The Haunted Wizard - Wiz in Rhym-6 (40 page)

"Parley!" Matt shouted. "Give us a chance, and maybe we can talk this thing out!" The eagle glared at him—eagles have the right kind of eyes for that sort of thing. Then its form blurred—though the eyes stayed clear—growing to human size, and the whole body stretched and narrowed here, broadened there, until a young woman stood before them, gloriously naked, tossing her head to flip back the long tawny hair that might have cloaked her charms. Her face was beautiful, with a high forehead, high cheekbones, small straight nose, full ruby lips, and the huge brown eyes of the mare, though narrowed and angry now. Her only garment was the rope, settled around a slender waist above swelling hips.

Sergeant Brock stared, face lengthening as his tongue grew thick with desire. Matt knew how he felt, and fought desperately to remember Alisande in a similar state when she had just saved him from Sayeesa's clutches, proud and as full of dignity naked as she had been clothed, a sword whirling in her hand, her eyes bright with scorn. The image didn't change his responses to the pouka's nudity, but it did channel it in a more healthy direction.

Sir Orizhan, however, cried out in dismay and stepped over to the pouka, swirling his cloak around to cover her.

She batted it away with a vindictive smile, her glare still on Matt and Brock. "I thank you for your gallantry, Sir Knight," she said in a brogue so thick Matt could scarcely understand it, "but I'm not about to release these two from the torture that is the punishment they deserve for having treated me so roughly—and if they're fools enough to seek to touch me, they'll deserve what they get." Then she glowered at Brock alone and said, "Yes, you ache to reach out and touch, do you not? But you don't dare, for you know I'd likely turn into something with claws that would rip you from breastbone to groin." Brock groaned, eyes bulging, and tried to turn away, but couldn't.

"If you hold me with a rope, I shall hold you by your own lust," the pouka declared, then turned her gaze to Matt, frowning. "You, though! I know the lust is there, but you are free of my hold! How is this?"

"I'm married," Matt explained, "and more in love with my wife than ever." For a moment she only held his gaze, then sighed and seemed to wilt. "Would such love were known to my kind! But I've watched you mortals long enough to know how rare it is even among you. Say, then, why you have sought to capture a pouka! Not that I will admit you have, mind you." Somehow, Matt was sure she was right—and, suddenly, he felt very much on trial, as though the pouka could slip out of his noose in an instant and turn into a tiger that could rip his vitals out before he could even move. "It was just self-defense. We're trying to go to Innisfree, and didn't want to get bewitched just for trying. Why are you keeping people from getting there?"
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The woman spat a Gaelic phrase at him.

Matt sighed. "Okay, so you don't want to tell." He flipped the rope, making it loosen enough to drop over the pouka's hips and fall to the ground. "Go on, leave! But you're warned now. Even at night there's always one of us awake, and we sleep with our swords drawn. Try to attack us, and you'll get a dose of Cold Iron in your vitals. All we want is to get to Innisfree so we can ask somebody how to find the place we really need to go. We don't mean any harm to you or your land. Tell all the other spirits that, would you?"

"Nay, I shall do more than that," the pouka said, frowning. "I shall tell you that I do not seek to bar all from going inland—only those whom I fear may harm Erin, and since you are outlanders, I thought you might be such." She turned to Sir Orizhan. "By your leave, knight, I'll take that cloak now." Sir Orizhan swirled the fabric over her shoulders, and as it settled into place, Sergeant Brock relaxed with a sigh, then a groan. The pouka eyed him with knowing amusement, chin tilted high. "I give you mercy, soldier, though I fear you would rather have your torture again."

"If you thought we might be a danger to the land," Matt said, "how were you planning to make sure?"

"Why, by carrying the knight and the maiden to spirits more powerful than I, who could read them and judge them. You would have followed—do not deny it."

"I don't," Matt said, "but if you knew that, you must have known we couldn't be wholly bad."

"To one another, no," the pouka said with a smile. "To Erin and its people? Ah, that might be another matter!"

"How could you be sure I am a maiden?" Rosamund asked, more curious than insulted by the invasion of her privacy.

The pouka gave her a look devoid of the slightest trace of humor or sarcasm. "I would have known, maiden. Be sure. Some things you may not hide from the spirit world—no, neither with fine fabrics and layers of clothing, nor with fair manners and layers of deception." Matt wondered what the other unhideable things were.

"We do not seek to harm Erin," Rosamund assured the pouka, "only to find the body of a friend, to learn whether he is truly dead, or only very deeply asleep."

The pouka stiffened. "How good a friend is he?"

"Better than I knew, alas," Rosamund said, suddenly sorrowful. "When all about me sought to hurt me with their petty cruelties, he was always gentle and courteous, though so maddeningly formal that I found ways to anger him, to find the chinks in his armor."

The pouka frowned. "But if all others were cruel, how did you dare anger him?" Rosamund smiled. "Oh, even at his most angry, he would never hurt a lady even by words."

"Any lady," the pouka demanded, "or yourself alone?"
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Rosamund dropped her gaze. "I never knew." Her voice was so low that Matt could scarcely hear it.

"How long did you know him, maiden?"

"Since I was ten years old, and came to live with his parents and his brothers," Rosamund replied.

"And what will you do with him if you find him dead?"

"Bury him—or weep at his grave." Rosamund turned ashen at the thought, as though she hadn't really confronted it till then.

Before she could sink too deeply into anxiety, though, the pouka demanded, "And what will you do with him if you find him living?"

"Why, restore him to good health," Rosamund said, "and never let him out of my sight again!" Matt turned to her in surprise, but Sir Orizhan only smiled fondly, nodding, as though finally hearing his own suspicions confirmed.

The pouka turned to Matt, one fist on a hip under the cloak while the other hand held it closed. "And what will you do with this man if you find him alive, sir?"

"Restore him to good health, as she says," Matt said, "but I'm afraid I'll have to tear him away from her and take him back to Bretanglia, so that he can cleanse that land of the corruption of the false druids who have begun to infest it."

Rosamund cried out in protest, but Sir Orizhan pointed out, "They are a corruption which, if it goes unchecked, may spill over into Erin."

"I am well aware of that," the pouka snapped. "We spirits are not completely unaware of what happens in the rest of the world." She turned to the maiden. "The man you speak of is Prince Brion, and you are the Princess Rosamund. Is this not so?"

"Y-Yes," Rosamund stammered in amazement.

"And who are you, man of knowledge who goes about in peasant's clothing?" the pouka demanded of Matt.

"Matthew Mantrell, Lord Wizard of Merovence," Matt said. He spread a hand toward his companions.

"These are Sir Orizhan, protector of the princess since she left her homeland, and Sergeant Brock, who serves him as squire on this quest."

"Quest?" The pouka frowned. "Do you seek more than Prince Brion?"

"We do," Matt admitted. "We're trying to find the murderer of Prince Gaheris."

"When you do, thank him," the pouka advised, "for he has saved Bretanglia from a scourge, though not one so bad as the false druids are apt to prove."

Matt raised his eyebrows. "You don't like them either, huh?"
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"I do not, and the true druids are livid with rage. They are at least as disgusted with the impostors as you are, and angry past speaking at their blackening of the names of the old gods."

"So there really are some real druids left," Matt said softly.

"Aye, and you knew that already," the pouka snapped. "Do not seek to bandy words with the spirit folk. What we do not know, we can guess, and we recognize truth or falsehood instantly when we hear it. Why do you wish to discover the murderer of a corrupt prince?"

"So we can show him to King Drustan and Queen Petronille," Matt said, "to remove their reason for declaring war on Bretanglia."

"You no longer need concern yourselves with that," the pouka advised, "for Drustan is dead, and John is king of Bretanglia."

Matt stared in shock, and the other three cried out in dismay.

"Then we had better find Prince Brion very quickly," Matt said, "and pray he is alive and can be restored, for John has the perfect combination of malice and incompetence to plunge Bretanglia into chaos. Can you lead us to him?"

"Of course," said the pouka. "What one spirit of the land knows, all know. You only had to ask." Matt woke in the night, heart hammering, looking about him wildly. He almost thought he could still hear the voice shouting…

Sergeant Brock heard him rise, and turned from his sentry place at the edge of the camp, concerned. He came close, whispering so as not to disturb the others. "Are you well, Lord Wizard?"

"Guess so," Matt said. "Just a bad dream…"

"Ah." The soldier nodded wisely. "Surely you have had enough strains upon you to cause them—and there are unfriendly spirits about us, I doubt not."

"Yeah, I know." Matt nodded. "I expect our pouka guide is out there somewhere telling them to back off, but there's a good chance they won't listen to her."

"I cannot guard your dreams," the sergeant said. "Would that I could."

"So do I," Matt sighed. "Well, maybe I can get back to sleep. How long has it been, Sergeant?"

"Since you lay down? It may be an hour, by the position of the moon."

"Got to sleep longer, if I can," Matt muttered. "Thanks, Sergeant. Good night."

"Good night, Lord Wizard." The sergeant tugged his forelock and turned away. Matt lay back and closed his eyes, willing himself to relax. He tried to think happy thoughts, Celtic thoughts—Osian seeking the Land of Youth—and began to grow drowsy as the wonderful old story drew him in. He drifted toward slumber…

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"What are you doing to find my murderer, I said!" the voice ranted. Matt managed to keep from jumping up, but every muscle went stiff.

"Aside!" Prince Gaheris' voice snarled. "He has my murderer to find first! I died before you!"

"I am your father, boy!" the first voice shouted. "I am the king! Yield precedence to me!"

"There is no precedence in the world of the dead," Gaheris said, full of venom, "and you are king no longer. If it comes to sheer force of will, I fancy my rage and bitterness are greater than yours, especially toward you, for it is you who have bred them!"

"I?" Drustan bleated. "What did I do to earn your hatred?"

"Ignored me," Gaheris snapped. "If you did notice me, it was only to berate me for my failings, or to bellow at me for not following your orders instantly. You showed your jealousy and spite in a thousand ways."

"Jealousy! What cause had I to be jealous?"

"Because I would have your crown when you were dead," Gaheris snapped, "and you begrudged it even then!"

"Uh, guys," Matt put in, "do you suppose you could go argue someplace else besides the inside of my head? I'm trying to get some sleep here."

"Aye!" Gaheris snapped. "Let him sleep, so that he can seek the man who murdered me!"

"Let him devise my revenge instead," Drustan commanded, "for I know who my murderer was!"

"Oh, really?" Matt sprang to full mental alertness, then settled his mind to listen. "Go on. This could be very interesting."

Two minutes later he wished he hadn't said that. In fact he wished Drustan hadn't come calling at all. He was only glad that Drustan's memories hadn't included smell as he saw Prince John's gloating face from Drustan's point of view, bending over the dying king to ask, "Do you remember your philandering, Father? Of course you do, it was your pride and your boast! The number of times I had to listen to the sickening accounts of your conquests nearly made me die of nausea! But do you remember those horrible howling fights with Mother whenever she found out about your little paramours? Do you remember how she refused to live in the same castle with you? Did you even care that you drove her away and thereby robbed me of my mother, and my chance to win her love? No, of course not! All you cared about was your own pleasure, and indulging your own temper!" A gargle of denial sounded in Mart's ears, filling his whole head, and he realized it was Drustan's response, seen and heard from the viewpoint of a dying, aphasic king.

"Do you remember how you sat back and watched when Gaheris beat me?" John snarled. "Oh, you could have told him to stop, but no—you had to yell at me to put my fists up, to block his blows, and
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scold me for failing! You could have protected me from Brion's contempt, from his rebukes and his lectures—but you were too busy with things of greater importance. After all, one lonely child couldn't have been all that important, could he, Father?"

Again, Drustan gargled a protest.

"Where were you?" John asked. "When I was a little boy, tormented and beaten by my brothers, where were you? Off fighting the Irish and gaining a few miserable square miles of bog, that's where! Or off wenching with one or another of your paramours! Even after you took me away from my mother, where were you? Gone on missions of state as often as not, until I was old enough to be useful as a weapon against Mother and Gaheris and Brion, by your threat to make me king!" The king croaked something in protest; Matt, inside his memories, understood it: "But I loved you!"