Tuan frowned, concerned. “How much of this ‘science’ hath he taught to Yorick?”
“None. He couldn’t have; it depends on mathematics. The basic concepts, maybe—but that’s not enough to really do anything with. He has taught Yorick some history, though, or the big lug wouldn’t’ve known what the Vikings were. Which makes me nervous—what else did the Eagle teach Yorick, and the rest of his people, for that matter?”
Tuan waved away the issue. “I shall not concern myself with such matters, Lord Warlock. These beastmen, after all, cannot have sufficient intelligence to trouble us—not these five alone—when they cannot truly learn our language.”
“I… wouldn’t… quite… say… that…” Rod took a deep breath. “I will admit that not being able to encode and analyze does limit their ability to solve problems. But they’ve got as much gray matter between their ears as you and I do.”
Tuan turned to him, frowning. “Canst thou truly believe that they may be as intelligent as thyself or myself?”
“I truly can—though I have to admit, it’s probably a very strange sort of intelligence.” He glanced back over his shoulder at the group of Neanderthals. The spearmen surrounding them happened to lean toward the outside at that moment, affording Rod a glimpse of Yorick’s face. He turned back to the front. “Very strange.”
Gwen snuggled up to him afterward and murmured, “Thou hast not been away so long as that, my lord.”
“So now I need a reason?” Rod gave her an arch look.
“No more than thou ever hast,” she purred, burrowing her head into the hollow between his shoulder and his jaw.
Suddenly Rod stiffened. “Whazzat?”
“Hm?” Gwen lifted her head, listening for a moment. Then she smiled up at him. “ ‘Twas naught but a tree branch creaking without, my lord.”
“Oh.” Rod relaxed. “Thought it was the baby… You sure he’s snug in his crib?”
“Who may say, with an infant warlock?” Gwen sighed. “He may in truth be here—yet he might as easily be a thousand miles distant.” She was still for a moment, as though she were listening again; then she relaxed with a smile. “Nay, I hear his dream. He is in his crib indeed, my lord.”
“And he won’t float out, with that lid on it.” Rod smiled. “Who would ever have thought I’d have a lighter-than-air son?”
“Dost thou disclaim thine own relative?”
Rod rolled over. “That comment, my dear, deserves…” He jerked bolt-upright. “Feel that?”
“Nay,” she said petulantly, “though I wish to.”
“No, no! Not that! I meant that puff of wind.”
“Of wind?” Gwen frowned. “Aye, there was…” Then her eyes widened. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” Rod swung his legs over the side of the bed and pulled on his robe. “There’s a warlock within.” He raised his voice, calling, “Name yourself!”
For answer, there was a knock on the front of the cave.
“Of all the asinine hours of the night to have company calling,” Rod grumbled as he stamped down the narrow flight of stairs to the big main room.
A figure stood silhouetted against the night sky in the cave mouth, knocking.
“Wait a minute.” Rod frowned. “We don’t have a door. What’re you knocking on?”
“I know not,” the shadow answered, “yet ‘tis wood, and ‘tis near.”
“It’s a trunk,” Rod growled. “Toby?”
“Aye, Lord Warlock. How didst thou know of mine arrival?”
“When you teleported in you displaced a lot of air. I felt the breeze.” Rod came up to the young warlock with a scowl. “What’s so important that I have to be called out at this time of night? I just got back! Have our, ah, ‘guests’ escaped?”
“Nay, Lord Warlock. They are snug in their dunge… ah, guest room. Still, His Majesty summons thee.”
“What’s the matter? Did the cook leave the garlic out of the soup again? I keep telling him this isn’t vampire country!”
“Nay,” Toby said, his face solemn. “ ‘Tis the Queen. She is distraught.”
The guard saw Rod coming, and stepped through the door ahead of him. Rod stamped to a halt, chafing at the bit. He could hear the sentry murmuring; then the door swung open. Rod stepped through—and almost slammed into Tuan. The young King held him off with a palm, then lifted a finger to his lips. He nodded his head toward the interior of the room. Rod looked and saw Catharine seated in a chair by the hearth, firelight flickering on her face. Her eyes reflected the flames, but they were cold, in a face of granite. As he watched she bent forward, took a stick from the hearth, and broke it. “Swine, dog, and offal!” She spat. “All the land knows the Queen for a half-witch, and this motley half-monk hath bile to say…” She hurled the broken stick into the fire, and the flames filled her eyes as she swore, “May he choke on the cup of his own gall and die!”
Rod murmured to Tuan, “What’s got her so upset?”
“She rode out about the countryside, with heralds before her and guardsmen after, to summon all who might have any smallest touch of witch-power within them to come to the Royal Coven at Runnymede.”
Rod shrugged. “So she was recruiting. Why does that have her ready to eat sand and blow glass?”
Catharine looked up. “Who speaks?”
“ ‘Tis the Lord Warlock, my love.” Tuan stepped toward her. “I bethought me he’d find thine news of interest.”
“Indeed he should! Come hither, Lord Warlock! Thou wilt rejoice exceedingly in the news I have to tell, I doubt not!”
Rod could almost feel his skin wither under her sarcasm. He stepped forward with a scowl. “If it has anything to do with witches, I’m all ears. I take it your people didn’t exactly give you a warm reception?”
“I would have thought ‘twas the dead of winter!” Catharine snapped. “My heralds told me that, ere my coach came in view, they felt ’twas only the royal arms on their tabards saved them from stoning.”
“Not exactly encouraging—but not exactly new, either. Still, I had been hoping for a change in public attitude toward our espers… uh, witches.”
“So had I also, and so it might have happed—had there not been a voice raised against them.”
“Whose?” Rod’s voice held incipient murder.
“A holy man.” Catharine made the words an obscenity.
Rod’s mouth slowly opened, then snapped shut. He straightened, a touch of disgust in his face. “I should have known.”
“ ‘Tis a renegade friar,” said the Queen, toying with her ring, “or seems to be. I ha’ spoke with Milord Abbot, and he disclaims all knowledge of the recreant.”
“A self-appointed Jonah.” Rod smiled, with acid. “Lives in a cave in the hills on berries and bee-stings, calling himself a holy hermit and a prophet, and sanctifying his flesh by never sullying it with the touch of water.”
“He doth preach against me,” said Catharine, her hand tightening on the glass, “and therefore against the King also. For I gather the witches to me here in our castle, and therefore am I unworthy of my royal blood, and mine husband of his crown, though he be anointed sovereign of Gramarye; for mine own slight witchcraft, saith this preacher, is the work of the devil.”
Progress, Rod noted silently. Two years ago, she wouldn’t have admitted to her own telepathic powers, rudimentary though they were.
“And therefore,” said the Queen, “are we agents of Satan, Tuan and I, and unfit to rule. And, certes, all witches in our land must die.” She released her wineglass, striking the table with her fist.
Catharine let her head drop into her hands, massaging the temples with her fingertips. “Thus is all our work, thine, mine, and Tuan’s, our work of two years and more, brought low in a fortnight; and this not by armies, nor knights, but by one unclean, self-ordained preacher, whose words spread through the land faster than ever a herald might ride. It would seem there is no need of battles to unseat a King; rumor alone is enough.”