“Oh.” Rod turned an exasperated glare on Agatha. “I might have known. This’s all just a joke to you, isn’t it?”
Her head pulled back, offended. “What dost thou mean to say, Lord Warlock?”
A pear shot out of the bowl to join the apple and the orange. They began to revolve, up and around, in an intricate pattern.
Rod glanced up at them, his mouth tightening, then back to Agatha. “All right, all right! So we know you can juggle—the hard way, no hands! Now get your mind back to the problem, okay?”
“I?” Agatha glanced at the spinning fruits, then back to Rod. “Surely thou dost not believe ‘tis my doing!”
Rod just stared at her.
Then he said carefully, “But Gwen said she wasn’t doing it—and she wouldn’t lie, would she?”
Agatha turned her head away, disgusted, and ended looking at Gwen. “How canst thou bear to live with one so slow to see?”
“Hey, now!” Rod frowned. “Can we keep the insults down to a minimum, here? What am I supposed to be seeing?”
“That if I have not done it, and she hath not done it, then there must needs be another who doth do it,” Agatha explained.
“Another?” Rod stared up at the fruit, his eyes widening as he understood. He felt his hackles trying to rise. “You mean…”
“My son.” Agatha nodded. “Mine unborn son.” She waved a hand toward the spinning fruits. “He must needs fill the idle hour. Dost’a not know that young folk have not great patience? Yet is he good-hearted withal, and will not wreak any true troubles. Dismiss him from thy mind and care. We spake, just now, of the wizard Galen…”
“Uh… yeah.” Rod turned back to the two ladies, trying very hard to ignore the fruit bobbing above him. “Galen. Right. Well, as I see it, he’s a true isolate, a real, bona fide, died-in-the-haircloth hermit. Personally, I can’t think of a single thing that could persuade him to join us.”
“I fear thou mayest have the truth of it,” Gwen sighed. “Certes, I would not say that he is amenable.”
Air popped and a baby was sitting in her lap, clapping his hands. “Momma, Momma! Pa’y cake! Pa’y cake!”
Gwen stiffened, startled. Then a delighted smile spread over her face. “My bonny babe!” Her arms closed around Magnus and squeezed.
Rod threw up his hands and turned away. “Why bother trying? Forget the work! C’mere, son—let’s play catch.”
The baby chortled with glee and bounced out of Gwen’s lap, sailing over to Rod. He caught the boy and tossed him back to Gwen.
“Nay, husband.” She caught Magnus and lowered him to the ground, suddenly becoming prim. “ ‘Tis even as thou sayest—we have matters of great moment in train here. Back to thine elf-nurse, child.”
Magnus thrust out his lip in a pout. “Wanna stay!”
Rod bent a stern glance on his son. “Can you be quiet?”
The baby nodded gleefully.
Gwen gave an exasperated sigh and turned away. “Husband, thou wilt have him believing he can obtain aught he doth wish!”
“But just one bit of noise, mind you!” Rod leveled a forefinger at the baby. “You get in the way just one little bit, and home you go!”
The baby positively glowed. He bobbed his head like a bouncing ball.
“Okay—go play.” Rod leaned back in his chair again. “Now. Assuming Galen can’t be persuaded—what do we do?”
Agatha shrugged. “Nay, if he will not be persuaded, I can not see that we can do aught.”
“Just the words of encouragement I needed,” Rod growled. “Let’s try another tack. Other veterans. Any other magical hermits hiding out in the forests?”
“Magnus, thou didst promise,” Gwen warned.
Agatha frowned, looking up at the tent roof. “Mayhap old Elida… She is bitter but, I think, hath a good heart withal. And old Anselm…” She dropped her eyes to Rod, shaking her head. “Nay, in him ‘tis not bitterness alone that doth work, but fear also. There is, perhaps, old Elida, Lord Warlock—but I think…”
“Magnus,” Gwen warned.
Rod glanced over at his son, frowning. The baby ignored Gwen and went on happily with what he had been doing—juggling. But it was a very odd sort of juggling; he was tossing the balls about five feet in front of him, and they were bouncing back like boomerangs.
Rod turned to Gwen. “What’s he doing?”
“Fire and fury!” Agatha exploded. “Wilt thou not leave the bairn to his play? He doth not intrude; he maketh no coil, nor doth he cry out! He doth but play at toss-and-catch with my son Harold, and is quiet withal! He maketh no bother; leave the poor child be!”
Rod swung about, staring at her. “He’s doing what?”
“Playing toss-and-catch,” Agatha frowned. “There’s naught so strange in that.”
“But,” Gwen said in a tiny voice, “his playmate cannot be seen.”
“Not by us,” Rod said slowly. “But, apparently, Magnus sees him very well indeed.”
Agatha’s brows knitted. “What dost thou mean?”
“How else would he know where to throw the ball?” Rod turned to Agatha, his eyes narrowing. “Can you see your son Harold?”
“Nay, I cannot. Yet what else would return the apples to the child?”
“I was kinda wonderin’ about that.” Rod’s gaze returned to his son. “But I thought you said Harold was an unborn spirit.”
“Summat of the sort, aye.”
“Then, how can Magnus see him?” Gwen lifted her head, her eyes widening.
“I did not say he had not been born,” Agatha hedged. She stared at the bouncing fruit, her gaze sharpening. “Yet I ha’ ne’er been able to see my son aforetimes.”
“Then, how come Magnus can?” Rod frowned.
“Why, ‘tis plainly seen! Thy son is clearly gifted with more magical powers than am I myself!”
Rod locked gazes with Gwen. Agatha was the most powerful old witch in Gramarye.
He turned back to Agatha. “Okay, so Magnus is one heck of a telepath. But he can’t see a body if there’s none there to see.”
“My son ha’ told me that he did have a body aforetime,” Agatha said slowly. “ ‘Twould seem that he doth send outward from himself his memory of his body’s appearance.”
“A projective telepath,” Rod said slowly. “Not a very strong one, maybe, but a projective. Also apparently a telekinetic. But I thought that was a sex-linked trait…”
Agatha shrugged. “Who can tell what the spirit may do when it’s far from its body?”
“Yes—his body,” Rod said softly, eyes locked on the point where the fruit bounced back toward Magnus. “Just where is this body he remembers?”
Agatha sighed and leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes and resting her head against the high back. “Thou dost trouble me, Lord Warlock; for I cannot understand these matters that Harold doth speak of.”
“Well, maybe Gwen can.” Rod turned to his wife. “Dear?”
But Gwen shook her head. “Nay, my lord. I cannot hear Harold’s thoughts.”
Rod just stared at her.
Then he gave himself a shake and sat up straighter. “Odd.” He turned back to Agatha. “Any idea why you should be able to hear him, when Gwen can’t?”
“Why, because I am his mother.” Agatha smiled sourly.
Rod gazed at her, wondering if there was something he didn’t know. Finally, he decided to take the chance. “I didn’t know you’d ever borne children.”
“Nay, I have not—though I did yearn for them.”
Rod gazed at her while his thoughts raced, trying to figure out how she could be barren and still bear a son. He began to build an hypothesis. “So,” he said carefully, “how did you come by Harold?”
“I did not.” Her eyes flashed. “He came to me. ‘Tis even as he doth say—he is my son, and old Galen’s.”
“But, Galen…”
“Aye, I know.” Agatha’s lips tightened in bitterness. “He is the son that Galen and I ought to have had, but did not, for reason that we ne’er have come close enough to even touch.”
“Well, I hate to say this—but… uh…” Rod scratched behind his ear, looking at the floor. He forced his eyes up to meet Agatha’s. “It’s, uh, very difficult to conceive a baby if, uh, you never come within five feet of one another.”