“Just… a cut…” the boy choked out. His eyes had lost focus. “Couldn’t break his spell, Papa… Strange… too strong…” Then he collapsed across Rod’s arm.

Panic shot through Rod as he stared at his eldest son, dread clawing up into his throat. It couldn’t be—so full of life! He couldn’t be…

“Dead?”

A metal point pricked his throat. Rod looked up, and saw Theofrin grinning down, with glowing, gloating eyes. “Dead, as thou shalt be! Yet not too quickly. I’ll have thine entrails forth for this fell insult, mortal, and pack hot coals in their place, whilst yet thou livest! Thy wife shall be our drudge and whore, thy children slaves, with torques about their necks!” His mouth twisted in contempt. “Warlock, dost thou name thyself? An thou hadst been such, there’d have truly been a battle royal! Hadst thou been Lord Kern, now, our faery ropes would have crumbled ere they touched thee; our spriggans would have turned to stone! Cold iron in a thousand guises would have filled the air about thee, and thine every step would have waked the sound of church bells!”

Then Rod heard Gwen scream in rage. He darted a glance toward her, saw her kneeling with Cordelia and Geoffrey clasped against her. She had caught three fallen swords with her mind, and they wove a deadly dance about her, warding off a dozen faery courtiers; but the faeries’ blades all flickered closer, closer…

“They are not done with her, quite yet,” Theofrin said. “They’ll play with her a while longer, then beat down her witch-swords. Then will they play with her again, and her witchling with her. When that is done, if they feel merciful, they may then slay them.” His eyes gleamed with a chill, self-satisfied light.

Rod glared up at him, terror for his family boiling into anger. He shot that energy into a craving wish for steel to fill the air, for church bells to ring—anything, to banish this fell faery!

And up beneath his rage it mounted, that sense of a kindly, outraged presence, a spirit other than his, reassuring him, but smashing out with all Rod’s rage in one huge hammer blow.

Distantly, a bell began to toll.

Closer at hand, another bell began to peal.

Then another joined it, and another, north, east, south, and west—and more, and more, till the bells in every village church for miles around must have been clamoring.

He’d done it! He’d broken through his barrier, through to Gwen—and she’d set the bells to ringing!

The faery duke looked up, horrified; his glow seemed to dim. Then he threw back his head and let out a howl of rage. It echoed from every side as his court picked it up, till the whole of the glen was one huge scream.

Then, still screaming, they flew. A door swung open in the mound, and the faery folk lifted off the ground and whisked away toward it, like dry leaves borne on a whirlwind.

The duke tarried a moment, glaring down at Rod. “I know not by what magics thou hast wrought this, wizard—yet be assured, I shall avenge it!” Then he shot up off the ground and towards the mound, with a long, drawn-out scream of wrath, that dwindled and cut off as the mound’s door shut. For minutes more, there was screaming still, muted and distant, inside the knowe; then all was quiet. Moonlight showed a peaceful glen, silver leaves tinkling in the breeze; only a circle of flattened grass remained, to show where the fairies had danced.

And the Duke Foidin, and his henchmen. The Duke stood staring at the fairy mound; then, slowly, his eyes moved over the glen, till they fastened on Rod. He stared; then a leering grin broke his face, and he moved forward.

Slowly, Rod laid Magnus’s body down and rose to his feet, albeit shakily, dagger at the ready.

Gwen turned and saw. Then she shifted her gaze, seeking and finding Rod’s fallen sword. It lifted itself from the ground and shot to his side, point toward Duke Foidin, circling in the air. Through the numbed sorrow that filled him, Rod felt the comfort of her support. “Whoever dies, milord, thou shalt be first.”

The Duke and his train stopped, grins vanishing. Foidin’s eyes flicked from the floating sword to Rod’s dagger, then to Rod’s dangling arm, but back to the sword. He licked his lips, and swallowed. “Deliver up mine ward and nephew.”

“He comes with me,” Rod grated.

The Duke’s face darkened; he glanced back at his men, who glanced at one another. Hands felt for sword hilts, but they darted uneasy glances at Rod.

Gwen whispered to Cordelia, and the little girl stared at the sword. Gwen transferred her gaze to a three-foot-high boulder fifty feet from the Duke. It shuddered, then rocked, then began to topple, to roll—over and over, faster and faster, right at the Duke and his men.

The courtiers broke, and fled. The Duke stayed an instant longer, to cast a venomous glance at Rod; then he ran, too.

Rod glared after them.

Little Elidor breathed out a shaky sigh.

The little sound broke Rod’s trance; he dropped to the ground beside Magnus’s still form. “Gwen! Quickly!”

And she was there. She stared at her son, horrified.

Rod’s thumb was on the inside of Magnus’s wrist. “There’s still a pulse…”

“Quickly, children!” Gwen snapped. “Four-leafed clovers, red verbena, and St. John’s Wort!” Leaning forward, she ripped open Rod’s doublet and stripped the bandage from his wound. “ ‘Twill do, until they find afresh! He needs it now!” She tore the poultice free; Rod winced, and watched as she flipped the fresh side down with one hand as she yanked Magnus’s doublet loose with the other. She pressed the poultice down. “Ah, if only chanting spells could work!”

It seemed reasonable—or at least, in harmony with everything else that’d been happening here. A strange sort of dizziness took hold of Rod, and with it came again that sense of a stern but kindly presence. His lips opened, and he found himself chanting,

“Red blood rise, to fill Life’s way; Close the wounds of weapons fey! The elfin power hath lost its sway; Warrior, rise, to greet the day.”

Gwen shot him a startled glance.

His right arm gave a terrific wrench, and something popped. Rod clasped his shoulder with a gasp of pain. “Hahhhh… aieeee!” He gulped air, and swallowed hard. The glen swam before his eyes, then steadied, and the pain ebbed to a dull ache.

“My lord! What tortures thee?”

“Nothing—now.” Rod massaged his shoulder, marvelling. He moved his arm; it was stiff, and ached, but it worked. “Never mind me! How’s Magnus?” He looked down, and saw the color returning to the boy’s face. Gwen stared, then slowly peeled back the poultice. Beneath it, only a faint red line marked the sword-cut. Rod could scarcely hear her whisper; “He is healed!” Her head snapped up; she stared into Rod’s eyes. “Where didst thou learn that charm?”

Rod shook his head slowly. “Just came to mind… Uh—it was you who rang the church bells, wasn’t it?”

Her gaze held his; she slowly turned her head from side to side.

They knelt in silence, gazes locked.

Then Rod looked away. “There was a feeling—a sense of some… something… helping…”

“A spirit?” Gwen demanded softly.

Rod shrugged. “Good a name for it as any…”

Magnus groaned.

They both bent over him, holding their breath.

He levered himself up on his elbows, frowning and blinking. “Papa… sorry…”

“Sorry? For what?”

“For that… I had to cry for aid. ‘Twas… full puissant magic, do you see. The strength alone, I might have met, but… ‘twas strange, unlike to any I had dealt with aforetime.”

Rod met Gwen’s gaze. “That makes sense; whatever kind of magic these elves use, it’s probably not psionic. What kind of place is this, anyway?”

“One, I think, where magic truly reigns. Thou didst heal thy son with a spoken chant, didst thou not?”

“Well, yes—but the words just focused the power that did the healing.”