Rod rubbed a hand over his face to cover a smile, then turned to Simon. “Mind telling me what went on there?”
“Only what thou hast seen aforetime,” Simon answered. “She labored under a spell. I have broken it.”
“A spell?” Rod stared at Marianne, appalled. “A witch!!?!”
“Even so.” The girl bowed her head in shame. “I see now that I must have been.”
Simon reached out and caught her hand. “There’s no shame in it, lass. ‘Tis no fault of thine, that thou wert enchanted.”
“But it is!” She looked up at him, wide-eyed. “For I hid my witch power from the goodfolk, full of guilt and embarrassment—till I began to believe that I was better than they, for I could read minds and make things move by mere thought, whilst they could not. Nay, it did come to seem to me that we witch folk were the true nobility, the new nobility, who could and should rule the world—aye, and better than the lords do!”
“This, thou dost count fault of thine own?” Simon asked, with a smile.
“Is’t not?” She blushed, and looked down. “Alas, that ever I thought so! Yet I did—and no other witch did seem to feel as I did, no honest one; for I listened for their thoughts, and heard them afar. Nay, none thought to lead the witches to their rightful place—not even within the Royal Coven. Thus, when Alfar began to reach out for vassals, declaring he would lead the witch folk on to glory and to rule, I declared him my leader on the instant, and pledged him my fealty. All that he asked, I swore I would do.”
“And the service that he asked of thee?”
“Only this.” She gestured around at the inn in disgust. “Here is my glory and rule! To work as I had done, and watch, then speak to them of any witchfolk I found who, in either deed or thought, did struggle ‘gainst Alfar. So I did—and most joyously.” She plunged her face into her hands, “Eh, what a bitch I have been, what a vile, dastardly traitor! For three witches have I delivered unto them—poor, weak souls, who only sought to flee to safety!” She lifted tragic eyes to gaze at Simon. “Yet truthfully did it seem to me that any witch who did not acclaim Alfar, must needs be a traitor to her own kind. Therefore did I summon aid from Alfar’s coven, and soldiers came, under the command of a warlock, to take those witches away, and…” She buried her face in her hands again. “Aiee! What did they to those poor folk!”
Her shoulders shook with weeping. Simon reached out to touch her, clasping her shoulder. “Nay, be not so grieved! For thou didst these things not of thine own free will and choice!”
Her gaze leaped up to his, tears still coursing down her cheeks. “Yet how could it be otherwise?”
“When first thou didst begin to think thyself greater than thy neighbors, the sorcerer’s folk had already begun their vile work on thee.” Simon’s smile hardened. “These first thoughts, that witches ought to govern by right of birth, were not truly thine. But they were oh, most gently and skillfully worked in, among thoughts of thine own, that thou mightst think them so.”
“Truly?“ she gasped, wide-eyed.
Simon nodded. “Be sure. I have myself slipped through thy thoughts, witch—I must ask they pardon—and I know.”
“Oh, the pardon is instantly given!” she cried. “How can I thank thee, for breaking this spell?” Then her face lit up, and she clapped her hands. “I know! I shall wander northward, and myself seek to break spells that bind goodfolk!”
Rod darted a quick glance at Simon, and saw the foreboding in his face. He turned back to Marianne. “Uh—I don’t think that would be the best idea.”
Her face fell. “Would it not? What, then…”
“Well, basically the same thing—just do it right here.” Rod managed to smile. “What Alfar was having you do, but for our side. Keep working as a servingwench, and spy out witch folk who’re going south. But when you find them, don’t report them to Alfar’s henchmen.”
“But that is so small an aid!” she cried, disappointed.
“Those whom thou dost save will not think it so,” Simon assured her.
“But they would be just as much saved if I were not here at all.”
“Not so.” Rod shook his head. “If you left this post, Alfar’s men would find it out quickly enough, and they’d send some other witch here to do the job. The only way you can protect the fugitives, is to stay here and cover for them.”
“Assuredly there must be work of greater import I can do!”
An imp pricked Rod with temptation. He grinned, and succumbed. “There is, now that you mention it. You can find another witch or two, who plan to stay.”
“Others?” She stared, amazed. “How will that aid?”
“Because each of them can find two other witches,” Rod explained, “and each of those, two more, and so on and on—and we can build up a network of witches opposed to Alfar, all throughout the duchy of Romanov.”
She frowned, shaking her head. “What aid will that be?”
“King Tuan will march North, sooner or later. When he does, we’ll send word through the net, for the witches to gather where the battle’s going to be, to help.”
“Help in a battle?” Her eyes were round. “How?”
“We’ll send word about that, too. Just be ready to do it.”
Slowly, she nodded. “I do not fully comprehend—yet I do trust in thee. I shall do as thou dost bid.”
“Good lass! And don’t worry, you’ll understand plenty. It won’t be very complicated—just to gather at a certain place, and attack whatever part of the sorcerer’s army you’re assigned.”
“An thou sayest it.” She still seemed doubtful. “But how shall I know what to do, or when?”
“Someone will tell you. From now on, your name is, uh, ‘Esmeralda,’ to anyone else in the anti-Alfar network. So, if someone comes in and says he has word for Esmeralda, from Kern…” Again, Rod wished he hadn’t chosen that name. “…you’ll know it’s a message from me.”
“But wherefore ought I not to be called Marianne?”
“So nobody can betray you. This way, if they tell Alfar or his men they’ve a traitor named ‘Esmeralda,’ they won’t know who it really is.”
“And ‘Kern’ is thy false name?”
I sure hope so. “It’s as good a name as any. The whole idea is that we don’t know each other’s real names, remember. Will you do it—be Esmeralda, and watch for witches to not report?”
Slowly, she nodded. “Aye—if thou dost truly believe this is the greatest aid I can offer.”
“Good lass!” Rod clasped her hand, relieved—she was too young, and really too sweet, to wind up in Alfar’s torture chambers. Better to leave her where it was safe. “Now, uh—would you please go reassure your friend Doln, there? I can’t help this feeling that he’s just dying to shove a knife between my ribs.”
“Certes.” She flushed prettily, and stood. “I thank thee, goodman.” She turned away, becoming shy and demure as she neared her swain.
“I think she hath forgot thee quite,” Simon said, with his small smile.
“Yes. And that’s the way it should be, isn’t it?” Rod was watching Doln, whose gaze was riveted to Marianne’s face. He caught her hand, and Rod turned back to Simon and Flaran with a sigh. “Young love! Isn’t it wonderful?”
“In truth.” Simon watched the young couple over Rod’s shoulder. “Yet I cannot help but think, friend Owen, that there’s some truth to her words—not that her thoughts of overweening greatness were her own, nay, but that, shall we say, Alfar’s seeds fell on fertile ground?”
“Oh, well, sure! People can’t be hypnotized if they really don’t want to be—and this particular kind of long-range telepathic hypnosis couldn’t have worked so well if she didn’t already have a bit of that resentful attitude—it’s called ‘feelings of inferiority.’ ”
“Inferiority?” Flaran stared. “Yet how can that be? Witch power makes us greater than other folk!”
Rod didn’t miss the ‘us.’ “Yeah, but they don’t feel that way. All they know is that they stand out, that they’re different, and that if people find out just how different, nobody’ll like them.” He shrugged. “If nobody likes you, you must be inferior. I know it doesn’t really make sense, but that’s how our minds work. And, since nobody can stand to think so little of themselves pretty soon, the warlock starts telling himself that he’s not really inferior—it’s just that everybody’s picking on him, because they’re jealous. And, of course, people do pick on witches—they’ve been doing it, here, for hundreds of years.”