“Scarcely ‘common.’ ” Alfar frowned. “In truth, ‘tis a most strange mode of thought.”
“People keep telling me that, here,” Rod sighed. He’d found that chains of reasoning were alien to the medieval mind. “But that was the royal ‘our,’ wasn’t it? And you are planning to try for the throne, aren’t you?”
Alfar’s answer was an acid smile. “Thou hast come to the truth of it at last—though I greatly doubt thou didst find it in such a manner.”
“Don’t worry, I did.” Rod smiled sourly. “Even right now, with you right next to me, I can’t read your mind. Not a whisper.”
“Be done with thy deception!” Alfar blazed. “Only a warlock of great power could cloak his thoughts so completely that he seems not even to exist!”
Rod shrugged. “Have it your way. But would that mighty warlock be able to read minds when his own was closed off?”
Alfar stared.
Then he lifted his head slowly, nodding. “Well, then.” And, “Thou wilt, at least, not deny that thou art Tuan’s spy.”
“King Tuan, to you! But I agree, that much is pretty obvious.”
“Most excellent! Thou canst now tell to Tuan every smallest detail of my dungeon—if ever thou dost set eyes upon him again.”
For all his bravado, a shiver of apprehension shook Rod. He ignored it. “Tuan already knows all he needs.”
“Indeed?” Alfar’s eyes glittered. “And what is that?”
“That you’ve taken over the duchy, by casting a spell over all the people—and that you’ll attack him, if he doesn’t obliterate you first.”
“Will he, now! Fascinating! And how much else doth he know?”
Rod shrugged. “None of your concern—but do let it worry you.”
Alfar stood rigid, the color draining from his face.
Then he whirled, knife whipping out to prick Simon’s throat. “Again I will demand of thee—what information hath Tuan?”
His gaze locked with Rod’s. Simon paled, but his eyes held only calm and understanding, without the slightest trace of fear.
Rod sighed, and capitulated. “He knows your whole career, from the first peasant you intimidated, up to your battle with Duke Bourbon.”
“Ah,” Alfar breathed. “But he knoweth not the outcome. Doth he?”
“No,” Rod admitted, “but it was a pretty clear guess.”
“ ‘Twas the Duchess, was it not? She did escape my hunters. Indeed, my spies in Tudor’s county, and in Runnymede, attacked her, but were repulsed by puissant magics.” His gaze hardened. “Magics wielded by a woman and four children.”
Inwardly, Rod went limp with relief, hearing his family’s safety confirmed. But outwardly, he only permitted himself a small smile.
“Yet thou wouldst know of that, wouldst thou not?” Alfar breathed. “Thou didst dispatch them on that errand, didst thou not?”
Rod looked at the drop of blood rising from the point of the dagger, considered his options, and decided honesty wouldn’t hurt. “It was my idea, yes.”
Alfar’s breath hissed out in triumph. “Then ‘twas thy wife and bairns who did accompany the Duchess and her brats, whilst yet they did live!”
Alarm shrilled through Rod. Did the bastard mean his family was dead? And the anger heaved up, rising.
Oblivious, Alfar was still speaking. “And thou art he who’s called Rod Gallowglass, art thou not?”
“Yes. I’m the High Warlock.” Rod’s eyes narrowed, reddening.
Simon stared, poleaxed.
Alfar’s lips were parted, his eyes glittering. “How didst thou do it? Tell me the manner of it! How didst thou cease to be, to the mind, the whiles thou wert apparent to the eye?”
“You should know,” Rod grated. “Weren’t you eavesdropping?”
“Every minute, I assure thee. I held thy trace the whiles thou didst buy a cart and didst drive out to the road. Then, of a sudden, there were no thoughts but a peasant’s.”
“Quite a range you’ve got there.”
“More than thirty leagues. How didst thou cloak thy thoughts?”
“I didn’t—not then.” Rod throttled the rage down to a slow burn, keeping his mind in control, floating on top of the emotion. “I just started thinking like a peasant.”
Alfar stared.
Then he frowned. “Then thou dost counterfeit most excellently.”
“I had some acting lessons.” And they were coming in handy, helping him keep the rage under control. “I didn’t pull the real disappearing act until I was across the border.” Privately, he found it interesting that Alfar could have been so thoroughly deceived. Either he wasn’t very good at reading thoughts in depth, or Rod was even better at believing himself to be somebody fictitious than he had thought.
“Ah, ‘twas then? Tell me the manner of it.” But his knife hand was trembling.
Nonetheless, Simon was staring at Rod, not Alfar, and with awe, not fear.
And he’d been friendly to Rod, and he was an innocent bystander…
Rod shrugged. “I withdrew, that’s all. Pulled back into my shell. Decided nobody was worth my trouble.”
Alfar stared at him.
Then he frowned. “Canst say no more than that?”
Rod shrugged. “Details. Techniques. Remembering times in my past when I wanted to get away from people, and letting the feeling grow. None of it could teach you how to do it. The first time, it just happens.”
Alfar watched him, eyes narrowed.
Then he straightened, sliding the knife back into its sheath and Simon almost collapsed with a sigh of relief.
Rod felt a little relief, too, but the anger countered it.
“Tis even as I’ve thought,” Alfar said, with grim satisfaction. “From aught I’ve heard of thee, thy chivalry exceeds thy sense.”
“Would you care to explain that?” Rod’s voice was velvet.
“Why, ‘tis plainly seen! Would a sensible captain risk his own pain, or mayhap even life, on a perilous mission? Nay! He would send a spy, and let the underling be racked and torn! But thou, who dost pride thyself on thine honor…” he made the word an obscenity, “…wouldst rather waste thine hours spying out the enemy thyself!”
Now Rod understood the man—and he didn’t bother hiding his contempt. “Just sit back in Runnymede and read through intelligence reports, huh?”
“That would be wise.” Alfar stood, arms akimbo, smirking down at him. “Or dost thou truly believe thou couldst accomplish more in thine own person?”
Rod studied the sorcerer—cocky stance, chip on the shoulder, the whole arrogant air (and didn’t overlook the menace, or the sadistic glitter at the back of the eye) and wondered why he didn’t feel more fear. He did know, though, that he’d better not let Alfar know that.
So he stuck his chin out just that little bit farther, and made his tone defiant. “I only know this: by the time I realized that it was really dangerous, it was too much a hazard to let anyone else go in my place.”
“How gallant.” Alfar’s scorn was withering.
“It seems I was right.” Rod held his gaze on Alfar’s eyes. “If you could catch onto me, you could catch onto anybody I might send. How’d you see through my disguise?”
A slow smile spread over Alfar’s face. He lifted his head, chest swelling, and stepped toward Rod, almost strutting. “I did sense danger when my spies sent word that the High Warlock did journey northward. Yet sin’ that thou didst come with thy wife and bairns, it might well have been naught but a pleasure jaunt. Naetheless, he did note that thou hadst but lately spoken with Tuan and Catharine.”
Rod shrugged. “I do that all the time.” But his interest was piqued. “So your man couldn’t eavesdrop on my conversation with Their Majesties, huh?”
Alfar flushed, glowering.
“Well.” Rod leaned back against the wall. “Nice to know my wife’s noise-shield works so well.”
“Is that how thou dost manage it!” Alfar’s eyes gleamed. “In truth, their thoughts are well-nigh impossible to single out from all that buzzing hum of thoughts that doth surround them.” He nodded, with a calculating look. “Thy wife hath talent.”