The Penwyth Curse (26 page)

Supney yelled, “Get ye gone, old woman, and take the ancient old sot with ye.”

“We must speak to Lord Mawdoor. We are capable of many things, other things as well. It is these other things, these very special other things, that we wish to speak to my lord Mawdoor about.”

“Shut yer jaws. I won't hear more. Go away. There's nothing for ye here. Go away!”

28

M
AWDOOR
'
S VOICE
,
SMOOTH
and bored, came from deep within the fortress, echoing all around them, an excellent effect. “What more are you capable of, old crone? What are these very special things?”

“Who speaks?” Brecia jerked around.

“It is the master,” Supney said, and he looked around too, even though he had many times heard the master do this. It still scared him to his twisted toes.

Brecia said, her old voice quavery as a feather in a wind, “Is it you, the master of Penwyth? The famous wizard who controls all the lands here about?”

“Aye, it is I,” Mawdoor said, his voice not bored now. He suddenly appeared beside old Supney on the wooden ramparts. “What can you do, old woman?”

“I can see things, my lord.” She lowered her voice, certain that he would have to strain hard to hear her. “I can see things that others cannot. I can make things happen after I look at them.”

There was a hitch in Mawdoor's breath, they heard it, but naturally their ears were very sharp indeed. She had him. Brecia said—more softly because she was speaking
now to Mawdoor, not to old Supney on the ramparts, who looked ready to spit on them at any minute—“I served the witch in the sacred oak forest. I heard that you wanted her, but none can enter the sacred oak forest without fear of death. I know how to go deep into the sacred grove without danger. I can see where she is, see what she is doing. I know how to bring her forth.” She ended up whispering, her voice so old and so parchment thin, she wondered if even a wizard could hear it.

“How do you do this?”

“The old man here, my husband, he places his hands on either side of my head, and he squeezes. He focuses my sight, and the tighter he squeezes, the more deeply I see and understand clearly what it is I must do to achieve what I want. Don't you think my head looks too narrow—too long for a head? See, it rises straight off my neck and soars upward.”

“Aye, you are powerfully ugly, old woman. Your nose juts out.”

“By the time I pass to the hereafter, I imagine my head will be only wide enough for one eye, and so long that my nose will not only jut out, it will also look to be a foot long.”

Mawdoor laughed at the image the old woman painted. She could bring Brecia out of her oak forest? To him? He came to the edge of the ramparts, began to pace. Old Supney moved quickly out of his way, even though now Mawdoor was moving so quickly he couldn't see him. But he could hear him sure enough.

Then Mawdoor let the old pair see him clearly, every handsome powerful piece of him. He called down, “Tell me, old woman, why do you want to do this for me?”

“Brecia's mother wanted her to wed with you, but the ghosts fought it, sang relentlessly that you were untrustworthy, that you would destroy the forest if you could, that you would lock their mistress into your black tower and hold her there forever.”

“I had not thought quite that far ahead,” Mawdoor said, and looked interested.

Brecia said, “Aye, the ghosts want the prince of Balanth as Brecia's mate. They trust him, you see, know of the honor of his parents, believe him pure of heart. He has won them with his false smiles. It fair to curdles my innards to see him prance about the oak forest, as if he truly belongs there.”

“The prince is very likely dead,” Mawdoor said, and muttered prayers that it was true to any god who might be listening and who might believe him worthy.

“He is not dead. Just last night he was eating roasted hedgehog and dancing to a merry song sung by the ghosts. I do not like him. He believes himself blessed by the sarsen stones, believes himself a wizard above all other wizards. I believe he should suffer for his lust for Brecia. He isn't worthy of her. Brecia's mother is right. You should have her, my lord, only you.”

“All you say about the prince is true,” Mawdoor said. “I have heard that he is so conceited, he spends hours each day staring at himself in silent stands of water.

“As for me, old hag, you are right. I am not what the ghosts think. I am trustworthy, not the prince. It is true that my grandmother ate goat meat before it was even warm over the fire, but withal, she was a witch to admire, just as Brecia is. Aye, with Brecia at my side, we will rule more than the prince could ever dream of ruling, attend great happenings, bend the realms of the world to our will. Now, what do you wish in return, ancient crone, if you bring me Brecia?”

“In return for Brecia, you will send both my husband and me to the plains of Britain to the sacred circle. I wish to commune amongst the great sarsen stones.”

Mawdoor said, “You know that stone circle opens itself only to witches and wizards, not to plain folk, even if they might have a bit of magic in their narrow heads.”

“Aye, I have heard that, but it doesn't matter. I must see the sarsen stones. I must learn how they came about,
those old stones. Something strange happened, but none know what, not even the most powerful wizards. I want to know the secret. If I am there, standing beneath those mighty lintels, in the midst of the trilithon, my husband's fine hands squeezing my head, I know that the answers will flow into me. I know it.”

“You're wrong,” Mawdoor said. “None will ever know the genesis of the great stone circle. It goes back from before time itself considered forming endless fragments of sod and stone that became the earth. But if that is what you want, then I will send you there, it is nothing to me. But you must accept that you could die, the spirits of the past crushing all your questions in that skinny head of yours.”

“Have you been there, my lord?”

Mawdoor looked down at the ugly old woman, at her skinny head, at that nose of hers that was too long indeed. If the ugliness was any indication of what she had accomplished with her husband's head squeezing, then just perhaps she could get Brecia to him.

“I have been there. It is where I first beheld Brecia, and my breath boiled in my body.”

“That is where the prince of Balanth first saw her as well. The ghosts say that he was so impressed with her that he stretched out on his side atop one of the lintels, rested his face against his palm, and claimed himself content simply to gaze upon her, to hear the beauty of her bell-like voice.”

The old head squeezer wheezed behind his hands. The ancient hag grunted as she smacked him hard between his shoulder blades, nearly knocking him to the ground.

Mawdoor said, “I know nothing about him lying atop a lintel. The prince is dead. He must be dead—the knife went right into his chest, and there was a touch of magic and a bit of special poison on that knife to pierce the wizard's shield.”

The ground shuddered beneath the old man's feet.

The old woman lightly squeezed his shoulder.

Mawdoor didn't notice.

The old woman said, “No, he is not dead. My mistress saved him, nearly killing herself in the doing, but she had no choice. He was dying and wretched, all told, and so she saved him. Unless she takes him into grave dislike, she will marry him, if you cannot take her first.”

Mawdoor was silent a moment, thinking hard. There was no risk here. It would be nothing to him to send these two ghastly old relics to the sacred stone circle on the plains. They would die, of that he was certain, but it truly didn't matter to him. Finally, he nodded down to the old couple. “Supney will allow you to enter now.”

The old woman bowed deeply, grabbed the old sot's hand, and whispered upward, knowing Mawdoor could hear her clearly, “You are a worthy wizard, my lord, the only worthy wizard good enough for Brecia. You will gain all that you deserve.”

“I will,” Mawdoor said. “Aye, I will.”

The big gates swung open. The prince whispered against Brecia's temple as they walked into the courtyard, “I preferred being invisible. Then I could place my hand on your breast and none would see me do it. Even better, I wouldn't have to see that ugly face of yours whilst I fondle you.”

Her breathing hitched, and he smiled and looked straight ahead at Mawdoor, who was now standing on the top step of his great hall, hands on hips.

The prince said, all laughter gone from his voice, “You will be careful, Brecia.”

“We will both be very careful. Mawdoor will surely sense the magic in us, but he will expect that since I told him about it, and we've cloaked the rest as best we can. Think you, prince, that he will want to squeeze my head and kiss my long, skinny nose?”

The prince turned his laugh into a rheumy old cough and pounded himself on the back, bending his right arm over his shoulder.

Truth be told, Brecia thought, looking around her, the
two of them fit in quite well. Only old people were about, shuffling along, their backs bent, their faces so seamed with lines she wondered if they were as old as some of the ghosts. And how did they get this old?

It wasn't until they were in the huge great hall that they saw the three women who'd been with the assassins two days before. They were surrounded by old men, one offering them food, another holding out a bowl of water in gnarly, shaking old hands, and a third reverently covering their legs with soft blankets.

Mawdoor suddenly appeared directly in front of them. A trick to impress them, possibly to frighten them as well, Brecia thought, and smiled, a fearsome sight. He said, shuddering a bit at that smile, “Tell me how long it will take you to bring Brecia out of the oak forest.”

“The fact is, my lord, I cannot truly see my path until the full moon shines upon my skinny head. That will be tomorrow night. Then my husband will squeeze my head, and all the secrets I need to bring her forth will flow out of my mouth. I will chew booser berries so my breath will be sweet as the secrets that will pour out of me.”

“If the secrets don't fall out of your mouth, old crone, you will die, your husband as well, his hands squeezing your skinny head until there is simple air between his palms. Tomorrow night, under the full moon, no later. In the meantime, you will make yourselves useful. Whilst you are preparing yourselves, your husband flexing his hands to strengthen them for the task ahead, you may clean the fortress.” He flicked his fingers in their faces and was gone.

“He likes tricks,” the prince said, stretched, and looked about the immense hall. “At least he won't try to seduce you, I am very sure of that. I will not lie to you, Brecia—you are very ugly.”

“You are not one to complain of my ugliness, you scrawny old sot. Don't speak too loudly. Look, one of the women might have heard you.”

“You're right,” the prince said, looked directly into the
woman's eyes, wide with questions, and very slowly nodded his head once, then twice. The woman blinked, smiled, and patted the broad head of one of the wolfhounds lolling beside her. “Bring me some ale,” she called out. The prince wondered if she was ordering him, but almost immediately another old sot was moving as quickly as he could to get the woman a wooden goblet.

“None of them recognize us,” he said to Brecia.

“Your own mother wouldn't recognize you,” Brecia said. “Now, let us go to his chamber, to clean it.”

“Aye, I want to see what he's created for himself. Do you have any idea where we'll find this vision cask?”

“One old ghost told me that he saw it once, the key in its lock. He said it was a very old chest, no larger than the length of my forearm, as high as my stretched fingers. It is supposedly made of gold and studded with precious gems. It is probably well hidden, so attune yourself to it.”

“Hard to hide anything,” the prince said, “particularly from such as I,” and he followed Brecia up the wooden steps to the upper floor of the fortress.

“Remember to walk slowly and shuffle,” she said over her bent old shoulder, her long, narrow nose quivering as she felt a ruffling of the air around her. It was from him, she knew, and smiled. So he wanted her, did he? She added another crooked line to her wrinkled old face, turned, and gave him a fat smile showing her remaining four teeth.

No more thoughts of lust for him, she thought, and smiled.

Suddenly there was a great wrenching sound, as if stones were being jerked from the very walls, as if the mortar binding them together was being gouged out and thrown aside.