“Aye!” Flaran seized the thought. “Tis not merely a matter of our telling ourselves others bully us—‘tis true!”

“Oh, yeah, it’s easy to feel persecuted, when you really are. But that must mean you’re worse than inferior.” He made a backwards arc with his forefinger. “If people’re picking on you, and they’re nice people, ones you ordinarily like, and all of a sudden, they’re picking on you—then you must be worse than second-rate; you must be evil! But who can stand thinking they’re outright evil?”

“Evil folk,” Flaran answered quickly.

“And there you have it.” Rod spread his hands. “Instead of saying, ‘I’m second-rate,’ they’re saying, ‘I’m evil’—they’d rather be first-rate evil than second-rate good.”

Flaran stared, lost.

“Or!” Rod held up a forefinger. “Or you decide that you’re not evil, and you’re not second-rate, either—they’re just picking on you because they’re jealous. So their picking on you proves that you’re better than they are. They’re just afraid of the competition. They’re out to get you because you’re a threat to them.”

Flaran’s head lifted slowly, and Rod could see his eyes clearing with understanding.

Rod shrugged. “All the witch folk probably have that attitude to some degree—it’s called paranoia. But they keep it under control; they know that even if there’re wisps of truth attached to the notion, there’s more truth in thinking of their neighbors as being basically good folk—which they are. And if the witch has even a grain of humility, she’s as much aware of her faults as she is of her powers—so they manage to keep their feelings of persecution under control. It’s a sort of a balance between paranoia and reality. But it does make them ready, even eager, victims, for Alfar’s style of brainwashing—uh, persuasion.”

Flaran turned away, staring at the table. The color had drained out of his face, and his hands trembled.

Rod watched him, shaking his head with a sad smile. The poor kid, he thought, the poor innocent. In some ways, Flaran probably would have preferred to just go along from day to day for the rest of his life, feeling inferior and picked-on. And it must’ve been very demeaning, to find out that his feelings were, if not normal, at least standard for his condition—it was bad enough being born an esper, but it was worse finding out you weren’t even exceptional.

He turned away, to catch Simon’s eye. The old man had a sympathetic look, and Rod smiled back, nodding. They both knew—it was rough, learning the facts of life.

Back on the road, Rod and Simon tried to strike up a cheerful family topic conversation again; but the mood had changed, and it was an uphill fight all the way. When they each realized that the other guy was trying just as hard, they gave it up.

Of course, the ambiance wasn’t helped much by Flaran riding along on Rod’s other side sunk in gloom, glowering at the road.

So they rode along in silence, the unease and tension growing, until Rod’d had about as much as he could take. “Look Flaran, I know it’s hard to accept the idea that Alfar’s turning the whole population into puppets—but that is what he’s doing. So we have to just admit it, and try to go beyond it, to figure out what we can do about it. See? Feeling lousy won’t do anybody any good.”

Flaran looked up at Rod, and his attention came back, as though from a great distance. Slowly, his eyes focused. “Nay. Nay, ‘tis not that which hath me so bemused, friend Owen.”

Rod just looked at him for a moment.

Then he said, “Oh.” And, “Really?”

He straightened in his seat and tilted his head back, looking down at Flaran a little. “What is bothering you?”

“These thoughts which the servingwench hath uttered.”

“What—about witches being naturally superior?” Rod shook his head. “That’s nonsense.”

“Nay, ‘tis good sense—or, if not good, at least sense.”

Flaran gazed past Rod’s shoulder at the sky. “Truly, witches should rule.”

“Oh, come off it! Next thing I know, you’ll be telling me how Alfar’s really a good guy, and is really freeing the peasants, not conquering them!”

Flaran’s eyes widened. “Why—that is true.” He began to nod, faster and faster. “In truth, ‘tis all true. He doth free the peasants from the rule of the lords.”

Rod turned away, his mouth working, and swallowed heavily. He looked up at Simon. “Check him, will you? Give him the once-over. He sounds as though the spell’s beginning to creep over him.”

“Oh, nay!” Flaran said in scorn, but Simon frowned, gazing off into space for a moment. Then he shook his head. “I do not read even so much as he doth utter, Master Owen—only thoughts of how goodly seem the fields about us, and the face of the wench who served us.” His eyes focused on Rod’s again. “Still, those are not the thoughts of a spellbound mind.”

“Spellbound? Nay, certes!” Flaran cried. “Only because I speak truth, Master Owen?”

“Truth?” Rod snorted. “Somebody must have warped your mind, if you think that’s truth!”

“Nay, then—lay it out and look at it!” Flaran spread his hands. “It doth seem the common people must needs have masters…”

“I could dispute that,” Rod growled.

“But not gainsay it! From all that I have seen, ‘tis true!” Flaran craned his neck to look over Rod’s shoulder at Simon. “Wouldst thou not say so, Master Simon?”

“Someone must govern,” Simon admitted reluctantly.

“And if one must govern—why, then, one must be master!” Flaran slapped his knee. “And is it not far better for the peasant folk to have masters who were born, as they were, peasants? Who know the pain of poverty, and the grinding toil of the common folk? Is that not far better for them than the rule of those who are born to silver plates and ruby rings, in castles, who have never known a hard day’s work, nor a moment’s want? Nay, these lords even look down from their high towers, and speak of we poor folk as though we were chattels! Things to be owned! Cattle! Not men and women!”

Rod stared, horrified. “Where’d you hear that line of rubbish?”

Flaran reddened. “Can there be truth in rubbish?”

“I don’t know who you’ve been talking to,” Rod said, “but it sure wasn’t a lord. Most of ‘em don’t say things like that—and where would you have had a chance to hear ‘em talking, anyway?”

“Mine ears do be large, Master Owen. I may be foolish in my speaking, but I am wise in my listening. I have spoken with folk who serve the lords, and thus have I learned how they speak of us. And, too, I have hearkened to my neighbors, to their groans and cries of grief under the lords’ rule—and I cannot help but think that they do not serve the best of masters.” Flaran shook his head. “Nay, the words of that servingwench do make most excellent sense—for who could better know the people’s wants, than those who can hear their thoughts? And who can better guard them in their labors, than one who knows what it is to labor so?”

“Excuses,” Rod growled. He turned away, and saw, in the distance, a party of peasants coming out of a side road, clad in rough homespun and bowed under the weight of huge packs. “There!” He stabbed a finger at them. “That’s the kind of sense you’ve been making! Poor people, wandering the roads, lost and alone, because their homes have been destroyed in battle! Folk bereft, whose villages still stand, but who have packed what they can carry and have fled, because they fear the rule of an upstart they don’t trust!”

“Yet peasants’ homes do ever burn in wars,” Flaran cried, “ever and aye, when the lords do seek to resolve some private quarrel with their armies! This time, at the least, the war may bring them some benefit, for he who wins will have been born among them!”

“Excuses,” Rod said again, “rationalizations!” He turned to look squarely at Flaran. “Let me tell you what that is—a rationalization. It’s giving something the appearance of rationality, of reason, when it doesn’t have the reality of it. It’s finding a way to justify what you want to do, anyway. It’s finding an excuse for something you’ve already done—a way to make it seem to be good, when it really isn’t. That’s all you’re doing here—trying to find a way to make the wrong things you want to do, seem right. All your arguments really boil down to, ‘I want power, so I’m going to take it.’ And the real reasons are envy and revenge!”