The Warlock Rock
Christopher Stasheff
Chapter One
"Praise Heaven!" Cordelia sighed. She may have been overdoing the sigh a little, but Alain had managed to sneak back to their table to join them, and he was very handsome, in addition to being a crown prince. Cordelia was fourteen, and noticing such things with great interest these days. "Praise Heaven that Mama hath given it to the Lord Abbot!"
"Given what?" Prince Alain watched the High Table, where the Gallowglass children's mother was slipping off a thick chain that held a massive pendant.
She was thirty feet away, for the children sat at a side table, and the Great Hall was seventy-five feet long by fifty wide, which may not be gigantic, but was big enough for the ceiling and the corners to be lost in shadow when the Hall was lit only by torches along the walls, and candles on the tables—and, of course, the great fireplace in the north wall. In the centers of the walls, though, there was enough light to make the lions and dragons on the tapestries seem to jump out at you, and the knights in their shining armor seemed much brighter, and the damsels much fairer, than they ever could by daylight.
But Lady Gwendolyn Gallowglass seemed the fairest of all—at least, to her children's eyes—as she held out the pendant to the Lord Abbot. As he took it, Lady Gallowglass flipped the cover open, and the grown-ups all gasped. Small wonder; even from ten yards' distance, Alain could see the glow of the stone. "What is it?"
"Tis a circuit… ouch!" Geoffrey Gallowglass swore, grasping at his shin.
" Tis a rock that Father hath made," his sister Cordelia explained to Alain.
"Say rather, 'found' or 'cut'," said Diarmid, Alain's little brother. "A man doth not 'make' a rock."
"Speak of what thou knowest, sprat!" Alain scolded, and Gregory, the littlest Gallowglass, said helpfully, "Papa doth. Thou canst, too, if thou dost mix the right potion. Make a brine so salty it doth become thick, then hang a twine in it—and in some days, thou wilt see rocks of salt growing on it."
Diarmid stared; if Gregory said it, it had to be true.
Geoffrey managed to get his mind off his shin long enough to think of revenge. He glared at Cordelia, and was just starting to speak when something jolted him back. It was his older brother Magnus, hauling him aside to whisper frantically in his ear.
"Salt rocks, but not rough," Cordelia agreed. "They are faceted as sweetly as the finest jewel."
Alain frowned. "And thy father thus made that blue stone?"
"Aye," said little Gregory, "though 'twas a good deal more of a coil in the brewing."
"Certes," said Alain. " 'Tis a jewel, after all, not a lump of salt."
"Yet it seems," said Cordelia, "that it was not what he meant it to be."
Geoffrey returned to the table, sulky but silent. Magnus sat down beside him.
"What did he mean to make?" Diarmid asked.
"An amulet," said Cordelia, "that would give any who wore it magical powers."
Alain could only stare.
"Havoc!" Diarmid said instantly. "There would be no law, no order! Every man's hand would be turned against his neighbor!"
"Thou dost see to the heart of it," Gregory said, impressed. "Still, friend, if all were witches, would not the world remain as it is? The strong would rule, the good folk would obey."
Diarmid furrowed his brow, trying to find the flaw.
" 'Tis of no matter." Magnus waved the point away. "Papa's rock did not what he wished; when he bade a plowman wear it and seek to work magic, naught did hap. 'Tis what it did when Papa wore it himself, that was the trouble."
"What trouble?" Diarmid asked; and,
"What did it do?" Alain demanded.
"He set it in a circlet," said Cordelia, "and wore it on his forehead whiles he tried to uproot a sapling that was growing too near the house."
"Could not thy father do that without the jewel?" Diarmid asked.
"Aye, so he gave it only the merest thought—but naught did hap. So he thought harder, then as hard as he could— and still the tree stood."
Alain stared. "The stone locked up his magic?"
"Nay," said Geoffrey, coming alive at last, "for when he thought his hardest, the sky grew dark."
"Dost thou remember that sudden rain that did drench us a fortnight agone?" Gregory asked.
"It was a totally new psi power," Rod Gallowglass explained, "new to me, anyway. I mean, I'd heard of rainmakers before, and I still think it's just another form of telekinesis…"
"But it was not the form thou didst wish at the moment." The Abbot set the stone down on the table and took his hands from it.
"That is the point," Rod agreed. "Of course, I took it off right away and came inside—and I made sure I put it in the safest place I could think of, before I went to dry off."
Father Boquilva glanced at Gwen, but forbore to ask what that "safest place" had been. "Then other than making the locket to hold it, thou hast done naught with it since?"
"Nothing," Rod said firmly, "and Gwen was very careful with her magic while we considered what to do."
"And what hast thou decided?" Queen Catharine asked.
"That I won't try any more experiments," Rod answered.
"Wise, until we are sure what thou hast wrought." The Abbot closed the locket's cover gingerly. Father Boquilva watched him, looking rather pale and a little green around the gills.
"Then," Gwen said, "we did concur that we should ask thee to take it to thy monks at the monastery, who make a practice of investigating such things, that they may decide if it is a thing of no use—or ill use alone."
Rod nodded. "If it's more trouble than benefit, please destroy it. Only don't tell me you did," he said as an afterthought. "I was rather proud of it…"
"It is indeed an immense accomplishment." The Abbot picked up the amulet—warily, by the chain—and slipped it into a pocket hidden inside his robe. "We shall do as thou dost ask—and my monks will use all possible care, I assure thee. By good fortune, I've little enough of the Power myself, so it should be safe with me as I take it back to the monastery. Which I will do straightaway"—he turned to the King—"if thou wilt lend me some few knights and men-at-arms to ward me as I ride."
"That will I, and right gladly," Tuan returned.
That was when the zombies walked in.
Well, they didn't walk, actually—they danced. And a queer, stilted, stiff-legged sort of shuffle it was—but when the dead dance, you don't ask them to be graceful. In fact, you don't ask them anything. You run.
Which most of the courtiers and ladies did, with a single unified scream. They pushed away from the tables and backed up, hands out to ward off the macabre things. Tables crashed over, platters and ewers fell bouncing, and men shoved their wives and sweethearts behind them, pulling out their swords and daggers with that sick sort of look that said they knew it wouldn't do any good. Magnus pushed his two little brothers and his sister behind him, of course, but Geoffrey ducked back out in an instant, his sword drawn also, and Cordelia dodged around to his left—only to jar into the back of Alain, who was insisting on being protective, too. By way of saving face, she caught Diarmid and Gregory to her and spat, "Lean aside! I must see!"
"Look, but meddle not." Somehow, her mother was there, right behind her. Cordelia noticed that Gwen didn't try to get out in front of her sons—after all, Magnus was seventeen now, and a young man—but she knew that they were as well protected as though Gwen had.
Then the music caught her attention.
It was a jangly sort of sound that had a beat that kept thumping where you didn't expect it to, a Jighthearted, carefree sort of melody that made her want to dance, in spite of the gruesome pavane before her.