Warlock and Son

Gwen nodded, her face grim. "He is more easily swayed for having but just now been set aside, my lord."

"On the rebound," Rod translated, "and not in very good condition to discriminate between good women and bad."

"And she has snared and hurted him already." Gwen's face hardened with anger. "Hurted him, and cast him aside. How long hath she had for the doing of this deed, my lord?"

"A night and a day. I didn't want to seem to be following him too closely."

Gwen shook her head in wonder. "That such as she must feed their dwindled hearts off goodly men, and take the tenderness from them and cast them aside so quickly! Come, my lord-let us seek him and free him from her bonds."

Rod followed, reaching out to touch her hand. "I thought we were supposed to be able to relax and stop worrying about them, once they grew up."

"Never, my lord. Let us seek."

11

They found him sitting on the bank of a gunmetal-colored lake, shoulders slumped, sunk in melancholy. Rod and Gwen both halted, dumbfounded-this apathy was so unlike their son!

Then Gwen knelt beside him and touched his forehead. "What ails thee, my son?"

"Love." His voice was almost a monotone. "I am mired in it."

Gwen stared off into space a minute, probing his mind, then stood up, shaking her head. "'Tis more than that, mine husband. 'Tis the work of a thought-caster, and one most expert, too."

"A projective?" Rod frowned. "To do this to him, she must have damn near hypnotized him!"

"She hath, and quite thoroughly. The posthypnotic suggestion binds him as no coercion could."

Rod's heart sank; for suggestion to work, it had to have struck some chord of despondency in Magnus. What had gone wrong in his son? The boy had always been so dynamic, full of such positive feelings. "Up and away, son! Don't let an enemy get the better of you!"

The vacant gaze turned in his direction. "How can she be mine enemy, when I am sick with love for her?"

"Because she tried to hurt you-and succeeded horribly well! I know it's tough, but you have to ignore the molasses your heart is mired in!"

"I cannot."

"But you know the feeling isn't real! You know it's just an illusion she's bound you into!"

"Nay, Father-'tis not a compulsion alone, but a reordering of my hormonal balance, and of the functioning of my brain. The witch-moss hath been crafted in suchwise as to alter my genes, however slightly."

Gwen drew her breath in with a sharp hiss, and Rod's eyes opened wide. "Witch-moss? What did she do, feed you a love philtre?"

"Aye, yet she held me spellbound from first sight. The philtre only assures that I cannot throw off mine infatuation."

"Come off it! No medieval femme fatale could know that much about physiology!"

"She had no need to; she had but to ponder on the effects she wished, and the witch-moss shaped itself to the pattern that would yield them. For look you, 'tis a substance that doth react to thought, and can therefore alter thought-and in this exacting mass of interactions that doth constitute our bodies and our minds, any alteration in the one doth transform the other. Nay, I know quite well what she hath done, but that doth not change the fact of it. I love her to misery, and will do all that I can to please her."

"But you know it's not a natural, spontaneous feelingit's a synthetic emotion, not true love!"

"Aye, I know that-yet what use is knowledge? The feeling is still there, and cannot be altered." Magnus heaved a mile-long sigh. "Oh, my father! I feel as though the blood of life doth drain itself out from mine heart in a never-ending stream-and I can do naught to stanch it."

Rod looked up at Gwen in appeal. "Isn't there something you can do?"

Gwen shook her head. "There is much I could try, but I think 'wwould be to no avail-and even if it were, the cure would be as vicious as the illness; for look you, ailments of the heart are such that a mother must not cure them, not in the way his need to be healed."

"But there has to be some hope!"

Gwen sighed. "There is a witch I've heard of, one whose gift is of healing, and her powers are of life."

Rod frowned in doubt. "More skilled than you? I didn't think there was any such."

Gwen was still a moment, then flashed Rod a smile. "I thank thee for thy kind thought, mine husband; yet though I've skill and force of many kinds, there do be some magics that others wield better than I."

"But none so many, so well?"

"Save my children; thou hast it. This witch doth dwell in the West, and is skilled beyond any in the ways of life."

"Funny I haven't heard of her."

"Few have; she doth not seek reknown, or those who are ill would give her no peace. Indeed, she doth hold her secret close, not even telling any her name, and will give aid to none who can be healed by others-unless they are near to dying."

Rod glanced at his son's pale face, at the haggard looks and slumped shoulders. "He might qualify on both counts. But how does he find her?"

"He must seek her out. The Wee Folk say that she hath posted sentries, creatures who watch for those so sorely hurt that only she can aid them, who guide the wounded to her."

"But the Wee Folk themselves don't know?" Rod frowned. "Just how powerful is this witch, anyway?"

"As I've said, she doth know the ways of all manners of life, without but even more within-and the elves have life. Nay, she doth know how to mislead even them; they can say only in what region she doth dwell, and tell only what those who have seen her, and been cured by her, do tell."

"Pretty good, since she probably swears them to secrecy-but the elves have some pretty good mind readers. So where is she?"

"In the West, as I've said-and she doth dwell by a curving lake that doth run between hills."

"A river oxbow, silted up till it's cut off from the river." Rod nodded. "But those are usually pretty close to its new course-so we can follow a stream?"

"Even so. The region is known-one of many lakes and ponds."

"The Lake Country?" Rod looked up. "I've heard of it."

"Aye. 'Tis therein she doth dwell."

"But that's a hundred square miles, at least! Isn't there any better hint than?"

"It must suffice." Gwen sighed.

Rod turned away, irritated. He clamped his jaw, then nodded. "Right." He bent down to clasp Magnus's arm. "Up, son. Time to go."

He hauled on dead weight. Magnus looked up, blinking. "I cannot, my father."

"Of course you can!" Rod spoke loudly, to hide the sneaking dread. "All you have to do is stand up and climb on a horse! Come on, son!" He pulled again.

Now Magnus actively resisted. "Nay, my father. The love of my life hath bid me stay; I will honor her wish."

"You'll atrophy! You'll die of stagnation!" Rod took a closer look at the grayish hue of his son's face, and wished he hadn't said that. "Mere's no real reason to remain-you know that. She just wanted you out of her way."

Magnus turned and bowed his head to his knees.

Gwen touched Rod's arm, feather-light. "'Tis melancholia. You cannot jar him from it."

Rod felt his stomach sink. Whatever the murderess had done, she'd altered Magnus's biochemistry to force depression on him. He could save himself, but he had lost the will. "Can't you pull him out of it? Give him some sort of wall within his mind, that'll contain it?"

Gwen looked up, startled. Then her eyes took on a distant look as she considered; slowly, she nodded. "A wall within his mind, aye-and one to ward his heart. But there must needs be an outward symbol, husband, summat to show and keep him mindful that her spell is contained."