"Ghast Rhymi could tell you more of this than I can. But we cannot wake him for such a matter. Perhaps I – well, listen. The body is composed of cells. These are adaptable to some extent. When they are made even more adaptable, when metabolism is accelerated sporadically, werewolves come into being."
The sweet, sexless child's voice spoke on from the shadow of the hood. I began to understand a little. On Earth, college biology had showed me instances of cells run wild – malignant tumors and the like. And there were many cases of "wolf-men," with thick hair growing like a pelt over them. If the cells could adapt themselves quickly, strange things might occur.
But the bones? Specialized osseous tissue, not the rigidly brittle bones of the normal man. A physiological structure that could, theoretically, so alter itself that it would be wolf instead of man, was an astounding theory!
"Part of it is illusion, of course," Edeyrn said. "Matholch is not as bestial in form as he seems. Yet he is a shape-changer, and his form does alter."
"But how?" I asked. "How did he get this power?"
For the first time Edeyrn seemed to hesitate. "He is – a mutation. There are many mutations among us, here in the Dark World. Some are in the Coven, but others are elsewhere."
"Are you a mutation?" I asked her.
"Yes."
"A – shape-changer?"
"No," Edeyrn said, and the thin body under the robe seemed to shake a little. "No, I cannot change my shape, Lord Ganelon. You do not remember my – my powers?"
"I do not."
"Yet you may find me useful when the Rebels strike again," she said slowly. "Yes, there are mutations among us, and perhaps that is the chief reason why the probability-rift came ages ago. There are no mutants on Earth – at least not our type. Matholch is not the only one."
"Am I a mutant?" I asked very softly.
The cowled head shook.
"No. For no mutant may be sealed to Llyr. As you have been sealed. One of the Coven must know the key to Caer Llyr."
The cold breath of fear touched me again. No, not fear. Horror, the deadly, monstrous breathlessness that always took me when the name of Llyr was mentioned.
I forced myself to say, "Who is Llyr?"
There was a long silence.
"Who speaks of Llyr?" a deep voice behind me asked. "Better not to lift that veil, Edeyrn!"
"Yet it may be necessary," Edeyrn said.
I turned, and saw, framed against the dark portiere, the rangy, whipcord figure of a man, clad as I was in tunic and trunks. His red, pointed beard jutted; the half-snarling curve of his full lips reminded me of something. Agile grace was in every line of his wiry body.
Yellow eyes watched me with wry amusement.
"Pray it may not be necessary," the man said. "Well, Lord Ganelon? Have you forgotten me, too?"
"He has forgotten you, Matholch," Edeyrn said, "At least in this form!"
Matholch – the wolf! The shape-changer!
He grinned.
"It is Sabbat tonight," he said. "The Lord Ganelon must be prepared for it. Also, I think there will be trouble. However, that is Medea's business, and she asks if Ganelon is awake. Since he is, let us see her now."
"Will you go with Matholch?" Edeyrn asked me.
"I suppose so," I said. The red-beard grinned again.
"Ai, you have forgotten, Ganelon! In the old days you'd never have trusted me behind your back with a dagger."
"You always knew better than to strike," Edeyrn said. "If Ganelon ever called on Llyr, it would be unfortunate for you!"
"Well, I joked," Matholch said carelessly. "My enemies must be strong enough to give me a fight so I'll wait till your memory comes back, Lord Ganelon. Meanwhile the Coven has its back to the wall, and I need you as badly as you need me. Will you come?"
"Go with him," Edeyrn said. "You are in no danger – wolf's bark is worse than wolf's bite – even though this is not Caer Llyr."
I thought I sensed a hidden threat in her words. Matholch shrugged and held the curtain aside to let me pass.
"Few dare to threaten a shape-changer," he said over his shoulder.
"I dare," Edeyrn said, from the enigmatic shadows of her saffron cowl. And I remembered that she was a mutant too – though not a lycanthrope, like a red-bearded werewolf striding beside me along the vaulted passage.
What was – Edeyrn?
IV. Matholch – and Medea
UP TO now the true wonder of the situation had not really touched me yet. The anaesthesia of shock had dulled me. As a soldier – caught in the white light of a flare dropped from an overhead plane – freezes into immobility, so my mind still remained passive. Only superficial thoughts were moving there, as though, by concentration on immediate needs, I could eliminate the incredible fact that I was not on the familiar, solid ground of Earth.
But it was more than this. There was a curious, indefinable familiarity about these groined, pale-walled halls through which I strode beside Matholch, as there had been a queer familiarity about the twilit landscape stretching to forested distance beneath the window of my room.
Edeyrn – Medea – the Coven.
The names had significance, like words in a language I had once known well, but had forgotten.
The half-loping, swift walk of Matholch, the easy swing of his muscular shoulders, the snarling smile on his red-bearded lips – these were not new to me.
He watched me furtively out of his yellow eyes. Once we paused before a red-figured drapery, and Matholch, hesitating, thrust the curtain aside and gestured me forward.
I took one step – and stopped. I looked at him.
He nodded as though satisfied. Yet there was still a question in his face.
"So you remember a little, eh? Enough to know that this isn't the way to Medea. However, come along, for a moment. I want to talk to you."
As I followed him up a winding stair, I suddenly realized that he had not spoken in English. But I had understood him, as I had understood Edeyrn and Medea.
Ganelon?
We were in a tower room, walled with transparent panes. There was a smoky, sour odor in the air, and gray tendrils coiled up from a brazier set in a tripod in the middle of the chamber. Matholch gestured me to one of the couches by the windows. He dropped carelessly beside me.
"I wonder how much you remember," he said.
I shook my head.
"Not much. Enough not to be too – trusting."
"The artificial Earth-memories are still strong, then. Ghast Rhymi said you would remember eventually, but that it would take time. The false writing on the slate of your mind will fade, and the old, true memories will come back. After a while."
Like a palimpsest, I thought – manuscript with two writings upon its parchment. But Ganelon was still a stranger; I was still Edward Bond.
"I wonder," Matholch said slowly, staring at me. "You spent much time exiled. I wonder if you have changed, basically. Always before – you hated me, Ganelon. Do you hate me now?"
"No," I said. "At least, I don't know. I think I distrust you."
"You have reason. If you remember at all. We have always been enemies, Ganelon, though bound together by the needs and laws of the Coven. I wonder if we need be enemies any longer?"
"It depends. I'm not anxious to make enemies – especially here."
Matholch's red brows drew together.
"Aye, that is not Ganelon speaking! In the old days, you cared nothing about how many enemies you made. If you have changed so much, danger to us all may result."
"My memory is gone," I said. "I don't understand much of this. It seems dream-like."
Now he sprang up and restlessly paced the room. "That's well. If you become the old Ganelon again, we'll be enemies again. That I know. But if Earth-exile has changed you – altered you – we may be friends. It would be better to be friends. Medea would not like it; I do not think Edeyrn would. As for Ghast Rhymi – " He shrugged. "Ghast Rhymi is old – old. In all the Dark World, Ganelon, you have the most power. Or can have. But it would mean going to Caer Llyr."