“And ‘Kern’ is thy false name?”
I sure hope so. “It’s as good a name as any. The whole idea is that we don’t know each other’s real names, remember. Will you do it—be Esmeralda, and watch for witches to not report?”
Slowly, she nodded. “Aye—if thou dost truly believe this is the greatest aid I can offer.”
“Good lass!” Rod clasped her hand, relieved—she was too young, and really too sweet, to wind up in Alfar’s torture chambers. Better to leave her where it was safe. “Now, uh—would you please go reassure your friend Doln, there? I can’t help this feeling that he’s just dying to shove a knife between my ribs.”
“Certes.” She flushed prettily, and stood. “I thank thee, goodman.” She turned away, becoming shy and demure as she neared her swain.
“I think she hath forgot thee quite,” Simon said, with his small smile.
“Yes. And that’s the way it should be, isn’t it?” Rod was watching Doln, whose gaze was riveted to Marianne’s face. He caught her hand, and Rod turned back to Simon and Flaran with a sigh. “Young love! Isn’t it wonderful?”
“In truth.” Simon watched the young couple over Rod’s shoulder. “Yet I cannot help but think, friend Owen, that there’s some truth to her words—not that her thoughts of overweening greatness were her own, nay, but that, shall we say, Alfar’s seeds fell on fertile ground?”
“Oh, well, sure! People can’t be hypnotized if they really don’t want to be—and this particular kind of long-range telepathic hypnosis couldn’t have worked so well if she didn’t already have a bit of that resentful attitude—it’s called ‘feelings of inferiority.’ ”
“Inferiority?” Flaran stared. “Yet how can that be? Witch power makes us greater than other folk!”
Rod didn’t miss the ‘us.’ “Yeah, but they don’t feel that way. All they know is that they stand out, that they’re different, and that if people find out just how different, nobody’ll like them.” He shrugged. “If nobody likes you, you must be inferior. I know it doesn’t really make sense, but that’s how our minds work. And, since nobody can stand to think so little of themselves pretty soon, the warlock starts telling himself that he’s not really inferior—it’s just that everybody’s picking on him, because they’re jealous. And, of course, people do pick on witches—they’ve been doing it, here, for hundreds of years.”
“Aye!” Flaran seized the thought. “Tis not merely a matter of our telling ourselves others bully us—‘tis true!”
“Oh, yeah, it’s easy to feel persecuted, when you really are. But that must mean you’re worse than inferior.” He made a backwards arc with his forefinger. “If people’re picking on you, and they’re nice people, ones you ordinarily like, and all of a sudden, they’re picking on you—then you must be worse than second-rate; you must be evil! But who can stand thinking they’re outright evil?”
“Evil folk,” Flaran answered quickly.
“And there you have it.” Rod spread his hands. “Instead of saying, ‘I’m second-rate,’ they’re saying, ‘I’m evil’—they’d rather be first-rate evil than second-rate good.”
Flaran stared, lost.
“Or!” Rod held up a forefinger. “Or you decide that you’re not evil, and you’re not second-rate, either—they’re just picking on you because they’re jealous. So their picking on you proves that you’re better than they are. They’re just afraid of the competition. They’re out to get you because you’re a threat to them.”
Flaran’s head lifted slowly, and Rod could see his eyes clearing with understanding.
Rod shrugged. “All the witch folk probably have that attitude to some degree—it’s called paranoia. But they keep it under control; they know that even if there’re wisps of truth attached to the notion, there’s more truth in thinking of their neighbors as being basically good folk—which they are. And if the witch has even a grain of humility, she’s as much aware of her faults as she is of her powers—so they manage to keep their feelings of persecution under control. It’s a sort of a balance between paranoia and reality. But it does make them ready, even eager, victims, for Alfar’s style of brainwashing—uh, persuasion.”
Flaran turned away, staring at the table. The color had drained out of his face, and his hands trembled.
Rod watched him, shaking his head with a sad smile. The poor kid, he thought, the poor innocent. In some ways, Flaran probably would have preferred to just go along from day to day for the rest of his life, feeling inferior and picked-on. And it must’ve been very demeaning, to find out that his feelings were, if not normal, at least standard for his condition—it was bad enough being born an esper, but it was worse finding out you weren’t even exceptional.
He turned away, to catch Simon’s eye. The old man had a sympathetic look, and Rod smiled back, nodding. They both knew—it was rough, learning the facts of life.
Back on the road, Rod and Simon tried to strike up a cheerful family topic conversation again; but the mood had changed, and it was an uphill fight all the way. When they each realized that the other guy was trying just as hard, they gave it up.
Of course, the ambiance wasn’t helped much by Flaran riding along on Rod’s other side sunk in gloom, glowering at the road.
So they rode along in silence, the unease and tension growing, until Rod’d had about as much as he could take. “Look Flaran, I know it’s hard to accept the idea that Alfar’s turning the whole population into puppets—but that is what he’s doing. So we have to just admit it, and try to go beyond it, to figure out what we can do about it. See? Feeling lousy won’t do anybody any good.”
Flaran looked up at Rod, and his attention came back, as though from a great distance. Slowly, his eyes focused. “Nay. Nay, ‘tis not that which hath me so bemused, friend Owen.”
Rod just looked at him for a moment.
Then he said, “Oh.” And, “Really?”
He straightened in his seat and tilted his head back, looking down at Flaran a little. “What is bothering you?”
“These thoughts which the servingwench hath uttered.”
“What—about witches being naturally superior?” Rod shook his head. “That’s nonsense.”
“Nay, ‘tis good sense—or, if not good, at least sense.”
Flaran gazed past Rod’s shoulder at the sky. “Truly, witches should rule.”
“Oh, come off it! Next thing I know, you’ll be telling me how Alfar’s really a good guy, and is really freeing the peasants, not conquering them!”
Flaran’s eyes widened. “Why—that is true.” He began to nod, faster and faster. “In truth, ‘tis all true. He doth free the peasants from the rule of the lords.”
Rod turned away, his mouth working, and swallowed heavily. He looked up at Simon. “Check him, will you? Give him the once-over. He sounds as though the spell’s beginning to creep over him.”
“Oh, nay!” Flaran said in scorn, but Simon frowned, gazing off into space for a moment. Then he shook his head. “I do not read even so much as he doth utter, Master Owen—only thoughts of how goodly seem the fields about us, and the face of the wench who served us.” His eyes focused on Rod’s again. “Still, those are not the thoughts of a spellbound mind.”
“Spellbound? Nay, certes!” Flaran cried. “Only because I speak truth, Master Owen?”
“Truth?” Rod snorted. “Somebody must have warped your mind, if you think that’s truth!”
“Nay, then—lay it out and look at it!” Flaran spread his hands. “It doth seem the common people must needs have masters…”
“I could dispute that,” Rod growled.
“But not gainsay it! From all that I have seen, ‘tis true!” Flaran craned his neck to look over Rod’s shoulder at Simon. “Wouldst thou not say so, Master Simon?”