The Haunted Wizard - Wiz in Rhym-6 (43 page)

"We do," the high druid confirmed, "but from what we know of John, he is likely to be worse than his father was."

Matt nodded. "Just as much greed, but less ability. Besides, I don't think Drustan had all that much genuine malice in him—it just never occurred to him that other people had feelings. John, though, is out for revenge—on the whole human race."

The high druid shook his head sadly. "We feared as much. Besides, was this John not Drustan's favorite?"

"He was," Matt said, "but not because he was like Drustan. He was just very good at bowing, scraping, and ingratiating."

"If you suffer him to remain king," the high druid advised, "the people of Bretanglia will remember him as the worst monarch they have ever had."

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"I don't doubt it." Then, remembering the history of his own universe, Matt added, "He'll be so bad that the people of Bretanglia will swear never to have another king named John."

"He is like to win that distinction merely by supporting the… how did you call these false druids?"

"Synthodruids" Matt said. "The 'syntho' means their chief rolled a lot of ideas that had nothing to do with your faith into his parody of a religion."

"Aptly named," the high druid said dryly. "They do not even call the gods by their British names, but mix in the Irish and Gaulish, too."

"Thanks for the vote in favor of my label. By the way, do I dare say their chief druid's name here?"

"Do you fear to attract his attention?" A wispy smile touched the high druid's lips. "Do not hesitate. His magic is not strong enough to register each time someone somewhere mentions his name, and even if it were, our warding spells are surely more powerful than his enchantments." He said it with such total certainty that Matt guessed they'd run a test of some sort. He felt very much reassured. "So you think John's supporting Niobhyte and his synthodruids is bound to win him the Worst King Ever award, all by itself?"

"I do not doubt it," the high druid assured him. "Our spies send reports, and our scryers peer where people cannot go. The false druids have wasted no time. They have converted all of southern Bretanglia already, that neck of land that bulges out from Merovence, and have sent their missionaries into the midlands. Behind, in the lands they hold, their false priests whip the people into frenzies that make them cheer the spectacle of human sacrifice. They stretch victims upon their altars and stab their hearts with copper knives. They preach that might makes right and that whoever can take his neighbor's goods, deserves them—so every man's hand is turned against his neighbor, and the strong slay the weak, then gather their wives and daughters in to serve their own pleasure. Before, the peasants feared the looting and raping of soldiers in wartime—now they fear the knives and scythes of their neighbors, every day. The southernmost counties churn in chaos, but the midlands, drunk on the druids' wine and lured by their orgies, are deaf to the cries of anguish blown on the wind from the south."

"That's Bretanglia's problem, though." Matt frowned. "They're your enemies. Why should you care what happens to them?"

"Why should you?" the high druid returned. "Do not tell me that you do not, for you have come here seeking to aid them!"

"Easy." Matt shrugged. "I want to make sure Bretanglia doesn't bring war to Merovence—and now that I've seen what the synthodruids are doing, I want to make sure I stop them before they try to spread their madness to my own country."

"Is that all?"

"What are you trying to make me say?" Matt demanded. "That the people themselves aren't my enemies, only their king and this Niobhyte? All right, count it said!"

"Indeed." The high druid nodded slowly. "Count it said for us, too." He shrugged. "We are usually content to let the world go to ruin in its own way—only what it deserves, for having deserted our religion—but even we must draw the line at such wholesale misery-making. We cannot allow it to persist,
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for it offends our gods, and our very souls."

"There comes a point when you cease to be yourself if you don't take a stand against what you perceive to be evil." Matt nodded.

"Indeed," the high druid agreed. "Then, too, there is the reputation of ourselves, and our gods, to consider—that is almost as important as the sufferings of the people. These synthodruids will make the descendants of the folk of Bretanglia think of us as monsters, for they will confuse us true druids with Niobhyte's travesties."

"Good reasons for trying to stop him," Matt said with approval. "But how are you fighting him?"

"Why, we have brought you here, have we not?" The high druid smiled. Matt felt a surge of anger at having been manipulated, but managed to contain it. "I was already trying to bring them down for my own reasons."

"Aye, but you had little strength with which to fight them. Here we can give you Brion, who is worth whole armies, for he is the rightful king."

"Worth whole armies maybe, but he'll need even more armies to win back his throne," Matt said. "False king or not, John has the power now, and will fight to the death to keep it"

"His death in battle is not wholly distasteful," the high druid mused. "As to armies, I suspect that Brion shall gather them wherever he goes, as a lodestone gathers nails. Everyone who suffers from the greed of John's tax-gatherers, or the looting and raping of Niobhyte's worshipers, will flock to his banner."

"A good point," Matt admitted, "once he's well enough to travel."

"As to that, we have been weaving spells into his body, healing him as he slept; it needed only the kiss of his future queen to make our enchantments web their virtues together to make him whole. He will be able to ride tomorrow, and will be stronger than he ever was ere you reach the shores of Bretanglia."

"Nice work," Matt said with admiration. "I wouldn't have thought of that. But it's going to take more than armies to win against Niobhyte. From all I hear, he is one very powerful sorcerer."

"He is," the high druid said with a smile, "but so are we. You shall not sleep this night, Lord Wizard, for you shall keep vigil by learning every spell we can teach you. We shall even give you one to use if all else fails, one that shall drown all the synthodruids and their worshipers." Matt shuddered at the magnitude of the disaster the words described. His head filled with the thunder of earthquakes, the roar of tidal waves. "Isn't that a little drastic?"

"These false druids are a disaster in themselves, and only something of their own magnitude can defeat them. Have no fear—by the time you come to them, there shall be no one left in the South Saxon Shore but themselves and their most ardent believers."

"Meaning the ones who have committed themselves so thoroughly that they won't even think of resigning." Matt nodded. "Okay. I'll use it if there's no other way."

"There will not be," the druid replied, "but you are welcome to try to reason with them. A caution,
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though—do not reason too long, for while you talk, they shall be preparing a doom to fall upon you." Matt heard them as soon as he reached the archway into the grove.

"Will you not lie still!" Rosamund scolded. "Must you forever be reaching for me as though I were nothing but your own private cup?"

"No cup could hold wine as sweet as your kisses," Brion protested. "Have I become as ugly as a bear in only a few minutes?"

Matt stepped in quickly. He saw Brion struggling to rise, reaching out toward Rosamund, who was backing away. "You need rest, my lord, not excitement!

“Nay, forfend! No one owns me save myself!"

"I do not say that I own you," Brion protested, "only that you have kissed me, and, I thought, with some pleasure!"

Rosamund blushed. "It was a lapse of moments only. Be sure it will not happen again!" Brion stared at her, realizing that she meant it, at least as a resolution. "Ay di mi!" He sank back into his coffin. "If it shall not, then I have no wish to live!"

"Oh, do not carry on so!" Rosamund fumed. "All the world knows you are a troubadour as well as a knight, but there is no need for you to sing your laments to me!" Brion's face darkened and he struggled to rise again.

Matt decided it was time to interfere. He stepped up to the coffin and laid a hand on Brion's good shoulder. "Gently, gently, my lord. You won't get better if you don't try to rest." Brion sank back with a groan. "Why should I heal if love is denied me?" Rosamund rolled her eyes in exasperation and turned away.

"Perhaps for the good of your people," Matt said quietly. "Nobility imposes obligations, you know." Brion lay completely still for several seconds, then looked up at Matt, and the lover had submerged completely under the leader. "You are right. How selfish it was of me to think otherwise!" Rosamund turned back, staring, uncertain whether or not to feel hurt.

"And it was very wrong of me to pursue my brother's fiancee," Brion went on, "even though he is dead—perhaps even more because he is dead." He forced himself up on one elbow. Matt and Rosamund both sprang to hold him, but he inclined his head in something resembling a bow. "My lady, I beg your pardon. It was dishonorable of me to importune you so."

"My pardon you may freely have," she said, "though nothing else of me." Still, her face could not hide her hurt.

Brion must have seen it, too, for he sank back with a groan. "I had hoped to woo you for my own, now
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that I am heir apparent—but it is certainly improper to come courting so soon, and my father has doubtless disinherited me. No, I have no right to seek your hand, no matter how much I may desire it." Rosamund's face was a study in consternation, both hurt and flattered. Finally, she resolved it by snapping, "Oh, fie upon your chivalry and your honor!"

"I was near to thinking that myself," Brion said, subdued. "Even if I were able to win your love, though, we could not become betrothed without the consent of the king." He was silent for a minute, lost in thought Rosamund stared at him, and one hand began to reach out toward him, then pulled back. Privately, Matt thought that Brion had come pretty close to the hub of the problem: both of them were feeling guilty about being in love. Their hearts may have been clamoring at them, screaming, "Right!" but all the conventions of their society were howling, "Wrong!" He had to find a way to resolve that dilemma for them.

Brion turned to Matt again, still frowning. "Lord Wizard …" Then he hesitated, which was unusual for him.

"What's the matter?" Matt asked.

"When first you reached out to heal me, you called me Your Majesty,' " Brion said. "That was a mistake, was it not?"

"No mistake." Matt saw what was coming, and braced himself. So did Brion. "A prince is addressed as 'Your Highness,' my lord."

"I know."

The foreboding shadowed Brion's face. "I cannot be 'Your Majesty' unless my father dies." Matt gave him a long and level look, then slowly sank to one knee, even though Brion wasn't his liege lord. "The king is dead. Long live the king!"

Brion buried his face in his hands and burst into tears.

Matt stared at him in amazement.

Rosamund was at his side in an instant, trying to fit an arm around his broad shoulders, gazing down at his face in anxiety. "Weep, my lord, as becomes a noble knight! Weep, for grief must out! Weep, for surely the strong may dare to show their hearts!"

Matt resolved to quote that to her later. For the moment, he waited for the first burst to slacken, then said, "But he was your enemy, Your Majesty! He was a tyrant to his sons and the shame of his wife! You fought against him in your mother's war! How can you grieve for him?"

"Because he was my father," Brion gasped. "Because I have boyhood memories of games and riding and early lessons with wooden swords, memories of a kindly though boisterous man! Him I mourn! And most of all, I mourn because he was my father!"

Inside Mart's head, a voice said heavily, How could I have been so blind as not to see such loyalty as
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this? How could I have failed to perceive his love, and John's treachery? A curse upon the pride and anger that ever lost me his affections!

Matt resolved to be the gentlest father he could be, and to discipline with caring. But Rosamund was cradling Brion's head to her breast now, murmuring in soothing tones. Time and again she started to kiss his forehead, then caught herself, though the longing was naked in her face. The next day, when Matt went into the grove, he heard Rosamund crying, "Stop it at once! You cannot be healed so quickly! You shall open the wound and bleed to death!"

"You saw for yourself that it was healed so thoroughly it might have been new flesh!" Brion grunted, whirling his sword and leaping in a practice slash. The sword spun in his hands, sending flashes of sunlight caroming off the leaves, as his feet wove an intricate pattern of advance, feint, and retreat. Suddenly, though, he swung his sword high and jabbed it into the ground, leaning on it and panting, "A pox upon it!

I have barely begun, but already am wearied!"

"The amazing thing is that you managed it at all," Matt said. Both young people looked up at him, staring.

He came forward and took Brion's wrist, feeling the pulse slam through it. "Healthy enough, if you don't overdo it— which you will, if I know you." He looked up at Rosamund. "Don't worry, Your Highness—the druids told me that they wove all sorts of healing spells into him. His body has been mending while he slept—the best way to keep him from trying to get up too soon."

"Truly said." Rosamund gave Brion a dark look.

"Perhaps not fit enough to fight," Brion gasped, "but surely fit enough to travel." Matt glanced from the new king, fairly glowing with virility, to Rosamund, who seemed to exude an equal or greater feminine glow whenever she looked at him, which might explain why her face so quickly erased the burgeoning euphoria that started every time she looked at him, hiding it under a mask of defiance and anger. Guilt, he decided, could do amazing things—but so could leaving these two alone together. Brion was certainly now strong enough for them to do more than kiss, and Rosamund too filled with desire every time she looked at him, no matter how angry it made her. Whatever their mutual destiny might be, the rules of their society made it entirely forbidden for them—yet. "Yes," he agreed, "we'd better get on with our quest—tomorrow morning. Until then, Your Majesty, back to bed. You can get up for a ten minute walk every hour, but when we set out tomorrow, you're riding in a litter."