The Spell-Bound Scholar (9 page)

"No—my own father, and the monks of St. Vidicon."

"The monks?" Alain exploded. "What right have they to say what the prince shall or shall not know?"

Geoffrey looked away. "There is reason ..."

"Then you had better tell it me." Alain lightened his hold and took on the persuasive tone Geoffrey had told him worked well with women. "Come, my friend—no one can now accuse you of having revealed the thing's existence. The cat is out of the bag, so surely you may tell me its markings and how many kits it has."

Geoffrey stood, irresolute.

Alain pushed a little harder. "You are the friend of my childhood and my youth, and I shall someday be your king. Should I not know all things that imperil this land?"

Geoffrey caved in. "You should. My father shall have to live with the exposure. I shall tell you all I can, Alain—but first, let us load these villains into our cart."

The windows of Rod's study were tilted open to let in the fragrant spring air. He sat at the desk, brow furrowed as he set down his latest guesses about the origin and development of the Gramarye espers—a major book that he only thought of as a working agent's notes on his mission. He scowled as he wrote down the latest rumors he'd heard about Father

Marco Ricci's appearances after his death; they had to be there as part of the record, but Rod disliked recording gossip. To appease his own conscience, he wrote very clearly that these were only rumors.

It never occurred to him to be on his guard. After all, his study was on the second floor of the keep, above the great hall with its twenty-foot ceiling—and the keep was well away from the curtain wall and its battlements. Besides, he had a dozen guards on duty—so he never expected the burly young man who climbed in through the window and crept silently up behind him, pulling a garrote from his sleeve.

" 'Ware!" cried a small voice from the baseboard.

1 "Where?" Rod cried, spinning about. He saw the young man's expression turn from satisfaction to anger as he threw himself forward.

Rod wasn't as quick, but he was a lot more experienced. He pushed his chair away from the desk, and the young man went sprawling across its top. Rod wrenched his arm around in a wrestling hold, pinning him down, calling, "Guards! Guards!"

"Guard yourself," snarled a voice behind him, and he whirled just in time for the truncheon aimed at his head to strike his shoulder instead. Rod shouted with pain and kicked, catching the grizzled attacker behind the knees. The man went down with a shout, but a third assassin leaped in through the other window levelling a blaster, and the first young man shoved himself up from the desk with blood in his eye.

Rod dove for his knees, catching him in a perfect tackle. The young man bellowed and fell on top of Rod, but not fast enough—the blaster bolt caught him in midshout.

"Fiend! You have slain him!" the third attacker cried. He ran forward, reaching down to wrench the dead body off Rod—and Rod turned with it, slamming a fist into the attacker's jaw.

The grizzled man was still trying to get to his feet, but his legs wouldn't work. He hobbled toward Rod on his knees, swinging his truncheon up again.

The guards burst through the door and caught the man, one

seizing each arm. "My lord!" cried one, horrified. "Are you hurt?"

"I don't think so." Rod touched his shoulder and winced. He'd have to check and make sure it wasn't broken. "But I wouldn't be feeling much of anything by now if a busybody brownie hadn't been watching over me." Rod pushed himself to his feet, dusting off his clothes, and called, "Thank you, Wee Folk!"

" 'Twas our pleasure, Lord Warlock," three high-pitched voices answered.

The guards went pale. They still hadn't adjusted to living with elves.

Rod stood still, mind searching for his family out of habit. He encountered Gwen's probe instantly and the two merged thoughts for a minute, calming each other, merging in an instant's caress, and rejoicing that they both lived. Then each mind quested farther—and found their children under attack.

Quicksilver was dressed in more luxurious attire now—a gown of silken rose with an overrobe of burgundy. She and Cordelia strolled about the gardens, chatting.

"You have taken your sentence well," Cordelia told her future sister-in-law.

"Well, I did slay more than a few men," Quicksilver acknowledged, "and once it became a matter of warfare, I would have been as hard put to prove it self-defense as any general would. I cannot complain, milady, since the Queen was so generous. Years spent roaming the countryside looking for peasants to protect is far better than the noose, or even years in gaol. Besides"—she grinned—"our sovereign did sentence me to most agreeable company."

"Would that agreeable company were here," Cordelia sighed, "and his companion my fiance with him."

"It would be well," said a deep old voice.

Cordelia turned to frown at Tom Gardener. Behind him, his assistants were rising from their knees, lifting hoes and brandishing pruning hooks. A vein of fear opened in Cordelia, but she told herself she was being ridiculous. "It is most

discourteous of you, Tom Gardener, to intrude on ladies' conversations."

"It is indeed," Quicksilver agreed, hands on hips. "Remember your place, sirrah."

"You are neither of you better than I, nor any other," Tom Gardener growled, "and your place is six feet deep." He swung his spade high.

Quicksilver reached under her robe and drew sword and dagger.

But thought was quicker than action, and Cordelia arrested the spade with a telekinetic push. Some other mind pushed harder, though, and the spade began to move again, then faster and faster, and Tom Gardener grinned wickedly.

Quicksilver's sword darted past Cordelia, into Tom's shoulder.

The old man dropped the spade with a howl, clutching at his shoulder, but his assistants ran forward, swinging their tools, and Cordelia suddenly realized how much a pruning hook was like a halberd. She reached out with her mind and wrenched at the nearest.

Tom Gardener grunted, though, and she felt his mind wrench against her own. For a moment the pruning hook hung poised, wavering between their two forces, and the man holding it perforce stopped with it. Others still ran toward them, though, and Tom let go of his shoulder and smashed a fist into Cordelia's face.

Sparks shot through Cordelia's vision; darkness moved in. She felt the ground jar against her knees, heard Quicksilver's scream of rage, then Tom Gardener's shout of pain. Another man screamed. She shook her head, managing to banish the fog that tried to claim her, saw the spade at her feet, managed to grasp it and use it as a cane to help push her upright.

"Against my back! Press hard!" Quicksilver cried.

Cordelia didn't understand but had sense enough to comply. She pressed her own back against Quicksilver's. Then she saw a youth swinging a hoe at her. Her father's training took over and she raised the spade to block without even thinking about it, because she was thinking instead of the grass, how slippery it was, how the youth's feet must slide. . . .

Slide they did, shooting out from under him. He gave a wail of surprise but finished his swing anyway. It bounced off Cordelia's spade without much force. She pushed it with her mind, pushed hard, and the handle shot back to crack against his head. He went limp.

Suddenly there was peace, suddenly the only sound was groaning. She dared a quick look about, saw Tom Gardener lying unconscious with blood spreading from the wound in his shoulder and another in his thigh, and the youth near him, also unconscious. She glanced behind her and saw Quicksilver breathing hard, her gown torn to show a bright red gash, bruises already darkening on brow and cheek, but four men lay on the ground before her, out cold. She kicked Tom Gardener, shouting, "Caitiff! Traitor! Coward, to set upon two weak women with six brawny men! Waken, cat's meat! Come to thy senses, thou pox-faced whoreson offal! Up on thy feet, thou decaying heap of rancid haggis!"

"Why, sister," Cordelia said, panting, "why do you revile him so?'

"For that he will not wake up and keep fighting, so that I might slay him! I cannot kill an unconscious man, after all!"

" 'Tis his good fortune that he lost so roundly, then." Cordelia caught her breath. "I thank you, bandits' chieftain, for I've taken my life from you this day."

"And I mine from you," Quicksilver replied, gasping. Her voice still shook with anger. "I could best the four of them, but not six, especially if their master was a warlock."

"A warlock and a traitor!" Cordelia flared, the anger surging in reaction. "What a coward's ambush was this?"

"One well planned," Quicksilver answered, "and I can only wonder how long ago these men came into your service, knowing this day would come. Only think, sister—we would not have been here if Tom Gardener had not counselled us to stay at home and let the boys prove their valor by themselves!"

Understanding burst in Cordelia's mind. "We would not have been here to suffer their attack indeed—and would have been with our fiances to defend them!"

"Defend!" Quicksilver cried, aghast. "Quickly, Cordelia! How fare they?"

The bandits burst from the woods on three sides of the meadow, running at Gregory and brandishing weapons. He turned to face them, remembering his father's lessons and staying alert for footsteps behind him while with his mind he loosened the earth in a half circle twenty feet from him. The bandits stumbled into it and sank up to their knees with cries of surprise and anger.

Then the damsel cried "Beware!" and the footsteps came at his back indeed, a hard arm encircled his neck and pulled back, but Gregory was already kicking with his heel. He struck the man's knee; the attacker howled and fell, taking Gregory with him. Fear roared up inside him as the arm tightened about his throat and the world grew dark, for Gregory had never had to fight before, not really, only in practice— but training took over, and almost of its own accord, his elbow struck hard as he twisted. The man grunted with pain, his hold loosening, and Gregory twisted free, rolling and rising even as he had in practice. The bandit struggled to climb to his feet even as he fought to start breathing again, but Gregory thrust a hand at him, thinking of molecules dancing in frenzy, of light and heat, and fire exploded from his palm into the bandit's face. The man fell back with a howl, slapping at his smoldering beard. Gregory stepped in, turning, and hurled the man across his hip. The bandit went tumbling with a wail, then scrambled up, running back toward the trees.

But his fellows were wading out of the sudden slough and lumbering into action again, howling for blood and swinging their weapons.

Gregory needed maximum effect with minimum damage. He thought again of excited molecules, of flames sudden and huge, and a line of fire exploded all along the bandits' line. They skidded to a halt with screams of terror. Then the flames shot up into manlike forms, towering over them, reaching down with hands that shed sparks while thunder boomed overhead and lightning stabbed again and again, first in front of one bandit, then another and another.

One bandit gave a wail of terror and turned tail. The others saw him and followed. In seconds the whole band was running, fleeing back into the woods.

For good measure, Gregory made the firemen stalk after them, reaching out hands of flame with streams of small fireballs shooting from their fingertips.

Squalling and clapping a hand over a posterior burn, the last of the bandits disappeared among the trees. Gregory let the firemen snuff out and stood staring after the bandits, feeling a fierce elation, the first real thrill of victory in his life. It made him feel huge, swollen, superhuman. He stood still, letting the intoxication fill him, letting his lips spread into a huge grin, waiting until the feeling crested and began to ebb. Then, when he was sure he could control himself again, he turned back to Peregrine and was shocked to find her shrinking away from him, eyes wide with terror, hand to her mouth as though stifling a scream.

For a moment, Gregory was totally confused. She knew he had been protecting her. Why, then, should she fear him?

Because thunder, lightning, and fire are frightening whether they protect you or pursue you, of course. Gregory realized he had to reassure her, and quickly. He smiled gently, forcing the aura of triumph to drain away. "The danger is past, damsel. Fear not."

Peregrine was frightened indeed, for the Finister she really was knew that the "bandits" were her own agents and had been ordered to give Gregory just enough of a fight to make him feel manly and protective before they turned tail and ran. She had only expected to boost his testosterone level to the point at which he would be instantly vulnerable to her erotic projections; she had never suspected that this seeming milksop would really be capable of putting up a fight, let alone display the capacity for utter mayhem that his fireworks had shown.

Gregory spread his arms, hands open, as though to demonstrate his vulnerability. "They are gone, they are fled like the cowards such bullyboys are. They shall not trouble you again, for they will fear the shield I have shown them."

Of course—his shield. Gregory's form of "fighting"

wasn't actually aggressive, just a show of strength meant to scare off the bandits—which it had done all too genuinely. Small wonder that it had terrified Finister, too. She had known the Gallowglasses were broadband psis, that in them the rules of sex-linked powers seemed to have been waived, but she had never dreamed that Gregory could be a pyrotic, a fire-maker, as well as a telekinetic.