So far, so good. Rod stumbled to his feet, doing his best to tremble. “Nay, good shtaff, pertect me! Ay, poor old Josh! Th’ fairy-folk’ve come to claim thee!”

A dancing light appeared in front of him, coalescing into the form of a beautiful woman. She smiled, as though amused at a hidden joke, and beckoned.

Staring, he took a few stumbling steps toward her.

She drifted away from him, beckoning again. Exactly what it was, he didn’t know; some kind of will-o’-the-wisp, no doubt. But why were they springing her on him? He played along, though, stumbling after her, faster and faster. “Nay, pretty shing! Tarry now; let me shee thee!”

The surrounding watchers giggled, and it wasn’t a pleasant laugh. Out of the corner of his eye, Rod noticed the faery gentry staring, fairly glued to the scene. Then he saw the reason why; the phantom was floating out over a sudden drop-off. They couldn’t touch him, because of the ashen staff; but they could lure him to his death. Then he noticed Elidor suddenly disappear from his saddle, and knew it was time to escalate. He tripped and fell sprawling. An angry moan of disappointment went up all about him; he was a few inches short of the drop-off; but he opened his hand and let the staff roll away, and the moan slid up to a shriek of delight. Then they were on him, pinching and tickling; his skin itched in a thousand places, and his ears were filled with gibbering giggles.

But he had to hold attention, and hold it completely, to buy Gwen time. It was the moment for taking off the mask. He set his hands against the earth and shoved with all his might, surging to his feet and scattering elves left and right. The spriggans howled with glee and lurched in.

Rod whipped out his sword.

A moan of terror swept through the mob. They scuttered back away, wailing, “Cold iron! Cold iron!”

“He is no drunkard!” screamed a spriggan.

“Nay, but a sober warrior in his prime!” Rod called back. “Take me now, if you can!” And he wrenched his doublet open, showing a necklace of rowan berries.

The host moaned in fear, and pressed backward—but Rod saw, beyond them, the faery horsemen galloping toward him, with Eorl Theofrin at their head.

The Eorl drew up thirty feet away, calling, “Whoever hath advised thee, mortal, hath ill-advised thee! Thou art marked for faery vengeance now!”

“I was already,” Rod jeered, “last night. Recognize me?”

Theofrin stared. “Cold bones! It is the wizard!”

He whipped about in his saddle, staring back at the trail. “The mortal king! The boy is gone!”

Five riders wheeled their horses about and went plunging toward the track.

Gwen stepped up on the trail, holding Elidor’s hand. His doublet and cloak showed seams and lining.

The elf-horse beside him reared, screaming and pawing the air. Then it leapt up and whipped away, blown on a sudden gust of northern wind.

The five riders shrieked in frustration, jumping their mounts high to meet the gust. So did all the faery host, leaping into the air with a scream, and the breeze swept them away round the hill to the south, like autumn leaves.

Only Eorl Theofrin remained, his horse neighing and dancing as though it stood on hot coals. He himself winced and hunched his shoulders against pain, but managed to pull a crossbow from its place on his saddle, cranking the string back. “Thou hast cheated me full, wizard! Yet ere I succumb to pain and fly, I’ll break thee for thy life!”

There wasn’t a rock big enough to hide behind for a thousand paces. Rod stood his place, sword lifted, fighting a surge of panic. What that bolt could do, he didn’t know—but he knew it was deadly. His one chance was to try to block it with his sword—but crossbow bolts moved very fast.

Theofrin leveled the bow.

Dimly, Rod was aware of that kindly, stern Presence with him again, reassuring, urging.

Fervently and with his whole being, he wished the faery lord would go follow one of his own phantoms off a cliff—and wherever else it led him, all night long.

Theofrin suddenly dropped his bow, staring off to his left.

Rod stared, too. He glanced over toward where the Eorl was looking, then quickly back to Theofrin. He’d seen nothing.

“Nay, pretty maiden,” Theofrin crooned, “come nigh to me!” And his horse began to move forward. “Nay, dost thou flee?” Theofrin grinned. “I’ll follow!” And his horse leaped into a gallop.

Straight over the cliff.

And on up into the sky—it was a faery steed, after all—with Theofrin caroling, “Nay, come nigh! Nay, do not flee! I’ll do thee no harm, but show thee great delights! Ah, dost thou fly still? Then I’ll follow thee, while breath doth last!”

Rod stared after him, stupefied, until Theofrin was only a lighted speck off to the east, that sank below a horizon-line of trees, and was gone.

“My lord!”

He turned. Gwen came running up, clasping Elidor’s hand firmly. “My lord, I saw it all! Thou art untouched?”

“Uh…” Suddenly, Rod became aware of aches all over. “I wouldn’t say that. Those pinches hurt! But nothing lasting—I hope.”

“There shouldn’t be, if Terran folk-tales hold true here.” Father Al came puffing up. “But if he’d hit you with that crossbow-bolt, it might’ve been another matter.”

“Oh?” Rod looked up, dreading the answer. “What kind of effects do those things produce, Father?”

The priest shrugged. “Oh, epilepsy, rheumatism, a slipped disc, partial or full paralysis—it would be the same as any elf-shot, I assume.”

“Oh, really.” Rod felt his knees turn to water. “Gee, isn’t it too bad he had to leave so suddenly.”

“Yes, I was wondering about that.” The priest frowned. “What was he chasing?”

Rod shook his head. “Hanged if I know, Father. All I know is, I was wishing with all my might that he’d go follow one of his own will-o’-the-wisps over a cliff—and he did.”

“Hm.” Father Al’s face instantly went neutral. “Well. Another datum.”

Rod frowned; then he leveled a forefinger at the priest. “You’re suspecting something.”

“Well, yes,” the priest sighed, “but you know how foolish it is to state a thesis prematurely.”

“Yeah.” Rod should know—Fess’d told him often enough. He sighed and straightened up. “Okay, Father—play ‘em close to your chest. I’ll just be real careful what I wish, from now on.”

“Yes.” The priest nodded grimly. “I’d do that, if I were you.”

 

CHAPTER NINETEEN

A soft tinkling sounded.

The whole company stilled.

Reed pipes overlaid the tinkling; a flute underscored them.

Rod turned to Gwen. “I think we’ve got company.”

“Godmother!” Elidor cried.

They turned to watch as he scooted over the grass to the wealth of woman beneath the firefly canopy. He leaped into her lap, arms outflung, and she gathered him in, pressing him against her more-than-ample bosom, resting her cheek on his head and crooning softly to him.

“Ever feel superfluous?” Rod asked.

“And never was so glad to feel so,” Gwen affirmed. “Yet I think there is some business for us here. Come, my lord.” She gathered her children’s hands, and marched forward.

Rod sighed, caught Magnus’s shoulder, and limped after her, while Father Al did a fast fade.

Gwen dropped a curtsey, and Cordelia imitated her. The boys bowed, and Rod bent forward as much as he could.

The Grand Duchess noticed. “Does it pain thee so greatly, High Warlock?”

Elidor looked up, startled.

“Not that High Warlock,” Rod assured him. “And, well, I’ve felt this way before, Your Grace—say, the day after the first time I went horse-back riding. It won’t last, will it?”

“Nay; ‘tis only soreness,” she assured him. “Yet trust me, ‘tis suffering well-endured; though hast given him good rescue, as I knew thou wouldst.”