“Why, more witches!” Gwen’s face bloomed into a rosy smile.
Catharine tucked Gwen’s arm into her own, nodding. “Indeed, Lord Warlock! Thy wife doth think that, if witches do join hands, they may then be able to act in concert. Thus, if we may have a score of witches altogether, they might among them counter the Evil Eye of one dragon-full of beastmen.”
“Just twenty of you, against a hundred of them?” Rod felt his backbone chill. “You’ll pardon me, but I don’t like the odds.”
“Nor do we,” Gwen said earnestly. “It would indeed be well if we could have more witches.”
The chill along the backbone turned colder. “Somehow, I don’t like the sound of this.”
“Nor I,” Tuan agreed. “What dost thou plan, my wife?”
“A royal summons.” Catharine’s chin tilted up. “There are witches, husband, who do hide about the hinterlands, on farms and in small villages, seeking to disguise their powers for fear their friends and kin may turn away from them. These have not come unto the Royal Coven through fear of us, or reluctance to leave their folk.”
“You’re going recruiting,” Rod said in a hollow tone.
“An thou dost call it so. I will!” Catharine tossed her head. “Bethink thee—would a summons from a mere herald bring a frightened lass to court? Nay. Yet the presence of her Queen would command her loyalty.” She glared at Tuan, daring him to contradict her.
“And where do you fit into this?” Rod leveled a doubtful gaze on his wife.
“Lady Gallowglass shall rest here, to train the Royal Witches in the breaking of the Evil Eye, whilst I do wander round and ‘bout the countryside, summoning shy witches to the court.” Catharine patted Gwen’s arm protectively, glaring at Rod.
Rod opened his mouth to argue (he couldn’t resist it, even if there wasn’t much to argue about; Catharine was just asking for it too plainly), but the door slammed open and a pale-faced guard stepped in and bowed. “Majesties!”
Catharine whirled, transferring her glare to the page. “What means this unseemly outburst, sirrah?”
“Word hath come through the witches, Majesties! Beast-men have landed at the mouth of the River Fleuve!”
“Call out the army!” Rod snapped to Tuan. He headed for the door. “I’ll get the Flying Legion out—or what’s left of ‘em!”
“Nay, milord!” the page cried. “They have landed under flag of truce!”
“What!” Rod spun around, staring.
The sentry nodded. “Aye, milord. There are but a handful of them, and they have surrendered themselves to the knights of My Lord of Bourbon. Even now, they ride toward Runnymede, guarding well their beastmen”—he hesitated, then turned a questioning glance to the king—“guests?”
“They are if they indeed landed under a flag of truce.” Tuan rose. “Send word to guard them well, for I doubt not there are many of our goodfolk who would gladly slay them. Lord Warlock, come!” And he strode toward the door.
“Where dost thou go?” Catharine demanded.
Tuan turned back at the door. “I ride to meet them, sweeting, for we must converse with them as soon as we may. An hour lost could means ten lives.”
He marched through the portal, and Rod hurried to catch up with him. He shut the door on Catharine and Gwen with a feeling of relief.
“Then did the High Warlock ride east to meet the beastmen who had come so strangely under a Flag of Truce, and His Majesty the King rode with him; for, though they were few in number, the beastmen were huge and fierce of mien, like unto Demons in their visages, who moved over the face of the Earth like ravening lions. They were tusked like boars, with their heads beneath their shoulders, and bore huge spiked clubs, stained with old blood; and ever and anon did they seek someone to slay. So, when they had come nigh the beastmen, His Majesty the King bade the High Warlock guard them closely with his magic, lest they forget their Truce or it proved to be vile Treachery. And the High Warlock wove a spell about them, standing tall beneath the sun, towering over the beastmen; and his eyes flashed like diamonds in dawnlight, and the aspect of his visage struck Terror into their hearts, so that they stood mute. Then he wove a Spell about them, a cage unseen, a Wall of Octroi, through which they might speak, but never strike. Then spake he unto the King, saying, ‘Lo, these monsters are now circumscribed, and naught can harm ye the whiles ye speak unto them.’ Then spake King Tuan, ‘What manner of men are ye, and wherefore have ye come unto this land of Gramarye?’ Then one among them did stand forth and say, in accents barbarous, that he was the highest Lord of their wild savage Realm, but the other Lords had risen up against their King and overthrown him, wherefore this small band had come beseeching King Tuan’s mercy. Then was King Tuan’s heart moved to Pity, and he spake and said, ‘Poor noble hearts! For I perceive that these treacherous villains who have laid waste my Kingdom have wasted ye likewise!’ And he brought them back with him to Gramarye; yet the High Warlock kept woven tight his net unseen about them…”
—Chillde’s Chronicles of the Reign of Tuan and Catharine
“Your name is what?” Rod stared, unbelieving.
“Yorick.” The beastman spread his hands. “Whatsa-matter? Ain’cha never heard the name before?”
“Well, yes, but never in real life—and as to fiction, you don’t exactly look English.” He glanced back over his shoulder at the soldiers who stood behind him with leveled pikes, then looked up at their companions who stood in a ring around the Neanderthals, pike-points centered on the beast-men. Rod considered telling them to lower their weapons, but decided it would be a little premature.
“A word from you, and they’d drop those spears like magic,” the beastman pointed out.
“Yeah, I know.” Rod grinned. “Ain’t it great?”
“On your side, maybe.” Yorick rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I keep getting the feeling I’ve been through this all before.”
“Nay, dost thou truly?” Tuan said, frowning. “I too have such a sense.”
The Neanderthal shook his head. “Really weird. Like I’ve lived through this already. Except…” He turned to Rod. “You ought to be about a foot taller, with piercing eyes and a wide, noble brow.”
Rod stiffened. “What do you mean, ought to?”
The Neanderthal held up a palm. “No offense. But you ought to have a haughty mien, too—whatever that is.”
“Indeed,” Tuan agreed. “And thou shouldst be hunchbacked, with fangs protruding from the corners of thy jaws, and a look of murdering idiocy in thine eye.”
Yorick reared, startled. Then his face darkened and his eyebrows pulled down to hide his eyes (he had a lot of eyebrow). He stepped forward, opening his mouth—and Rod jumped in quickly. “You, ah, both have this same, ah, sense of, ah, déjá vu?”
“Nice phrase.” Yorick nodded in approval. “I knew there was a word for it.”
Now it was Rod’s turn to stare. Then he said, “Uh—you’ve heard ‘déjá vu’ before?”
“Know I have, know I have.” Yorick bobbed his head, grinning. “Just couldn’t place it, that’s all.”
The handful of beastmen behind him growled and muttered to each other, throwing quick, wary glances at Rod and Tuan.
“How about you?” Rod turned to Tuan. “ ‘Déjá vu.’ Ever heard it before?”
“Never in my life,” Tuan said firmly. “Doth that signify?”
“ ‘Course it does.” Yorick grinned. “It means I’m not a native. But you knew that, didn’t you, High Warlock? I mean, it’s pretty plain that I didn’t evolve here.”
“Yeah, but I sorta thought you’d all been kidnapped.” Rod frowned. “But one of you was in on the kidnapping, weren’t you?”
Yorick winced. “Please! I prefer to think of it as helping place refugees.”
“Oh, really! I thought that kind of placement usually involved finding a willing host!”