“I would mind not having it. It is certainly necessary, Rod.”

“Must keep them up, mustn’t we?” Rod reached into the cart, pulled out a length of rope, tied one end to Fess’s halter and the other to a convenient tree branch. “Besides, you can break it easily, if you want.”

“I will not hesitate to do so,” Fess assured him. “Sleep while you can, Rod. You will need the rest.”

“You’re such an optimist.” Rod pulled his cloak out of the cart and went back to the campfire. “I’m not exactly in a great mood for emptying my mind of the cares of the day.”

“Try,” the robot urged.

“If I try to sleep, I’ll stay awake.” Rod lay down and rolled up in his cloak. “How about trying to stay awake?”

“Not if you truly want to sleep. I could play soft music, Rod.”

“Thanks, but I think the nightbirds are doing a pretty good job of that.”

“As you wish. Good night, Rod.”

“I hope so,” Rod returned. “Same to you, Fess.” He rolled over toward the fire…

… and found himself staring into Simon’s wide-open, calm, and thoughtful eyes.

“Uh… hi, there.” Rod forced a sickly grin. “Say, I’ll bet you’re wondering what I was doing, rambling on like that—aren’t you?”

“Not greatly,” Simon answered, “though I do find thy conversation to be of great interest.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Rod’s stomach sank. “Does it, uh, bother you, to, uh, hear me talk to my horse.”

“Not at all.” Simon looked faintly surprised. “And ‘tis certainly not so desperate as talking to thyself.”

“That’s a point…”

“ ‘Tis also scarcely amazing.” Simon favored him with a rather bleak smile. “Be mindful, I’m an innkeeper, and many carters have stopped at my inn. Every one I’ve known, has spoken to his horse.”

“Oh.” Rod hoped his surprise didn’t shown in his face. “You mean I’m not exactly unusual?”

“Only in this: thou’rt the first I’ve heard who, when he spoke to his horse, made sense.”

Rod supposed it was a compliment.

 

11

They were up at first light, and on the road by dawn. With the main issues out of the way, the two of them chatted together easily—Simon the innkeeper, and Owen the farmer. And if, as morning wore on, Owen’s tales of his children bore a startling resemblance to the experiences of Rod Gallowglass, it can scarcely be surprising. On the other hand, all the stories had nothing to do with juvenile witch powers; Rod stayed sufficiently on his guard not to make that particular slip.

It wasn’t easy. Rod found they had a lot in common—wives, and children. He also found Simon to be surprisingly refreshing. Instead of their usual dire predictions about the horrors of adolescence that lay in store for the unwary father, Simon restricted his anecdotes to childhood disasters—though, when pressed, he admitted that all his children were grown, and the tale of his daughter’s impending first birth was quite true. Rod immediately began insisting, all over again, that Simon turn back to the South and his daughter, the more so because Simon had mentioned earlier that his wife had died quite a few years ago; but the innkeeper merely informed Rod that his daughter really lived north of his home village—wherefore, he had been doubly cowardly to flee. There wasn’t much Rod could say to that, so he relaxed and enjoyed Simon’s company. So, by the time they came to the first village, Rod was feeling in fine form—which was fortunate, because they were greeted by a mob.

The peasants stormed out of the village, howling and throwing stones and waving pitchforks—but not at Simon and Rod. Their target was a small man, who sprinted madly, managing to stay a dozen yards ahead of them.

“Slay the warlock!” they cried. “Stone him!”

“Stab him! Drain his blood!”

“Burn him! Burn him Burn Him BURN HIM!”

Simon and Rod stared at each other, startled. Then Simon snapped, “He could not be of Alfar’s brood, or soldiers would even now be cutting down these peasants! Quickly, Owen!”

“You heard him!” Rod cracked the whip over Fess’s head, keeping up the act. “Charge!”

Fess leaped into a gallop. Cartwheels roared behind him.

Rod pulled up hard as they passed the fleeing warlock, and Simon shouted, “Up behind, man! For thy lifeblood’s sake!”

The running man looked up, startled, then jumped into the cart, as Simon rose to his feet and cried out, in a voice that seared through the crowd’s shouting:

“I, too, am a magic worker! Two warlocks face thee now! Dost thou still wish wood to kindle?”

The crowd froze, the words of violence dying on their tongues.

Simon stood relaxed, but his face was granite. Slowly, he surveyed the crowd, picking out individual faces here and there. But he didn’t say a word.

Finally, a fat little man stepped forward, shaking a club at Simon. “Step aside, fellow! Withdraw thy cart and horse! Our quarrel’s with this foul warlock, not with thee!”

“Nay,” Simon answered. “To the contrary; every warlock’s business is every other’s, for there are few of us indeed.”

“Every warlock?” the fat man bleated in indignation. “Is Alfar’s business also thine?”

His words set off an ugly murmur that increased in ugliness as it built.

“Alfar’s business ours?” Simon’s eyes widened. “Why would it not be?”

The noise cut off as the crowd stared at him, frozen.

Then the people began to mutter to one another, worried, a little fearful. One scrawny warlock by himself was one thing—but two together, with Alfar’s backing…

Simon’s voice cut through their hubbub. “Twould be better an thou didst now go back unto thine homes.”

“What dost thou speak of!” the fat little man cried. “Turn to our homes? Nay! For we have one who must be punished! What dost thou think thyself to…”

His voice ran down under Simon’s stony glare. Behind him, the crowd stared, then began to whisper among themselves again. Rod heard snatches of “Evil Eye!”

“Evil Eye!” He did the best he could to reinforce the idea, staring at the fat little leader with his eyes narrowed a little, teeth showing in a wolfish grin.

“Thou wilt go,” Simon said, his voice like an icepick.

Rod could scarcely believe the transformation. He could’ve sworn Simon was at least two inches taller and four inches broader. His eyes glowed; his face was alive and vibrant. He fairly exuded power.

Cowed, the crowd drew in upon itself, muttering darkly. Simon’s voice rose above. “We have shown thee plainly wherein doth lie the true power in this land—but it need not be turned against thee. Go, now—go to thine homes.” Then he smiled, and his aura seemed to mellow—he seemed gentler, somehow, and reassuring. “Go,” he urged, “go quickly.”

The crowd was shaken by the transformation. Their emotions had been yanked back and forth; they didn’t know whether to resent Simon, or be grateful to him. For a moment, they stood, uncertain. Then one man turned away, slowly. Another saw him, and turned to follow. A third saw them, and turned, then a fourth. Then the whole crowd was moving back toward the village.

The fat little man glanced at them, appalled, then back toward Simon. “Retribution shall follow,” he cried, but fear hollowed his voice. “Retribution, and flames for all witches!”

Rod’s eyes narrowed to slits, and he gathered himself; but Simon laid a restraining hand on his shoulder, and said mildly, “Go whilst thou may—or retribution there shall be indeed, and I shall not lift one finger to stay it.”

The little man glanced at Rod in sudden terror, then whirled about, and hurried to follow the villagers back toward the houses.

Rod, Simon, and the stranger only watched him, frozen in tableau till he’d disappeared among the buildings. Then, the moment he was out of sight, Simon heaved a long sigh, going limp.