"Is that what you see, Fess?" Rod asked.
Yes, Rod. It has been coming into view gradually, as the fog has been dispersing.
Interesting. Whatever it was, was perceptible to visual senses, as well as to psionic.
Iago turned back to them. " Tis an odd form, true, but only its latest—and like as not in mid-shift between two forms."
Well, at least now Rod knew the man was as befuddled by glamours as they were—or was a liar.
At the base of the giant cocoon, two jets of flame flared.
Rod frowned. "What was that?"
"Let us go see," the priest suggested.
He turned away, and the children started to follow, but Gwen held out a hand to bar their path. "Nay! We shall not move till that changeling mount doth settle to a form!"
"Why, then, let us rest."
The younger boys plumped down cross-legged. Cordelia and Magnus were a bit more graceful about it, but Rod located a stump and a boulder for himself and his wife and sat carefully, hoping they wouldn't melt away beneath him. He looked up to see that Iago had joined the youngsters on the grass, and felt a stab of apprehension at the man's thus identifying himself with the young, virtually declaring that he was not a grown-up—he was one of them, and was therefore to be trusted.
His first words weren't exactly encouraging, either. "Wherefore dost thou encumber thyselves with these bulky headgears?"
"So that the music doth not drive us to distraction," Gwen answered.
"Be assured, thou canst accustom thyself to it! Walk among these sounds awhile, and thou wilt scarcely notice them!"
Cordelia began to look uncertain, but Rod said, "That may have been true fifty miles back. Now, though, it's so loud and discordant that we can't possibly block it out."
"Nay, surely! Tis merely a matter of learning the joy of it!"
Magnus glanced at Rod, but asked, "Wherefore should we learn to enjoy music that we dislike?"
"Why, for that it will give thee pleasure if thou dost!"
Magnus eyed the man warily, but made no answer.
"That may be true of music that requires knowledge to appreciate," Rod said, "but it doesn't mean you should try to overcome an innate dislike for music that grates on your nerves."
"Oh, nay! 'Tis only a matter of what we are accustomed to," the priest protested. "If you had heard such strains from your cradle, you would love them!"
Cordelia was following the debate, eyes switching from her father to the black-robed priest and back, her face uncertain.
"Somehow, I doubt that," Rod said. "It's not just a matter of music that seems strange—it's a manner of music that's poorly done."
"I assure thee, within its style, it is most expertly made!"
"Thou speakest too kindly, husband," Gwen said, eyes hardening as she watched the priest. "It is not 'poorly done'—it is bad music."
The priest's smile became a little wider, as though it needed forcing. He swept them all with a glance, then focused his argument on the one who was weakening. "Come, pretty maid! Thou dost know that all thine age do revel in these sounds! Remove thy filters, and immerse thyself in music!"
Slowly, Cordelia reached up to her ears.
"No!" Gwen snapped. "Leave them!"
Cordelia yanked her hands away. "But Mama, all young folk do heed these strains!"
"What 'all'?" Gwen demanded. "I have seen many fond of gentler music, but only a handful here! What reason hast thou to think that they were more than a few who had gathered all together?"
"Why… the priest doth say so."
"Thou hast it, pretty maid!" the priest pressed. "Do not let them command thy soul! Think for thyself!"
"Think for yourself, by doing what he says?" Rod let the sarcasm drip. "Who's thinking for you, then?"
"Hearken not to the voices of age, who ken not the virtues of the new!" The priest rallied her.
"Actually, it isn't all that new," Rod said. "It's the same stuff we heard back near Runnymede, only bigger and louder—and not as well done. Maybe they figure that if they make it big enough and bad enough and tell you it's good, you'll believe them."
"But how am I to refute what he doth say?" Cordelia wailed.
"You don't need to! Just say 'No!' "
"But he is a priest!"
"Is he so?" Gwen's eyes narrowed. "Any can pull on a monk's robe and shave a tonsure."
"How durst thou question my vocation!"
"If they will not, I shall," declared an iron voice.
They all looked up, startled, and Geoffrey leaped to his feet, hand going to his sword, mortified—for strangers had come upon them unnoticed, in the midst of the clamor.
Not that they were strangers to worry about—at least, by their looks. They were monks, wearing the plain brown habit of the Order of St. Vidicon, with gentle, smiling faces. One was young, gaunt, and blond, but the other was in his fifties, plump, grizzled, and black.
The children stared, and Gregory sank back against Gwen's skirts.
"Avaunt thee!" the black-robed priest screamed. He leaped up and away, face contorted in loathing, pointing a trembling finger. "They are false monks, they are limbs of Satan! Folk, be not misled—here are demons in the shapes of men!"
"Why, what lies are these?" said the older monk sternly. "We are of St. Vidicon! But thou—what habit's this? What Order dost thou claim!"
"I will not submit to any's orders!" the black-robe screeched. "I am free in heart and mind! I will not suffer those who bow to idols!" He snatched a vial out of his robe, pulled its cork, and snapped it toward the monks. Gray-green droplets spattered, and the Gallowglasses instinctively pulled back.
As did the monks, though a droplet hit the younger one's habit, and burned through it. He gasped with pain, but glared at his shin, and the skin healed where the liquid had burned it.
"See!" the black-robe cried. "Evil burns where the blessed water doth touch!"
"That is not holy water, but corrupted ichor," the elder monk snapped. "What creature are you, who would seek to lead the innocent astray!"
"Lead us astray?" Cordelia was totally confounded. "But he is a priest!"
"Nay," the younger monk told her. "He is a false monk, a Vice, whose purpose is to tempt and corrupt. He is a Judas priest."
"Do not believe him!" the Judas priest screamed. "He speaks with the voice of they who wish no change!"
"We wish all folk to change by kinder conduct, each toward each," the elder monk said, "yet thou wouldst have them debase one another." He pulled on a chain around his neck, drawing a locket from his robe and thumbing open its cover. "Stare within this jewel, and seek to work thine evil if thou canst!"
The Judas priest stared, fascinated. His lips pulled back from his teeth in a hideous grin, emitting a grating whine.
The jewel seemed to come alive, beginning to glow—and the Gallowglasses began to feel it pulse with psi energy.
The Judas priest started to tremble in time to that throbbing. Then the elder monk snapped, "Begone!" and the air cracked in a sudden implosion, kicking up dust. When it settled, the Judas priest had vanished.
The monks relaxed, and the elder closed the locket.
Cordelia stared. "What magic's this?"
"The magic of the jewel within that amulet," the younger monk explained. "It doth transform whatever power a witch or warlock doth use. This Judas priest was the sort of warlock who can bemuse good folk and make them to believe things that they would know for lies if their minds were clear."
"The jewel did take that energy and change it to another form," the elder monk explained, "yet it was for me to choose that form."
"What manner of jewel is this?" Gregory asked in wonder.
"One made by the High Warlock of Gramarye, little one."
"Thy rock?" Magnus looked up at his father in surprise.