"No, and you never will as long as you lie within that creature's power. Seize the end of the branch."
But the monster stretched out a tendril again, reaching for Rod.
At the cold and clammy touch, something mulish and stubborn rose up in Rod. His mind, at least, had always been his own—until he had chosen to let Gwen share it. With both hands, he laid firm hold on the stick. The tentacle of mud poised over his face, then slammed down, but Rod managed to twitch aside, and it slapped into the bog, merging with the rest of the mud and losing its shape. The monster bellowed, and the tentacle began to reform—but it was moving away from him now. No, he was moving away, and the roaring monster was too slow in refashioning its boneless arm. Rod was actually making pretty good time considering he was ploughing through mud. Then firm ground slid up under his head; he tucked in his chin and solid earth jolted under his back. When it reached his waist, he flipped over and pushed himself to his feet, his legs sucking loose from the tug of the bog—and suddenly the world seemed to brighten, his spirits soared, and life was good again. Gwen was still a dream, one he could actually attain, one worth searching for.
The monster howled in frustration. "You are mine, mortal, and shall return to me!"
"All that lives will return to the earth sooner or later," Rod agreed, "but not today." He frowned, directing a thought at the creature, thinking of it melting back into the slough from which it had come. The monster roared rage even as it dissolved; the last roar was only a bubble in the mud.
"I have never seen a bog of witch-moss before, Rod."
"Nor have I," Rod said. "We'll have to call Toby and the Royal Witchforce to come clean it up."
"Speaking of cleaning up …"
Rod looked down at his doublet and hose to find them slathered with mud. "Might not have to throw them away. Let's find a pond and see what happens if I take a swim."
"If I were you, Rod, from now on, I would be wary of immersion in any medium."
"Yeah, but if we all gave in to that kind of impulse, no one would ever write a book." Rod turned to mount, then thought better of it. "I think I'll walk until we find enough water to rinse me. Lead on, Fess."
"I have no idea where to go, Rod."
'To the west, of course! That's where Tir Nan Og lies, doesn't it?"
"I have not noticed it on any map."
"Quit caviling. If you don't know where to go, any direction is as good as any other, and I choose west." Rod stopped for a moment, then said, "And, Fess—thanks for pulling me out of one more bog."
"That is why I exist, Rod."
MAGNUS WAITED FOR the seneschal to announce him. The man came out and bowed him into the royal solar. He came in and bowed himself. "Good morning, Your Majesties." Then he straightened and gave his parents' friends a bland smile that hid his scrutiny.
Catharine stopped pacing long enough to give him a courteous nod, while Tuan rose from his chair and came to press Magnus's hand with a smile. "Good morning, Sir Magnus. How do you find your old home?"
"There is some feeling of strangeness," Magnus admitted, "but the strangest thing of all is that it looks so familiar."
Tuan laughed. "I remember such a feeling when I returned from my exile. Be sure, it will pass."
"I am reassured." Magnus returned Tuan's smile; it was almost impossible not to. The man's good nature was infectious.
It was his first close meeting with them since the funeral, and he was in far better condition to study the changes in them—but there didn't seem to be any, if you didn't count the crow's-feet and other new creases in their faces, and a little more thickness to their bodies. For a couple in their fifties, Tuan and Catharine were in excellent condition.
"We are quite curious," Catharine told him, "and very eager to hear of the strange sights and stranger customs you have witnessed—but we shall wait for that until you are feeling fully at home again."
"I am quite willing to tell you." Magnus smiled. "Your problem will be making me stop."
Both laughed, neither believing him. "We would not disrupt your day only for such pleasantries," Tuan said, "but we have heard reports that disturb us."
"Really." Magnus resisted the temptation to read their minds. "Reports of what?"
"Of peasants who gather in ever-larger bands, marching toward Runnymede." Tuan's smile faded. "They bear only the tools of their labor, but I know how well flails and scythes can harvest soldiers. Have you heard aught of such?"
"I have," Magnus said, "and have already spoken with Geoffrey."
"I thought you might have." Tuan nodded, pleased. "But our spies tell us more—that the agents who foment discontent and lead these bands answer to our old nemesis—the Mocker."
"How dare he!" Catharine burst out. "Surely the man is neither commoner nor lord—how dare he seek to lead the peasants against us!
"Worse," Tuan said, with a perfectly straight face. "How dare he, who was certainly in his sixties at least, now rise again and look no older than when we saw him last?"
"Surely it is his rising that matters, not his age!" Catharine declared indignantly, but turned to Magnus. Thirty years have passed! Surely he should be dead!"
"By the standards of this place and time, yes," Magnus said "or at least drastically enfeebled. Since he is neither, Majesty, it is clear he must have found a way to travel through time."
King and Queen stared. Then Catharine said slowly, "Your mother mentioned such a thing, when we were wondering what manner of men and women our children would become. It seemed only a fable at the time. Surely you do not mean to tell us it can truly happen!"
"My parents made it clear to me that it does," Magnus said, "and that, though the Mocker must only be seen using such weapons as we have, he may secretly have far worse."
"Of course—the future will have developed more lethal tools than we have, will it not?" Tuan said slowly. "Still, he cannot use them on any large scale, or the peasants will shy away from him as a witch."
"There is that," Magnus agreed, "but it makes him no less lethal if we meet him hand to hand."
"We would not ask you to take any great risk," Tuan said, still slowly, "but we dearly wish to learn what truth there may be in our spies' reports. Can you ascertain whether or not peasants are gathering to march on Runnymede?"
Magnus stared at him.
"Come, come, you cannot be surprised to hear us ask it of you!" Catharine said. "Your parents have told us that you yourself have skulked in the shadows and plotted to overthrow tyrants who oppressed their peoples!"
"Your mother with concern, your father with pride," Tuan said.
Now Magnus was surprised—he had assumed his democracy-fostering father would have been ashamed of a son who empowered any other form of government. Perhaps the good of the people had been paramount to his father after all. It was a warming thought. "I never overthrew a king or queen," Magnus said, "though there was one whose lords had already pushed him aside—and he had so weak a mind that restoring him would only have led to more of the same. Still, Majesties, my siblings are at least as capable as I, and far more current with matters on Gramarye. Surely it is one of them you should entrust with this mission!"
King and Queen shared a quick glance; then Tuan turned back to Magnus. "All are quite able, it is true—but Gregory is too idealistic …"
"Too naive," Catharine said bluntly. "He will not believe evil of anyone unless it is undeniable."
"That could be a handicap in dealing with a secret agent," Magnus admitted. "Geoffrey, though …"