When you looked at it that way, it made excellent sense—especially since the unaligned espers would tend to be opposed to him; they’d be the most sensitive to his kind of hypnotic tyranny. “Say, uh—did either one of you ever feel one of Alfar’s men trying to take over your mind?”

Both men looked up, startled. Then Simon nodded, gravely. “Aye. It was…” he shuddered, “…most obscene, friend Owen.”

“I could barely feel it,” Flaran added, “yet it turned my stomach and made my gorge to rise. And it raised such a wave of fear in me, that I thought it like to shake me to pieces. To feel fingers of thought, stroking at thy mind…” He broke off, looking queasy.

“Try not to think of it,” Rod said, cursing his impulsiveness. “Sorry I brought it up.” And these two, he reflected, were the gentle kind. What would happen when Alfar’s men tried to take on a warlock who had a bit more arrogance? Or even just one who liked to fight? He would have flown into a rage, and gone hunting for Alfar.

And Rod couldn’t blame him. The thought of someone meddling with his mind started the sullen flow of anger. He recognized it, and tried to relax, let it drain away—but the image of Gwen and the children rose up in his mind, with the instant thought of some overbearing young warlock trying to touch their minds—and the rage exploded with a suddenness that left him defenseless against it, shaking his body with its intensity, wild and searing, searching for a target, any target, striving to master Rod, to make him its instrument. He held himself still, fighting to contain it, to keep it inside himself, to keep it from hurting anyone else.

But both warlocks were staring at him. “My friend,” Simon said, wide-eyed, “art thou well?”

Such a mild question, and so well-intentioned! But it broke the fragile membrane of Rod’s control.

He hurled himself away from the cart, off the road and into the field beside. Don’t hurt them. Let it blow, but don’t hurt them. He needed some way to channel the anger, some way to let it spend itself harmlessly, and running was as good as anything else.

A boulder loomed up ahead of him, a rock outcrop four feet high, with smaller boulders around the base. Rod seized one about a foot across, hefting it up above his head with a grunt of agony. He stood for a moment, poised, glaring at the boulder, then hurled his rock with all his might, shouting, “Blast you!”

The rock hit the boulder with a crack like a gunshot. Stone chips flew, and the smaller rock split and clattered to the base of the boulder.

“Burn in your own magic!” Rod screamed at it. “Fall down a rathole, and forget how to teleport! Jump into the sky, and don’t come back down!” He raged on and on, a five-minute stream of incoherent curses.

Finally, the anger ebbed. Rod sank to one knee, still glaring at the boulder. Then, slowly, he bowed his head, gasping for breath, and waited for the trembling to stop.

When his heartbeat had slowed, he stood up, swaying a little. Then he forced himself to turn back toward the cart, fifty yards away—and saw Flaran staring at him.

But Simon stood near him, leaning on his staff, waiting, watching him with gentle sympathy.

That was what stung—the sympathy. Rod winced at the sight; it magnified his chagrin tenfold. He turned away, muttering, “Sorry about that. I, uh… I don’t do that too often.” I hope.

“Thou didst only as I did feel,” Simon assured him.

“Well… thanks.” That didn’t really help. “I just get outraged at the thought of someone trampling on other people, without even thinking about them!”

Simon nodded. “And when the object of thy wrath is not nigh thee, ‘tis harder to forebear. Indeed, thou didst well to seek a thing of stone unfeeling, to wreak thy vengeance on.”

“But the force of it’s wasted—is that what you’re thinking? Why spend all that energy, without hurting the thing I’m angry at?”

Simon scowled. “I had not thought that—but aye, now that thou dost say it. Tis better husbandry, to contain thine anger till thou canst use its force to right the wrong that angers thee.”

“Easy enough to say,” Rod said, with a sardonic smile. “But how do you contain your anger? I know it sounds simple—but you should try it, sometime! You would…” He broke off, staring at Simon. Slowly, he said, “You have tried it, haven’t you?” Then, nodding, “Yes. I think you have. That last line had the ring of experience behind it.”

“ ‘Tis even so,” Simon admitted.

“You had a temper? You flew into rages? You? Mr. Nice Guy himself? Mr. Calmness? Mr. Phlegmatic? You?”

“Indeed,” Simon admitted, and, for the first time, his smile was tinged with irony. “ ‘Tis not so easy, friend Owen, to hide thy knowledge of others’ thoughts. ‘Tis most tempting, in moments of anger, to use those thoughts against them—to say, ‘Me a coward? When thou didst face the battle with panic clamoring through thy veins, and would have fled, had thy captain not stood behind thee with his sword?’ For indeed, he had marched forward, and none who saw him would have thought him less than brave. Yet I knew, I—and was fool enough to speak it aloud. Then, to another, ‘How canst thou call me a lecher, Father, when thou hast thyself lusted after Tom Plowman’s wife?”

Rod whistled. “You don’t take on the clergy!”

“Aye, but in my youthful pride, I thought that I had power o’er all—for I had but newly learned that I could hear other’s thoughts and, in my delight and careless strength, did hearken to the thoughts of all about me. No person in that town was free from my thought-hearing. When one did sneer at me, I used my hoarded knowledge of his darkest secrets and proclaimed his shame for all to hear! He did swell up with rage, but durst not strike where all might see, and know the truth of what I’d said. Nay, he could only turn away with snarls—and I would gloat, rejoicing in my newfound power.”

Rod frowned. “How long did you get away with that?”

“Thrice.” Simon grimaced, shaking his head. “Three times only. For when the anger passed, the folk I’d wronged began to ponder. They knew they’d never spoken of their secret fears or lusts to any person living. By chance, they spoke to one another…”

“By chance, my rabbit’s foot! You’d insulted each one publicly; they knew who to compare notes with!”

“Like enough,” Simon sighed. “And once they all knew that I’d spoken things none of them had ever said aloud, ‘twas but a small step to see that I must needs be a warlock, and one who would not hesitate to use what knowledge I gained, from others thoughts to their harm. They spread that word throughout the town, of course…”

“ ‘Of course’ is right,” Rod murmured, “especially with the village priest in there. Who’d doubt his word? After all, even if he did covet his neighbor’s wife, at least he didn’t do anything about it.”

“Which is more than could be said for most of his flock,” Simon said, with a tart grimace. “Aye, he too did speak of my ‘fell power’—and the rumor ran through all the town, to harry all my neighbors out against me.” His face twisted with bitterness. “I’ truth, ‘twas no more than my desert; yet I felt betrayed when they came against me as a mob, screaming, ‘Thought thief!’ ‘Slanderer!’ and ‘Sorcerer!’—betrayed, for that most of them had gossiped ‘gainst me, one time or another—yet I’d forgiven them.”

“Yes—but you had a weapon they couldn’t use.”

“Aye—not ‘wouldn’t,’ but ‘couldn’t.’ ” Simon’s grimace turned sardonic. “And for that reason, they did raise the hue and cry, and harried me from their town.” He shuddered, closing his eyes. “Ah, praise Heaven that I have no powers other than thought-hearing! For in mine anger, I would have turned and hurled great stones at them, fireballs, sharp knives; I would have raised these folk up high, and slammed them to the earth!” He shuddered again, and his eyes sprang open, staring.