The Warlock Heretical (23 page)

with the Archbishop?"

Gwen shook her head. "I cannot tell; I could read nothing of his thoughts—yet his feelings did reach out toward

me." She frowned. "In truth, so strongly did his zeal press all about me, that I found myself beginning some

feeling of the lightness of his cause."

Tuan nodded. "Such a feeling enwrapped me in the town, when I did hearken to his speech."

"Nay!" Catharine cried. "Assuredly, Lady Gallowglass, thou dost not believe—"

"Nay, I do not. Yet this is his power—the ability to put his feeling of rightness or wrongness within another's

mind."

"Mayhap every good orator hath some touch of that talent," Tuan suggested. "Assuredly 'twas not his words

alone did touch me."

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"Nay, 'twas not. It was the power of his mind that worked upon thee."

"And his words, then, served no purpose but to hold the folk about him, the whiles he worked his spell?" Tuan

said. "Well, that I can credit."

"Is not this the power that the rebel sorcerer Alfar did have?" Catharine demanded.

"Aye, Majesty, yet 'tis not nearly so strong in Father Peron. The sorcerer could so enfold another's mind that he

lulled his victim into a waking sleep, then could thrust within not only his feelings, yet also his thoughts. Thus

could he compel anyone to do as he wished. 'Tis a state mine husband doth term hypnosis."

"And thine husband hath a word for this priest's power, I doubt not." Gwen nodded. "He doth term the priest a projective."

"Projective! Hypnosis!" Catharine threw up her hands. "A deal of nonsense! What need for names?"

"They aid in thinking, Majesty," Gwen explained. "When thou dost see how two words resemble one another,

thou canst see what may cause the things they stand for. In this instance, seest thou, the preacher is a

'projective

empath,' whereas . . ." Her voice trailed off, and her eyes lit. Catharine noticed, and asked, "What ails thee?"

" 'Tis even as I've told thee—the use of the words!" Gwen clapped her hands. "The preacher is projective, yet

mine husband doth also use the term to signify a witch who doth craft things of witch moss!" She referred to a

substance found only on Gramarye, a telepathically-sensitive fungus that assumed the shape of whatever a

nearby projective telepath was thinking of. Gwen spun to Brom O'Berin. "Lord Privy Councilor! Can thy spies

seek out the trail of this two-headed dog that did afright the peasant Piers?"
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Brom frowned. "Assuredly, they can. Yet wherefore ..." Then he followed her train of reasoning, and began to

smile. "Be sure, I've spies who can ferret out its lair."

"They must need be valiant men, who would seek to trail so fell a spirit," Catharine said, doubt plain in her voice.

"Valiant they are," Brom said grimly, "or will be." Hoban leaned back to stretch the ache out of his spine, and mopped his brow, glancing up at the sun. The work

was

familiar—he had been hoeing most of his life—but he had never before done it in a long saffron robe, nor

thought about it as an aid to prayer. Still, there were worse things, and both Father Rigori and Anho had warned

him the life would be hard. He bent over again, and chopped at a weed; he had never thought of this dull,

repetitive work as a discipline to school the body, freeing the mind for prayer and contemplation. Always before,

he had let his mind roam over the pleasures that awaited him at the end of the day—food, and talk with friends,

and sleep, and on the sabbath, dalliance with wenches.

He pushed that thought away; monks didn't think about girls, and he was determined to be a monk. He tried to

steer his thoughts back to God and godliness, but was only able to appreciate the neatness of the beds of

cabbages, and the precise border of old horsehoes set upright side by side, which closed the end of the field. As

he reached them he shook his head, marveling at the labor it must have taken to so fence all the monastery's

fields, not to mention gathering all those worn shoes. How like the monks not to count the labor, because their

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minds were on the other world! He sighed and lifted his hoe again.

"Hist! Farmer Hoban!"

Hoban looked up, startled, coming out of his reverie. Who had called? Brother Hasty, who watched over the

monks in the field? But no, he was a hundred feet away, with a wary eye on two novices who had paused for a

rest and a chat. And there was no other monk near him. Then who . . . ?

"Here, foolish one! In the patch of cowslips to thy left!" Hoban started to look, then remembered that whichever way Brother Hasty was looking now, he was quite likely

to be looking Hoban's way next, so he bent back to his hoeing, glancing at the cowslips out of the corner of his

eye.

And lo and behold, there he was, he really was, one of the Little People! Larger than he'd heard they went—he

was a foot-and-a-half high, scowling up at Hoban, arms akimbo. "Aye, thou dost see me now. Be sure thou dost

give no sign. Tis long I've waited for thee to come to the edge of the field, for I could not go in to thee, not past

that barrier of Cold Iron."

Of course, Hoban realized with a shock, that pretty little fence would keep elves out too! And, of a sudden, all

thoughts of the holy life were swept aside as he remembered what he had promised the Lord Warlock.

"Try not to think of it, if thou canst," the elf advised, "for there are many minds here to hear thy thoughts. I' truth,

they do not like my kind, and I cannot help but wonder why. 'Tis not the sort of thing the Archbishop would have

thought of by himself."

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"I think thou hast the right of it," Hoban breathed. "I have not seen a mean spirit in him."

"Yet there is such a spirit in this monastery, or I mistake it quite." The elf cocked his head to one side.

"Who is it,

then?"

"Brother Alfonso, or / mistake," Hoban muttered. "He is the Archbishop's secretary, and is ever with him so long

as he is within these walls. The other monks give him more respect than they ought, for one who is but a servant—and one who is so newly come."

"Newly come?" the elf frowned. "How newly, then?"

"But three years ago, saith Rumor. At the first he was ever willing to labor at whatever task he could, and worked

long and well—so all came to know his name. Yet he could write and cipher, so the Archbishop—the Abbot

then—set him to the accounts. He proved adept at them, and was therefore more and more in milord's company."

"As he became more and more set on separating from Rome, belike." The elf nodded, with a wry grimace. "How

can he be countered?"

"He cannot, now! Those who would not submit to him, fled to Runnymede. All who remain here, live in fear of

the fellow."

"Odd, for a man of God," the elf said. "Then we must deal with him. When doth he come outdoors?"

"In the evenings, to walk in the Archbishop's garden with His Lordship."

"Which is hung about with so much Cold Iron, I would think it a smithy." The elf's face hardened. "Well, we

shall find a ... whup!"

He disappeared into the cowslips as a shadow fell across the earth in front of Hoban. He looked up into the stern

visage of Brother Hasty.

"Hoban," said the severe supervisor, "wherefore hast thou hoed at that same patch of earth for this last quarter

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hour?"

"Surely the beast has no need for the second!" Kelly McGoldbagel stared at the huge paw print in the patch of

moonlight. "I've never seen a dog who used the head he had!"

"Oh, be still!" Puck groaned. " Tis not the beast who hath need of two heads, but the one who made him."

"But why?"

"To fright poor peasants, thou lob!" Puck snapped. "Now be still, and follow his trail!" Kelly grumbled and followed Puck down the trail between the huge old forest trees. Why Brom O'Berin had

insisted he bring the Englishman along, Kelly couldn't understand— surely one leprecohen would be enough to

track any monster! "Sure an ye don't think the Elfin King fears for the safety of one of his elves, do ye?"

" 'Tis not what I think, but what he doth! Wilt thou not be still and track?" Kelly sighed and followed, frowning at the trail. The beast's paws must have been half the size of Kelly himself,

to leave such traces. "At the least, the beast cannot have been one of yer pranks, if it left tracks."

"I shall leave tracks on thy backside!" Puck jerked to a halt, frowning at a fork in the road. "Here are but fallen

leaves; I see no more prints. Whence came the beast?"

"Why, yonder!" Kelly exclaimed, pointing to the right. "See ye not the twigs it broke from the trees as it passed?"

Puck stared. Then he said, "Well done, great scout! Thou mayest take the lead now." Kelly looked up at him, startled. Puck grinned. Kelly shivered and turned away, grumbling. "I'd sooner have a

two-headed dog at my back than an Englishman!"

"Thou mayest have thy wish," Puck reminded. "We track the beast's trail in reverse, to discover whence he came;

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none say he hath returned. In truth, we may feel his breath hot on our necks as he doth come home." For some reason, Kelly went a bit faster.

The path widened suddenly, and they found themselves in a small clearing, wide enough for some moonlight to

strike through the forest crown, showing them a wattle hut with a thatched roof. The door was made of stout

planks, though, and the single window was shuttered.

Kelly stopped. "I never knew a forest spirit that sought a roof over its head."

"Aye, nor that latched the door and barred the shutters when it was away from home." Puck frowned, stepping

out into the clearing. "Yet it may be that 'tis within, and therefore hath made fast its portal."

"Then the more fool ye are, to be courtin' its wrath! What, would ye bring disaster upon us?" Puck tossed his head impatiently. "The spirit's not made that can harm the Puck."

"Savin' his Elfin Majesty, o' course," Kelly grumbled.

"I misdoubt me an he bides within yon hut. Come, wilt thou not play hearth ghost and find a chink through which

to enter?"

"What's to find? 'Tis more holes than walls, with wattle!" Kelly protested. "Whoever bides there does not mean

to winter within it, does he?"

"Nay, or he would have daubed it without." Puck glanced about him and dashed up to the wall. Kelly stared,

appalled, then cursed and sprinted after him.

Puck was fingering the wattle. " 'Tis yet green. This hovel's newly built, sprite."

"Aye, 'tis that." Kelly looked down. "Yet there's already a footpath trod from the doorway—and I see no prints of

the hound!"

Puck glanced about, also, nodding. "And since the leaves have been cleared away to bare the earth, we should

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surely have seen such. What could this cotter have sought beneath compost? Yet the dog's prints end at the verge,

as though it had been conjured forth at the spot."

Kelly shivered. "Why, then, we've fulfilled our commission! Let us ... histl" Puck looked up, startled, then heard the sound Kelly was pointing after—the tread of human feet through forest

mulch.

A few minutes later a pot-bellied peasant stepped into the moonlight, leaning against the load of a heavy basket.

He stumped to the door, set down his burden, and sighed, rubbing his bald spot—a perfect circle, in the midst of

what would otherwise have been an excellent head of hair. He wore an ordinary smock and leggings, and was in

middle age. He glanced about and sighed. "Ah, the loneliness is hard to bear!" Then he shrugged, lifting the latch

and pushing the door open. He frowned as he stepped in, muttering, "Be still, my heart! 'Tis for God, the Church,

and the Order!" He sighed as he hoisted his basket and went into the hut. A minute later a

lamp flame glowed inside, and the door swung shut. Two seconds later Puck and Kelly were back at the wall,

peering through chinks in the wattle.

The peasant muttered to himself as he stirred the coals on the hearth, laid on kindling, and blew it into flame,

then set on some sticks. Behind him the stuff in his basket began to quiver, then to churn about. He turned back

to it, frowning, then nodded his head, apparently satisfied with its motion. He dumped it out before the hearth

and sat down on a three-legged stool, staring at it. The stuff was gray and formless, with a faint sheen, like

puffball toadstools that couldn't keep their shape. As the elves watched, wide-eyed, the mass began to spread,

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then to stretch upward. Gradually it grew into the form of a sapling, its color darkening to brown, pieces of it

stabbing outward into four branches. Each branch tip blossomed into stiffened twigs. The peasant nodded,

satisfied, and held up a hand. Slowly the sapling bent one of its branches down, wrapped a set of twigs about his