"With the help of a little naphtha." Matt wrinkled his nose at the smell coming from the poor burned friar.

"Do you question whose magic is more powerful?" the false druid demanded of the crowd.

His answer was a low moan.

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

"Come to the worship of Toutatis and Belenos!" Banalix urged. "Return to the gods who are strongest!"

Most of the people started toward him, then glanced at their neighbors and hesitated. Everyone hesitated, in fact. Then the whole crowd pulled back, shame-faced and sullen.

"How fearful you are!" the druid said scornfully. "But I warn you, Belenos' wrath is more to be feared than the disapproval of your neighbors or the scoldings of your priest!"

Even burned and in pain, Friar Gode managed to turn his moans into a cry. "Already he begins his threats!"

The villagers glanced at him, startled, then frowned at Banalix, unsure.

The false druid at least knew he'd pushed it as far as he could. "I shall go now, but Belenos shall stay with you! Toutatis shall watch you! You shall never be free of your ancestors' gods—but then, you never have been!"

One boy stepped closer to Banalix, greatly daring, no doubt urged on by his friends—and as the false druid turned away, his hand flashed out and caught the boy by the arm. The child yelped with fear and tried to pull away, but Banalix pressed something into his palm. The boy froze, staring at the first gold coin he had ever seen—tiny, but really gold. Banalix drew him close and said something softly to him, then turned him around and sped him on his way with a pat. Then Banalix strode off toward the woodlot beyond the village, head high, moving swiftly, certainly appearing to be a druid. The villagers gave way, pulling back to leave a channel down which Banalix went, between the huts and into the woods. The people stared after him, silent a moment, then began to drift away to their huts, talking in low tones. One or two glanced guiltily at the friar but saw he was in someone's care, even if that someone was a stranger, and took the excuse to hurry away to their homes.

Sir Orizhan and Sergeant Brock, though, came closer, their faces grave. They winced at the friar's groans and wrinkled their noses at the stench of the naphtha.

"A bucket of water, please, Sergeant," Matt said, then turned back to stripping the remains of his cloak off the friar. "Lend a hand, Sir Orizhan."

The knight stepped closer, face a mask against the sight of the burns, and helped Matt strip charred scraps of the friar's own robe from his body.

"Not my loins!" the friar cried. "Sweet modesty!" But he stirred too much as he said it, and cried out with pain.

"By your leave, friar, we have to heal the burns wherever we find them," Matt told him.

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

Brock came up with the bucket.

"Pour it everywhere you see a burn," Matt told him, "but gently, mind you."

Brock poured, and Matt sprinkled a powdered herb on the wet flesh, muttering,

"Chest and arms,

Grow skin, new skin!

Thighs and groin, heal cold!

Back and sides and calf and shin,

Be healed of burns and scalds!"

He kept muttering and sprinkling as the friar's groans slackened, until every burn had grown new skin and the friar sat up, looking at his arms and chest, amazed.

Sir Orizhan's lips shaped a soundless whistle, and Sergeant Brock stepped back, the whites showing all around his eyes.

The friar stared up at Matt. "What manner of man are you?"

"A healer, among other things." Matt figured the obvious couldn't hurt. "You were lucky we got to you quickly—though the burns were only superficial, or I might not have been able to mend them so fast."

"Not luck, but Providence!" The friar started to stand up, then remembered his nudity and sank back with a cry of distress.

"Yes, there's still some pain," Matt said grimly. "Sir Orizhan, could the good friar borrow your cloak for a little while? I seem to have lost mine."

"It shall be replaced!" the friar assured him.

"Call it a donation," Matt told him.

Sir Orizhan held up his cloak, and Matt helped the friar rise into its folds. He cried out as it touched his shoulders, then clamped his mouth shut.

"I know, it still hurts," Matt commiserated. "Be careful, friar—that's new skin, and it will be very Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

sensitive for a while."

"I shall be most careful indeed! Bless you, stranger, for a good Samaritan!"

"I have a stake in your cause," Matt told him.

"My cause!" The friar buried his face in his hands, moaning. "I have failed my Lord! Both my Lord and my flock!"

"You haven't failed yet," Matt said grimly. "This was a battle, friar, not a war. No, not even a battle—

just a skirmish."

Sergeant Brock looked up in surprise. Sir Orizhan looked up, too, but only smiled and nodded slightly.

The friar stared at Matt, and hope began to rise in his eyes again. Matt turned him away gently and began to walk him toward the church. "Lucky your feet weren't burned."

"This is not the end of the matter, then?" the friar asked. "Have you any real knowledge of that?"

"Sure," Matt said. "You pushed that Banalix to his limit, friar. All he could find for an argument were cliches that were worn thin by the time the gospels were written. He had to resort to trickery to shut you up."

"Trickery?" The friar halted, staring up at him. "Not true magic?"

Sergeant Brock stared, too.

"Not a bit," Matt assured them. "I saw him pull that ball of wax out of his sleeve while he was making those sham magical passes. I saw him light it in the coal-box at his belt, too, and I know what he mixed with the wax to make it burn that way—I recognized the smell on your charred robe. Believe me, there was no way you could have won that encounter—that would have taken a real wizard."

Both his companions looked up, startled. Matt gave them a wink and a slight shake of the head.

Friar Gode turned away and started walking again, head bowed in thought. "But why wasn't prayer enough?" he asked, bewildered.

"You should know the answer to that one better than I, friar." Matt smiled. "It's because we have free will

—so God and the saints leave us to fight our own battles, and won't interfere directly, though they'll give us all the help they can. The Devil doesn't feel any such scruples, though. The only thing that stops Hell's minions from coming out in the open is that if they do, the saints feel fully justified in stepping in Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

themselves. So the Devil keeps his imps hidden, and the saints watch ready to pounce, and that leaves it up to us to fight the battle. But the Devil gives his agents all the ammunition they need—in this case, a recipe the Greeks knew but most people today have forgotten."

"Save my people from this druid!"

"I'll do what I can. Shouldn't be too hard; Hell wouldn't be helping a real druid."

Friar Gode's face lit with relief and joy. "You, too, think the man to be an impostor, then?"

"I'm sure of it. The druids were very religious people in their own way, and the Devil's trying to destroy religions, not help them."

Friar Gode froze, staring at him in shock.

Matt kept on walking, though slowly. "I'll bet Banalix doesn't even speak Gaelic, and that sickle was only gold plate over very real steel. Besides, real druids didn't use fake fireballs."

The friar hurried to catch up with him, then looked up at the church. "We are come to the House of God.

Will you take supper with me? It is all the thanks I can show."

The thought of food suddenly sounded very good. "Why, yes, thank you. Sir Orizhan, Sergeant Brock?"

The sergeant looked wary, but the knight said easily, "I shall accept your hospitality with thanks. If we are to have another night in a cold field, hot food would be a blessing."

"In a field?" The friar looked up, startled, then glanced at the inn. "Of course—you cannot be sure of your welcome at the hostel now, can you? Well, I have only the one hard bed, but if you wish to spread your blankets on my floor, I would be honored."

Inspiration struck. "Thanks very much, but, uh … would it be too much to ask if I could sleep in the church?"

"In the church? But the floor is stone, as is all the building!" The friar gave Matt a searching glance. "Of course, if you wish it. The House of God is open to all, at all hours."

It made a nice contrast to late-twentieth-century America. "Thanks. I think I'll sleep much better there."

"I'd liefer have a wooden floor, if you will allow it," Sir Orizhan said.

"I, too." Sergeant Brock seemed relieved.

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

"Then let us dine. My housekeeper should have the evening meal ready." The friar's lips quirked in a sardonic smile. "If she still cooks for me, that is."

She still did, and though the meal was Spartan, it was hot and very good—only bread, fish, and ale, with cheese and apples after. When they were done, Matt took the friar aside and said, "If you don't mind, mine host, I know a few simple spells which might be of use to you in the future."

"Spells?" The friar stared. "Are you a wizard, then?"

"Every traveler should know enough to repel bandits and guard against night-walkers," Matt told him.

"Now, here's a defense against fireballs, since we've seen you may need it..."

Friar Gode proved to be a better student than Matt was a teacher, and within the space of an hour could repeat the verses and gestures of four spells perfectly. He could quench fireballs, ward off malice and spite, protect himself against weapons of any kind, and, most importantly of all, cancel the effects of spells cast to harm him.

"I'll feel a little better about you living on your own now," Matt told him.

"You are not a guest, but a blessing!" the friar declared. "You must have my bed—I shall sleep on the floor!"

Matt smiled. "Well, thank you, friar—but I'd still rather sleep in the church. It's dark now, though, so it must be your bedtime. If you don't mind, I'll take a little walk before I sleep."

"Anything that pleases you!" Friar Gode turned to Sir Orizhan and Sergeant Brock. "Please, my friends, do not delay on my account! Spread out your blankets and rest!"

"I thank you." But Sir Orizhan's gaze rested on Matt. "Perhaps you should not walk alone, my l—good sir."

"Oh, I think I'll be fine. You two lie down and sleep while you can. Don't worry about me, I'll be safe as houses."

"Houses of God, at least." Sir Orizhan smiled faintly, but his eyes were still worried.

Matt went out and began his stroll, listening to the night sounds for the hoot of an owl. When he heard it, he took a packet of powder from his belt and sprinkled a sparse, almost invisible stream beside him, chanting,

"Around this church and cottage low

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

The certain knot of peace be bound,

That rest to care and balm to woe

And sleep in safety may be found.

Let holy warders in the dark

Protect this building consecrate

That ministers of grace may mark

A place where crooked paths go straight."

He walked around the church and the hut of a rectory attached to it, sifting powder and chanting rhymes.

He had almost finished the circle when a voice beside him said, "That won't do much good, you know."

Inside his skin, Matt jumped a mile. Fortunately, the outside of his skin stayed right where it was and kept on chanting and moving its feet as he sprinkled powder.

"That charm, I mean," Buckeye said. "There is no spell you can lay that can keep me from you, no warding circle I cannot cross, for you have bound me to you by the naming of magic."

Matt closed the circle and wrapped up the packet of powder, tucking it back inside his pouch.

"You cannot keep me out." The bauchan sounded miffed by Matt's silence. "Not even ignoring me can fend me off, the more so as I know you hear."

Finally Matt turned to him, grinning. "Who said I was laying the warding circle against you?"

"What… ?" Buckeye stared, taken aback. "But—But— what else has beset you?" Then anger gathered.

"Does someone else wreak mischief upon you? Nay, tell me the name of that foul sprite!"

"Not on me," Matt corrected. "I do occasionally take the side of someone else who's being bullied, you know."

"Someone else?" Buckeye stared. "When you yourself are not hurt in any way?" The concept was clearly foreign to him.

"Even when it doesn't affect me at all." Matt frowned, thinking that over. "No, that's not true—I have the Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

naive notion that anything that affects anybody else has some effect on me, too, no matter how small."

"Outrageous!" Buckeye struggled with the concept, and lost. "What a positively outlandish notion!"

"Well, at least you realize it's positive." Matt pointed to the rectory. "There's a good man inside there, a friar, and a fake druid has just popped up to plague him. He threw a fireball at Friar Gode this afternoon, and I'd like to make sure this Banalix can't hurt him again in any way."

"Banalix!" The bauchan's face wrinkled in disgust. "A false druid indeed!"

"Oh?" Matt looked up with interest. "How do you know?"

"Och, I remember the true druids, mortal! Five hundred years ago and more, and they were the salt of the earth, the sap and the fruit and the branch of the forest, and the forest of them! They treated me with the reverence that was my due, as they treated all the spirits! But they are gone, alas, except for the few left in that isle off the western shore—gone, and only you milk-blooded folk in their place, who idolize the plow and try to deny the forest!"

"Well, fanning does provide more food, and thereby keeps more of us alive." Matt spoke bravely, but he shivered inside at the thought of talking to a creature who was five hundred years old. He clung to the one fact that offered some promise. "You've heard of Banalix, then?"

"Of course! Would I let something so obscene as a false druid slip by me? He is bound for the oldest oak in the center of the woods this minute, for he has spread word through the village that all the folk who wish to bring the Old Faith to life again may meet him there!"

Matt just stared at him for a minute—two minutes, four.

Buckeye actually grew nervous. "Wizard? Have I hit upon words that can turn you to stone?"

"No, I'm attuned to a completely different kind of rock," Matt told him. "You know, I was just going out for an evening stroll before bedtime anyway. Which way did you say this old oak was?"

CHAPTER 13

Mama and Papa woke with the sun and were on the road early, but the peasants were already in the fields. The couple left the village, following the track, talking happily with one another, for it was a beautiful morning and they were both feeling at peace with nature.

Just beyond the village, though, the road crossed a small river. There was a ford, the water only two feet deep and the riverbed floored with extra stones to give a firm footing for crossing—but at the moment Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

the women of the village had gathered there to do their laundry. There was a cheerful hubbub of talk as they lathered the fabric with soap and scrubbed it on the rocks.

"Washing day! What a happy chance!" Mama cried.

Papa frowned. "For what?"

"For gossip! Quickly, Ramon, give me the shirt off your back!"

"Always and willingly, my love," Papa sighed. He shrugged out of the shirt, pulled his vest back on, and stepped aside into the trees. "I assume it would be just as well if I were not seen."

"You are so understanding." Mama stretched up to kiss him on the cheek. Then she turned away, singing a little song, and Papa faded back under the leaves, watching.

As she came up to the ford, silence fell, and the women looked up at her.

"Good morning," Mama told them cheerfully. "This is fortunate—I have been wondering how I should wash my husband's shirt when we are traveling every day."

"Travelers?" A young woman looked up with keen interest "Be still, Meg," an older woman snapped, and the girl turned away, reddening. The older woman said to Mama, with a little frown, "You are of Merovence, by your speech."

"Of Merovence, yes," Mama said, kneeling down and taking off her pack. "We have lived there for three years. But we came from much farther away, to the west."

"Ibile?" Meg looked up, eyes wide with excitement.

"Theirs is my native tongue," Mama hedged.

"She has come a long way, Judy," another woman said.

"Very long." Mama wet the cloth and the soap.

"What could have brought you so far?" a fourth woman asked.

"This is not the safest of times," Judy added.

"Indeed not, with the poor queen locked up in her castle!" Mama said indignantly. "But when my husband's father was young, he was a footman at the castle of Petronille's father, the old Prince of the Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

Pykta, and would never forgive Ramon if he did not go to deliver what help he could."

"A noble thought, Alys," Judy said.

"Aye," Alys answered, "but a foolish one, for her husband has come too late to be the queen's soldier."

"Why would he bring you with him on so perilous a journey?" a grandmother asked, frowning.

Mama gave her a dazzling smile. "You do not think I would let him go without me, do you?" She turned back to rub soap into the shirt. "Besides, our son is grown, and I waste away at home."

"You are young to have a grown son!" a fifth woman exclaimed, staring.

Mama gave her a wink. "It is more a matter of washing the skin every day, and staying out of the sunlight whenever you can."

"Only the one son?" The grandmother spoke in tones of pity.

"Only the one child," Mama sighed. "We wished for more, but God gives as He gives, and Heaven knows I am grateful that He gave me my Matthew!"

"Indeed, each child is a blessing." The older woman looked smug. "I have five."

"And your husband still lives, Jane," Alys reminded her.

"We're all blessed in that, especially with another war just rolled past us."

"I have heard it was your queen who brought that war," Mama said, frowning. "I could not believe it."

"As you should not!" Jane exclaimed indignantly. "Was it Queen Petronille who took one lover after another? Was it she who tried to deny her second son his heritage?"

"The Pykta was her birthright," Judy maintained. "By what right did the king give it to his youngest?"

"Aye," Jane agreed. "Any woman would be right in taking any measures she could, to defend her child so!"

"And punish so wayward a husband," Alys said darkly.

Meg only listened, eyes wide.

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

Mama could almost see her revising her ideas about marital love, and interjected quickly, "Did Petronille lend no fuel to the quarrel? I have heard she has a sharp tongue." Had heard that tongue's sharpness herself, in fact, but she didn't say so.

"A queen should have a sharp tongue, if her husband seeks to lord it over her!" the grandmother said stoutly.

"We are poor, defenseless creatures," Judy said, "and must try to make our way through this world in any way we can."

"I cannot agree to so sweeping a statement," Mama said. "I have heard her sons were lacking in chivalry, except for Brion"

The women exchanged glances. The grandmother said, "I have never thought it good to lavish praise on one child, and tell all the others that they should seek to be like the favored one."

"It is true," Alys said. "She did make Brion most obviously her favorite, paying little attention to Gaheris and almost none to John."

"Who can blame her for that," Judy argued, "when the eldest is so odious, and the youngest such a horrid little man?"

"Perhaps they would not have been," said the grandmother, "if she had given them more love."

"It was amazing she gave as much as she did to Brion," Judy countered, "considering that her husband was forever dragging her all about the realm, and off to the Pykta or Deintenir with no warning. It was all she could do to bring one lad with her!"

"The others were safer here at home, in Dunlimon Castle," Alys agreed.

Meg, listening wide-eyed, shivered at the thought. "To be separated from her babes for so long!"

"They had excellent nurses," Judy told her.

"Still, she might have let them take turns accompanying her," the grandmother pointed out. "She is skilled in healing, after all—surely she must have some notion of the hurts given the heart!"

"She is a wise woman, not a witch," Alys said scornfully, "a healer, not a sorceress."

"Could not a woman so skilled heal also her sons' hearts?" the grandmother countered.

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

"There are skills, and there are other skills," Mama said. "Skill with herbs does not mean a woman has the skill to read the hurts that do not show."

"There is some truth to that," the grandmother admitted. "Still, she is supposed to be so very adept, even in elf-lore and spirit-lore, that I should think she would be skilled in the matters of human spirits while they are still within their bodies."

"Or perhaps out of them," Judy said darkly.

The women fell quiet, and the grandmother looked up, frowning. "What rumor have you heard that we have not?"

Judy glanced about, as though to make sure no spirits were listening, then whispered, "I went to the wise woman yesterday, for her potion to ease my monthly pain—and she told me that Prince Brion was not quite dead when the marshal left him under guard on the battlefield. She said that it was Queen Petronille's men who stole him away, and that when the battle was done, she fanned the coal of his life to a flame."

"Surely you do not mean that she was so skilled a healer that she could raise the dead!" Mama exclaimed

—but also in a whisper.

"She said the prince was not quite dead," the grandmother snapped.

"Not fully dead," Judy agreed, "nor could the queen bring him fully to life. She sent his body secretly to the cathedral at Glastonbury, where he sleeps while he waits for a greater sorcerer to waken him."

Half an hour later Mama was walking down the road toward the next town, telling all the gossip to Papa, who seemed somewhat dazed by it. He did manage to say, though, "Thus legends begin."

"And thus they grow," Mama agreed, "as they are passed from person to person."

Papa smiled, amused. "Before long, they will have the sleeping Brion be waiting for love's first kiss to waken him."

"No doubt," Mama agreed, "at least, according to Rumor."

Matt never knew where Buckeye had hidden his peasant's clothing. He only knew that he looked up toward a nightingale's song for half a minute, and when he turned back, the bauchan was wearing his disguise. Matt blinked, but knew better than to ask. Besides, it would probably gall Buckeye no end when he didn't.

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

An owl hooted almost overhead, making Matt jump, but when he looked up, he couldn't see any kind of bird anywhere. He shivered and walked a little faster, a little closer to Buckeye—he wasn't the only spirit abroad in the wood that night.

Then it occurred to Matt that the deeper they went, the nearer to primeval forest they came—the forest that had been there a thousand years, oaks that had harbored mistletoe for the original druids. He shivered again and stepped up right behind the bauchan, wishing for a little light. It occurred to him that if Buckeye really had a nasty sense of humor, the bauchan could just disappear and leave him stranded in the midnight forest.

Fortunately, the bauchan seemed to be planning on a more elaborate joke than that. He led Matt silently onward until suddenly the wood opened onto a broad clearing with a ghost floating at one end, surrounded by fairy lights. Ancestral superstitious fears yammered in Matt for a second before twentieth-century skepticism came to his rescue and made him look more closely. The fairy lights were of course only fireflies, and the "ghost" was a synthodruid in a white robe made luminous by moonlight, standing atop some sort of pedestal or platform, as dark as the huge old oak behind it. Matt stared—that certainly was a grandfather of a tree, at least five feet thick, its branches covering the whole far end of the clearing.

He scanned the rest of the open space, noticing there were fireflies all through it—then saw what else was there, with a nasty shock. Faces, scores of faces. Moonlight-scatter showed him their clothing, a darker mass beneath their faces. There was at least a quarter of the village there.

"A comforting sight, is it not?" Buckeye asked, grinning.

"For whom?" Matt demanded. "Belenos?"

"Is that what they would call the human who has organized and begun this travesty of the Old Faith?"

"I don't know." Matt turned to him with a frown. "What would you call him?"

" 'Your Majesty,' perhaps?" the bauchan suggested.

Matt stared, then said, "I very much doubt it."

But it did make sense, when he thought about it. The Church always had been the biggest single obstacle between the Crown and absolute tyranny—a counterpower that served as a restraint upon the despotism of a monarch. How more easily to remove that obstacle than to replace it with a religion of your own, securely under your control?

Of course, that was assuming that after the synthodruids became established, they wouldn't try to assert their power themselves, to counteract the king's—maybe even to try to control him. On second thought, Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

it seemed like a long shot.

The druid raised his hands and called out, "People of Belenos! For so you are; your forefathers were, and you are of them, so you must be of Belenos, too."

The people murmured to one another in surprise, then apparently decided they were indeed people of Belenos, and turned back to the druid with a bit less wariness.

"People of Belenos! It has been long since anyone from this village worshiped as you should! Therefore I shall lead you in prayers to the Old Gods, and you who do not understand the rituals may watch without the need to pray."

"Good way for him and them to pretend they belong here, when they're really just feeling it out," Matt muttered to the bauchan. There was no answer, and Matt glanced over at him, surprised to discover that Buckeye had disappeared. He couldn't suppress a shiver of apprehension, and wondered what kind of mischief the bauchan was preparing.

"Do you know this song?" the druid asked, and sang for them,

"Summer is a-coming in,

Loud sing, cuckoo!

Groweth seed, and bloweth mead,

And springs the wood anew."

The people stared, then nodded, and a few began to sing with the druid.

"I see that you know it!" Banalix cried. "Sing it with me, then!"

The people joined in for the second verse and a chorus.

"That is a song of the Old Gods!" the druid cried, and the people exclaimed to one another in wonder.

Matt wondered, too—at the man's audacity. "Lhude Sing Cucu" had been a hit song only a hundred years before, and the druids had known it about as well as they had known Gothic cathedrals.

Banalix let them talk a few minutes, then cried out, "Aye, of the Old Gods, a song for May Day, a sacred festival! But since it mentions none of the Old Gods by name, your Christian priests let you keep it! Sing it all, now!"

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

He led them in a rousing rendition of the song, and Matt had to admire his musical abilities, or those of whoever had arranged this particular version—it had a driving beat he would never have expected.

When they finished, the "druid" cried, "Belenos!"

The people fell silent.

"Come, come," Banalix urged, "if you do not believe in them, you are only making noise! Shout their names with me! Belenos!"

"Belenos," some of the people muttered.

"You can call more loudly than that!" Banalix urged. "Belenos!"

"Belenos!" the people answered.

"I cannot hear you!" Banalix cried. "Louder, now, louder! BELENOS!"

"BELENOS!" the people thundered.

"Good, good! Now see if you can call as loudly for the rest! TOUTATIS!"

"TOUTATIS!" the people cried.

Banalix pulled a flask out of his robes. "Behold the holy elixir, the mead of the gods! Drink of this brew, that it may elevate your spirits!" He tossed the wooden bottle down to the front row. A man caught it, unstoppered it, sniffed suspiciously, took a sip, then took a longer sip. His neighbor took it from his hand and drank even more.

"Another for you, and for you!" Banalix pulled bottle after bottle out of his robes, tossing them down to the people. "Pass them from hand to hand and quaff as you chant the names of the gods! LUGH!"

"LUGH!" the people shouted.

"MORRIGAN!" Banalix caroled.

"MORRIGAN!"

He led the people in roaring out the names of the gods as they drank from the bottles of holy elixir.

Curious, Matt stepped in among them and noticed that Banalix kept tossing down bottle after bottle from Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

an apparently unlimited supply—though he was taking them from a pile in the shadows now, not from his robe. Someone passed him a bottle, and Matt sniffed warily, then took a sip and let it roll across his tongue as he passed the bottle on. It was sweet, very sweet—Banalix hadn't been kidding when he called it mead. It did seem to be made of fermented honey, but the aftertaste flared along Mart's esophagus and lit a glow in his stomach. The drink may have been honey wine at some point, but it had been boiled and condensed into something much stronger, a sort of honey brandy. Matt wondered who had invented distilling here, and had a notion it hadn't been the real druids.

Banalix had worked the crowd up to a regular chant now, reciting the names of the Druid gods, not shouting, but calling only a little louder than their normal speaking voices, with a hard driving rhythm, and Matt realized what Banalix had done. The ceremony thus far had been carefully designed to make the people stop thinking as individuals and start thinking as a mob. They'd be much less likely to worry about right and wrong now.

"The gods have given you their blood!" Banalix called. "They have given it to you in the bottles you have held, and it has been sweet. See, now! I give of my blood to the gods!" He produced a twisted dagger, carved to look like a snake, and pricked his finger, then squeezed and let the blood drip down to the grass of the meadow.

A murmur of wonder ran through the crowd.

"Those of you who wish to give in return for what you have gained, do likewise!" Banalix called. "Step forward, those of you who have the courage to give of your blood to the gods, so that all may see and honor you!"

That was obviously too much. No one would go that far so soon, Matt was sure—until he remembered the liquor. Even so, he stared in disbelief as half a dozen men stepped forward right away and pricked their fingers, then let blood drip onto the grass.

"Behold the holy libation!" Banalix cried. "Who else wishes to do as they have done?"

A dozen more men stepped forward, and even three wild-eyed girls, old enough to be caught up in the communal mania, young enough not to know better. Knives pricked in the moonlight; drops of blood welled to the grass.

"Honor what they have done!" Banalix beckoned, palms upright. "Hail, O Grateful Ones! Hail, they who give for us all! Hail! Hail!"

"HAIL!" the crowd roared. "HAIL!"

Matt had always known some people would do anything for attention, and Banalix made sure they received it. A score more of people stepped forward, drawing their knives, but Banalix was moving on.

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

"Now dance," he cried, "for dancing pleases the Old Gods! It is part of the worship they desire! Dance like this!" He held his arms curving up, snapping his fingers as he moved left foot across right, then right behind left in a chain. He stepped back and reversed the chain, men stepped forward, completing a rectangle. "It is simple, but it honors the gods!"

The ceremony, Matt realized, had been made up out of whole cloth, and the pattern-maker had designed it like a television commercial, showing all the good things about the "old religion" and none of the unpleasant ones they might find distasteful. Well, not none—there was that bloodletting, but it was minor, and no one had really seemed to mind. In fact, they had started competing for the honor and the praise of their fellows. But step by step he was leading them away from reason and independent thought, and into a group-mind, group-body state. How far would he lead them tonight? He had brought them from group chanting to individual bloodletting, but now was leading them on into group movement, the dance inducing everybody to move as one.

Banalix jumped down off his platform—only a very wide stump, Matt realized—and strode out into the midst of the crowd. "Form a circle about me! Aye, for the circle is the sign of the whole and of emptiness, of totality and annihilation, of all and of nothing!"

Murmuring in wonder and confusion, the people lined up in an oval, filling the clearing.

"Music!" Banalix cried.

A piper stepped from the crowd with a small set of bagpipes—dance pipes, not the great drones of war—

and began to play.

"Fancy just happening to have a piper at hand," Matt muttered, then remembered that the bauchan had disappeared, and foreboding struck. After all, who else knew he was here, let alone where he was? Matt began to move around the clearing as silently as he could, but didn't for a minute think he was fooling Buckeye.

"Dance, then!" the druid told the people. "Dance to honor Toutatis!"

They stared, amazed at the notion of dance as worship— but this jury-rigged ceremony was so alien from anything they knew as religion that they began to move their feet as he had shown them, in time to the slow urging of the pipes.

"Move around the circle as you dance!" the druid cried, and indicated the direction of turning with a finger. "From west to east, so that you may move time back to the days when the Old Gods held sway!"

The people swayed indeed, and the whole circle began to rotate slowly, opposite to the sun's path—but Matt knew that direction as widdershins, and its associations with evil magic. The bottles passed from hand to hand, too, also widdershins, faster than the people danced. The piper began to play faster and Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

faster, and the circle accelerated with the music. The druid danced with them, smiling and nodding.

Then he gestured to the piper, and the tune ended. The circle stopped, the people murmuring, confused.

The druid held up his hands. "O People of Toutatis! Let not your cares mask the joy of life that rises within you! Sing and dance, caress and kiss! Know that life should be pleasure, and pleasure lively!"

Murmurs of incredulity ran through the people, and beneath it, concern.

"I know, I know, you are troubled by the thought that children might be born of your pleasure, and bring shame upon you!" the druid cried. "But for the Old Gods there can be no shame in a child coming into the world, for the more people there are, the more worshipers they have! Dance, drink, laugh, and love, for this pleases Toutatis, pleases Belenos, pleases all the gods of the Gaels!"

The people exclaimed in wonder, and the druid gestured to the piper, who began to play again. The people joined hands and began to dance again, faster and faster and wilder and wilder. Men gave women lascivious glances, and the women blushed and lowered their gazes, then looked up, their eyes huge.

Women batted their eyelashes at men, glancing at them sidelong with inviting smiles, and the men grinned and moved closer in the dance. The circle broke up into smaller circles, with here and there a couple dancing alone. More and more couples stepped aside to dance, their movements becoming more and more erotic, while here and there a pair slipped away among the leaves.

Matt realized that this was one cult that was sure to catch on. Give people what they wanted—a sense of belonging mixed with booze and free sex, plus an excuse not to feel guilty about any of it—and they would join in droves. How the women would feel about it nine months later was another matter.

Besides, Matt had a suspicion that where the letting of human blood was involved, no matter how voluntary, sooner or later human sacrifice would follow, and the victims wouldn't be all that willing.

He couldn't let things go that far. Stepping away into the bushes, he stripped off his doublet. Then he yanked down a vine from the nearest oak, hoping it wasn't poison ivy— and saw with delight that it was mistletoe! He twisted one end into a crown, set it on his head, wrapped it to frame his face, then looped the rest of the vine around his arms and torso. A good beginning, he decided, but not impressive enough.

He looked about him, found a firefly, and tracked it with cupped hands until he clapped them shut around it. Then, peering through the aperture between his thumbs, he chanted, "Little fly of fairy light, Lend your glow to me this night! Tinge me with your photon essence! Make me shine with phosphoresence!"

His hands began to glow, and as he watched, the shining spread up his arms and all over his body.

Somewhat shaken, he let his diminutive captive go with a muttered word of thanks, then turned to confront Banalix on his own territory.

Exactly on his own territory, as it turned out—his edging around the clearing had brought Matt up behind the grandfather oak. Using it to shield him from the dancing, chanting crowd, he sprinted first to Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

its huge trunk, then edged around and dashed to the broad old stump that Banalix had used for a speaker's platform. Matt climbed up on it, then slowly raised his arms, chanting to himself,

"Now by chambers of reverberation,

Make my voice a huge sensation.

Amplify each word and phrase

With echoes often short delays!"

Then he raised his voice and cried, "Now I call HALT!" His words reverberated through the clearing, loud as a thunderclap, and the people stopped and stared in sudden fear. Even the piper stopped his droning, and Banalix looked up and froze, wide-eyed.

"People of Morrigan and Lugh, give heed!" Matt called. "I, who love the trees and dwell in and by them, tell you to cease this blasphemy! You desecrate the spirit of the forest!"

A low moan began among the crowd. It jolted Banalix out of his stupor. His face contorted in anger.

"Desecrate! It is you who desecrate our ceremony! Who are you who dares interfere!"

Matt's brain shifted into high gear, searching for a name and finding one. "I am he who stands for Oak, Ash, and Thorn! I am he who knows the heart of the woodlands! I am he who knows how the true druids worshiped—and knows what a mockery you have made of their services!"

"Liar!" Banalix screamed. He didn't use dramatic gestures this time, only pulled the naphtha ball from his sleeve, yanked the lid off the coal-box, and lit it as he shouted, "No one living can remember the ceremonies of the Old Ones! Deceiver you may be, but you cannot lie your way out of this! The ball burst into flame. Banalix hurled it, and he had a good arm—but Matt was already reciting,

"If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,

I can again thy former light restore.

Yet why should I your fire rekindle?

Be dark and cold forever more!"

The fireball shrank in on itself as it cooled, men flickered and went out. No one else could see the dark little ball that bounced off Mart's chest. A murmur of awe passed through the crowd.

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

"Charlatan!" Banalix bellowed. "Taste true magic now!" He gestured, reciting something that sounded like Gaelic, and Matt realized, with a chill, that he was pantomiming the tying of a noose. Matt remembered that one of the druids' forms of human sacrifice had been hanging, then throwing the body into a peat bog. Quickly, he chanted,

"Naked to the hangman's knot

A neck's set for abuse.

But vertebrae should stack intact.

Be good! Rope, be no noose!"

Something seemed to brush bis neck, tried to tighten, then was gone.

Banalix stared, fear shadowing his eyes.

"Cease your cowardly attacks!" Matt boomed. "They avail you naught!"

Banalix's eyes narrowed. He blustered to hide his fear. "Coward yourself, coward and trickster! By what magic you opposed my spells I know not, but taste this assault!"

His lips poured out a torrent of words as he pantomimed tossing, stiff-fingered, left hand, right hand, left hand, on and on.

Matt didn't know what he thought he was throwing, but he did think it was a good idea to turn aside anything he couldn't see.

"Deflect! Avaunt!

Come nowhere near!

My unseen shield, hold sure!

Whatever's thrown shall thus be seared

By wards both tough and dur!"

He didn't even feel the impacts. All anyone saw was a sudden burst of lights in front of Matt as unseen missiles flared against his shield and burned out.

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

The crowd murmured in fear and pressed away from Banalix. The false druid stood panting, staring at Matt, suddenly haggard.

Matt knew his chance when he saw it. "People of the Church! You have seen this impostor for what he is, a feeble and powerless trickster! Avoid his snares, avoid his web of deceit, for you know the source of lies and traps! Go now, go quickly, and never hearken to this man or any like him again!"

That galvanized Banalix into action as he saw all his gains slipping away from him. "Deceiver yourself!"

he screamed. "You claim to be of the forest? Then let it judge you!" He chanted in the foreign language again, pointing up at the ancient oak, and a branch the size of a grown tree groaned downward to swat at Matt.

CHAPTER 14

With a horrendous cracking, the branch began to split from the trunk. It wasn't just going to swat at Matt, it was going to fall on him! Quickly, he chanted,

"Oh, will this limb rejoice, or break?

Decide this doubt for me!

Close up the wound without an ache,

And heal this fractured tree!"

The fall of the branch slowed, then stopped, one huge burl only inches from Matt's head. Then, incredibly, it started to rise again, the base cleaving to the trunk, shaking, trembling, then stilling, and the branch stretched out whole again. Matt told himself he must have been imagining the huge sigh of relief that seemed to surround him.

The crowd burst into cries of awe!—and fear. Those closest to Banalix tried to crowd farther away.

The false druid pointed at a dead tree behind Matt and screamed a verse. A groan began, softer, then louder and louder, as the tree leaned to fall on Matt.

"I leaned my back unto an aik,

I thought it was a trustie tree,

But first it bowed, and now it creaks,

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

To crush the one who made it break!"

He hoped Cowper's ghost wasn't listening.

The trunk seemed to roll, changing the direction of its fall. Banalix stared in horror, then turned to run crosswise, out of the path of the tumbling skeletal branches—but the tree swung about, following him, tracking him, as it fell faster and faster, then slammed down on top of him. Banalix screamed in pure terror, then screamed again and again, for the tree had enough branches left so that it hadn't crushed him, only formed a prison around him. He grabbed the dry old sticks and shook them, trying to break them, but they must not have been quite as dead as they seemed, for they held him penned in.

"Go now, quickly!" Matt boomed. "Go back to your cottages, back to your beds, and never follow such a deceiver again!"

The crowd broke and ran, howling with fright. Their voices faded away, and the clearing was still, except for the sobbing coming from the hollow tree.

Matt stood still, absorbing the whole of the night, letting the adrenaline ebb. When he trusted himself to be gentle, he whispered,

"The game is won, the quarry's fled,

The night regains its peace.

Let effects from my voice all be bled,

And sound processing cease!"

"Can you hear me, Banalix?" he said softly, but the spell seemed to have worked—he could scarcely hear himself, and the druid kept whimpering with no sign of having heard him. Matt jumped down from the stump and went slowly toward the dead tree, where he knelt down and gazed in at the prisoner.

The man stared at him for a frozen moment, then recoiled, hands up to defend, crying, "Who are you?"

"A wizard," Matt told him, "one who's on the side of the Church at the moment—and who knows what you're trying to do."

The man stared, then whispered, "For the Church? You are a godly wizard, and you defeated the powers of the Old Gods so easily?"

"Sure," Matt said. "They don't really exist, you know. The only power you had was some minor spells Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

your boss taught you—and their impact comes from the music of the old language, not the strength of the old gods."

Banalix began to tremble. "But he told me the Old Gods live!"

"He lied," Matt said simply. "He's out to gain power, and he saw that he could do it by reviving his own version of the old religion. He even put together a mixture of excuses for people to do all the things they enjoy, but that have bad effects later on—guaranteed to win him converts, and by the time they realize all their partying has brought trouble, your boss figured he'd have them so securely under his thumb that they couldn't get away if they wanted to."

He almost felt sorry for Banalix as he watched the expressions that chased each other across his face as his wonderful new world collapsed around him. Finally he groaned, "I am lost!"

"You can find a way to rebuild," Matt told him. "For openers, tell me what I want to know, and I'll release you."

"Tell you… ?" A crafty look came into the druid's eyes.

"Don't think you have anything to trade," Matt said quickly. "I have plenty of other ways of finding out, and I won't at all mind leaving you here to starve."

The last part was a complete lie, of course, but Banalix didn't know that. He stared at Matt in horror for a minute, then quavered, "The Chief Druid! Surely you know that!"

"Yes, I guessed that much," Matt agreed. "Tell me his name."

"I dare not! He will discover it, he will smite me down!"

"You can't really believe that." Matt's smile held a little contempt "You know that most of the 'magic' he taught you was only trickery, don't you? And the few genuine spells are pretty feeble. I doubt very highly that he'll know if you tell me his name."

Banalix stared at him a moment, then whispered "Niobhyte" very softly.

The name meant nothing to Matt, but he couldn't let Banalix know that. "Very good. Now, tell me—

what's your real name?"

The man flushed and looked away. "Jord," he said.

"Jord." It was a peasant's name. "And what did you do for a living before Niobhyte conned you away?"

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

"I was a serf on the estates of Lord Manerring," Jord said reluctantly.

Matt nodded. "Well, then, I would recommend you go back to your home village and stay there, at least until this is all over."

"I dare not!" Jord seized two branches and shook them, trying to break out. "Niobhyte will slay me if he learns I have failed and gone meekly home!" He shuddered. "And I will roast forever in Hell, for I have blasphemed and lured people away from God!"

Matt stared at the man a moment, then asked, "You mean you didn't believe a word of what you were telling those people?"

"I believed it," Jord told him, "but now that I have seen the power of the Old Gods so easily defeated, I can believe no longer!"

"So you fall back on the religion in which you were raised." Matt nodded. "Well, then, repent and confess your sins, and you should be safe from Niobhyte's power."

"But he is a sorcerer! A real sorcerer! Repentence will not save me!"

"It will save your soul, at least." Matt was beginning to have misgivings about having busted up Banalix's act—but could he really have let the man suck other people into the kind of tyranny he himself seemed to fear? "It might save your body, too, if you stay in the sanctuary of a church until this is all over."

Jord stared at him for a moment, then said, "Might."

"There are no guarantees in this life, I'm afraid," Matt told him, "especially when the country is in such upheaval. But I know a church that should be safer man most for the duration, and maybe when it's over, Niobhyte will have lost. If he has, he won't be in a position to hurt anybody."

Jord studied his face, realizing what he meant—what the options were for where Niobhyte would be.

Finally he said, "I'll thank you, then, and hope. Take me to this church, and a priest."

"Okay, then." Matt grabbed a stout branch and stood up, heaving with all his strength. The trunk rolled, and Jord scuttled free.

He stared up at Matt, face pale in the moonlight. "You are as strong as a knight!"

"That's because I am a knight." Matt slapped him on the shoulder, turning him toward the village.

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

"A knight and a wizard? I've never heard of such a thing! Except for …" Jord's voice trailed off as his eyes widened and he realized to whom he was talking.

"Keep it to yourself," Matt told him severely. "We've got half a mile to cover, and I'd rather not attract any more attention than necessary."

A wind blew up out of nowhere, moaning in the treetops.

"Too late," Jord groaned. "Some spirit has heard me, or heard the name of… the Chief Druid. He is gathering his companions to punish me."

"You're reading an awful lot into a breeze," Matt snapped. "Come on, let's get going. Maybe we can beat the storm."

But it seemed to follow them, the wind moaning more and more loudly, though they didn't feel it at all.

Tree branches began to whip about them, slapping at them from ahead in front, swinging at them from behind.

"No wind makes them move that way," Jord cried. "The spirits are coming for me!"

"Then let's give them a run for their money! Come on!"

But the moon darkened, and Matt began to feel as though someone was watching him—someone, or something. He hurried Jord along the trail, glancing up to see if he could catch a glimpse of the sky between whipping boughs. It was clear as a bell, stars bright in their scatter—but where the moon should have been was only darkness. Matt didn't know how Niobhyte had done it, but he was beginning to hope he wouldn't meet the man—if he was a man. Even more if he wasn't. They hurried down the trail. Matt caught sight of things moving at the edges of his vision—huge dark forms, shadows within shadows, not clear enough to recognize. He thought he could make out roughly human shapes—head, arms, and legs—

but wasn't sure; whenever he tried to look directly at one of them, he saw only darkness and brush. He muttered,

"From ghosties and ghoulies

And long-legged beasties

And things that go bump in the night,

Dear Lord, preserve us!"

Then the laughter began.

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

Low and ominous, it sounded behind them, and Jord started to run. Matt caught him, snapping, "No!

Show fear and you put yourself in its power! Walk fast, but walk!"

They strode on through the darkness, setting a record for cross-country hiking, with the laughter building to the sides, then in front of them, finally echoing all about. Other voices joined in, laughing maniacally, gloatingly, insanely, giggling, gibbering, and the almost-seen shapes pressed closer, but seemed unable to touch them. Jord began to whimper, and Matt felt like joining him.

Then, suddenly, they were out of the trees with cottages before them. "Hurry!" Matt snapped, and they rushed down an alley between houses with the laughter slapping off the walls and the unfelt wind howling overhead.

"Can not the people hear?" Jord cried.

"I doubt it," Matt called back. "Besides, if you were safe inside a house and heard something like this, would you look out?"

"I am afraid to look out already," Jord whimpered.

Then they were out of the cottages and crossing the village green. Jord looked up, saw the church, and dug his feet in. "You're taking me to the priest I burned this afternoon!"

"He's human," Matt admitted, "but he's a priest, and he believes in forgiveness. Besides, I healed his burns. Move! Or do you want to stay here and wait for whatever's around us to close in?"

With a wail, Jord gave in and let Mart's arm pull him over the green and toward the waiting chapel. Matt still wouldn't break into a run, but he felt a presence following him, something bigger, something more powerful, something much worse than the half-seen night-walkers that shadowed them to either side. He muttered prayers under his breath, wondering if Banalix's mockery of a ceremony, and his own interruption, had wakened some form of elemental with which Niobhyte had nothing to do. They strode toward the church.

Mama and Papa came to the next town about noon—and a town it was, no mere village; they could see down the main street to shop after shop with the emblems of trade hung over their doors—a half-dried bush for the tavern, three gilded balls for the goldsmith's, a red-and-white-striped pole for the barber/

surgeon, and so on. The church's steeple towered twice as high as that of any village chapel they had seen, and there were four two-storied buildings with their lower halves built of stone. As they neared the first hut a voice behind them shouted, "Make way! Make way for the Baron Fontal!"

They scurried to the side of the road just in time, for the baron and his score of men-at-arms weren't about to wait for anyone—they came galloping by, past Mama and Papa and into town.

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

Mama looked up indignantly as the last went by. "I know we are disguised as commoners, but the aristocracy could still have more respect for their people than that!"

"There is more to their hurry than arrogance." Papa clasped her hand, frowning. "Let us go quickly into this town, Jimena. I fear mischief."

Mama looked up at him in surprise. "I thought I was the intuitive in this pairing."

"You are, you are," Papa agreed, hurrying her down the road. "You have amazing intuition, my dear. I only have hunches. Come, let us hurry."

At least that explained their intuitive son. Mama sighed and did her best to match Papa's pace.

By the time they arrived at the town square, two of the men-at-arms were dragging a tradesman out of his shop while a crowd of his neighbors gathered—but at a wary distance. The poor man bawled for help, and as Mama and Papa came up, another merchant told a small boy, "Fetch the priest, and quickly!"

The boy took to his heels as though his own life depended on it.

The men-at-arms slammed the tradesman up against the wall of his shop and held him pinned there while three others gathered around, looking menacing. Here and there in the crowd, a man tightened his hold on a staff or a flail, but a glance at the glowering men-at-arms still on horseback was enough to make him loosen his hold again.

"Now, Master Gilder," the baron said, "how is this? My steward tells me you refused his request for a loan of fifty pounds of gold, though it was given in my name!"

"Gold?" Papa turned to Mama with a frown. "He must be a goldsmith."

Mama nodded. "Who else would have such a sum?"

"But—But Your Lordship, I have given you such loans three times before!" the goldsmith protested.

"Nonetheless, I require it again," the baron said, his tone iron. "Do you dare tell me you fear I will not repay you?"

"I—I—" Gilder glanced at the halberd aimed at his middle and swallowed thickly. "What I fear, my lord, is the loss of my trade! I have only forty-three pounds of gold left, and if I give you that, I shall have nothing left with which to craft the ware I sell to make my living!"

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

"Then you shall have to do your smithing in silver," the baron grated. "I require the rest of your gold!"

"One side! One side!"

Everyone looked up, to see the village priest come panting up. He was a middle-aged man, a little portly, and his tonsure may have owed more to baldness than to a razor, but he looked to be as stalwart as any of the men-at-arms. His robe was charcoal-gray, but aside from that, he looked very much like any friar.

"How now, my lord!" he cried. "Do you seek to rob this poor man again?"

"Do not seek to catechize me, peasant!" the baron snarled. "I know far more of the world than any shave-pate."

The priest halted dead, staring, appalled by such disrespect. The crowd murmured, half in shock, half in anger. Then the priest's face darkened. "A peasant I may be, my lord, but I have learned to read and write, and know the law of God! I must insist that you leave off this theft!"

"Theft?" The baron turned his horse to the priest, a dangerous glint in his eye. "Do you call me a common thief?"

"Not common at all," the priest protested, "but still a thief, for you have had three loans from this goldsmith, and when have you ever repaid him an ounce?"

"He shall have his due in good time! I promise to repay, and therefore is it a loan, and no theft!"

"If it were not theft," the priest returned, "you would not need to do it at the point of a halberd. It is a direct breaking of the Seventh Commandment, my lord, and therefore a mortal sin! Worse, you threaten the poor man with harm to his body, and that breaks the Fifth Commandment! For the welfare of your immortal soul, I bid you leave off!"

"I am no Christian anymore, priest, and therefore do not fear your Christian Hell," the baron snarled.

The people burst into a babble of scandalized confusion. Mama and Papa stared at one another in shock, then turned back to the baron.

"No longer a Christian?" The priest seemed as shaken as any of them. "Surely you do not deny the existence of God!"

"Of the gods, say rather," the baron snapped, "for I have returned to the faith of my ancestors. My holy men now are druids, who tended the souls of this island before your kind came, and who will tend them again. And the Old Gods do not pretend that there is anything wrong with the strength of a man's arm or Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

the edge of his sword! They bestow power and glory upon the warrior, and give him dominion over his fellows."

The priest recovered enough to glare. "Do you say that might makes right? If so, you are very wrong, and your immortal soul—"

"My immortal soul shall rule yours in the Land of the Dead!" the baron shouted. "Men of mine, I weary of this priest. Shut his mouth for me, and be sure he shall not speak again till I am done!"

Papa started forward, but Mama caught his arm and shook her head, then nodded toward the goldsmith's shop. Papa, understanding, nodded, and they faded back among the cottages, then moved behind them.

One of the men-at-arms advanced on the priest. The people, seeing his intention, closed ranks with a roar, barring the way between soldier and priest with their own staves and cudgels. The warrior hesitated, but only long enough for four of his fellows to join him. Then they plowed into the crowd, shouting battle-cries, and knocked peasants away to left and right. The priest stood his ground, glaring at them and holding up the crucifix on the end of his rosary—but a pike butt cracked his knuckles and made him drop it, and a second slammed against his skull, knocking him out.

"Now fetch out your gold!" the baron thundered at the goldsmith.

"Yes, my lord!" the man cried, almost tearfully. He glanced at his fallen priest with a piteous expression, then turned back into his shop. Two men-at-arms followed him closely.

In they came, and the goldsmith stopped short, staring. So, perforce, did the soldiers, seeing as he did the strongbox with the hasp and lock wrenched askew, turned on its side with its top thrown open, its emptiness for all to see.

Then the goldsmith ran to the chest with a piercing cry, dropping to his knees and running a hand around its inside. "It's gone! My gold is gone! While your lord howled and berated a priest, a thief came in and stole my gold!"

Mama and Papa found a woodlot a quarter of a mile past the town and hid in a thicket. They were just in time; ten minutes later the lord and his men came thundering by. When they were gone, Mama said,

"We can bring the gold back when it has been dark for an hour."

"Yes, and check on the priest, too," Papa said. "I saw through the window how the soldier swung that pike. I don't think he gave the reverend a concussion, but you never can tell."

Matt and Jord were halfway across the green when the presence struck in the form of a sudden baying and tattoo of soft feet. Half a dozen huge dark forms swept past them and slowed to a halt in front of them, gray fur luminous in the starlight against the darkness of the night, teeth flashing a startling white Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

in long muzzles.

"Wolves!" Jord raised his druid's staff, but the baying was behind them, in front of them, all around them.

"Back-to-back!" Matt snapped, drawing his sword. The wolves drew back at the sight of cold steel, giving Matt time to pivot and set his back against Jord's. At this slight sign of retreat, the wolves snarled and leaped.

Matt slashed, and dark blood spurted. Behind him, he heard Jord howling with fear, but also heard the staff knocking against skulls. He hewed and slashed and chopped. Wolves fell back, wounded, and their fellows turned on them with a massed barking snarl, but more pressed in. He slashed and hewed, but his arm began to feel heavy, tiring. He howled as teeth closed on his lower leg. He slashed, and the teeth sprang away, but more teeth soared at his face, and he barely managed to swing his sword around in time. The wolf fell back, but another sprang and bit his left arm. He screamed and lashed a kick into its stomach.

The massed snarl sounded behind him; he knew Jord had lamed one of the wolves, and the others were turning on it. It might give the false druid a moment to snatch a breath, but it was just a question of time

—there were so many of the blasted animals! How could the whole forest have held so huge a pack?

Then something dark shot through the wolves, blurring with speed, and some fell. Their mates turned on them, snarling and fighting over them, but the shadow whizzed among them again, and more fell dead.

The rest, finally scenting whatever it was, turned tail and ran howling with fear.

Matt let the tip of his sword fall, panting, unable to believe his luck. "They're running, Jord! We're safe!"

His answer was a raging scream. Matt spun again, sword snapping up, and saw the former druid facing him, staff swinging high to strike, his face contorted with fury, almost demonic.

Demonic! In a flash Matt understood the tactic. If Jord slew him, that ended the threat to the Chief Druid. If he slew Jord, the Devil had one more unshriven soul in Hell. Niobhyte or Satan, the goals coincided—to keep Matt and Jord away from that church. Somehow he knew it wasn't Jord himself who was in control of that body now.

He leaped back, sheathing his sword, and the staff whizzed by. Matt had to take it away, had to subdue Jord, but Jord was swinging the staff in a blurring circle now and howling.

Matt took a chance, lunging in a feint. The staff whizzed down, and Matt darted back, not quite quickly enough—the staff cracked against his shin, the same leg that was bleeding from wolfbite. The leg gave way, and Jord screamed with triumph, swinging the staff high for a killing blow. His arms, his whole body, jerked forward—and jolted still. Behind him towered another dark form, holding the end of the Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

staff. Not seeing it, Jord strained against it, cursing. Matt snapped out of his daze and shouted,

"The log was burning brightly—

'Twas a night that should banish all sin,

And all evil spirits who with it

Try to block goodness from men.

"What! Would the spirit possessing

Wrestle with power obsessing?

Allies unseen all around us

Shall strike with a strength to astound us!"

Suddenly the evil presence was receding; Matt could feel it speeding away. Jord's eyes rolled up; he went limp and fell, crumpled at the feet of the dark form, which instantly shot away, blurring with speed.

Matt stared after it, not understanding his sudden rescue. Apparently the dark form had nothing to do with the evil presence—of course not, if it had been trying to restrain Jord and had scattered the wolves.

But the presence was still there, distant, gathering strength again. Matt recited a quick healing verse:

"Mad dogs and Englishmen

Go out in the midday sun,

But not a North American

Whose task is still undone.

Mad wolves and hydrophobes

Go 'bout in the dark midnight,

So also does their wizard foe,

Healed of all their bites."

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

He could feel strength returning to his leg. Stooping, he managed to wrestle Jord's torso over his shoulder, then ducked his head under the man's midriff, gathered a wrist and a leg together, and heaved himself up, Jord over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. Turning, he saw a flame in the night, then realized it was on the steps of the church. He lurched toward it, carrying Jord and wondering who or what the dark blurring had been that had helped him.

As he went he heard noises gathering around him, the padding of huge feet stalking, approaching. He was about to run when barking and roaring broke out, the snapping and cracking of brush, the impact of a heavy body. He stumbled into a run, hearing huge claws tearing up the village green, coming closer and closer—but they ended in a scream of rage and the sound of blows, then the impact of something else huge.

Matt didn't stop to look, just lurched toward the church, blessing his unseen protector.

Suddenly, the feeling of the unseen presence was gone; suddenly he knew he was completely safe, and knew he had crossed the line of the warding circle he had laid himself, hours earlier. He lumbered up the steps of the church, panting and staring in amazement. "Friar Gode! How did you know we needed you?"

"There was a deal of noise following you," the friar answered. "I could not see who fought whom, but I prayed for those who love God to win."

"You may have helped more than you knew." Matt rolled Jord off his shoulders and laid him out on the stone step. "I'm about to put you to the test of your convictions, though, friar. Here's a man who needs your mercy."

Gode dropped to one knee, frowning down, then stared. "It is the false druid!"

"Yes, but he's seen the error of his ways," Matt said, "rather forcibly, too. He wants to repent—at least, he did before—" He swallowed, remembering the demonic face behind the swinging staff."—before this happened."

The friar's face turned stern, but he said, "If he wishes to repent, he shall have his chance." He patted Jord's cheek gently. "Waken, brother! The night is long, but the day always comes! Waken, and tell me how your soul fares."

Matt looked up in surprise, and saw that the sky was indeed lightening. He wondered just how long he and Jord had been fleeing through that nighttime forest Eyelids fluttered; Jord peered upward, frowning against the pain in his head. Then he saw who bent over him, and stared in fear and horror.

CHAPTER 15

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

Jord shrank into a ball, hands up to protect his face. "Spare me! Forgo your revenge!"

"Why, so I shall," Friar Gode said. "Do you come to attack the church of God, or to pray?"

Jord peered over his hands, saw the gentle, grave expression on the friar's face, and lowered his guard. "I come to pray."

Something howled out there on the village green. Something else answered it, yammering in anger.

Jord cringed. "I come to pray! I come to repent! Save me, friar! Save me from the sharp white teeth in the night!"

Heavy panting sounded, coming closer, spreading wide on all three sides.

Jord seized the friar's robe and pulled himself up, crying, "Save me! A fury filled my soul only minutes ago, thirsting for blood, shooting agony through every part of me! My soul gibbers at the thought of being so possessed again! Save me from that horror, friar!"

"Why, so I shall." Gently, Gode pried Jord's hands loose and slipped a roll of cloth from his robe. He shook it out into a strip with a cross embroidered at each end, and placed it around his neck. Matt saw it was a stole, the badge of office that every Roman Catholic priest wears when he is administering the sacraments, the sign that he is functioning in his official capacity rather than his private one. The friar looked up at Matt. "Go farther off, goodman. I must see this man reconciled with God before he comes into the church."

Matt nodded and paced away, down the steps to just inside the invisible boundary of the warding circle.

He stiffened, feeling the malignant presence return, towering over him, ready to fall on him, but he stood his ground, glaring defiantly upward into the gloom. He never would have had the courage to do it in his own world, but he had plucked up the nerve to face his enemies in Merovence, and was knighted for his pains. With the knighthood had come far more bravery than he had ever known, so he could stand with narrowed eyes, trying to stare down a malignancy he could not see, even though he felt another gathering close to it on one side and a third on the other side, then another and another. But he stared unafraid, for he stood on consecrated ground bordered by his own warding circle.

He paced its arc, hearing behind him Jord's murmured confessing of his sins. Matt tried not to listen, not that he could have understood a word anyway—he was too far from them. The presences moved with him, and he realized it was himself they had come for, though if they did manage to overwhelm him, Jord and the friar would be engulfed right after him. He wished the former false druid would hurry up and finish his confession. He also began to understand why the Devil tempted people to desecrate holy places.

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

Then, somehow, the malignancy seemed to lighten. Matt turned to stare outward, wondering what had happened—and Buckeye stepped out of the gloom. "You could at least thank me for safe conduct."

Matt stared in amazement. "So it was you fighting off the monsters I couldn't see!"

"Yes, and you burned my hide for it," Buckeye said indignantly, and turned his back to show Matt a patch of singed fur. Matt swallowed, feeling horrible. "Sorry. I didn't know my helper was vulnerable to blessings. Look, at least I didn't say whose blessing I was calling for."

"Thanks for small favors," Buckeye sniffed.

Matt felt suddenly apprehensive—if the bauchan had been able to defy the invisible evil entities that surrounded him, it had to have stronger magic than he had thought. Matt hoped Buckeye didn't want to get back at him too badly. "Did you fight off the wolves, too?"

"Wolves!" Buckeye said with contempt. "They are nothing. Know that we creatures of the forest understand one another, mortal, and if I comprehend the viciousness of their packs, they in return know the danger of my magic and my whims. The night-walkers, now, they are another matter, but there is enough malice in me to let me walk among them, and enough goodness to shield me. Spirits fear one another, too, mortal man, and know one another's power."

"Standing up to them must have taken a lot of courage, then," Matt said.

Buckeye seemed to still inside, and for a moment there was nothing of the bantering or mischievous about him. "Some bravery, yes. I knew I could master any one of them, after all, but I could not be sure they would not league against me." Then the moment passed, and his grin flashed forth once more. "But they did not—they are creatures made solitary by their spite and jealousy, and will not ally with one another if they can avoid it. In this case, they were too slow to recognize necessity, as I had thought they would be."

"It was still taking quite a chance. Thank you for braving the risk. Were they sent by the Chief Druid?"

"Chief mocker, you mean, if you speak of Niobhyte," Buckeye said with contempt. "Nay. They were sent by an evil far greater than his."

"For Banalix, or me?"

"For you." The bauchan grinned. "They thought to frighten you away from the protections of—" He decided not to use whatever term he'd had in mind, and said instead, "—from your usual protections.

They did not know that you had also the protections of a spirit far more earthly."

"Meaning yourself." Matt swallowed thickly. "Why did you help me?"

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

The bauchan shrugged. "I was bored, and it lent the night some interest. Besides, who would I have to torment if you were slain and I had not yet met your family?"

"I see," Matt said dryly. "You were defending your property."

The grin turned to a leer. "You might say that, yes."

Matt decided he'd better keep his bauchan amused. Then his heart sank as he realized he'd thought of it as "his."

"Goodman," Friar Gode called, "you may come back within."

"Coming," Matt answered, then turned back to Buckeye. "Thanks for bailing me out."

"I shall be glad to do so again." The bauchan's eye glittered wickedly. "If the whim should take me."

Matt was tempted to wish something else would take the creature, but he had the sense to throttle the thought, if not the feeling. He turned back to mount the church steps in the first rays of sunrise.

Matt found Jord inside the church, thoroughly chastened and gazing about him in disbelief.

"He is reconciled with God," the friar said by way of explanation.

Matt said to Jord, "You look as though you'd never been in a church before."

"All my life," the ex-druid returned, "until Nio—until the Chief Druid beguiled me away with tales of power and pleasure." A smile lightened his face for a moment. "They were true, too." Then he frowned again. "But he did not tell me what awaited failure." He shuddered. "I cannot say which was worse—

those huge padding feet in the night, or the hoarse breathing of they who walked."

"The feeling of them inside your mind and heart," Matt told him.

"Aaiiee!" It was short, but it was a scream, and Jord buried his face in his hands. "Heaven protect me from ever suffering that again!"

Matt set a comforting hand on the man's shoulder. At least, it was meant to be comforting, but Jord gave such a start, Matt would have thought he'd been hit with a jolt of electricity. He took his hand away.

"Don't worry, you're safe from them now, as long as you stay in here."

Jord calmed considerably, looking about him and drinking in the tranquillity of the church. "None can Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

come in here?"

"No spirits," Matt told him. "I made sure of that."

Friar Gode looked up at him, startled, but Matt gave him a wink.

Jord, though, had caught the qualification. "But things that are not spirits can enter?"

"Evil men can," Matt admitted. "There's always the chance of that. Whenever pagans come to loot, the church is one of the first places they look."

Jord shivered, but said manfully, "Even so, as you say, there is always such danger. I must only hope that the Chief Druid and his followers dwindle and fade."

"They are the pagan threat of the moment, yes," Matt agreed. "The more we know about them, the more quickly we can rid ourselves of them. What can you tell me about this Chief Druid?"

Jord was silent and began to tremble again.

"Come on, you know he'll kill you just for losing the gamble to steal the friar's congregation," Matt said,

"if he can. Help me make sure he can't."

"None knows where he came from," Jord said, his voice low, "but he speaks with the manner and accent of a lord."

That, Matt automatically discounted—such things could be learned, as any good con man would tell.

"And he's a sorcerer?"

Jord shuddered. "Yes, a most powerful sorcerer! He taught us a few spells and promised us more, but we knew he would never teach us even half of what he knew."

"Us?" Matt picked up on the word. "Who?"

"The half dozen of us who sought to become druids in our own right, not acolytes only," Jord explained.

"That's how we began, as a group of worshipers following Nio—his lead. He promised us power, and his glowing accounts of the power and luxury, the silken bodies in our arms and the acclaim of the crowds, swayed us all to become druids in our own right and go out to win more worshipers for the Old Gods. I have converted sixteen villages and four towns already." There was a touch of pride in his voice; then he remembered the preceding night, and hung his head. "No more."

Matt wondered how long Jord would stay repentant, how soon the memories of willing women and awe-Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

filled men would sway him out to his own form of preaching again. He wondered, too, how long this Niobhyte would let him live. "He taught you what he claimed was the Old Religion?"

"Yes—the names of the gods; the symbols, such as the golden sickle, mistletoe, and holly; and the ceremony of worship, of drinking to free the impulses of the heart, dancing to please the gods, copulation, and bloodletting."

"Bloodletting, right. Completely voluntary, but when you have a congregation fully committed, the cuts go deeper and deeper and the blood flows more freely and less willingly, doesn't it?"

Jord nodded. "We have sacrificed eleven virgins and half a dozen young men already. Niobhyte says it pleases the gods."

"I'm sure it does, except that the only one he's really having you worship isn't a god," Matt said. "The old gods are only dreams, even in this—" He nearly said "universe," but caught himself in time."—land.

How does he say you should behave toward one another?"

"Why, that each man should strive for the highest position he can, and beat down those who seek to throw him out— strive also for wealth, and the favors of the greatest number of women."

Friar Gode's lips pressed into a thin, angry line. Matt felt the same way, but kept his voice reasonable.

"How about if you want something someone else has?"

"Why, you should take it! If he is too weak to drive you away, he deserves to lose it!"

Matt nodded. "How about copulating with someone else's wife?"

"Again, if he is too weak to prevent you, it is the way of Nature, the way of the wildwood, and it is right." Jord's eyes began to glow with the power of it.

"How about if your wife wants to sleep with somebody else?" Matt asked.

"Slay her," Jord said promptly. "Him, too, if you can."

Gode cried out in protest, and Jord turned to him, instantly contrite. "Your pardon, holy man! I would not speak of such things, but this good man did ask."

"I know, and you must tell him," the friar groaned. "I, too, must know what the enemy teaches—but it is hard hearing of it."

"How do you behave toward other villages?" Matt asked.

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

"Why, you obey the King's Law—but if he bids you attack, you attack, whether it be another village or the land of Merovence!"

"Just happened to mention Merovence, I see."

"These are no teachings of the old gods, but of the Devil!" Friar Gode burst out.

Jord swung to him, surprised, but Matt said, "You figured that, too, huh?" Then to Jord, "The Chief Druid has told you to break every single one of the Commandments, except the one about the Sabbath."

"Oh, on Sundays we are to work while the sun shines, then drink and make merry when it sets!"

"Broke that one, too, I see," Matt said grimly, "and I don't think I have to ask what he taught you about using the name of God as a swear word. You do know who tempts you to do the opposite of what God teaches, don't you, Jord?"

Jord's eyes widened with horror. "It is as you say, it is as you say—he taught us to worship Satan! But why then did he not call the Devil by name?"

"Say it outright, and people would be warned, and stay away in fear and loathing," Matt explained.

"Disguise it, and they'll listen. In the final analysis, though, you watch how they behave, and you'll know what god they really worship in their hearts." He felt rather uncomfortable saying it, thinking of people in his own world, but he knew that the vast majority of people were very easily fooled. He wondered if P

T Barnum spoke of all the people in all the worlds.

He put the thought aside and got back to interrogation. "Since we mentioned the king, let's follow it up.

What does King Drustan know about all this?"

"As little as you did before last night, I suspect," Jord answered, "though his son John is another matter."

"John?" Matt stared. "That incompetent loser? He's in on the druid scam?"

"I do not know what a 'scam' is, but I do know that John is a prince, and can aid the cause of the Chief Druid mightily," Jord answered.

"Especially since he's now heir apparent," Matt mused. "Maybe he's not as dumb as he looks."

"Dumb? He is not talkative, from all I hear, but he is scarcely mute," Jord protested.

"Less and less as we go along." Matt was revising his opinion of John by the second. "What does he have to do with your Chief Druid?"

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

Jord shrugged. "The friars and their fellow priests prevent the tax-gatherers from gouging all they may from the peasants. They stand between the common folk, and the barons and soldiers who have won the king's war for him."

"Stand between? How?"

"Why, whenever the baron looses his soldiers to loot and rape, as is their pay for war, a dratted priest appears to command them to withhold in the name of the Lord!"

"Literally stand between." Matt felt a chill. "And John doesn't like that?"

"What prince would? How will he bring soldiers to his banner without expectation of such rewards?"

"Certainly not by the sheer generosity of his spirit, or nobility of his brow," Matt agreed. "John isn't the kind to command personal loyalty. So your Chief Druid made him an offer?"

Jord shrugged impatiently. "I know nothing of what passed between them, save that the Chief Druid disguised himself as a gardener, and thus found occasion to speak to the prince."

Matt grinned in spite of himself. "And boy, wasn't he surprised when one of his gardeners told him he could get rid of this nuisance problem of interfering clergy!"

"I expect that he was," Jord admitted. "Nonetheless, the long and the short of it is that Prince John was quite willing to give his support to the Old Religion if the druids could woo the people away from the Church. He could only pledge such in secret at first, but has promised to become more open as he gains influence, and to make the Old Religion the faith of the land if he comes to power as king."

Puzzle pieces fell together in Mart's mind. "So not only does he have a chance of actually becoming king someday— he has some help arranging it, and some definite plans!"

"With his brothers dead, it would seem so," Jord admitted.

"I know little of the druids," Friar Gode said, frowning, "but I cannot believe that any clergyman would so conspire to despoil his own flock!"

"I can't believe it, either," Matt said. "The real druids would never have approved of such behavior toward their own people. Enemies, maybe—conquered foemen are another matter—but not toward their own commoners."

"They did sacrifice people to their gods," Friar Gode reminded.

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

"Yes, but those were captured enemies, or volunteers from their own people, not kidnapped virgins!

Besides, that ceremony I watched last night was pure hokum, with no higher object in mind than luring people to join up. I don't know much about the ancient druids' worship, but I do know it wasn't like that!"

Friar Gode nodded. "There is little that is real about these so-called druids."

"They're a synthesis of power-mongering ideas from this century, together with all the most popular human vices disguised as ceremony, mixed in with bits and pieces of Druid lore that everybody already knows about, so that the people will recognize the symbols and think the men are genuine druids," Matt said.

"Almost a mockery of them," Friar Gode said grimly.

Jord stared from one to another, more and more scandalized with every word he heard.

"Yes, a burlesque of the actual article," Matt agreed. "You might even say these synthodruids are a do-it-yourself religion. No matter what you call it, though, it's a great cover for a grassroots takeover by the forces of Evil. How can we fight them, friar?"

"By virtuous living, and thus setting a shining example before the people." Friar Gode spread his hands, at a loss. "How else, I cannot think."

"There is the possibility of telling the people what they're doing, by means of minstrels' songs," Matt said, "but I hesitate to think what might happen to those minstrels, and I'm not sure the people would believe them anyway."

"There are men and women far more holy than I," Friar Gode assured him. "Perhaps they can see how to counter this threat to the Faith better than a humble friar like myself."

"Well, holiness doesn't usually result in knowing how to fight," Matt said, "but I suppose that in the spiritual realm, a near-saint might have inspirations worth the listening. I don't know your country all that well, friar. Who do you think might be a good consultant?"

"There is the Abbess of the Convent of St. Ursula," Friar Gode answered. "She is said to be very holy, yet a most redoubtable woman."

Well, Matt had his doubts as to how useful the abbess' holiness would be, but found her redoubts far more reassuring. "Best lead I've got, I guess, and asking her opinion can't do any harm. Thanks, friar—

and thanks for the night's lodging, too."

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

"You are welcome." Gode managed a smile. "Not that you seem to have made much use of the latter."

Then he frowned, concerned. "You have had no sleep, though. How shall you fare through the day?"

"Oh, I think I can keep going for a spell."

The doors opened, letting in a bright shaft of morning sun. "Lord Wizard?" Sir Orizhan asked. "Are you well?"

Jord's head whipped about; he stared at Matt as though he'd been betrayed.

"Of course," Matt said briskly. "Just because I'm up before sunrise doesn't mean I'm sick." Then his attention went to Sergeant Brock, beside the knight and very pale as he stared at Jord. "What's the matter, Sergeant?"

Brock gave a start, as though realizing where he was. "Is not this the druid who hurled a fireball at the friar yesterday evening?"

"I was." Jord bowed his head, ashamed.

"A druid, in a church?" Brock sounded scandalized.

"I have repented of my errors, goodman," Jord told him, "and confessed my sins."

That unnerved Brock even more than seeing Jord in the first place. He turned away, obviously agitated.

Sir Orizhan stepped close to confide, "I have seen this happen to soldiers before—discovering that their enemies are not always complete villains, and can even turn aside from their evil ways."

"It does give you a bad turn," Matt agreed, "having to revise your view of the world. I think he'll survive, though."

"I doubt it not," Sir Orizhan agreed. "Shall we break our fast, my lord?"

"I have meal and water, and can make a porridge quickly," Friar Gode offered.

Matt exchanged glances with Sir Orizhan, then turned to the friar, nodding. "That ought to get us on the road fast enough. Thanks, friar—and maybe over a morning bowl we can talk about the route to the convent."

An hour later they started out, Matt with some misgivings. An abbess was an administrator, after all, and he was well aware that top administrators don't always rise to their positions because of virtue.

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

Toward noon a fourth person fell in with the three companions, slouching along beside them with his hood pulled up and his arms folded, with his hands in his sleeves. The trio stiffened, recognizing the bauchan.

Matt tried to be offhand about it, though. "Good morning, Buckeye. Thought you'd be sleeping it off."

The bauchan looked at him in puzzlement. "Sleeping what off, Lord Wizard?"

"Your night's fighting," Matt explained. "Mind you, I'm grateful, but I thought you'd need a rest."

Sir Orizhan and Sergeant Brock looked up, staring in amazement.

"He fought off some evil spirits for me last night," Matt explained, "not to mention a dozen or so wolves."

Knight and squire transferred their amazement to Buckeye.

The bauchan shrugged it off, uncomfortable with praise. "Remember that I'm a spirit more than an animal, wizard. I can manage without sleep quite well. But you have had none at all, and your mortal body must be dragging at you. What spell have you chanted to flush energy through your body?"

"I borrowed an hour of sleep from each of the next eight nights," Matt explained. "I'm probably better rested now than I'll be then."

Knight and sergeant swiveled their gazes back to him, staring harder.

"Your eyeballs are going to dry out if you don't blink now and then," Matt told them. Then, back to Buckeye, "So what brings you out to join us on the open road?"

"A beggar at the next crossroads," Buckeye told him. "I have gone ahead and seen that he will be of interest to you. Do not pass him by without a glance or a coin, wizard."

Matt gazed at him, wondering whether it was a booby trap or a tip. "Trouble with you is, I never know when you're helping me or troubling me."

"I know." Buckeye grinned. "That's the delight of it. Take pleasure in your caution, mortal wizard" With a bound, he disappeared into the roadside brush.

"Surely we will not heed his words!" Brock protested.

"If it was good advice and we don't take it, he'll laugh his head off," Matt explained.

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

"The imp!" Sir Orizhan exclaimed. "He has us by the scruff, and he knows it! We dare not take his advice and dare not ignore it!"

"And he's chortling up his sleeve about it this very minute," Matt assured him. "Maybe that's why he wore clothes this time. Shall we see what's at the next crossroads, gentlemen?"

They came to the intersection. Matt stopped abruptly and cursed softly to himself.

Sir Orizhan and Sergeant Brock stared, too. The east-west road had been deliberately rerouted into an S-curve, so that it crossed the north-south road at a slant instead of a right angle.

"Prince John's taking the synthodruids a little too seriously," Matt said. "He's changed the intersection to avoid the form of a Christian cross."

"Could he really have so transformed every crossroads in the kingdom?" Sir Orizhan asked, staring.

"You can do amazing things with magic, if you have enough of it," Matt said grimly. "Come on—let's see who that beggar is, leaning against the signpost."

The beggar was a bit better outfitted than most—his clothes were dirty, but not yet reduced to rags; he hadn't been begging long. Matt stepped up, fishing in the wallet behind his belt for a silver penny. His shadow fell across the beggar, and the man looked up, holding out his bowl in listless routine. Matt froze. The eyes were dull, the face bleak, but he recognized it, and the last time he had seen the man, those eyes had been bloodshot from too much ale.

"Lord Wizard?" Sir Orizhan said behind him. "What troubles you?"

"I've seen him before," Matt told him. "So have you. We shared a table at an inn a week ago."

"It cannot be!"

But Sergeant Brock pushed past and knelt in front of the man, then rose with his face hard. "It is. When the soldiers were done with him, they cast him out to wander the roads and beg."

The dull eyes began to focus on them. The beggar frowned, trying to remember.

"Dolan!" Matt cried. "That was his name!"

The man stared up at him.

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

"What have they done to him?" Sir Orizhan whispered.

"Part of it is not so hard to guess." Brock gestured at a crutch lying beside the beggar. "He didn't need that when they took him away."

"They lamed him?" the knight exclaimed in horror. "For nothing but drunken mutterings?"

"Drunken mutterings against Prince John," Matt reminded him.

Brock knelt and looked into Dolan's eyes. "How did they lame you, fellow? You still have both your legs."

Dolan pointed to a large, dirty bandage on his ankle.

"His hamstring," Brock said, his face grim. "One or both?"

Dolan held up a single finger.

Sir Orizhan began to look apprehensive. "Why doesn't he speak?"

For answer, Dolan opened his mouth and made a sort of cawing. His lips writhed, trying to mold the sound into words and failing.

"He spoke against the prince, after all," Matt said quietly. "They gave him the punishment they thought fitted the crime."

"His tongue?" Sir Orizhan turned green.

Even Sergeant Brock rose and turned away. "It would have been kinder to kill him outright!"

"Yes, it would," Matt said, "but he wouldn't have been able to go hobbling through the land as a walking warning to anyone who might be thinking of criticizing Prince John." At a sudden thought, he looked up, then relaxed. "For a minute there I was afraid I might find a raven listening."

"No fear," Sir Orizhan told him. "All the carrion eaters are in royal castles now."

Matt tossed the silver penny into the begging bowl even as he said, "We can't just leave him here."

"We surely cannot take him with us!" Sir Orizhan protested. "We'd scarcely make a mile a day!"

"Oh, I think we can move a bit faster than that." Matt knelt and clasped the beggar's shoulder. "Dolan, I Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

hereby adopt you! Sir Orizhan, Goodman Brock, you're my witnesses— from this day forth, this man is my cousin!"

"A mere beggar?" Sir Orizhan stared. "Have you taken leave of your senses, my lord?"

"Not a bit." Sergeant Brock grinned. "After all, the poor lad is in need of help, if ever a man was. Surely he is in no condition to suffer pranks."

"No, he's not," Matt agreed, and stood up to call, "Oh, Buckeye! There's somebody I'd like you to meet!"

CHAPTER 16

The bauchan came out of the trees, looking very surly indeed. "I heard, wizard! It's a foul trick to play upon me!"

"Hey, you were the one who told me to take notice of him," Matt reminded. "Buckeye, I'd like you to meet my cousin Dolan. Dolan, meet the family curse."

"This is beneath you, wizard," the bauchan complained. "He is not of your blood and bone!"

"All people are ultimately related," Matt said smugly, "and for the time being, he's a legal relation, too."

He turned to his companions. "Shall we go, gentlemen?"

Sergeant Brock opened his mouth to object, then remembered that he'd been raised to the rank of squire.

"Yes, let us walk," Sir Orizhan agreed. "Did not the friar say we should turn west at this crossroads?"

"West it is." Matt followed the S-curve to the left, with the knight and squire beside him.

"Well, there's no help for it then," Buckeye grumbled. "Come, mortal, up with you!" He caught the beggar by the waist and swung him high. Dolan squalled with fright and swung his crutch up as a club—

but the bauchan settled the man around his own neck and started after the companions, assuring the beggar, "Fear not, I can carry ten times your weight. You have naught to fear from me—but I'll be revenged on that wizard ten times over!"

"I'm not keeping score," Matt called back.

"I am," Buckeye growled, and hurried to catch up, stretching his legs—literally.

Night caught them in the midst of open fields without a village in sight. As they set about pitching camp, Sergeant Brock muttered," 'Just one more village, Sir Knight! Surely there will be another inn only a few Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

miles down the road, good sergeant! Just one more, lads, one more!'"

"Oh, stop grousing," Matt told him. "I thought soldiers were supposed to be used to roughing it."

"When they travel with you, they are."

"Hey, you've had dinner indoors three nights out of five on this trip."

"Yes, but have we been able to stay and sleep? No, for we are four when we set out with three!"

"Careful, there—Buckeye is positively gloating to hear you." Matt told himself the sergeant would feel better with a good hot meal inside him.

While it was cooking, he rummaged in his pack for a scrap of parchment and pulled a stick of charcoal from the fire. Then he sat down next to the beggar and said, "Time we did something about your communication problem. If I make a mark like this, it means I'm supposed to make a sound like this: duh. And this circle means I'm supposed to say 'oh.' Then this boot-shape tells me to say 'luh,' and this backward potbelly is either 'eh' or 'uh.' " He saw the question in Do-lan's eyes and said, "How can you tell which sound? I'll explain later, when you've learned more letters. This sign is 'en.' Now, see what happens when I make all those sounds, one after another…"

By the time the partridges were roasted, Dolan was silently mouthing all the letters of the alphabet, eyes round in wonder.

"What silliness is this, to put so much store by chicken tracks on sheepskin?" Buckeye sniffed.

"Aye," Sir Orizhan agreed, "and to show a man how to turn squiggles into speech when he can no longer talk."

"But he knows what the words are supposed to sound like," Matt pointed out. "He can still write out the words he wants to say, if he can just learn the symbols—and if anybody ever had motivation for it, he has."

"It's a fool's task, to spend so much time learning to do so little!"

"It's not little," Matt protested, "and I'll bet he'll be able to write complete sentences in five days."

"Five for the symbols at your door," Buckeye snorted, and disappeared into the forest.

Matt had the right number but the wrong unit. Five hours later Dolan was writing complete sentences and working out a system of sign language with Sergeant Brock, too. When he had a large enough Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

vocabulary, he told the sergeant a long pantomime, and Brock came away looking pale and shaken.

"What did he tell you?" Matt asked, concerned.

"What the soldiers did to him," Brock answered, and swallowed thickly. "It was my own fault—I asked.

Let us hope I have not given the poor fellow nightmares by dredging up his memories!"

"Maybe," Matt said slowly, "but maybe not, too. Sometimes it helps to talk it through, get it out of your system. Just how bad was it?"

"As bad as anything I've ever heard," Brock told him, and looked up at Sir Orizhan. "They tied him down on the rack for a day or two, and when it had stretched his joints to constant pain, they demanded the names of those who had told him what he had blurted out. Poor lad, he'd been so drunk that he could not even remember what he'd said. They did a dozen things to cause him more pain, and by your leave I'll not repeat them—but I will say that they brought in a sorcerer to work a spell with some of his blood, which wrenched his memories from him with blinding pain. His head ached horribly for days. Then, when they had proved for themselves that he knew no other names of folk who had spoken ill of the prince, they muted him and lamed him as we see, and cast him out to live or die, they cared not which."

"A sorcerer?" Matt said sharply. "Not a druid?"

Brock gave him a long, steady look, then said, "I shall ask." He turned away to his pack.

Sir Orizhan watched him go, frowning. "How can he ask if the man was a druid, if Dolan has never seen one?"

"His armed band raided a druid sacrifice," Matt said, watching Brock. "He kept a souvenir."

Sir Orizhan's eyebrows lifted in surprise; then he turned to watch.

Brock went over to Dolan and held up his little silver sickle. The beggar frowned at it, puzzled. Brock made some gestures, and Dolan replied with an emphatic shake of his head. Brock gestured again, and Dolan shook his head again.

Then Brock made a third set of gestures, and Dolan's face went stony as he nodded.

Brock nodded, satisfied, and came back to his companions. "The man who tortured him did not wear one of these at his belt." He held up the sickle. "Moreover, he laid his spell in a chant that chopped and ground like a mill. The druids' magic tongue flows like a clear brook; I've heard it."

"So the sorcerer used a language that was full of gutturals and consonants, huh?" Matt filed the Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

information away for future use. "What did he nod about?"

"That the sorcerer wore a dark robe with strange signs emblazoned on it. The druids wear white, as you have seen."

"So Prince John is resorting to sorcery," Sir Orizhan said grimly.

"Resorting to, yes," Matt pointed out. "He's got the synthodruids on one side and sorcerers on the other—

but he isn't adept enough to do the magic himself, so he has to bring in specialists. I'll bet he doesn't even know how to use them, but has a sorcerous adviser pulling his strings."

"But you said he was in league with the Chief Druid," Brock pointed out, confused.

"I did, didn't I?" Matt said with an acid smile. "Apparently he's trying to play both ends against the middle, sorcerers on one side and synthodruids on the other. What's going to happen to him when they both demand their payoffs?"

The three were silent a moment. Then Sir Orizhan ventured, "Can he truly believe he can set them to fighting one another and himself emerge unscathed?"

"Sounds dumb enough to believe of him, yes," Matt said. "Or it could simply be that he hasn't thought that far ahead. He probably thinks that if he can just get to be king, he'll have power over everybody."

"And while he waits, the false druids and the sorcerers shall tear the land apart between them," Sir Orizhan said grimly.

Sergeant Brock's face set like stone.

Mama and Papa were hiking along the high road when Mama suddenly stopped. She laid a hand on Papa's arm and pointed at a lane that branched off, overhung by tree limbs, a virtual tunnel. "We must take that byway."

Papa looked at it. "Why, my dear? It doesn't look very promising."

"I can't say why, I only know we must," she answered.

"I will never argue with your intuition, especially in a universe ruled by magic." Papa turned off with her, and they strolled under the leafy roof. He looked up and about with a dreamy smile. "If nothing else, you have chosen a pleasant route for us."

"There is that." Mama pressed his arm close, smiling.

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

Then they heard the hound.

It was a strange cry, more howl than bay, and it sent chills down their spines.

"Hurry!" Papa clasped her arm more tightly and started ahead.

But Mama pulled back. "No! We must bide instead!"

Papa reined in impatience and exasperation and tried to speak reasonably—but before he could, he heard the sound of hooves approaching with the baying. "You're right—we can't outrun horses. We hide!"

Mama found a small thicket and pushed her way through the underbrush. Papa came after her, walking backward and doing what he could to erase the signs of their passage. Then he lifted his staff to guard position, with the sick feeling that comes with knowing the battle is lost before it has begun— but behind him, Mama drew her wand from beneath her robes.

The howl-baying passed the junction with the main road, though, and kept on going. The hooves thundered up, mixed with the shouting of men's voices, then faded away.

Papa let out a long shaky breath as he dropped the butt of his staff. "They're chasing someone else, poor soul!"

"No," Mama snapped, "they are chasing us—don't ask me how I know! It was only this turnoff that deceived them, but their hound will realize he has lost the scent all too soon! Quickly, husband! There is safety at the end of this road, if we can only come there soon enough!" She pushed her way out of the thicket and hurried down the lane.

Papa caught up with her. "What sort of safety?"

"I do not know, but I have never had presentiments so strong as this before! Walk as quickly as you can, and we may come safely through it!"

But twenty minutes later they heard the howling behind them again.

"Quickly, walk backward as much in our own footprints as you can!" Papa turned and retraced his steps.

"Are you mad?" But Mama caught up with him anyway. "You are going toward danger!"

"Only ten minutes or so! I have seen another hiding place! Come!"

A few minutes back on the trail, they came to a low-hanging branch. Papa made a stirrup with his hands.

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

"Up with you!"

Mama knew better than to protest. She stepped in Papa's hands and caught the branch, then scrambled up as he lifted her foot higher. Lying full-length on the limb, she reached down for his hand. He leaped up with her help and caught the wood; she scrambled back to make room for him to lie full-length, surrounded by leaves.

They were barely in time. The howling swelled immensely, and the hound came charging by below, following their scent. It was a huge misshapen thing, with a face like a mastiff's behind the upper muzzle of a bloodhound, and legs as bandy as a bulldog's but as long as a Great Dane's. Its massive body was easily the size of a small pony, and its eyes burned with blood lust. It went past below, belling and baying and howling as though it were three beasts in one. Behind it came half a dozen soldiers, their eyes afire with the excitement of the hunt, their faces lit with gleeful anticipation. Mama looked at them and shuddered.

But the last was several lengths behind his fellows, for he was much fatter, and wheezed as he urged his horse onward. As he passed under the limb, Papa dropped to land behind him and struck with the hilt of his knife. The man slumped, eyes rolling up, and Papa shoved him aside. He fell, rolling to the side of the trail, and Papa caught the reins. The horse whinnied in fright, but Papa spoke to it in soothing tones, turned it around and brought it back, then off the side of the trail.

Ahead, the hound's belling turned into burbles of confusion. The horsemen cursed, and there was a sound of beating. The hound howled in anger, then yelped in pain, finally coming back toward them, bay-howling again.

Papa turned the horse into the brush beside the road, behind a screen of leaves, then leaped down and ran around to hold the horse's head and stroke its nose, murmuring soothing nonsense to keep it from whinnying.

The hound came charging by, following their back trail, baying as though it were new. The horsemen rode by, cursing, and Papa and Mama caught a single sentence: "Cursed magicians laid us a false trail!"

Then they were gone again, not even noticing their fallen comrade under the roadside leaves, and too quickly for the horse to even think of calling to its fellows.

Papa remounted, rode out onto the trail and back to the low-hanging limb. "Quickly, Jimena! Before they realize their error!"

Mama leaped from her perch and ran to him, grasped his arm and swung up to ride in front of him. Papa turned the horse and kicked its sides gently. It sprang into motion again, galloping away down the lane.

Far behind them the belling grew fainter—for a few minutes. Then it turned into confusion again, mixed with angry shouting for several minutes, before the hound yelped as the men drove it back into the lane, Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

and its voice began to grow louder again.

"What kind of hound is this, who can follow our scent even on horseback?" Papa asked.

"One who senses magic and those who work it," Mama told him, "and I hate to think where it came from!"

"I used magic as we were laying the false trail!" Papa exclaimed in surprise.

"So did I! Ride as quickly as we can, husband, and pray they go more slowly!"

Then suddenly the trail opened out into fields. In the distance the amber and green of crops surrounded the low beige walls of a convent or monastery, golden in the late afternoon sun.

"There is the safety I sensed!" Jimena cried. "Ride, husband, for our lives!"

But the poor horse was carrying double, and no matter how Papa urged it on, it couldn't go as fast as the steeds chasing them. Behind them the howling and hoofbeats grew louder.

"Hist!" Sir Orizhan stopped, holding up a hand, and frowned, looking back over the road they had traveled.

They were all silent, listening. Then Dolan's eyes widened, and he nodded vigorously, beginning to tremble.

"He hears it, too, whatever it is," Matt said.

"So do I." Buckeye grinned. "It is a kind of hound that sorcerers breed, half spirit and half dog."

Matt shuddered. "What's it for?"

"Tracking magicians!" Buckeye crowed.

"I think we'd better start walking faster." Matt turned eyes front and made long strides.

Sir Orizhan matched him. "We might even consider running."

"Run for a minute, walk for a minute," Matt agreed. "Can you keep up, Buckeye?"

"Keep up, forsooth!" the bauchan snorted. "I can surpass you in this as in all things! Hold tightly, Dolan!" He sprang ahead of the companions.

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

Matt loped after him, not hurrying.

"Dare we let him escape our sight?" Sir Orizhan asked beside him.

"We dare," Matt answered. "The question is, does Dolan? And I think the answer to that is, he'll get to safety first."

"What safety?" Sergeant Brock panted.

"The convent," Matt explained. "We're assuming it has a guest house—and if these hunters are anything like the usual run of evil spirits, they won't be able to enter consecrated ground."

"True enough," Sir Orizhan said, with some relief.

But Sergeant Brock panted, "What if… the hunters … are men?"

"Then only the hound will be stuck outside the wall," Matt said grimly, "and we may have to do a bit of fighting ourselves."

Sergeant Brock grinned and loosened his short sword in its sheath.

" 'May,' I said," Matt cautioned. "I didn't make any promises."

"You deal with … evil magic," Brock panted. "We shall deal… with evil… men. Sir Knight?"

"We shall indeed," Sir Orizhan said, matching Brock's grin.

They stopped to walk for a minute, then ran on toward the convent.

Suddenly, hooves pounded behind them.

"Run!" Matt shouted, and stretched his legs for all he was worm—but the horse was galloping, and caught up with them easily. Dolan waved down at them from its back, looking frightened. One hand held reins, the other held the cantle of the saddle to hold him on—and the reins of a second horse that galloped beside the first.

Matt stared. "How'd you get behind us?" Then he answered his own question. "No, don't answer. Silly of me. You were riding a bauchan."

"Pull back on the reins!" Sir Orizhan called. Dolan dutifully obeyed, and the horses slowed enough for Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

Sergeant Brock to run around and catch the reins of the riderless mount while Sir Orizhan caught Dolan's. They stopped the horses and mounted, Sir Orizhan behind Dolan, Matt behind Sergeant Brock.

Sir Orizhan kicked his heels into the horse's flanks, Sergeant Brock did likewise, and off they went.

"I should ask what happened to the men who were riding these horses," Matt called, "but I don't think I want to know."

Dolan shook his head emphatically.

"Ride!" Sir Orizhan commanded. "If these horses have caught us, the others cannot be far behind!"

"Yes they can," Matt called back. "These two knew where they were going. The hunters still have to follow the hound."

"It will speed soon enough," Brock called grimly.

True enough, the hound's bell-howling was growing louder and louder. Matt chanced a glance back and saw a dust cloud with several horses coming out of it, a strange, ungainly beast loping ahead of them—

ungainly, but moving even more quickly than they were. He shut up and let the sergeant kick the horse up into overdrive.

"I thought troopers weren't allowed to ride," he called to Sergeant Brock ahead of him.

"We are not," Brock called back, "but not for lack of knowing. Any serf's son learns how to ride a plow horse."

They came out of the woods and into a broad plain, cut into a patchwork of fields with a variety of crops, including pastures dotted with sheep. At its center, far ahead, rose the tawny walls of the convent.

"Ride!" Matt shouted. "Safety's in sight!"

Then he saw the other horse off to their right with two riders on its back, riding hell-bent for leather—

and saw the hell-bended hound behind, running at its top speed, leading half a dozen riders who shouted with glee as they chased. Looking back at his own pursuers, he heard the same sort of shouts—and noticed that the soldier in front had his hood up. He seemed much more gangly than the rest, knees up as high as the saddlebow. Matt deleted an expletive under his breath. Buckeye was leading the pursuit, howling with glee.

Matt undeleted the expletive. "Blasted monster can't decide whether he's for us or against us!"

"What monster?" Sergeant Brock looked back, then swore as only a soldier could, something involving a Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

physiological impossibility and the questionable ancestry of the bauchan. But he recovered enough to say, "Be sure he'll not let them slay you, milord, for who then would he have to torment?"

"Don't say that word 'torment,' " Matt told him. "There's a lot they can do without killing me." He didn't add that the soldiers might treat the rest of the party to a few quick sword strokes.

Fortunately, the humans weren't the only ones the hound scared. The horses heard that howl-baying growing louder and stretched themselves even harder. Somehow they seemed to understand that the beige walls ahead meant safety, and redoubled their pace.

Atop the wall, several black-robed figures appeared. One looked up to Heaven and raised her clasped hands in prayer. The others imitated her.

Matt glanced over at the other travelers and saw that their hunters were gaining, too. Of course, it would be too much to hope for that the two packs might collide…

Not with a bauchan with a twisted sense of humor leading one of the groups, it wasn't. The two roads joined a hundred yards from the gate, and the other travelers galloped through the intersection just a few feet ahead of Mart's party—and as he came alongside he stared in amazement. "Mama! Papa!"

The two riders looked up, astonished, and cried with one voice, "Matthew!"

Then the two groups of hunters howled with triumph—and crashed into one another.

They bawled and cursed and bellowed, slashing at one another with short cavalry swords, while the two hounds sprang to fight with explosive barks, each trying to sink its teeth into the other first.

Buckeye broke loose from the melee and shouted, "Ride!" He even ran after to slap the rumps of all three horses before he turned back to dive into the churning mass again.

He was just in time, too. The leader of one group saw who he was fighting and shouted, "We are king's men!"

"We are reeve's men, under the prince's orders!" his opposite number answered, and they might have made peace there and then if Buckeye hadn't reached up and clobbered one of them in the kidneys. The man howled with pain and yelped, "Call off your men!"

"Lay off!" the other leader shouted, just before Buckeye stretched an arm to rabbit-punch him."Yowoo! I thought you called for peace!"

And the two groups set upon each other again, hammer and tongs, short swords clashing on bucklers and Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

steel caps. Buckeye danced around and through the dust cloud, timing his punches perfectly to keep them fighting one another.

The gates of the convent opened wide just in time for all three horses to gallop through, then swung shut again. A team of nuns hefted a huge bar into the brackets on the backs of the gates, and Matt turned in the saddle to throw his arms around his parents. "Thank Heaven you made it!"

"And you, my son," Mama said, returning the embrace, then holding Matt off at arm's length. "Thank Heaven indeed."

"Aye, thank Heaven," said a severe voice.

They looked up to see an older nun coming down off the wall toward them, eyes flashing. "Who are you, who come unbidden to the Convent of St. Ursula?"

"At least we've got the right address," Matt told Sir Orizhan, then, "Matthew Mantrell, Lord Wizard of Merovence, with Lord and Lady Mantrell, my parents—" He gestured to his mother and father, then to his companions. "—and Sir Orizhan, knight of Toulenge, with his squire, Sergeant Brock of Bretanglia.

This other gentleman is Dolan, an unfortunate who has suffered at the hands of Prince John's torturers."

Dolan and Brock pulled their forelocks; Sir Orizhan bowed as well as he could from the saddle.

"And whom have we the pleasure of addressing?" Matt asked.

"I am Mother Diceabo, abbess of this convent. Do you claim the right of sanctuary?"

"We do!" all six of them chorused.

Then Sergeant Brock said nervously, "By your leave, lords and ladies, may we put off the courtesies till we have done with the attackers at your gates?"

"Attackers!" Mother Diceabo exclaimed. "Have they not left off once they saw you were safe?"

In answer, five howling soldiers leaped over the wall— only eight feet high, no bar to a horseman who could stand on his saddle and vault over it. Most of the nuns screamed and ran—for quarterstaves piled in a cone by the gate. Each grasped her stick and turned to face the invaders.

But Sir Orizhan and Sergeant Brock were there before them, spurring their horses and shouting war-cries. Dolan hung on for dear life.

Sergeant Brock turned a cut from a foeman, then whirled his sword in to thrust, but the enemy blocked it Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

with his buckler, swinging his sword up for another strike. Matt leaned around Brock and thrust at the unarmored line between breastplate and hip. He couldn't reach very far, but it was enough to make the soldier scream and clap his hand over his gut. Brock drove his hilt down, but the man was already clawing his way back over the wall.

Sir Orizhan turned his horse and swung a cut at another soldier, knocking the man's sword aside. The soldier howled and ran for the wall. Behind the knight, swords clattered against quarterstaves and the other soldiers ran bleating for the wall, dropping their blades as they ran.

Matt stared as they leaped back over—it had been too easy. He darted a glance back at his parents and saw why—Papa was gesturing and muttering while Mama sat ready to fight off any return spells. Matt wondered what the soldiers had thought they were seeing.

"Are they repulsed so easily?" Mother Diceabo declared in astonishment.

"I doubt it," Matt answered.

Sir Orizhan sprang up to the low parapet to look over and report, "They are riding to the gate… They are turning their horses' backs to it…"

"They're going to try to have the horses kick down the gate!" Matt cried. "Get 'em away from there!"

One of the nuns started chanting and gesturing as though she was swatting flies.

The horses reared with whinnies of anguish and shot away from the gates, bucking and rearing. The soldiers shouted, barely managing to stay in their saddles, and fought their horses back down, then managed to quiet them—a hundred yards from the convent.

Matt looked up in surprise. "You have some talented people among your nuns, Mother Diceabo."

"More importantly, they are pious," the abbess replied tartly. "Even I prayed for your safe arrival."

"I can't thank you enough." Matt wondered what Buckeye would say if he knew he had been part of the answer to a nun's prayer.

"They are putting their heads together in conversation," Sir Orizhan reported. "One is riding away …

The rest are dismounting … They are picketing their horses… Most are sitting down, some lying, though one stands sentinel …" He looked down at Matt "They have given up assaulting us, it seems—

and I would guess the one who has ridden away has gone for aid."

"Surely they would not bring an army against a House of God!" Mother Diceabo protested.

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

"Maybe not an army, but probably a sorcerer," Matt said, his voice hard, "at least, as long as we're here.

I'm sorry, Mother. I hadn't meant to bring them upon you. There have been a few changes in Bretanglia lately." Matt dismounted. "Let me tell you about them."

"Lord Wizard," Sir Orizhan said, his voice tense, "I think you should—"

Matt didn't wait for the end of the sentence.

CHAPTER 17

Matt remounted and clambered up on his saddle, just in time to see that one of the soldiers had come to his feet and was strolling toward the convent—but as Matt watched, the man threw off his livery and spun about in a furry fury. With a gibbering cry, he stretched out his arms, forearms whirling in expanding circles as he rushed back at the soldiers.

They didn't wait for him to arrive—they wailed in terror and ran for their horses. They were just in time, barely managing to throw themselves into the saddles before the beasts reared, pulling up their picket-stakes, and raced away, any way as long as it took them far from the insanely howling monster who rushed at them.

"You don't have to worry about the soldiers anymore," Matt informed Mother Diceabo. "They seem to have remembered an urgent appointment somewhere else."

The abbess frowned. "What could have driven them away?"

"Something that I had better thank." Matt cupped his hands around his mouth and called, "Much appreciate, Buckeye! I couldn't have done it without you!"

"If you were truly grateful, you would invite me in," Buckeye called as he strolled back.

Somehow that rang a warning bell in Matt. "I can't," he explained. "It's not my house, and besides—"

"I know, I know—you speak words of gratitude, but do not mean them." The bauchan sauntered up to the gate—then recoiled, hopping about as though he'd burned his toes. "Avaunt! What sort of town is this in which you've taken refuge?"

"A convent," Matt called, trying to sound as apologetic as possible. "Consecrated ground. Sorry—I tried to warn you."

"Next time, I'll believe you." The bauchan kept hopping. "Oh! Ow! How long mean you to stay?"

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

"A night, if they'll have us," Matt told him. "Not long enough for those soldiers to bring back an army."

"You need not fear—I'm sure they'll think 'twas an evil spirit chased them, and will not be concerned about you if you're in a house of ill. Oh! Ah! Oh, I shall be revenged when you come out of that place!

Owoo! Ooo!" And Buckeye went hopping off into the distance until he hit a dip and the ground seemed to swallow him up.

Matt turned back to see Mother Diceabo eyeing him narrowly—but all she said was, "I would appreciate it if all you men would enter our guest house immediately." She nodded to Mama. "I shall explain matters to you, milady, and you may discourse with them."

"Of course," Mama said, then dismounted and waved her hands at the men. "Away with you, now!

Leave civilized people to talk!"

Matt led the way toward the building she indicated, growling, "So men aren't civilized?"

"Not according to women," Papa replied. "They have a point, son. Think about the lives most men would lead if they had a clear choice."

Matt thought about that as they entered the guest house.

Mother Diceabo was right behind them, already talking with Mama. They kept on talking as they sat around a plain plank table on hard wooden benches, though the abbess brought them a pitcher of mild ale and wooden mugs with her own hands.

"So the Prince Gaheris is murdered, and Prince Brion slain in battle," she said, "while the poor queen is jailed in a silken prison—and the king lies elf-shot, unable to speak to any but Prince John! Can you have any doubt who is behind it all?"

"When you put it that way, it does look pretty bad for him," Matt admitted. "Trouble is, there're a lot of other things going on in the kingdom."

"Indeed?" The abbess fixed him with a penetrating stare. "What sort of things?"

"The barons and their men have lost respect for the clergy," Mama told her. "The farther north we came, the less the friars could protect their folk from the ravages of their own lords."

"Say you so?" The abbess' stare swung to her. "Have they lost all thought of God and goodness?"

"They have," Matt told her, "because a very powerful sorcerer has cobbled together a parody of the Druid cult and is spreading it throughout the land."

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

The abbess' stare swiveled back to him, appalled. "How can this be?"

"Yes," Mama said, staring with Papa. "How can it?"

"Because his apprentice synthodruids are leading the people in wild, drunken parties disguised as worship services," Matt said, avoiding the abbess' eyes, "with all the, ah, vices that go with drink and wildness."

"You cannot mean—" The abbess broke off, shaking her head. "Can the land have sunk so low?"

"If it sinks any more, the sea will come rushing in between Bretanglia and Merovence," Matt said grimly.

"And Prince John is leagued with this self-styled Chief Druid," Sir Orizhan told her.

"Is he!" The abbess turned her stare on him. "Did I not say the whole coil was of his making?"

Well, she hadn't quite come right out and said it. "I think Prince John might be more of a victim," Matt demurred, "one more person lured in by the lies of the sorcerer, lies that he's scattering over the land like seeds broadcast."

"How can he do that?" the abbess demanded.

"Minstrels are abroad, singing a song that impugns the queen's reputation and claims that Brion was illegitimate," Mama said.

Matt turned to her, surprised, though he realized he shouldn't be. He'd heard the song twice himself; surely his parents had, too.

"A vile slander!" the abbess cried. "All know she has been a model of virtue since she married Drustan!"

"Since then, yes," Papa agreed, "but there seems to be some doubt about her standards before—and therefore after."

"Aye, to those of foul minds! Why, Brion is the very image of his father, though one much purified! If any should be suspect in parentage, it should be John!"

"Shh! Not so loud!" Matt gave a quick scan of the windows and rafters.

"Aye," Papa agreed. "The sorcerer has sent ravens abroad as spies, throughout the countryside."

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

The abbess' eyes narrowed. "Carrion eaters were ever birds of ill omen!"

"If they hear anybody talking against John, they bear word to the soldiers somehow," Matt said, "and the soldiers come to arrest the poor talker."

Dolan shuddered, drawing the abbess' eye. "Were you one such?" she asked.

Dolan nodded.

"Poor lad!" she said. "He lamed you for it. What else?"

Dolan opened his mouth and cawed in answer.

The abbess turned away with a shiver. "There is evil in the land indeed!" She turned to Mama and Papa.

"But why come you here, to the House of St. Ursula?"

"Good question," Matt agreed. "I thought you two were staying in Bordestang to defend Alisande and your grandchild."

"The war in Bretanglia made your wife see that the threat to Merovence was ended, at least for the time being," Papa said. "We offered to go north to learn more of what passed there."

Matt sighed. "So much for my plot to keep you home and safe."

Papa answered with a wolfish grin.

"Why here?" the abbess pressed.

Mama shrugged. "We have gone north by the byways, my lady abbess, to visit the small towns and villages and learn what the people say. When the hunters caught our scent, we fled, and I felt that safety lay in this direction."

"Our patron saint spoke to your soul," the abbess told her. "You must be devout, or your spirit would not have hearkened to the warning. What did you do to catch the hunters' interest?"

Mama and Papa exchanged a blank look. Then Mama told the abbess, "We saved a village lass from soldiers long enough for the friar to come and chase them away. Later, we saved a goldsmith's last ounces from a greedy baron, and healed the friar who had tried to protect him and was beaten for his pains."

"Reason enough!" the abbess said, shaken. "How is it this baron dared strike a man of the cloth?"

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

"He claimed he had become a follower of the druids and their old gods," Papa said, "and therefore no longer feared the Church."

"This has become far worse than I thought! How could so much evil have run through the land and I not know of it? We give hospitality to so many travelers!"

"This has happened in only a few weeks' time," Mama told her.

"Then it is well planned indeed! Perhaps it is not Prince John's work after all." She turned to Matt. "How did you attract the hunters' notice?"

"Well, I think mostly by saving a priest from a synthodruid," Matt said, "then busting up the druid's recruiting ceremony, and protecting him by magic until he could make it back to the church to confess.

He's still there, in sanctuary—I hope."

The abbess stared at him for a moment. Then she said, "Yes, I mink that might have attracted their attention. What sent you in my direction?"

"The friar I saved from the synthodruid. I asked him how to fight them, and he told me to ask you."

The abbess stared even wider, then turned away, shaken. "I? What could I know of battle? Prayer I know, and austerity, and the ordering of a convent—but what use is that against a lie so huge that many of the liars themselves do not know it for the falsehood it is?"

Matt bowed his head, clenching his fists, hopes dashed. Sir Orizhan stared at him in dismay.

But Mama had seen this mood before. Her gaze lingered on her son a moment; then she turned back to the abbess and said, "Have you no stories of saints who contended with the original druids?"

"We have," the abbess said slowly, "but they saw people suffering from the constant wars the druids thought pleased their gods, and showed the folk how their yearning for peace was a yearning for God. Is there such a yearning again?"

"It has begun," Mama told her, "or we would have had no one to rescue."

"Indeed." The abbess gazed at her, musing. "Have you told me all of what you heard on your way north, or was there more?"

Mama frowned, thinking. "The women are afraid for Princess Rosamund, who was imprisoned near the king's castle at Woodstock but disappeared."

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

"Well they might be!"

"They pity the queen, who fought a war with the king for her son Brion's right to inherit, and has been imprisoned for her pains—"

"Of this I have heard."

"—and there is a rumor abroad, that Prince Brion is not really dead, but only lying in an enchanted sleep like Arthur's, in the cathedral at Glastonbury."

"There is hope in that," the abbess said quickly, "though I would not spread the word abroad if you cannot prove it true."

"Then we must go to Glastonbury and look," Mama said decisively.

"No, not Glastonbury." Finally the abbess sat with them, hands clasped, looking off into the distance, as though she could see through the walls and all the way to the holy town herself. "That has the ring of peasants trying to keep hope alive, especially since Glastonbury is the only place of holiness great enough to withstand the onslaught of such concerted blasphemy that is also close enough for the poor folk to believe in it."

"But you don't think it's holy enough to hold out?" Matt felt hope returning, if only because the abbess was taking the rumor seriously.

"To hold out against a sorcerer and these sin-tho-druids of yours? Yes, it is that—but no holiness is great enough to withstand a troop of blaspheming knights who lust for greed and power. If they came in force to discover a sleeping prince and slay him for once and for all, no cloisterful of monks and nuns could stop them. No, if the prince's body has been borne away for protection, it would not be within Bretanglia."

"Merovence?" Matt stared in disbelief.

"No, nor in any place where knights could ride," the abbess said impatiently. "Whoever bore his body away would have taken it across the sea…" She turned to Matt suddenly, her gaze focusing. "The Irish Sea! They would have taken him to Erin, to the Isle of Doctors and Saints! There would be holiness enough to ward off any sorcerer, and seawater enough to delay any troop of knights, especially if they feared a wizard's power to bring a storm to overturn their ships! So even if there were truth in the rumor, neither John nor his sorcerer would concern themselves with it, for a sleeping Brion far from the shores of Bretanglia would be no threat to them—at least until they had consolidated their power."

"Yes," Matt said heavily. "First things first. Get the country securely under your thumb, then send an expedition to kill the rightful heir for once and for all. Sure, it makes perfect sense."

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

"The notion doesn't seem to delight you, son," his father said, frowning.

"It doesn't, Papa—because if there's one place where there might be a few genuine druids still holding on, it's Ireland."

"In the hills in the interior of the island?" Mama frowned, nodding. "Perhaps so. And you fear they could see this wave of synthodruids as an opportunity to revive their true religion?"

"It does sound like a great opportunity," Matt said, "and their last. Let the sorcerer take over Bretanglia, then come riding in and steal his conquest away from him—because if the people are worshiping the old gods and following the druids, of course they'll drop the synthos and turn to the real druids."

Sergeant Brock stared, amazed.

"The sorcerer would not give up so easily," Papa objected.

"Perhaps, but the contest would be worth the chance," the abbess admitted. "Still, that would give them all the more reason to protect Brion in enchanted sleep—so that they could present a true heir to enforce their claim."

"Brion would not let himself be used so," Sir Orizhan objected. "He might fight for the True Faith, but not for the power-lust of the old."

"With a kingdom to gain, and a true version of the old faith to drive out a cynical imitation?" Papa challenged.

"Not even then!"

"It matters not," the abbess told them. "A rumor of Brion will have as much force to raise resistance as Brion himself. Lord Wizard, you must go to Erin and seek his body. If you find there is no truth in the rumor, we must find some other way to fight these charlatans."

"And if I find out the prince really is still alive, preserved by magic?"

"Then you must wake him," the abbess said with iron resolution. She turned to Mama and Papa. "But there is some slight chance that he might be in Glastonbury. You must go there, and make sure of that rumor."

Sir Orizhan stood up, tightening his sword belt. "Then let us go quickly, before the hunters return."

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

"Who shall protect the convent, then?" Mama objected.

"By your leave, my lady, if we are gone, I do not think the hunters' hounds will lead them here."

"Then it isn't going to be safe for you!" Matt objected.

"Do not fear, my son." Mama smiled at him with a look that bordered on the bloodthirsty. "Now that we know the nature of our enemies, I mink your father's magic and my own knack of binding enemies'

spells against them will serve to send them packing."

"If you say so," Matt said with trepidation. Then he turned to the abbess. "I could at least ask my companions to stay, in case you need to fight off the hunters."

Sir Orizhan and Sergeant Brock glared at him.

"Men, and men of war, in a convent for more than one night?" the abbess protested. "Surely not!"

Matt turned to Dolan with an idea dawning. "Then let me leave you one poor beggar. I think he might be more of a help than you think."

Dolan stared up at him in bewilderment.

"A beggar will be no threat to my daughters," the abbess said slowly. "Surely we shall care for him until the land is peaceful enough for him to go his way in safety, Lord Wizard—but I cannot see what use he may be against men of war."

"Oh, he has a hidden strength," Matt assured her, "relatively speaking."

The road led away from the convent, across the plain to a forest, where the road forked. Parents and son exchanged quick embraces at the crossroads. Mama held him at arm's length, frowning. "You know I am not happy about letting you sally off without the two of us to strengthen you."

"Don't worry, Ma," Matt said, "I won't wreck the car."

She stared at him a moment, then smiled and gave him a mock slap. "Saucy boy! All right, I am silly to worry about a grown man who has survived so many battles. But see you do not let them wreck you!"

Then she stretched up to give him another peck on the cheek, and turned her horse away.

Papa lingered to clasp him on the shoulder, looking directly into his eyes. "Adios—go with God, my son."

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

"I always try," Matt assured him. "May God be with you, too, Papa."

He set off walking beside Sir Orizhan's horse, but glanced back a few feet farther on, of course, and saw them looking, too. Both waved; then a turn of each path cut them off from sight.

Matt stopped, and Sir Orizhan reined in—they had insisted Mama and Papa take two of the horses, and that Sir Orizhan ride the third. Sergeant Brock stopped, too.

"I was wondering whether or not you were going to tell them," said Sir Orizhan.

"No need for them to know what might upset them," Matt assured him, then raised his voice. "Okay, Buckeye! You can come out now!"

The bauchan stepped forth from the roadside trees, grinning. "So, wizard! It seems you have a true family after all!"

"So I do," Matt admitted, "but you're only supposed to haunt my descendants, aren't you?"

The bauchan lost his smile in consternation. "I have never known a family where I began by haunting the son," he admitted.

"It's no time for innovation, with the country so stirred up," Matt advised, "and my adopted son is back at that convent. By the way, should I scold you or thank you?"

"Why, either one," said the bauchan, "or both, as it pleases you."

"Shouting might do me more good," Matt told him, "and I ought to scold anyone who helped those hunters stay on my trail—but I have to thank someone who scared them away for me. Why'd you do it, anyway?"

The bauchan grinned. "It was great run."

"Wonderful," Matt muttered. "I'm fighting for my life and trying to save the kingdom, and he thinks it's fun to bushwhack me."

"Ah, but also to save you!" The bauchan held up a forefinger.

"I'm beginning to understand why your last family died of nervous prostration," Matt grumbled. "Well, I guess it's 'thank you' this time."

"This time," the bauchan agreed.

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

Matt thought of threatening, then thought better. Instead he frowned. "Why didn't you pull out all the stops on your magic when I sicced those bedbugs on you the first time?"

"They were mere fly-bites," the bauchan said with a deprecating gesture, "no real threat."

Matt wondered if he were better off being a pussycat "Well, we're off to Ireland. Guess you'll have to leave my son Dolan back there."

The bauchan's face was a study in consternation. "You're flitting?"

"I'm not a butterfly," Matt said, "but if that's what you call leaving a place, then yes, we're flitting. But we've been flitting the whole time you've known us."

"Well, aye, but not across water—and saltwater at that!"

Hope sprang in Matt's breast. "Don't be glum, chum— we've got a good fifty miles to the seashore."

"I should storm and rant and rave at you with every step!"

"Hey, that's no way to say good-bye." Matt was getting giddy with the thought of being rid of the bauchan.

Buckeye narrowed his eyes to glints. "Nay, neither a rant nor a rave—I'll find a way to plague your every step!"

But he didn't. Late that night, toward the end of his watch, Matt heard a distant sound that he first thought was thunder, then realized was the shouting of men and screaming of horses. He found that very interesting, especially since it was coming from the direction of the convent. He decided it was none of his business, waited with interest until it had died away, then woke Sergeant Brock for his watch and went to sleep. His last vagrant thought was a hope that Dolan would have sense enough to stay inside the convent's walls.

Two uneventful days later, as they were pitching camp for the night in a small clearing, screaming broke out in the woods nearby, mixed with gloating laughter.

"He's back!" Matt leaped to his feet, feeling his heart sink. "I thought we were rid of that bauchan!"

Sir Orizhan and Sergeant Brock rose, too, to face the noise—and a young girl burst from the trees, running in terror. Her gown was ripped and tattered, her face turned back toward whatever was chasing her. She turned to look forward just in time to slam into Sir Orizhan's chest. His arms closed about her automatically, and she looked up, mouth opening for a scream that never came as she stared unbelieving Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

at his face.

"My princess!" Sir Orizhan cried.

Then the hunters broke from the brush.

Sir Orizhan stepped past the young woman, drawing his sword. Brock and Matt stepped up beside him, weapons out. The damsel shrank back behind them, eyes wide, hand to her lips.

The hunters halted in consternation. They were half a dozen soldiers with a hound, but they hadn't been expecting resistance with swords. They stared at the three companions.

"Too much risk now, boys," Matt pointed out. "Better retreat while you can."

"We are six to your one, and have horses besides," the leader snarled. "Sic him, Belle!"

The name was hugely inappropriate—the hound had to be one of the ugliest Matt had ever seen. But it sprang at his throat, snarling, and what choice did Matt have but to slash with his sword as he swung aside?

The six riders fell on knight and sergeant, who pivoted back-to-back and thrust upward at unarmored anatomy. Two soldiers screamed and fell off their horses.

The young woman darted forward, snatched a sword from one writhing soldier, and sprang back, sword raised to guard.

The hound fell, writhing and dying, even as the hunters shouted with anger and charged. But a luminous orange form rose from the dead body and threw itself at Matt again, snarling. He fell back, startled, but by force of habit the spell came to his lips even as he chopped at the spirit with his sword.

"Get ye hence to the pit that bred ye!

Turn upon the one who sped ye!

Ere day doth daw,

Ere cock doth craw,

Ere channering worm doth chide,

'Gin ye must get back to your place!

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

Again ye there must bide!"

The spirit howled in agony, and a jolt like an electric shock numbed Mart's whole arm, but he managed to hold onto the sword anyway.

The spirit faded, transfixed on Mart's sword, and its howling faded to silence. One of the soldiers saw, stared, and cried, "He has slain the demon-spawn!"

The other soldiers turned just in time to see the hound-body fade away, too—and Brock and Orizhan hit them from the side, swords probing under the edges of breastplates. Two soldiers howled in pain of their own, and the Princess Rosamund darted forward to stab at a third. He shouted in pain and swung at her, but she danced back out of reach of his blade, and he turned his horse to chase after his companion, who was already riding for the tall timber. The two wounded soldiers yanked on reins and sped after their mates, hands pressed to flesh, leaving a trail of drops of blood.

"We'll have to find another campsite," Matt panted. "All they'll have to do to come back will be to follow the drops."

"Sir Orizhan!" the young woman cried, and threw herself into his arms, sobbing.

"There, now, my princess, you are safe," Sir Orizhan crooned as though she were still the child she had been when he had brought her to Bretanglia. He stroked her head, murmuring soothing words.

Sergeant Brock stared as though he couldn't believe it. "But she disappeared!"

"Sure, but nobody said she died," Matt pointed out. He examined his sword, but it seemed sound enough, if you ignored the bluing over the lower half, as though it had been held for half a minute in a very hot flame.

"Surely she must have been stolen away!"

"Apparently she stole away all by herself." Matt sheathed the sword.

"How?" the sergeant bleated.

"It would seem your young mistress knows some magic," Matt told him. "How else would that particular kind of hound have picked up her trace?"

Brock stared at the princess as though he were seeing her for the first time.

She caught her breath and choked down her sobs, staring at the bright red line across Sir Orizhan's bicep.

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

"Sir Knight, you are wounded!"

"A scratch only," Sir Orizhan protested. His mouth tightened in chagrin. "A foeman drove my own blade back against me."

The princess ripped a strip from her already ragged robe and turned to Matt. "Have you no spirits about you?"

"Far more than I like to think about," he returned, "and I think I just dispatched one—but not the kind you mean." He went to his pack and drew out a small flask. "The kind for drinking, you mean?"

"Aye! Give me!" She held out a hand.

"My lady, surely you recognize this lord," Sir Orizhan said gravely, "Matthew Mantrell, Lord Wizard of Merovence. Lord Wizard, you know the Princess Rosamund."

"Of course," Matt said, "though I hadn't quite expected to meet her here."

Rosamund stared. "The Lord Wizard? But of course! I should have known you!" She blushed, holding out the improvised bandage. "How silly of me, to seek to heal when you are by!"

"You were doing just fine," Matt assured her, and held out a roll of lint he'd taken out with the bottle.

"You might like a real bandage, though. Go ahead, go ahead!"

Rosamund took the roll and the flask hesitantly, then began to clean Sir Orizhan's wound. He gazed down at her with a doting smile, the very picture of an affectionate uncle.

"I would appreciate having my guess confirmed or denied, my lady," Matt said. "Did you disappear by your own magic, then?"

"I did, my lord." She looked up at him, eyes wide in the firelight. "I knew a few spells a wise woman taught me when I was about to leave my home. I crafted a stock in my own image, used it to deceive the guards, and fled into the night. I have fled ever since, in the evening and the false dawn, ever in twilight."

"Not the safest time of day, considering the habits of the fairy folk," Matt said, frowning, "but not the most dangerous, either, especially if you have soldiers combing the realm for you. What did you do, sleep by day and keep watch by night?"

"How did you know?" Then Rosamund caught herself. "But of course—you are a wizard. Yes, I hid by day for fear of the soldiers, and by night for fear of the spirits, but when I could travel, I did, always Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

toward the east, where the sea lay and I might somehow find a ship to bear me away from this benighted land."

"Since we're heading for the seacoast, too, we bumped into one another." Matt suspected there was more to it than that, but he wasn't privy to the plans of the patron saints of Merovence and Bretanglia. "What made you decide to escape? Hearing of Brion's death?"

"Aye, the poor dear fool." Tears gathered in Rosamunds eyes, and nearly in Sir Orizhan's, too, for he seemed to feel as she felt.

But Sergeant Brock stared, scandalized "Fool? Prince Brion was nearly perfect in strategy and tactics!"

"But not in the things that matter most to a woman," Matt pointed out, "not that he could be, while she was betrothed to his brother."

Rosamund stared at him in amazement.

"I'm in love, too," Matt told her. "Have been for years."

"I am not in love with Brion!" Rosamund flared, then calmed instantly to musing. "But he was the only one of that family whom I could trust not to seek to use me in some way." Tears formed in her eyes again.

"And with him dead, you knew life would become unbearable?" Matt pressed.

"I knew the king's plans for me, my lord." Rosamund tossed her head. "I could not endure them. I would rather risk death at the hands of his hunters, or of bandits."

"Which you did," Matt agreed. "Risk death, I mean. Well, I'm glad they didn't find you until you found us." He rolled up his blankets. "Come on, folks. Leave the dead and take the horses. We don't want to be here when their comrades get back."

Sergeant Brock led them through the darkened woods, Sir Orizhan and Rosamund walking side by side, talking in low tones, updating each other on what had been happening. Matt, though, walked backward, sweeping away their tracks and reciting,

"Any taint of my so-powerful art I here obscure,

and shield from their senses My airy charms.

Let all trace of spells I work Be broken,

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

and any spoor of my strong magic

Be buried certain fathoms in the earth."

He thought they must have gone a thousand feet when he looked up and saw, by patches of moonlight sifted through leaves, a tall and long-limbed shape a hundred feet away, backing toward him and gesturing with its loosely jointed arms.

CHAPTER 18

Matt's lips thinned; he could just imagine the kind of verse Buckeye was casting, one that would leave a taint of magic so strong that the least sensitive hound in the sorcerer's kennel would smell it a mile away.

His eyes narrowed and he chanted,

"Split a trail from this we leave,

And since bauchans can't follow minds,

Make him see naught but that false weave

And track us down that alley blind."

With satisfaction, he watched as the rubber-limbed figure seemed to move along the side of the trail, then farther and farther away from it. The last Matt saw of him, he was backing away far to the left, still gesturing and presumably chanting, as Matt backed up straight, reciting his masking verse over and over again.

Rosamund insisted on helping them pitch their new camp— it seemed she had learned something about living in the field when Sir Orizhan had taken her along with the princelings on childhood expeditions.

Certainly she knew how to lay and light a fire that gave off remarkably little smoke. Sergeant Brock was scandalized at the thought of a princess doing menial tasks, though, and insisted on cooking the meal, so she busied herself in cutting boughs and making pallets.

Dinner consisted of equal amounts of stew and the inside story of the civil war, at least as much of it as Rosamund had heard. By the time she was done, they were all ready to sleep, and Sir Orizhan insisted on taking first watch, sitting on a rock and beaming down at his sleeping ward. Watching his face, Matt could see he wasn't in love with the princess, but that she was obviously filling the place in his heart of the daughter he had never had. He went to sleep on that thought.

He woke up to a howling racket, but one far away. Everyone else bolted upright, too, and Sir Orizhan, on his feet, hissed, "What can that bedlam be, Lord Wizard?"

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

"The hunters and their hound," Matt told him, just as the howl-baying turned to a high-pitched yelping that faded into the distance, followed by the shouts and howls of thoroughly spooked human beings.

Something hooted derisively as it faded after them, yowling and clamoring with the voices of a dozen beasts.

"The hound followed the most prominent trail of magic it found," Matt explained, "which led it to a very surprised bauchan who is now also very angry. Hopefully, he'll satisfy that anger by chasing them, and by the time he runs out of gas, he should be too far away to make it back to us by morning."

"What is a bauchan?" Princess Rosamund asked, and Matt lay back down while Sir Orizhan was explaining. When he was done, she said, "It seems a most helpful beast."

"Only by accident," Matt assured her, "this time, at least."

As it turned out, they were a lot closer to the coast than they'd thought. The second day saw them into a fishing village, with half the afternoon left to find a boat. The fishermen were just coming in, tying up their vessels at the long dock, and Matt went from one to another, asking for passage to Erin. Everyone he asked turned away, avoiding his eyes, shaking heads and muttering. He found out why when he approached the oldest sailor there.

"Erin?" The grizzled fellow eyed the gold coin in Mart's hand with longing. "I'd be happy enough to take you there, but the king's men came riding by yesterday and told us anyone who carried strangers across the water would die a slow and lingering death."

"Oh, did they?" Matt felt the bottom of his stomach go out. "Uh, I don't suppose there's any chance of swimming, is there?"

The old fisherman showed yellowed stubs of teeth in a grin. "Not likely, my lad. There's a legend of a giant named Finn MacCumhail crossing once, but he waded."

"Not MacCool at all," Matt grumbled. "Anyone have a boat for sale?"

"For enough gold? Aye, if they didn't stop to think what the soldiers would do once they found out."

"That's what I was afraid of," Matt sighed. He turned away—and found an old woman in a tattered robe sitting on a piling, staring at him with wild eyes from an emaciated face framed by long, tangled hair that was blowing in the wind. Matt stopped and swallowed. "Uh—who's that old dame sitting there staring at me?"

"Who, Old Meg?" The fisherman looked up, and his face showed pity. "Oh, don't let her trouble you, lad. The sea took her betrothed fifty years ago, and she comes down to watch every evening in hopes Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

that she'll see his boat come in, and him step off it. If she troubles you, you've but to tell her your name and home, and she'll let you pass without another word."

"Thanks for the advice." Matt went on down the dock, eyes on his own people—but as he passed Old Meg, a scrawny hand shot out and caught his arm with a grip so strong he almost cried out. Instead he said, "Uh, lady—could you go a little easier on the haberdashery?"

"Well, at least he knows a lady born when he sees one," Old Meg said, gratified. "Do you wish to cross the water, lad?"

"Cross the … ?" Matt stared; it wasn't what he'd been expecting. "Well… yes!"

"To Erin, is it?"

"It is." Conscience stirred. "But the king's men said not to take anyone."

"King's men!" Old Meg said with scorn. "What need to fear the soldiers of so weak a man? His grandfather Talorc, now—there was a king!"

Matt looked more closely at her, deciding she might be older than she looked. "I wouldn't want you helping us just to have your life cut short."

"There's not that much of it left, lad," she assured him. "I've a boat—not so big a one, but large enough to take you and those three friends of yours, and sound enough to take me out to catch my dinner every day. Will you sail with me or not?"

"Yes!" Matt said "See you at first light tomorrow." He fished out the piece of gold again.

"I'll have none of your coin," Old Meg said sharply. "What I'll do, I'll do for the rightful king, not for pay

—and you won't meet me any time but now." She hopped down off the piling. "If you want to sail with me, you come at once or not at all!"

Matt gulped "A night crossing in a small boat?"

"Who was only now worrying about the soldiers?" Old Meg returned "Will you come, or not?"

"We'll come!"

Matt followed her down the dock to his companions and made the introductions. Rosamund stared into the old woman's eyes and shivered. Old Meg only smiled at her and nodded slowly, but all she said was,

"You'll do," and turned away, striding down the beach so fast Matt had to hurry to keep up with her.

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

Sir Orizhan matched his pace, and Matt told him, "Rare old lady, this!"

"I was thinking that, too." Sir Orizhan watched Old Meg with a brooding gaze.

She led them past the end of the village to a weathered cottage with a moldy thatch that stood at the edge of the sand. There she turned sharply and paced down the beach to a small boat with a short mast. The companions followed after, skidding and sliding in their hurry. Then Matt came close enough to see the craft, and stopped dead staring in alarm.

The little sailboat was battered and patched its paint chipped and peeling, its ropes frayed and worn. It scarcely looked big enough for two people, let alone five.

"It lets a little water," Old Meg told him, "and you'll have to take turns bailing, but it will take you across the water."

"If you say so." Matt gave the little boat a jaundiced eye, but he came closer anyway.

"A little help, lad." Old Meg held out her hand. Matt took it, and she climbed up the two pilings to which her boat was moored. They formed a rough staircase, and as she stepped down onto the seat by the mast, she told Rosamund "Lady, come aboard. You men can shove off and get your leggins wet before you climb in."

Sir Orizhan handed Rosamund up—she didn't look any happier about it than Matt felt—men joined Matt and Sergeant Brock in leaning against the bow and shoving hard. Sand slipped under their feet, and Matt wondered how the old dame managed without any help—probably just climbed aboard and waited for the tide to come in.

The boat floated, and seawater drenched Matt's boots and hose. He grumbled as he hauled himself in over the gunwale and settled down on a bench, shivering and miserable already. At least he didn't have to worry about getting his feet wet in the bilge. He took up the leather bucket and started bailing.

Old Meg had managed to haul up the sail and work her way back to the aft seat by the tiller. Now the wind filled the canvas, and she turned the boat into the breeze. Matt saw, with misgiving, that the sail was even more patched than the hull. He wondered what kept the boat afloat—magic? You never could tell, with these old semi-hermit women.

The three men huddled in the bow, shivering in the night breeze with their soaking legs, their faces grim and stoic—but Rosamund sat high and dry, slippers tucked under her skirts, which were gathered around her legs, listening wide-eyed as Meg explained how to sail the boat. "If the wind shifts, lass, the boom—

that's the pole that sticks out from the mast, with the bottom of the sail lashed to it—the boom will come about—that means it will swing, sometimes very quickly, and if you're not watching sharply, it could Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

strike you a nasty blow, or even knock you overboard. Beware the change of the wind…"

Matt listened closely, some sixth sense telling him he was going to need the knowledge someday, but growing more and more confused by the wealth of details the woman spewed out, not with any organization, but as they occurred to her in response to her trimming of the sail and leaning on the tiller.

His stomach churned with the rocking of the boat and the constant conviction that they were going to capsize, and he became more and more befuddled as he watched the village grow smaller and smaller behind Old Meg. By the time it disappeared, darkness had fallen, and Matt had become thoroughly convinced that he could never have sailed the little boat.

Then, in the darkness between sunset and moonrise, rising and falling with the roll of the sea, Old Meg dropped the sail suddenly and, as the boat coasted to a stop, turned to Matt and demanded, "Why do you wish to go to Erin?"

Matt rocked back, jolted by her tone of accusation. Caution ruled, and he said the first partial truth that came to mind. "Well, we're trying to escape a bauchan, you see, so we're flitting."

A gravelly basso from under his seat agreed, "Aye, Meg, we're flitting, you see."

Matt jumped a good six inches. It felt like a mile.

Sir Orizhan and Sergeant Brock turned and stared, astounded, and Rosamund looked alarmed, but Old Meg only narrowed her eyes and said, "A bauchan, is it? In my boat? You were not invited, creature, and you're not welcome!

"Get you back to shore, And bother me no more!"

She followed the simple rhyme with a verse in a foreign language while she stirred the air with a forefinger, then jabbed it back toward the land. Something shot from under Matt's seat with a hooting and whooping and went galloping back over the water toward the village, clutching its buttocks and howling in alarm.

Matt stared after the departing bauchan in amazement. "Wow! Wish I could do that!" Then the implication of the phrase hit him, and he turned back to find Old Meg staring straight at him, her eyes narrowed and her mouth a hard line.

"You didn't tell us you were a magician," Matt said.

"Nor did you tell me you were," Meg returned, "not that I had any need to be told—and I'll warn you, wizard, not to try your magic on me, or you'll have a very unpleasant surprise."

"If you feel that way about it," Matt said, "why did you offer us a ride?"

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

"Out of the fear of the mischief you might breed if I left you in Bretanglia. If you'd been by yourself, be sure you'd have been dazed by a blow of magic and be lying unconscious this moment."

Matt gazed at her a minute, then turned to Sir Orizhan. "Looks like it's a good thing you guys came along."

"Not them, foolish male!" Meg snapped. "The maiden! I'd toss the three of you overboard without a thought, but I'll talk to her." She turned to Rosamund. "How say you, lass? Why do you go to Erin?"

"Why," Rosamund said, "because I seek to escape the king and Prince John, and that is where my protectors are going."

"Protectors?" Meg turned back to the men. "How do I know you mean to protect the lass, not despoil her?"

Sir Orizhan's head snapped back in outrage. "Why, because I have been her guardian these ten years, and would slay any who sought to harm her!"

Meg gazed at him a moment, then said, "A fair answer, and I feel the truth of it. But why do you travel with this wizard?"

"To learn who slew Prince Gaheris," the knight said, "for this sergeant and I had been set to protect him."

Again Meg gazed at him in silence, then glanced at Brock.

The sergeant sat bolt upright, staring at her in alarm.

"There is truth again," Old Meg said, "though I sense there's some missing. Still, I'm not sure you know of it." She turned to Matt. "Now, wizard, the full truth: Why do you go to Erin?"

"To look for Prince Brion's body," Matt said. "There's a rumor that he isn't dead, only lying in a magical sleep. If that's so, we mean to find him and wake him if we can, then bring him back to fight the false druids who are stealing the realm from the people."

Rosamund gave a little, inarticulate cry, and Meg's sharp eyes swung to her. "You did not know of this, maiden?"

"I did not," Rosamund said. "I only sought to go as far from King Drustan and Prince John as I could, and these good men were taking me where I wished to go."

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

"Would you have gone if you had known they sought Prince Brion?"

"Oh, yes," Rosamund breathed. "Oh, most surely would I have gone, and with even better heart, if I had known!"

Meg studied her for a long while, men gave a nod of satisfaction. Turning, she raised the sail again.

"Well enough, then, we go to Erin." She set the sail by taking a bight around a cleat with a turn of her wrist.

Matt decided to keep his mouth shut, but curiosity got the better of him. "Why are you willing to help us? This isn't your fight"

"But it is." Meg turned back to Matt, her eyes burning into his. "Know, O Wizard, that you are not alone in your enmity to the mock druids."

Matt only stared. So did Sergeant Brock.

"Learn that there were female druids, too," Old Meg told him, "and that some are still abroad in the land."

She waited while her words sank in, and to good effect— Matt had a very strange feeling, almost as though his skin were vibrating in resonance to old, arcane magic, and Sergeant Brock began to tremble.

"So," Matt said softly, "you are a druid—a real druid."

"I am, and can tell you the name of my teacher, and of her teacher, and her teacher's teacher, back to the days when we held the island of Mona as our right. There are true druids in Erin, too, more than in Bretanglia, though not so many as there should be," Meg told him.

Matt wondered about that "should," but only said, "Why are you helping me, then?"

"Because I hate and despise these mock druids who defame and debase our noble religion!" Meg spat.

"They seek to imprison the people, not to free their hearts and minds! They seek to use the gods as tools for their own ends, not to devote themselves wholly to the deities! And in their blasphemy, they shall make the reputation of we who truly hold to the Old Gods even worse than the milksop monks and nuns have done!"

"We have a common enemy, then?"

"Aye, and a common champion, too! I have told you I seek to aid the true king, and you know my opinion of Drustan!"

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

"But you think his son Brion is true," Matt interpreted.

Rosamund gasped.

"True in heart, true in mind, but more importantly, true to the land and the people who dwell in it, far more true than either his father or his brothers have been! Nay, this much I can tell you—that Brion's body is indeed in Erin, and that holy men have borne it there by magic!"

"But you can't tell us whether or not he's still alive," Matt inferred.

"If he is, he looks most amazingly dead—though his body is not corrupted, unless the rumors that pass from druid to druid are false." She fixed Matt with a burning eye. "But alive or dead, he shall bring you men to help you in your quest— this I know! Go to Erin, go to the Isle of Doctors and Saints, and bring back an army of truth to help you disperse the purveyors of lies who defame my Order!"

"I'll try," Matt said slowly, never taking his eyes from her, "but it's apt to be dangerous. Maybe we should leave the princess with you—she should be safe enough"

"Oh, no!" Rosamund cried. "I must go with you to find Brion!"

"It is even as she says," Old Meg agreed. "Her destiny does not lie in a small fishing village on the shore of Bretanglia. Take her to Erin, wizard, and let her read her weird."

The room seemed gloomy, but there was no candle at his bedside, and King Drustan raised a hand to gesture as he called for light—but the hand would not rise at the command of his will, and he could hear only the harsh caw of his tongueless voice. Prince John stepped into his range of vision, and there was enough light to see him, at least. The boy bent low, his voice soothing. "The drapes are opened wide to the sunlight, Father; the room is as light as we can make it. Let the doctor examine you, and perhaps he can make the day seem brighter—though it is indeed gray and gloomy."

Drustan grumbled something affirmative and relaxed. His stomach was roiling, making him faint with nausea. It had been getting worse for days.

John stepped back, and the doctor stepped forward. He held the king's wrist for a little while, frowning in concentration, then leaned over to peer closely into his eyes. Brows bent, he straightened up and probed the king's stomach.

Drustan bellowed in agony, eyes bulging.

"It has been too long since your bowels moved," the doctor said with false heartiness, "only that, my liege, and nothing more. Rest, drink only small beer, and wait."

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

But as he stepped back, Drustan's nausea spread upward to heartsickness. He gargled a curse at the man, recognizing the falseness of the tone—and his heartsickness turned to panic as an archbishop stepped up to his bedside. Drustan tried to push himself upright, mouthing denials.

"Gently, gently, Your Majesty," the archbishop soothed. "I have heard your confession every month, and given you the Eucharist every week, for six years. Surely there is no need to alter that now."

A little relieved, Drustan sank back on his bed and muttered a querulous phrase.

"It has been a month, yes, a month and more." The archbishop raised his head. "Your Highness, I beg you withdraw for some minutes. What His Majesty confesses is only for the ears of himself, myself, and God."

"But how shall you understand his words? I must explain them to you!"

"God shall understand them," the archbishop said, "and after sixty confessions, I fancy I shall recognize every word he says. Leave us, Your Highness—leave him to me and God."

John stood outside the door and fretted. When the archbishop finally came out and said, "You may go in again," John bolted through the door and smelled the aroma of the priest's scented candles. He hurried to his father's bedside and saw the gleam of anointing on his forehead. His smile had a vindictive quality as he bent over Drustan. "Gave you the Last Rites, did he? Well, that was wise of him, old man, for you're dying now, and there's no doubt of it."

Drustan's eyes widened; he gargled in anger.

"How dare I tell you that?" John grinned. "Because it's true enough, you old goat, and in less than an hour you won't be able to hurt anyone anymore! Aye, at last I'll be safe from your whims and your rages! At last I'll be able to build a life for myself! At last I'll be rid of you!"

Drustan struggled to rise, face livid, mouthing outrage.

"Behold the king!" John mocked. "Behold the mighty Drustan, before whom all men tremble! Here, O

Man of Power, hold this cup!"

He pressed a silver goblet into his father's hand, then took his own hands away. The vessel clattered to the floor.

"If you cannot grasp a cup, how shall you hold a sword? No, the days when all men feared Drustan are done, for Drustan himself is done—and no man need fear you now!"

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

He thrust his face close, so close the reek of his breath nearly stifled Drustan as John spat, "How can I be so sure? Why, because it's I who have done it, you poor benighted old fool! It's I who brought you your cup and bowl, I who spooned the gruel into you, I who mixed poison with wine and porridge! It is I who have poisoned you, and I wish you had not confessed or taken Extreme Unction, so that you could have gone to Judgment with your sins on your soul!"

Drustan roared with rage, anger so intense that he actually managed to start up from his bed, to lift an anvil-heavy arm and grope for John's throat. With a cry of terror, John sprang back, hands up to defend, shrinking into a corner—but the huge red swollen face before him abruptly turned white, and the king fell back, senseless, with eyes wide open.

John waited, heart hammering. He waited for what seemed an impossibly long time, then waited longer.

Finally he dared creep up to the bed, dared even further to reach out and touch his father's hand, ready to leap away and flee—but the hand stayed unmoving. Daring even more greatly, John took Drustan is wrist and felt for the pulse. It was a task he had done every day for weeks, so he knew exactly where to probe—but felt nothing. At last he plucked up the courage to touch the great vein in the king's neck, felt and waited, dreading, hoping—and felt not the slightest tremor of blood moving beneath the skin.

Finally, he dared to reach up and close Drustan's eyelids. Triumph began to boil up inside him; his face split in an idiotic grin; but he held it in while he fished in his purse for two pennies, then laid them on his father's eyelids. "Money for the ferryman! Copper to hold your soul away! Rest in agony, Father, as I have when I've dreaded your anger! Rest uneasily, rest angrily, rest painfully, but rest, rest, and never come back!"

There was more, all uttered in a hushed, intense tone, so that none might hear it except the corpse. At last John ran down and stood panting as he glared at the body of the man who had humiliated him so often, and only given approval when John had learned how to fawn upon him.

Then John stepped away from the bed and threw his head back with silent laughter, forcing himself to keep his shout of victory to a whisper, fists clenched in triumph.

A tapestry stirred in the shadows. John heard the slightest rasp of wood sliding against wood and dropped his hands, squaring his shoulders, doing the best he could to look regal—but he could not quite wipe the grin from his face.

Niobhyte stepped out of the gloom into the light of the deathwatch candle. "Is it done, then?"

"It is," John told him, glee still in his voice. "He is dead, and shall trouble me no more. I thank you for the poison, Niobhyte. It did all that you said it would."

The chief synthodruid made a deprecating gesture. "It was my pleasure, as it shall always be my pleasure to serve you— if you will."

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

"Oh, yes," John told him. "Oh, I shall always be glad of your service, Niobhyte—and you may be sure of my patronage. I shall see your religion rise, and these stumbling-block priests torn down! The Church shall fall, the Old Gods rise again, and I shall be the first to worship them openly!"

"I shall ever be Your Majesty's faithful servant." Niobhyte knelt to kiss John's hand. "The king is dead—

long live the king!"

"I thank you, my first and most loyal subject," John told him. "Now, though, you had better step back into that secret passageway, for I must bring in the doctor and the archbishop to make Drustan's passing the law of the land. Then I can begin to unmake their Church!"

"I am ever obedient to Your Majesty," Niobhyte said, and backed away with bowed head to disappear behind the tapestry again.

John listened for the sliding of wood on wood, then turned to open the door and call in both physician and prelate. The came, they stared in apprehension—then they both turned and knelt, declaring as Niobhyte had, "The king is dead— long live the king!"

"Read my weird?" Rosamund asked. "What is my weird, and how shall I read it?"

They stood on land, watching the little boat skip away over the waves, its sail filled with the morning breeze. Behind them the sun struggled to rise over Erin. Admittedly, the distance between Erin and Bretanglia wasn't great, but Matt was still surprised Meg had sailed it so fast.

"Your weird is a sort of a trap," Sergeant Brock told her.

Matt looked up in surprise.

"It is what you were born into this world to do," the sergeant went on, "the outcome of the sum and total of all the virtues and talents within you, the work in life for which you, and only you, are most singularly fitted. But you do not have to do it. You can turn away from it, if you lack the courage—or you can be too blind to see it. But if you have eyes clear enough to read it, and the courage to enter into it, your weird shall close about you, shall catch you up, and bear you onward to fulfillment in this world and joy in the next. Therefore must you read your weird."

"That has the sound of fate," Sir Orizhan said, frowning.

"Is that your southern word for it?" the sergeant asked.

"Not quite," Matt said. "Fate happens to you whether you choose it or not—and whether you like it or not."

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

"A weird is not always pleasant," Sergeant Brock admitted. "Your… the Church sings the praises of martyrs to the faith, who have endured the tortures of burning in this world in order to rise to the glory of sainthood in the next."

"True," Matt said thoughtfully, "but there are other saints like St. Francis of Assisi, who sang his way through life with joy"

"Well, he had his hard times, too," Sir Orizhan pointed out, "but what life does not? The importance of it, Your Highness, is that if you can read your weird and be brave enough to step into it, it may bear you on to joy or bear you on to grief, but it will never leave you feeling that your life was not worth having lived."

"Then I shall find it," Rosamund said with iron determination, "clasp it to my breast, let it fold about me, and go wheresoever it carries me!"

"Then let's begin by finding Brion's body." Matt turned his back on the sea and the fading dot that was Meg's boat. "She said holy men had carried him away. Let's find a bishop."

That by itself turned out not to be easy. They'd had to leave the horses in Bretanglia, of course—Meg's boat just barely managed the four of them—so they had to walk along the beach until they came to a fishing village. It took about an hour, and the old men were sitting on the dock watching the last of the fishing boats sail off for their day's work. Matt hailed them, waving, and the four gaffers looked up in surprise before their faces turned into masks.

"Hi, there!" Matt climbed up onto the dock with his companions right behind him and approached the nearest grandfather, a man who looked to be in his eighties but, given the harshness of medieval life, was probably only in his thirties. "Can you tell me how to get to the castle?" He didn't ask which one—

any castle would do.

The oldster frowned, looking very suspicious, and demanded something incomprehensible—it sounded vaguely like "Bail out this Arab, go lair in her hair."

Matt didn't bother looking around for a Near Eastern woman. "Great," he sighed. "I've been living and traveling in countries that were pieces of Hardishane's empire for so long that I forgot what happened in lands that weren't connected to the continent!"

Sir Orizhan came up, frowning. "What is the trouble, Lord Wizard?"

"Trouble? Oh, nothing—except that these people speak a foreign language, probably Gaelic, and I haven't the faintest idea what this old duffer's saying!"

Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

CHAPTER 19

Sergeant Brock eyed the old man narrowly. "I suspect he speaks less and less of our language the more he distrusts us."

The gaffer may not have known the words, but he understood Brock's tone. He glared back at him and spat another unintelligible phrase.

"So is your mother," Brock said. He watched the oldster carefully, but the expression of suspicious hostility didn't change, and Brock turned to Matt with a sigh. "I fear he really doesn't understand Bretanglian, Lord Wizard. He didn't even seem to know I'd insulted his mother."

"Maybe you didn't. After all, he might have been paying you a compliment."

Sergeant Brock showed his teeth in something resembling a grin. "There is that virtue in merely turning his own words back on him."

"Okay, he's only a day's sail from Bretanglia, but how often do you think he meets people who speak our language?" Matt asked.

"Not often," Sir Orizhan admitted, "since he is only a fisherman—but there is a fair amount of trade between the lands. Surely we can find a merchant who can speak with us!"

"Good idea." Matt scanned the village. "Come to think of it, even the local priest should at least be able to speak church Latin… There! I suppose you could call that a steeple." He pointed to a larger-than-average one-story building with a sort of pointed bump at one end.

"A church indeed," Sir Orizhan agreed. "Do you truly speak the language of ancient Reme?"

Matt kept forgetting that it had been Remus who had won the fight for the first Latin wall in this universe, not Romulus.

'Let's say it's not too different from something I learned in school." He turned back to give the old men a cheery wave. "'Thanks, guys. I think we can make it from here."

The gaffers stared, taken aback, and watched with apprehension as the companions started for the church.

The chapel was the only stone structure in town, as was so often the case, and the rectory-cottage beside it was only wattle and daub with a thatched roof. But the yard before it was neat and clean, with flowers around the border and a whitewashed fence, and the priest was sitting on a bench beside the door, Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

reading his breviary.

Matt felt a little strange walking right up to him, so he knocked at the gate. The priest looked up with a pleasant smile that vanished when he saw strangers, and ones in foreign clothing at that.

"Good morning, Father," Matt said agreeably.

The priest frowned, cocking his head on one side, and asked a question in Gaelic.

Matt sighed and tried again. "Ave, pater!"

"Ah!" The priest's expression cleared. "Ave, filius meant."