“What? The feel of his mind?”

She nodded, mute.

“What was it?” Rod pressed. “The sense of wrongness? The twisting of the mind that had hypnotized him?”

“Nay—‘twas the lack of it.”

“Lack?”

“Aye.” Gwen looked up into his eyes, a furrow between her eyebrows. “There was no trace of any other mind within his, my lord. Even with the beastmen’s Evil Eye, there was ever the sense of some other presence behind it—but here, there was naught.”

Rod frowned, puzzled. “You mean he was hypnotized and brainwashed, but whoever did it was so skillful, he didn’t even leave a trace?”

Gwen was still; then she shrugged. “What else could it be?”

“But why take the trouble?” Rod mused. “I mean, any witch who knows more than the basics, would recognize that spell in a moment.”

Gwen shook her head, and pushed away from him. “ ‘Tis a mystery. Leave it for the nonce; there are others who must be wakened. Cordelia! Geoffrey, Magnus, Gregory! Hearken to my thoughts; learn what I do!” And she went to kneel by the bound soldiers. Her children gathered about her.

Rod watched her for a moment, then turned back to Arlinson, shaking his head. He looked up into the man’s eyes, and found them haunted.

The soldier looked away.

“Don’t blame yourself,” Rod said softly. “You were under a spell; your mind wasn’t your own.”

The soldier looked up at him, hungrily.

“It’s nothing but the truth.” Rod gazed deeply into the man’s eyes, as though staring could convince him by itself. “Tell me—how much do you remember?”

Arlinson shuddered. “All of it, milord—Count Novgor’s death, the first spell laid on us, the march to the castle, the deepening of the spell…”

Rod waited, but the soldier only hung his head, shuddering. “Go on,” Rod pressed. “What happened after the deepening of the spell?”

Arlinson’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “What more was there!”

Rod stared at him a moment, then said slowly, “Nothing. Nothing that you could have done anything about, soldier. Nothing to trouble your heart.” He watched the fear begin to fade from the man’s eyes, then said, “Let’s back it up a bit. They—the warlocks, I mean—marched you all to the castle, right?”

Arlinson nodded. “Baron Strogol’s castle it had been, milord.” He shuddered. “Eh, but none would have known it, once they’d passed the gate house. ‘Twas grown dank and sour. The rushes in the hall had not been changed in a month at the least, mayhap not since the fall, and each window and arrow slit was shuttered, barring the daylight.”

Rod stored it all away, and asked, “What of the Count?”

Arlinson only shook his head slowly, eyes never leaving Rod’s.

Rod leaned back on one hip, fingering his dagger. “How did they deepen the spell?”

Arlinson looked away, shivering.

“I know it’s painful to remember,” Rod said softly, “but we can’t fight this sorcerer if we don’t know anything about him. Try, won’t you?”

Arlinson’s gaze snapped back to Rod’s. “Dost thou think thou canst fight him, then?”

Rod shrugged impatiently. “Of course we can—but I’d like to have a chance of winning, too. Tell me how they deepened the spell.”

The soldier only stared at him for a time. Then, slowly, he nodded. “ ‘Twas done in this manner: They housed us in the dungeon, seest thou, and took us out from our cage, one alone each time. When my turn came, they brought me into a room that was so dark, I could not tell thee the size of it. A lighted candle stood on a table, next to the chair they sat me in, and they bade me stare at the flame.” His mouth twisted. “What else was there?”

Rod nodded. “So you sat and stared at the flame. Anything else?”

“Aye; some unseen musicians played a sort of music I never had heard aforetime. ‘Twas a sort of a drone, seest thou, like unto that of a bagpipe—yet had more the sound of a viol. And another unseen beat on a tambour…”

“Tap it out,” Rod said softly.

The soldier stared, surprised. Then he began to slap his thigh, never taking his eyes from Rod’s.

Rod recognized the rhythm; it was that of a heartbeat. “What else?”

“Then one who sat across from me—but ‘twas so dark, I could tell his presence only by the sound of his voice—one across from me began to speak of weariness, and sleep. Mine eyelids began to grow heavy; I remember that they drooped, and I fought against drowsiness, yet I gave into it, finally, and slept—until now.” He glanced down at his body, seeming to see his clothing for the first time. “What is this livery?”

“We’ll tell you after you’ve taken it off,” Rod said shortly. He slapped the man on the shoulder. “Be brave, soldier. You’ll need your greatest courage when you find out what’s been happening while you were, uh… while you ‘slept.’ ” He turned to Grathum. “Release him—he’s on our side again.” And he turned back to Gwen, just in time to see the children, as a team, wake the last soldier, while Gwen supervised closely. “Gently, Magnus, gently—his mind sleeps. And Geoffrey, move slowly—nay, pull back! Retreat! If thou dost wake him too quickly, thou’lt risk driving him back into the depths of his own mind, in shock of his waking so far from his bed.”

The soldier in question blinked painfully, then levered himself up on one elbow. He looked down and stared at his bound wrists. Then he looked up, wildly—but even as he began to struggle up, his eyes lost their wildness. In a few seconds, he sank back onto one elbow, breathing deeply.

“Well done, my daughter,” Gwen murmured approvingly. “Thou didst soothe him most aptly.”

Rod watched the man growing calmer. Finally, he looked about him, wide-eyed. His gaze anchored on Gwen, then took in the children—then, slowly, tilted up toward Rod.

“All are awake now, husband, and ready.” Gwen’s voice was low. “Tell them thy condition, and thy name.”

“I am named Rod Gallowglass, and I am the High Warlock of this Isle of Gramarye.” Rod tried to match Gwen’s pitch and tone. “Beside me is my lady, Gwendylon, and my children. They have just broken an evil and vile spell that held you in thrall.” He waited, glancing from face to face, letting them take it in and adjust to it. When he thought they’d managed, he went on. “You have been ‘asleep’ for three days, and during that time, you have fought as soldiers in the army of the Lord Sorcerer, Alfar.”

They stared at him, appalled. Then they all began to fire questions, one after another, barking demands, almost howling in disbelief.

They were building toward hysteria. It had to be stopped.

Rod held up his hands, and bellowed, “Silence!

The soldiers fell silent, as military discipline dug its hooks into their synapses. But they were primed, and ready to explode, so Rod spoke quickly. “What you did during those days was not truly your doing—it was the ‘Lord’ Sorcerer’s and his minions. They used your bodies—and parts of your minds.” He saw the look that washed over the soldiers’ faces, and agreed, “Yes. It was foul. But remember that what you did was their crime, not yours; there is no fault of yours in it, and you cannot rightly be blamed for it.” He saw their foreboding. Well, good—at least they’d be braced, when Grathum and his peasants told them what had been happening. He glanced from face to face again, holding each set of eyes for a moment, then breathed, “But you can seek justice.”

Every eye locked onto him.

“You have pursued these goodfolk, here…” Rod jerked his head toward the peasants. “…southward. You have passed the border of Romanov, and are come into Earl Tudor’s land. Wend your way on to the South, now, with the folk you did chase—only now, be their protectors.”

He saw resolve firm the soldiers’ faces.

Rod nodded with satisfaction. “Southward you go, all in one body, to King Tuan at Runnymede. Kneel to him there, and say the High Warlock bade you come. Then tell him your tale, from beginning to end, even as Gavin Arlinson has told it to me. He will hear you, and shelter you—and, if you wish it, I doubt not he will take you into his army, so that, when he marches North against this tyrant sorcerer, you may help in tearing him down.”