Alfar slammed back against the far wall and slid to the floor, dazed.
Rod’s chains jangled as they broke apart, and fell.
He thrust himself away from the wall, rising to his feet, borrowed rage-power filling every cell of his body. The headache throbbed through him, darkening all he saw except for an oval of light that contained Alfar, crumpled in a heap. Rod waded toward the fallen man, feeling anger envelop him, pervading him, as though Lord Kern’s spirit reached across the void between the universes, to take possession of him. His finger rose with the weight of all his man-slayings, pointing out to explode the sorcerer.
Then Alfar’s eyes cleared; he saw Rod’s face, and his eyes filled with terror. Rod reached out to touch him—but thunder rocked the cell, and the sorcerer was gone.
Rod stood staring at the empty space where the sorcerer had been, finger still pointing, forgotten. “Teleported,” he choked out. “Got away.”
He straightened slowly, thrusting outward with his mind, exploding his mental shield, opening himself to all and every sense impression about him, concentrating on the human thoughts. Nowhere was there a trace of Alfar.
Rod nodded, perversely satisfied; Alfar hadn’t just teleported out of the cell—he’d whipped himself clean out of the castle, and so far away that he couldn’t be “heard.”
14
Rod sagged back, sitting against the cell wall as the biggest reason for his anger abated. His emotions began to subside, but still within him there was an impulse toward violence, a lust for battle that kept the anger and built it, filling his whole body with quaking rage.
That scared Rod. He tried to force the mindless rage down; and as he did, Simon’s voice bored through to him: “Owen! Owen! Lord Gallowglass! Nay, I’ll call thee as I knew thee!” A hand clasped his wrist; fingers dug in. “Master Owen! Or Rod Gallowglass, whichever thou art! Hast thou lost thyself, then?”
“Yes,” Rod grated, staring at the wall, unseeing. “Yes. Damn near.”
Simon groaned. “Is there naught of the High Warlock left in thee?”
“Which one?” Rod growled. “Which High Warlock?”
Simon answered in a voice filled with wonder. “Rod Gallowglass, High Warlock of Gramarye! What other High Warlock is there?”
“Lord Kern,” Rod muttered, “High Warlock of the land of Tir Chlis.” He rose to his feet, and stood stock-still, stood against the humming in his mind, the thrumming in his veins. Then he forced the words out. “What is he like—this High Warlock?”
“Which one?” Simon cried.
“Yes.” Rod nodded. “That’s the question. But tell me of this Rod Gallowglass.”
“But thou art he!”
“Tell me of him!” Rod commanded.
Simon stared, at a loss. But no matter what he thought of the oddness of Rod’s question, or the irrationality of what he did, Simon swallowed it, absorbed it, and gave what was needed.
“Rod Gallowglass is the Lord High Warlock.”
“That doesn’t help any,” Rod growled. “Tell me something different about him.”
Simon stared for a moment, then began again. “He is somewhat taller than most, though not overmuch…”
“No, no! Not what he looks like! That doesn’t help at all! What’s he like inside?”
Simon just stared at him, confounded.
“Quickly!” Rod snapped. “Tell me! Now! I need an anchor, something to hold to!”
“Hast thou lost thyself so truly, then?”
“Yes!”
Finally, the actuality of the emergency struck home to Simon. He leaned forward and said, earnestly, “I have not known thee overlong, Rod Gallowglass, and that only in thy guise as old Owen. Yet from what I’ve seen of thee, thou art… well, aye, thou art surly. And taciturn. Yet art thou good-hearted withal. Aye, thou hast ever the good of thy fellows at heart, at nearly every moment.” He frowned. “I’ve heard it said of thee, that thou hast a wry humor, and dost commonly speak with wit. Yet I’ve not seen much of that in old Owen, save some bites of sarcasm—which are as often turned against himself, as against any other.”
“Good.” Rod nodded. “Very good.” He could feel the anger lessening, feel himself calming. But underneath it, there was still fury, goading him to action, any action. Lord Kern. “Tell me…” Rod muttered, and swallowed. “Tell me something about myself, that doesn’t apply to Kern—for most of what you’ve said might be true of him, too. I don’t know; I scarcely met the man. It might, though. Tell me something about me, that’s definitely mine alone, that couldn’t be his!”
“Why…” Simon floundered, “there is thy garb. Would he go about as a peasant?”
“Possible. Try again.”
“There is thy horse…”
“Yes!” Rod pounced on it. “Tell me about him!”
“ ‘Tis a great black beast,” Simon said slowly, “and most excellent in his lines. Indeed, ‘twas the one great flaw in thy guise; for any could see that he was truly a knight’s destrier, not a common cart horse.” He frowned, gazing off into space. “And now I mind me, thou dost call him ‘Fess.’ ”
“Fess.” Rod smiled. “Yes. I could never forget Fess, no matter what. And Lord Kern couldn’t possibly have one like him. He’s been with me as long as I’ve been alive—no, longer. He’s served my family for generations, did you know that?”
“Assuredly, I did not.” Simon watched him, wide-eyed.
“He’s not what he seems, you know.”
“Aye, certes, he’s not!”
“No, not just that way.” Rod frowned. “He’s, uh, magical. But not your kind of magic—mine. He’s not really a horse of any kind. He could be anything.”
“A pooka,” Simon murmured, unable to tear his gaze away.
“No, not that way! He’s cold iron, underneath that horsehair—well, an alloy really. Plus, he’s got a mind that’s really a thing apart.” Rod remembered how easily he could take the basketball-sized sphere that held Fess’s computer-brain out of the horse-body and plug it into his starship, to astrogate and pilot. “I mean, his brain’s really a thing apart. But he’s always calm—well, almost always. And supremely logical. And always has good advice for me.” The core of anger was shrinking; it had almost disappeared, and Rod could feel the last tendrils of rage withdrawing into it. If Lord Kern really had reached across the void between the universes in response to Rod’s anger, he had lost his grip. And if it was really just his own bloodlust driving him toward violence, it was under control again now. Rod’s mouth quirked into a sardonic smile. “Thank you, Milord. I appreciate your assistance, and will call upon it frequently, when there is need. But for now, I am myself again, and must trace this foul sorcerer in the ways which I deem best, in this world in which horses may be of metal, with machines for brains.”
Simon cocked his head, trying to hear, but not quite catching Rod’s words.
Rod felt Kern’s presence—or the bulk of his own anger, whichever it was—ebb. Whether “Kern” was real, or just a projection of his subconscious, it was now as thoroughly gone as it could be. He heaved a sigh, and turned to Simon. “Thank you. You pulled me out of it.”
“Gladly,” Simon said, “though I misdoubt me an I comprehend.”
“It’s really very simple. You see, there’s another High Warlock, in another kingdom, far, far away—extremely far away; there isn’t even a way to measure it. It’s in another universe, if you can believe that.”
“Believe it, aye. Understanding it’s another matter.”
“Just try and drink it in,” Rod advised. “We won’t have an examination in this course. Now, this other High Warlock is my analog. That means that he corresponds to me in every detail; what he does in his universe, what I do in mine. I visited his country for a while, and had occasion to borrow his powers; he channelled them through me, of course. But now it seems that was habit-forming; he keeps trying to reach across to this universe, and take up residence in my body.”