Nineteen

"NO, ROD—YOU ARE SINKING." FESS STARTED for him.

"Stop!" Rod cried. "I don't want you sinking, too!"

"But I cannot let you …"

"You won't! Go forward a step at a time, and if the ground goes soft, step back!"

Fess edged toward him, tossing his head to make the reins fly forward over his ears. "Catch the reins, Rod."

Rod flailed, missed—and sank another two inches. "Isn't there a branch…" Rod broke off, staring, as the mud began to bubble. "No! There can't be anything living in this!"

The ooze heaved upward, higher and higher into a sloppy sort of column. At its top, pockets appeared with a sucking sound, two holes of darkness over a much larger third that yawned wide and said, "Foolish mortal, to have dared come into the Barren Land!"

For a moment, Rod wondered crazily if he had stumbled into mud or a pool of witch-moss. Then he realized that it wasn't crazy at all if the bog could take on a face and talk to him. "What manner of spirit are you?"

"I am the Spirit of the Waste," the mud-monster intoned, "and I spread sloughs for the unwary."

"I'm not sure you can actually spread a slough." Rod looked down at the mud. "But I'm not exactly in a position to argue."

"Nay, nor to struggle." A muddy hand shot out from the monster's body to touch Rod on the forehead. He shouted and recoiled, trying to avoid the oozing finger—but the mud sucked at his feet, and he fell on his back.

Fess neighed a protest, and Rod felt the mud pulling at his back and hips, dragging him down—but he saw no reason to resist. When he stopped and thought about it—and what else could he do, lying on his back in a bog?—there was no reason to struggle. Sure, there would be a few minutes of unpleasantness … well, pain … when the mud choked his lungs and he could no longer breathe, but if he went into a trance here and now, he wouldn't mind all that much—and what reason was there to live? The kids didn't need him any more—they had their spouses, all but Magnus, and he had Alea, a devoted companion who would give him all the emotional support he was willing to accept. The Crown didn't need Rod, either—Tuan was still amazingly devoted to Catharine, and she to him—nor did the nation; Magnus would defend it as well as he ever could, especially with his brothers and sister to back him up.

And Gwen was gone.

So why not just lie here and let the bog take him?

Rod felt as though a thin black cloud had fallen over him, dimming everything about him—not that he could see much from this point of view. Even the broad and cloudless noonday sky above him seemed dulled, its blue almost gray. Dimly, he was aware that there had been reasons to live once, but he couldn't remember them now. No, he could—they had been Gwen and the kids, and protecting Gramarye from the futurians. Even before that, the dreams that had kept him going were freeing oppressed peoples and finding a woman he could fall in love with, who would fall in love with him, something he had come to believe could never happen.

Then he had met Gwen.

Gwen, it had always been Gwen—even before he met her, there had been the hope of finding her.

Now she was gone.

So why not let the mud take him? There was no purpose in life any more, no reason for living, and certainly no joy, not without her. Sink down and die, and see her much sooner!

Something slapped his chest. Rod scowled down at it, resenting any interruption, now that he had finally made up his mind to die. Dimly, he was aware of someone ranting and raging at someone else who was poking in where he had no business, but he didn't really care. He saw the two-inch-thick stick lying across his doublet; it took him several seconds to realize it would probably hold his weight. Following it back, he saw the robot holding the other end in his mouth; Fess had somehow managed to find a fallen branch after all. He smiled sadly; it was a nice idea, but kind of tardy, after he had finally come to realize where his life really stood.

'Take hold of the end of the branch, Rod," the robot's voice said through the earphone embedded in the bone in front of his ear. "It will bear your weight, and I will pull you to firm ground."

"Why bother, Fess?" Rod said. "There's no point in going on. Go back to Magnus; he needs you. Go back to the ones who have reason to live."

"That is not your own thought, Rod," the robot explained. "It is a projection of this earthen elemental who seeks to drag you down."

"A projected thought?" Rod frowned. "Why would it bother?"

"For the same reason it spreads bogs for the unwary, Rod. It detests all life and seeks to purge the earth of living things. It sees all life as corruption, as obscenities that should not exist, and it seeks to cleanse its own element of all that grows or moves. It is the Spirit of the Waste because it makes wastelands. It finds in them a kind of purity."

"In my present state of mind, that almost makes sense." Rod turned to frown at the bulge in the bog. "Are you sure it's wrong?"

"Quite sure, Rod, but you will not be able to evaluate the idea objectively as long as you lie within its power. Take hold of the stick."

But the mud had covered his ears now, was sending a tendril across his chest; he could taste a trickle of it in his mouth. "It would be so easy …"

"Easy, perhaps, but not right. There are still people who need you, work that only you can do."

"Can't think of any, at the moment."

"No, and you never will as long as you lie within that creature's power. Seize the end of the branch."

But the monster stretched out a tendril again, reaching for Rod.

At the cold and clammy touch, something mulish and stubborn rose up in Rod. His mind, at least, had always been his own—until he had chosen to let Gwen share it. With both hands, he laid firm hold on the stick. The tentacle of mud poised over his face, then slammed down, but Rod managed to twitch aside, and it slapped into the bog, merging with the rest of the mud and losing its shape. The monster bellowed, and the tentacle began to reform—but it was moving away from him now. No, he was moving away, and the roaring monster was too slow in refashioning its boneless arm. Rod was actually making pretty good time considering he was ploughing through mud. Then firm ground slid up under his head; he tucked in his chin and solid earth jolted under his back. When it reached his waist, he flipped over and pushed himself to his feet, his legs sucking loose from the tug of the bog—and suddenly the world seemed to brighten, his spirits soared, and life was good again. Gwen was still a dream, one he could actually attain, one worth searching for.

The monster howled in frustration. "You are mine, mortal, and shall return to me!"

"All that lives will return to the earth sooner or later," Rod agreed, "but not today." He frowned, directing a thought at the creature, thinking of it melting back into the slough from which it had come. The monster roared rage even as it dissolved; the last roar was only a bubble in the mud.

"I have never seen a bog of witch-moss before, Rod."

"Nor have I," Rod said. "We'll have to call Toby and the Royal Witchforce to come clean it up."

"Speaking of cleaning up …"

Rod looked down at his doublet and hose to find them slathered with mud. "Might not have to throw them away. Let's find a pond and see what happens if I take a swim."

"If I were you, Rod, from now on, I would be wary of immersion in any medium."

"Yeah, but if we all gave in to that kind of impulse, no one would ever write a book." Rod turned to mount, then thought better of it. "I think I'll walk until we find enough water to rinse me. Lead on, Fess."

"I have no idea where to go, Rod."

'To the west, of course! That's where Tir Nan Og lies, doesn't it?"