Magnus scowled. “Tis as bad as witch-hunts.”

“Worse, for my purposes—because it’d stifle any chance of democracy on this planet. And I want Gramarye’s telepaths to be the communications system for an interstellar democracy, some day.” Rod straightened, eyes widening. “So that’s it!”

Magnus looked up, startled. “What, Papa?”

“Where the futurians come in—you know, the villains who kidnapped us all to Tir Chlis?”

Magnus’s face darkened. “I mind me of them—and of the peril they placed us in. But what sign of them is there in this coil, Papa? I see naught but an aged wizard, who hath at long last struck out in bitterness and sense of being wronged.”

“That’s what they want you to see. Okay, son, up onto the stack—heave!” They swung the sawhorse up onto the top of the stack, and turned away to go get the other one. “But if there’s the likelihood of a repressive government showing up, there’s a high probability of totalitarians from the future, being behind it.”

Behind his ear, a methodical voice intoned, “Generalizing from inadequate data…”

“But surely that is not enough sign of their presence,” Magnus protested, “only the harshness of Alfar’s rule!”

“You’ve been talking to Fess again,” Rod accused. “But keep your eyes open, and you’ll see more signs of their hand behind Alfar. Myself, I’ve been wondering about what your mother said—that there’s no trace of a mind, behind that ‘instant’ hypnosis spell Alfar used on these soldiers.”

Magnus stared in consternation. “But… Papa… how could that…”

“Up with the trestle,” Rod reminded, and they bent to pick it up, and started toward the wall again. “Think, son—what doesn’t? Think, that is. What can do things, but doesn’t think?”

Magnus was silent as they hoisted the trestle to the top of the stack. As they turned away, he guessed, “A machine:”

“You have been talking to Fess, haven’t you?” There was a brief, nasty buzz behind his ear. “I’d call that a good guess.”

“But only a guess,” Magnus reminded him.

“Of course.” They strolled up to Gwen where she knelt, just finishing spreading their blankets out over the rushes. “Managed to banish the vermin, dear?”

“Indeed.” She glanced at him. “Cordelia and I did think to gather fresh rushes the whiles we were on our way here, so we’ll sleep sweetly enow.”

Something about the phrase caught Rod’s attention. He stared down at the blanket, then lifted his gaze slowly to look deeply into Gwen’s eyes.

She tilted her chin up and turned to her sons. “And bear thy manners in mind, for we sleep in company, here.”

The children stared at her, then frowned at one another in puzzlement, then turned back to her. “Why wouldst thou think we might not?” Magnus asked. Geoffrey piped in, “We’re good boys, Mama!”

“Aye,” Gwen answered, turning to Rod, “and so must thou all be.”

 

In the middle of the night a low groan began, swelling in volume and bouncing back and forth between the stone walls, until it filled the whole hall.

Rod shot bolt upright, panic clamoring up inside him jarring his brain. Rage answered, and struggled against it.

A bluish white light filled the hall, showing all the servants shocked upright, staring in fear and horror. Cordelia screamed, burying her face in Rod’s midsection, and Gregory burrowed into Gwen’s skirts.

Magnus and Geoffrey glared truculently upward, even as they backed away against the wail.

Above them all, the great hall was filled with a throng of pale, glowing spectres in antique gowns and ancient armor, all blue-white, and translucent.

And facing the Gallowglass family.

The male closest to them lifted an arm with the weight of centuries, and his voice rolled out, thundering, “Thou! ‘Tis thou who dost disturb our rest, thou and thy get! Name thyself, and step forth from thy craven guise!”

Gwen laid a restraining hand on Rod’s arm, but the rage was building, and he shrugged her off, incensed that she should dare to remonstrate with him. He glared up at the ghost, throwing his shoulders back and issuing his words one by one. “I am Rodney Lord Gallowglass, High Warlock of Gramarye! And who are you, who dares so address me?”

“I am Arendel, first Count of Drulane!” the ghost bellowed. “Tis in my hall thou dost stand! Wherefore hast thou come, and why hast thou disturbed my rest—mine, and all of my line’s! Speak, sirrah! Now!”

The rage surged higher. “Speak with respect to thy betters, feeble ghost! Or from this place I shall banish thee, to leave thy wraith wailing in the void between worlds!”

The ghost stared a moment, with the empty darkness of its eyes. Then its face creased, and broke open, and laughter spilled out—harsh, mocking laughter, that all the ghosts echoed, ringing from one to another, clamoring and sounding like brazen gongs, until all the Great Hall rang with it, while spectral fingers pointed at Rod.

And the rage built to fill him, striving to master him; but he held himself rigid against it and, in a last attempt to avoid it, cried, “Fess! To me, now! In the great hall!”

“Why, then, mannikin, work thy will!” the ghost sneered. “Hale me down, and grind me under! Work thy wonders! Show us this power thou canst employ, against ghosts!”

Steel hooves rang on stone, and the great black horse charged into the hall, rearing to a halt bare inches from a peasant couple, who scrambled away in panic.

Arendel turned his wrathful gaze on Fess, staring in outraged anger. “What beast is this thou dost summon! Hast thou no shred of courtesy within thee, that thou wouldst bring thine horse into a lord’s hall?”

“Fess,” Rod bellowed in agony, “What are they?”

“Rrr… Rrrodd… th-they awwrr…” Suddenly, Fess’s whole body heaved in one great convulsion, neck whiplashing; then his head plummeted down to swing between his fetlocks. He stood spraddle-legged, each knee locked stiff.

“Seizure,” Rod snapped. “They’re real!”

Arendel stared in disbelief for a moment; then he threw back his head, and his laughter rocked the hall. “Elf-shot! He summons his great aid, his model of all that is powerful and perfect—and ‘tis elf-shot!” And his merriment rolled forth, to batter against Rod’s ears.

Then Rod’s own natural fury broke loose, his indignation that anyone should mock disability, make a joke of the truest companion he had known from earliest memory—and that fury poured into the building rage to boil it over the dam of Rod’s willed control. The red haze enveloped him, and the icy, insane clarity stilled his thoughts, ringing one clear idea: Ghosts could be exorcised. Rod bent his brows, eyes narrowing, and a thunderclap exploded through the hall, crashing outward from a short, balding man wearing spectacles and a green chasuble over a white robe. He blinked about him, stupefied. “I was… What… How…”

“Welcome, Father,” Rod breathed, in a voice of dry ice.

The priest blinked, seeking Rod out with watery eyes. “But I was even now saying Matins, in the monastery chapel! How came I here?”

“Through my magic,” Rod grated, “in response to the ill manners of this churlish dead lord! Exorcise him, Father—for his soul’s barred from Heaven whiles he lingers here!”

The ghost roared with rage, and his fellows all echoed him, with screechings and roarings that made the priest wince and cry, “ ‘Tis a foretaste of Hell!”

“Banish them,” Rod cried, “ere they linger to damn themselves!”

The priest’s face firmed with resolve. “Tis even as thou sayest.” And he held up one palm toward the ghosts while he fumbled in a pocket with the other, beginning a sonorous Latin prayer.

Lord Arendel shrieked, and disappeared.

With a wave of wailing despair, the other ghosts faded.

In the sudden, soft darkness, Magnus cried, “There! Against the eastern wall! Nay, stop her, seize her! Mother, a light, I prithee!”