had so weak a mind that restoring him would only have led to more of the same. Still, Majesties, my siblings are at least as capable as I, and far more current with matters on Gramarye. Surely it is one of them you should entrust with this mission!"
King and Queen shared a quick glance; then Tuan turned back to Magnus. "All are quite able, it is true—but Gregory is too idealistic …"
"Too naive," Catharine said bluntly. "He will not believe evil of anyone unless it is undeniable."
"That could be a handicap in dealing with a secret agent," Magnus admitted. "Geoffrey, though …"
"Your warrior brother, confronting someone who is sly, subtle, and underhanded?" Catharine said.
Magnus saw her point but protested, "He would be quite stern with any criminal, once he was sure of the man's ill will."
"If he did not discover it by finding a knife in his heart," Catharine said darkly.
"More to the point, he would give himself, away by his anger," Tuan said, "the moment he witnessed an act of treachery."
"You underestimate him," Magnus claimed, though more out of loyalty than a desire for accuracy. "However, you cannot deny that Cordelia is subtle enough."
"True," said Catharine, "but she would tell Alain straightaway, and he would go to confront the man openly—and take a knife in his back for his pains." The mother's worry underscored her words.
"Besides, though your sister is capable of being subtle, she is also apt to explode into anger if she discovers treachery," Tuan said, "or kill the fellow out of hand when more might be learned from him. You, however, are both devious and patient."
Magnus couldn't deny it—but he stalled. "How can you speak so of my qualities, Majesties? It has been ten long years since you have seen me!"
"We knew you well enough as a boy," Catharine said, "and you comported yourself well in several demanding situations. Your father's boasting makes it clear that those sterling qualities have only grown."
"Scarcely sterling," Magnus said. "Perhaps pewter— but I must admit I have honed my skills. Very well, Majesties, I will set inquiries in motion, though you will understand I cannot make them myself."
"You would be somewhat conspicuous," Tuan said with a smile of amusement.
"Yes, the penalty of standing nearly seven feet tall," Magnus admitted. "I do hope, though, that you will not expect me to command my sibs simply because I am the eldest. They have made it clear they will not stand for my lording it over them."
"We would not expect any such thing," Tuan said, this time with a straight face.
"Of course not," said Catharine, "but if there is indeed a rebellion brewing, you might mention it to your brother Geoffrey when the time for action is ripe—without making it an outright order."
"I think Sir Magnus is tactful enough for that," Tuan agreed.
"No, Majesty, devious," Magnus said. "You had the right of it the first time."
Twenty
MAGNUS WAS WAITING WHEN ALEA CAME BACK to their suite, and he held up a basket. "If you haven't had too much of the outdoors, we might try a picnic."
Alea stared for a moment, then laughed. "As though you and I had not eaten by a campfire more often than not! Growing restless indoors, are you, Gar?"
"It's good to hear that name again," Magnus said with a smile. He stooped to go out the door. "You're as insightful as ever, Alea. In fact, I begin to grow weary of towns, not merely the insides of houses! Let us find some honest trees to shade us."
Alea waited until they were out of the gate and halfway across the meadow before she asked, "Was the chat with parents' old friends so bad as that?" Magnus's face twisted for a moment. "Simply a matter their wanting me to check up on some intelligence recs they've had—because I'm devious enough."
"I wouldn't have put it that way," Alea said slowly, "but I suppose they're right. You certainly have presented yourself as things you aren't."
"Yes, a knight passing himself off as a trooper," Magnus said wryly, "or a madman, or a sage."
"Or a wanderer who took a wounded lass under his care." Alea touched his hand. "And never imposed on her, even when she wished it."
Magnus darted a look of astonishment at her. Alea laughed, perhaps a little too quickly, and took her hand away. "Still, you've usually worked alone, Gar, or with only one companion. Can you truly adapt to becoming a spymaster?"
"That's not so much of a problem. We have a host of spies here on Gramarye, all of whom owe allegiance to my family. They'll report soon enough, I'm sure." M
agnus paused under an oak and looked around. "Will this spot do?"
"Perfectly." Alea took the cloth from the basket, shook it open, and laid it on the ground.
Magnus helped her to straighten it, then to lay out the food. "How was your walk?"
"Very refreshing; the woods always are." Alea sat and took out her dagger to slice the bread. "I let my mind wander and let the cares fall away—no promises to keep, no lists of things needing doing. It was a pleasant morning." She frowned, pausing as she turned to slice the meat. "Though somewhere on the way, I overheard someone talking about a young couple in trouble." Her brow furrowed. "Now, who could have been saying that?"
"You relaxed your mind?" Magnus asked.
"Oh, yes! That was the most refreshing part of it—not having to keep on my public face for the people I met, not having to guard my tongue—or my thoughts."
Magnus nodded. "Then your mind was open and receptive. You probably overheard the thoughts of some cottagers nearby as they gossiped—or of a merchant on a nearby road. What troubled this young couple?"
"He'd been caught poaching, and she was on her way to his hanging," Alea said slowly.
"The forest laws!" Magnus said angrily. "Well, I'll have to establish some influence here before I can work for their removal. It's obscene that a peasant should be hanged for shooting a partridge!"
"Not a peasant." Alea's brow creased with the effort to remember details. "He's a squire—and it wasn't a partridge he poached, but a deer. Several deer."
"A squire!" Magnus's eyes widened. "He could have wriggled his way out of shooting a partridge—but not a deer! He's probably completely law-abiding except for that! I've half a mind to do something about that now! Where is this young man?"
'To the south," Alea said slowly, the details swimming up from the hidden part of her mind. "His wife has to go to Castle Loguire to see him hanged."
Something in the word "Loguire" rang an alarm in Magnus's mind. "Alain's brother Diarmid is duke there— by his right as son of the king."
Alea looked up, frowning. "Who did he displace?"
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