"But that's terrible!" Alea was back on her feet again. "Who are they? Where? How can I help them?"
"In the south," Evanescent answered. "She's bound for Castle Loguire to make one last plea for his life. His case looks clear, though. He doesn't deny he slew all those deer."
"The poor woman!" Alea said. "What is her name? Tell me how to find her!"
"You have only to ride the forest road that runs from the west toward Castle Loguire and follow the sound of sobbing," Evanescent said. "After all, the poor thing hasn't been trained to war, as you have."
"We have to find a way to help her!" Alea spun about, looking helplessly at the trees. "How, though? There must be lawyers on this planet!" She looked around at the empty clearing and did wonder for a moment how she'd come to know of the young man's arrest. Well, that was what came of practicing on other people, of trying to see how far away she could read minds. She deserved every bit of anxiety she was feeling.
But she had to find a way to help! She turned and started back up the trail toward Castle Gallowglass, never thinking for a moment that she hadn't learned of the young couple's plight by anything but her own telepathy—for of course, she didn't remember meeting Evanescent at all, nor even a hint of their conversation.
AS ROD RODE, the woods thinned out. By noon, Fess brought him out of the last trees onto a long ramp of grassland—but as they climbed, the grass grew thinner and more yellow until Rod rode across an upland of scrub and tufts. "We've come onto a moor, Fess."
"Yes, Rod, but it is surely the most barren moor I have ever seen."
"They're not exactly known for being fun places." Rod shivered as a sudden gust of wind chilled him. "Well, if it's barren, there's that much less to catch fire if my campfire shoots out sparks." Rod dismounted. "And if it's cold, I could use the warmth for a little while. Time for lunch."
"Where will you find wood to burn, Rod?"
"Good question—but as I remember, moors have pockets of peat." Rod scouted about. "Though we may have to ride a bit farther before we … Hey!"
Fess came closer. "Mud, Rod?"
"Mud that won't let go." Rod tried frantically to pull a foot loose. "And it's getting deeper!"
Nineteen
"NO, ROD—YOU ARE SINKING." FESS STARTED for him.
"Stop!" Rod cried. "I don't want you sinking, too!"
"But I cannot let you …"
"You won't! Go forward a step at a time, and if the ground goes soft, step back!"
Fess edged toward him, tossing his head to make the reins fly forward over his ears. "Catch the reins, Rod."
Rod flailed, missed—and sank another two inches. "Isn't there a branch…" Rod broke off, staring, as the mud began to bubble. "No! There can't be anything living in this!"
The ooze heaved upward, higher and higher into a sloppy sort of column. At its top, pockets appeared with a sucking sound, two holes of darkness over a much larger third that yawned wide and said, "Foolish mortal, to have dared come into the Barren Land!"
For a moment, Rod wondered crazily if he had stumbled into mud or a pool of witch-moss. Then he realized that it wasn't crazy at all if the bog could take on a face and talk to him. "What manner of spirit are you?"
"I am the Spirit of the Waste," the mud-monster intoned, "and I spread sloughs for the unwary."
"I'm not sure you can actually spread a slough." Rod looked down at the mud. "But I'm not exactly in a position to argue."
"Nay, nor to struggle." A muddy hand shot out from the monster's body to touch Rod on the forehead. He shouted and recoiled, trying to avoid the oozing finger—but the mud sucked at his feet, and he fell on his back.
Fess neighed a protest, and Rod felt the mud pulling at his back and hips, dragging him down—but he saw no reason to resist. When he stopped and thought about it—and what else could he do, lying on his back in a bog?—there was no reason to struggle. Sure, there would be a few minutes of unpleasantness … well, pain … when the mud choked his lungs and he could no longer breathe, but if he went into a trance here and now, he wouldn't mind all that much—and what reason was there to live? The kids didn't need him any more—they had their spouses, all but Magnus, and he had Alea, a devoted companion who would give him all the emotional support he was willing to accept. The Crown didn't need Rod, either—Tuan was still amazingly devoted to Catharine, and she to him—nor did the nation; Magnus would defend it as well as he ever could, especially with his brothers and sister to back him up.
And Gwen was gone.
So why not just lie here and let the bog take him?
Rod felt as though a thin black cloud had fallen over him, dimming everything about him—not that he could see much from this point of view. Even the broad and cloudless noonday sky above him seemed dulled, its blue almost gray. Dimly, he was aware that there had been reasons to live once, but he couldn't remember them now. No, he could—they had been Gwen and the kids, and protecting Gramarye from the futurians. Even before that, the dreams that had kept him going were freeing oppressed peoples and finding a woman he could fall in love with, who would fall in love with him, something he had come to believe could never happen.
Then he had met Gwen.
Gwen, it had always been Gwen—even before he met her, there had been the hope of finding her.
Now she was gone.
So why not let the mud take him? There was no purpose in life any more, no reason for living, and certainly no joy, not without her. Sink down and die, and see her much sooner!
Something slapped his chest. Rod scowled down at it, resenting any interruption, now that he had finally made up his mind to die. Dimly, he was aware of someone ranting and raging at someone else who was poking in where he had no business, but he didn't really care. He saw the two-inch-thick stick lying across his doublet; it took him several seconds to realize it would probably hold his weight. Following it back, he saw the robot holding the other end in his mouth; Fess had somehow managed to find a fallen branch after all. He smiled sadly; it was a nice idea, but kind of tardy, after he had finally come to realize where his life really stood.
'Take hold of the end of the branch, Rod," the robot's voice said through the earphone embedded in the bone in front of his ear. "It will bear your weight, and I will pull you to firm ground."
"Why bother, Fess?" Rod said. "There's no point in going on. Go back to Magnus; he needs you. Go back to the ones who have reason to live."
"That is not your own thought, Rod," the robot explained. "It is a projection of this earthen elemental who seeks to drag you down."
"A projected thought?" Rod frowned. "Why would it bother?"
"For the same reason it spreads bogs for the unwary, Rod. It detests all life and seeks to purge the earth of living things. It sees all life as corruption, as obscenities that should not exist, and it seeks to cleanse its own element of all that grows or moves. It is the Spirit of the Waste because it makes wastelands. It finds in them a kind of purity."
"In my present state of mind, that almost makes sense." Rod turned to frown at the bulge in the bog. "Are you sure it's wrong?"
"Quite sure, Rod, but you will not be able to evaluate the idea objectively as long as you lie within its power. Take hold of the stick."
But the mud had covered his ears now, was sending a tendril across his chest; he could taste a trickle of it in his mouth. "It would be so easy …"
"Easy, perhaps, but not right. There are still people who need you, work that only you can do."
"Can't think of any, at the moment."