Warlock and Son (2 page)

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pride. The boy had turned out well, though darker in both mood and feature than Rod would ever have guessed, from his bouncing blond baby. He stood six foot seven in his stocking feet, and might still be growing. His black hair surmounted a face long and lanternjawed, broad across the cheekbones but tapering sharply to a square chin, with a wide, thin-lipped mouth and large, widely spaced, deepset indigo eyes. To look at him looming, tall and wide, in the dusk, gave the stranger a chill of wariness-until he saw the quirk of humor about the lips, the readiness to sympathize. Not an ogre, no, but a gentle giant, whom no good person had any cause to fear. Rod smiled, warmed by the thought, and looked directly into his son's eyes as the young man looked up at him, taken unawaresand Rod saw a smoldering resentment, dimmed now by surprise.

That jolted Rod. When had his boy become bitter? At what? Who had hurt him? For a moment, the old anger shot through Rod; he would cheerfully have converted his son's tormentor into spare parts and musical instruments, if he could just have found him-but there was the old, secret dread that he might have been looking for himself.

He choked the emotion down; it was probably groundless, anyway. "You don't have to do that, son-I can still do my own hauling."

"Canst thou indeed?" Magnus favored him with a sardonic glower. "And am I any the less bound to haul for thee? I, too, wish fire quickly!"

"Well, that's good sense, anyway." Rod set the stones down and straightened, frowning. "But as to your being bound-no, you're not. You can pay the price of waiting a few more minutes for a fire, but you don't
have
to help. Don't have to follow me, for that matter, either."

"Oh, do I not?"

"No, as a matter of fact, you don't." Rod scowled, stung by Magnus's sarcasm. "It was your choice to ride after me."

"Choice!" Magnus spat the word out as though it were an obscenity. "What choice have I, when all's said and done? I am the eldest; if thou dost sally forth, I must follow."

"Oh?" Rod pounced on it. "Who told you that?" And, before Magnus could answer, he added, "Your mother?" Magnus reddened, but also looked away. "She said no such word today."

"What-she gave you standing orders? A little old for it, aren't you?" That stung; he could see the anger flare in Magnus's eyes. "A little old to be biding at home, am I not?

To still cling to her skirts-or thy house!"

"So go." Rod spread a hand toward the forest. "Nobody says you have to stay. The whole country's open to you." Magnus stared at him, dismayed and hurt. Instantly, Rod regretted the sharpness of his tongue, realizing he'd pushed it too far-but before he could think of anything that might cancel what he'd said, Magnus snapped, "Well enough, then, an thou wilt! If thou wouldst not bide at home, wherefore ought I? Nay, thou hast loosed me, thou hast unfettered me!" Then he recovered himself long enough to give Rod a mocking bow. "I depart, obedient to my sire! And I wish thee joy of thy leisure!" He turned and strode away into the forest, leading his horse.

Anger whipped Rod, but so did dread and guilt. Frantically, he reminded himself that his son was a boy no longer, but a man grown, and fully capable of dealing with any menace that might greet him.
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Or so he thought. Rod bit back the stormy words that came unbidden to his lips, and turned to set his foot in the stirrup. He mounted, muttering, "Pushed that a little too hard, didn't I?"

"Not if you were deliberately trying to send him away, Rod." Did the robot's tones imply censure, or was Rod only imagining it? "No, I just wanted to make him feel free to do as he wanted. I didn't mean to make it be real."

"Then it was only an error in judgement." The robot's tone was neutral. Rod frowned at the horse's head. "All right, mentor-if you think I flunked the exam, say so." Fess hesitated just long enough to let Rod know how close he had come to the point, then said,

"Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that you should have spoken only as your emotions dictated, Rod."

Rod shook his head. "You know a parent can't do that, Fess, or the race would have died out from rebellions and outrage long since. We have to do what's right for our kids, not just what we want to do." He shrugged. "Maybe I just don't have the right instincts."

"Or perhaps you should have been more honest."

"Yes, perhaps I should have." Rod sighed. "But the fat's in the flames now, and I'd better go hunting for a fire extinguisher. Follow him, Fess-but at a distance. We can't let him know."

"He is old enough to care for himself," Fess protested. "You spoke rashly and foolishly, yes, but you must not let your guilt push you into intruding upon him."

"I won't intrude-but I want to be close enough to come if he calls."

"There is no need. . ."

"Oh, yes there is-because the father may not be the son's responsibility, you see, but the son is the father's."

"I have never understood that attitude, Rod-but your father evinced it, and his father before him."

"Grandpa." Rod's determination hardened at the memory. "Yes, Magnus still is my responsibility-he always will be."

"But why, Rod?"

"Because I brought him into the world," Rod explained. "If I hadn't, he wouldn't be in any danger at all-and he certainly wouldn't be so unhappy." He shook his head. "My son, my duty-and if anything happened to him, I'd go berserk."

"He is his own man, Rod, or is trying to be. You must let him go."

"I know." Rod nodded. "So don't follow very closely, all right? Just in his general direction. After all, I wasn't going any place in particular, was I? And his direction is as good as any."
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"Do not overtake him, though," Fess advised.

Rod shook his head. "Wouldn't think of it-and if I do, it'll be a total coincidence. Right, Fess?"

"Right, of course." Fess sighed. "As you will, Rod." And he moved off into the night.

2

Magnus rode into the deepening gloom, seething with anger, hurt and bewildered. His father didn't want him? Well, he didn't want his father! For a moment, he was sorely tempted to go back, to go home-after all, Dad had given him leave.

Not that he needed it. He was a man grown, and should have been living by himself now, not still at home. Most of the young men of his age were already married, with their own homesteads and their own children. Only the romantic failures, the old bachelors whom no one wanted, still lived at home with their parents.

At twenty-one, to be an old bachelor!

And, of course, in a medieval society, there was no alternative, no third choice-except the army, or the monastery. You lived at home with your parents until you married. Or went for a soldier. Or to the cloister. FOr a moment, Magnus wondered how many young men married simply to escape their parents'

houses and become masters of their own homes....

Though some of them were anything but masters. Magnus had seen quite a few who had escaped their parents' authority only to find they had become henpecked husbands, or if not actually subject to their wives, at least forever contending with a nagging termagant. More than a few, from what Magnus had seen. He shuddered at the thought of such a life with no escape in sight, then shuddered again at what it must do to the children. Though most of the marriages he had seen seemed happy enough-the husbands didn't expect much, and the wives expected less, so neither was disappointed. Was that the limit of his choices?

To be fair, he reflected, calming, he had never known the other young men of his generation very well-noblemen's children did not become intimate with commoners, and children who had no psionic talents seemed to avoid witchkinder in any case. The young espers, the ones who had answered the call to the Queen's Magic Corps twenty years before, had wed each other and had children, to the delight of his father and the Order of St. Vidicon, both having a vested interest in increasing the number of operant espersbut by the time the younger generation had generated offspring, Magnus had been ten. Even his little brother Gregory was a year or two older than the other young magic-folk. It had been a pretty lonely childhood, he supposed, though he and his siblings hadn't really noticed-they'd had each other's company, and that had usually been enough. Friends their own age had been a huge treat-Their Majesties' sons, Alain and Diarmid-but only a treat. They hadn't been a necessity. What contact he had had with other young men his age had been fleeting, and frequently hostile. He hadn't missed the company-till now.

A scream tore through the treetops. Magnus looked up, suddenly alert, blood pounding at the thought of danger-a fight would be an almost welcome diversion now. Then a gust flapped his cloak, and he realized
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it had just been a sudden blast of wind.

Looking down, he saw a man standing before him. Magnus started, shocked. Then he scowled, anger rushing. "Who art thou, who dost come so unmannerly in silence?" It was a good question, he saw-for the man was like nothing he had ever encountered on Gramarye. He wore a top hat and a Victorian caped coat, trousers, and Wellington boots-but all very tattered. His staff was ornately carved, and he wore mutton-chop whiskers. They were tattered, too.

"Whatart thou?" Magnus demanded again, hand going to his sword.

"Thine evil genius, Magnus," said the apparition. Magnus's eyes narrowed. "How knowest thou my name?"

"Do not all in Gramarye know the name of the High Warlock's son?" That stung-the implication that he could not be known for himself. Magnus shifted the subject. "I ha'

ne'er seen garb like to thine. . . ."

"Thou hast," the stranger interrupted, "in thine history books."

"Save there." Magnus tossed his head in impatience, though dread lurked within him. What did this stranger know of his books?
"Whence
comest thou?"

"From the London of thy books," the stranger answered. "I am one who doth pick and sort among the rags and tags of other people's thoughts for that which might be of interest or value to me. That which I cannot take, I buy-and that which I tire of and find to be of no worth, I give to others. I have a present for thee."

"I want it not!"

"I think thou wilt, for 'tis a spell of invulnerability."

"To make my body impervious to weapons?" Magnus's lip twisted in a sneer. "There is no such thing, only illusion!"

"Thou art poorly suited to speak of things that cannot be," the ragpicker said softly. "Yet 'tis not thy body I would make immune to harm, but thine heart."

That gave Magnus pause. There had been enough young women in his life who had feigned love, but really wanted only to exploit him in one way or another, that he already realized the value of the spell the ragpicker spoke of. "And what shouldst thou gain thereby? What would I give to thee?"

"Why, naught," the ragpicker said softly, but with too great an air of innocence. " 'Tis only as I've said-a rag of no great use, to me, and therefore do I give it."

"I trust not one who doth profess to give in altruism," Magnus grunted, "and surely not one who doth seem alien to this time and place, while knowing too much of me. I'll have naught to do with thee!

Avaunt!"

The ragpicker shrugged and smiled. "Thou wilt change thy mind presently. I'll visit thee anon, when thou
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hast greater cause to know this present's value." He swept a hand between them in a gesture, and disappeared.

Magnus stared at the spot where he'd been.

Then he turned to ride on, more shaken than he was willing to admit to himself. He strove for composure, regulated his breathing-and, in a short while, calmed enough to begin to become aware of his surroundings again. The ground had risen beneath him; his horse had followed the deer track automatically, and Magnus realized that he had absolutely no idea of where he was. Which was just fine.

Somewhere in the middle of the Forest Gellorn, of course-the largest wilderness in the land, its depths as much unknown as the Carboniferous Period mainland-and in the foothills of the mountains along its northern edge, at a guess. More than that, he didn't know. More than that, he had no wish to know. Magnus realized he was shivering with the chill. He pulled up, surprised to see that he was soaked through. He had to find someplace dry, where he could build a fire, or he would have to teleport himself and his horse back to civilization-and he wasn't quite ready to deal with other people, yet. Morose and melancholy, he was nonetheless enjoying the solitude, and wanted to make it last a bit longer. He listened carefully, probing the night with psionic senses as well as hearing ...

... and heard the dull, repetitious thrumming of a musicrock, somewhere not too far distant. They virtually infested Gramarye now: The crafter Ari, who had been deceived into flooding Gramarye with rocks that made music leading young people to be victimized, had tried to correct his misdeeds by making more and ever more rocks that chanted music pleading for kindness and consideration. But lesser crafters, once shown that the trick could be done, had begun making music-rocks of their own, though the tunes were rarely as compelling as Ari's.

This one, however, was the exception. Frowning, Magnus made out the words:

"The Hag o' the Tower-she must be

The ugliest witch in the North Country

Has trysted me all day in her bower,

And many a fair speech she made to me.

She stroked my head, and she combed my hair,

And she set me down softly on her knee,

Saying, "If you will be my leman so true,

So many braw things I would you gie . . ."