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         The Warlock Rock by
         Christopher Stasheff
                           Chapter One
   "Praise Heaven!" Cordelia sighed. She may have been overdoing the
sigh a little, but Alain had managed to sneak back to their table to join
them, and he was very handsome, in addition to being a crown prince.
Cordelia was fourteen, and noticing such things with great interest these
days. "Praise Heaven that Mama hath given it to the Lord Abbot!"

  "Given what?" Prince Alain watched the High Table, where the
Gallowglass children's mother was slipping off a thick chain that held a
massive pendant.

   She was thirty feet away, for the children sat at a side table, and the
Great Hall was seventy-five feet long by fifty wide, which may not be
gigantic, but was big enough for the ceiling and the corners to be lost in
shadow when the Hall was lit only by torches along the walls, and candles
on the tables—and, of course, the great fireplace in the north wall. In the
centers of the walls, though, there was enough light to make the lions and
dragons on the tapestries seem to jump out at you, and the knights in
their shining armor seemed much brighter, and the damsels much fairer,
than they ever could by daylight.

   But Lady Gwendolyn Gallowglass seemed the fairest of all—at least, to
her children's eyes—as she held out the pendant to the Lord Abbot. As he
took it, Lady Gallowglass flipped the cover open, and the grown-ups all
gasped. Small wonder; even from ten yards' distance, Alain could see the
glow of the stone. "What is it?"

  "Tis a circuit… ouch!" Geoffrey Gallowglass swore, grasping at his shin.
   " Tis a rock that Father hath made," his sister Cordelia explained to
Alain.

  "Say rather, 'found' or 'cut'," said Diarmid, Alain's little brother. "A
man doth not 'make' a rock."

    "Speak of what thou knowest, sprat!" Alain scolded, and Gregory, the
littlest Gallowglass, said helpfully, "Papa doth. Thou canst, too, if thou
dost mix the right potion. Make a brine so salty it doth become thick, then
hang a twine in it—and in some days, thou wilt see rocks of salt growing
on it."

   Diarmid stared; if Gregory said it, it had to be true.

   Geoffrey managed to get his mind off his shin long enough to think of
revenge. He glared at Cordelia, and was just starting to speak when
something jolted him back. It was his older brother Magnus, hauling him
aside to whisper frantically in his ear.

  "Salt rocks, but not rough," Cordelia agreed. "They are faceted as
sweetly as the finest jewel."

   Alain frowned. "And thy father thus made that blue stone?"

   "Aye," said little Gregory, "though 'twas a good deal more of a coil in
the brewing."

   "Certes," said Alain. " 'Tis a jewel, after all, not a lump of salt."

   "Yet it seems," said Cordelia, "that it was not what he meant it to be."

  Geoffrey returned to the table, sulky but silent. Magnus sat down beside
him.

   "What did he mean to make?" Diarmid asked.

  "An amulet," said Cordelia, "that would give any who wore it magical
powers."

   Alain could only stare.

  "Havoc!" Diarmid said instantly. "There would be no law, no order!
Every man's hand would be turned against his neighbor!"
   "Thou dost see to the heart of it," Gregory said, impressed. "Still,
friend, if all were witches, would not the world remain as it is? The strong
would rule, the good folk would obey."

  Diarmid furrowed his brow, trying to find the flaw.

  " 'Tis of no matter." Magnus waved the point away. "Papa's rock did
not what he wished; when he bade a plowman wear it and seek to work
magic, naught did hap. 'Tis what it did when Papa wore it himself, that
was the trouble."

  "What trouble?" Diarmid asked; and,

  "What did it do?" Alain demanded.

  "He set it in a circlet," said Cordelia, "and wore it on his forehead
whiles he tried to uproot a sapling that was growing too near the house."

  "Could not thy father do that without the jewel?" Diarmid asked.

   "Aye, so he gave it only the merest thought—but naught did hap. So he
thought harder, then as hard as he could— and still the tree stood."

  Alain stared. "The stone locked up his magic?"

  "Nay," said Geoffrey, coming alive at last, "for when he thought his
hardest, the sky grew dark."

  "Dost thou remember that sudden rain that did drench us a fortnight
agone?" Gregory asked.

   "It was a totally new psi power," Rod Gallowglass explained, "new to
me, anyway. I mean, I'd heard of rainmakers before, and I still think it's
just another form of telekinesis…"

   "But it was not the form thou didst wish at the moment." The Abbot set
the stone down on the table and took his hands from it.

   "That is the point," Rod agreed. "Of course, I took it off right away and
came inside—and I made sure I put it in the safest place I could think of,
before I went to dry off."

  Father Boquilva glanced at Gwen, but forbore to ask what that "safest
place" had been. "Then other than making the locket to hold it, thou hast
done naught with it since?"

  "Nothing," Rod said firmly, "and Gwen was very careful with her magic
while we considered what to do."

  "And what hast thou decided?" Queen Catharine asked.

  "That I won't try any more experiments," Rod answered.

   "Wise, until we are sure what thou hast wrought." The Abbot closed the
locket's cover gingerly. Father Boquilva watched him, looking rather pale
and a little green around the gills.

   "Then," Gwen said, "we did concur that we should ask thee to take it to
thy monks at the monastery, who make a practice of investigating such
things, that they may decide if it is a thing of no use—or ill use alone."

   Rod nodded. "If it's more trouble than benefit, please destroy it. Only
don't tell me you did," he said as an afterthought. "I was rather proud of
it…"

   "It is indeed an immense accomplishment." The Abbot picked up the
amulet—warily, by the chain—and slipped it into a pocket hidden inside
his robe. "We shall do as thou dost ask—and my monks will use all possible
care, I assure thee. By good fortune, I've little enough of the Power myself,
so it should be safe with me as I take it back to the monastery. Which I
will do straightaway"—he turned to the King—"if thou wilt lend me some
few knights and men-at-arms to ward me as I ride."

  "That will I, and right gladly," Tuan returned.

  That was when the zombies walked in.

    Well, they didn't walk, actually—they danced. And a queer, stilted,
stiff-legged sort of shuffle it was—but when the dead dance, you don't ask
them to be graceful. In fact, you don't ask them anything. You run.

   Which most of the courtiers and ladies did, with a single unified
scream. They pushed away from the tables and backed up, hands out to
ward off the macabre things. Tables crashed over, platters and ewers fell
bouncing, and men shoved their wives and sweethearts behind them,
pulling out their swords and daggers with that sick sort of look that said
they knew it wouldn't do any good. Magnus pushed his two little brothers
and his sister behind him, of course, but Geoffrey ducked back out in an
instant, his sword drawn also, and Cordelia dodged around to his
left—only to jar into the back of Alain, who was insisting on being
protective, too. By way of saving face, she caught Diarmid and Gregory to
her and spat, "Lean aside! I must see!"

  "Look, but meddle not." Somehow, her mother was there, right behind
her. Cordelia noticed that Gwen didn't try to get out in front of her
sons—after all, Magnus was seventeen now, and a young man—but she
knew that they were as well protected as though Gwen had.

   Then the music caught her attention.

  It was a jangly sort of sound that had a beat that kept thumping where
you didn't expect it to, a Jighthearted, carefree sort of melody that made
her want to dance, in spite of the gruesome pavane before her.

   Magnus too was deciding that it really wasn't all that bad, once you got
used to it. In fact, if they weren't so stiff-jointed and dry-looking, he might
not have been able to tell the zombies from living people at first. They
wore winding-sheets draped for modesty, and their skin had
darkened—but their empty eye sockets were alive with sparks of light, and
they grinned with delight, not rigor mortis. They clapped and sang,
occasionally yelling something all together, though he couldn't make out
the words, and some of them held rocks which they clicked in unison with
that odd, off-beat rhythm.

   "Calypso," Rod was telling Tuan. "It's definitely calypso."

   "What?" said Father Boquilva. "The nymph who entranced Ulysses and
his crew?"

   "No, the form of music. It's from ancient Terra."

   "Yet how came it here?" Tuan demanded.

   Rod shrugged. "How are they making the music at all? I don't see any
instruments."

   The zombies all yelled a word in unison again.
  The Abbot frowned. "Now I comprehend what they have said—but it
means naught."

  "Jamboree!" the zombies cried again.

  "It's a sort of a party," Rod explained. "A very big party."

  Tuan stepped forward, holding his sword out. "Mayhap Cold Iron…"

   "No." Rod stayed the king with a hand on his forearm. "Only salt will
waken zombies—but you have to put it in their mouths, and make it stay
there. Then they'll run back to their graves—but it's very dangerous for
anybody who happens to be in the way."

  "It matters not," Catharine said, tight-lipped. "They leave."

   Leaving they were, in a shuffling procession, clacking their rocks
together, snapping their fingers, clapping their hands, chanting the words
that the courtiers couldn't understand, punctuated now and again with
that shouted word, "Jamboree!"

   Their singing faded; finally, they were gone. The whole of the Great Hall
stood in silence for a few minutes.

   Then ladies collapsed onto benches, sobbing, and their gentlemen
turned to comfort them. Cordelia stood rigid, determined not to cry, and
Gwen was watching Diarmid and Gregory with concern—but Diarmid was
only grave, as he always was, and Gregory was fascinated.

  "Come!" Alain cried. "Papa will say what to do!"

   But as they approached the High Table, Tuan was saying to the priests,
"What was it we spoke of all day? A hodgepodge of hedge-priests, who we
thought might become a danger because they praised the life of poverty
and chastity?"

  Rod nodded. "Somehow they don't seem all that pressing all of a
sudden."

   "Indeed not." Catharine saw Gwen, and heaved out a sigh that seemed
to loosen every joint. "What can it mean, Lady Gallowglass? Whence came
they?"
   But Gwen could only spread her hands and shake her head. "From their
graves, Majesty. Yet who hath raised them, I cannot say."

  "Nor why they sent them here." Tuan began to frown.

   "Oh, that is easily said!" Catharine snapped. "They have sent them to
afright the Crown and the Court, look you, and even now they dance out
through the town, like as not to send the citizens of our capitol screaming
in terror."

   Tuan turned, snapping his fingers, and a guardsman appeared by his
side. "Tell Sir Maris I would have a troop of guards follow those
spectres—but stay at a distance, and do naught but watch till they have
fled the town."

   "Yet if any are hurted in their fright," Catharine said quickly, "aid
them."

   The guardsman bowed and turned away, but the look on his face said
that he was considering a career change.

   "Fright is all that would hurt them," Tuan agreed. "Yet a fright of this
sort will have the whole land clamoring to the Crown, to banish these fell
revenants." He looked up at the Abbot. "And what can the Crown do?"

  The Abbot was silent a moment, then said, "I shall consult with my
monks."

   "Naught, then." Tuan turned back to Catharine. "And the people shall
see their monarchs powerless. This is the purpose."

  "To hale us down," Catharine said, white-lipped. "Will they never be
done? Will they never leave us in peace?"

  "Never," Rod said, "for your land and your people are far too important,
Your Majesties."

   Catharine thawed a little, and there was a glimmer of gratitude in her
eyes. She didn't ask to whom she and her people were important; she and
her husband had wormed as much of that as they could from the Lord
Warlock, and Catharine wasn't sure she wanted to know any more.
  But Tuan was another matter. "Who are the 'they' she doth speak of?"

  "Why, the ones who raised the zombies," Rod hedged.

  "And who did that, Papa?" Gregory asked.

   "Nice question." Rod looked down at his youngest, trying not to let his
exasperation show. "Got any ideas, Gregory?"

  "A sorcerer," said Diarmid.

  "Fair guess." Rod nodded. "Which sorcerer?"

  Gregory shook his head. "We do not know enough to guess, Papa."

  "Then," said Catharine, "I prithee, go learn."


                          Chapter Two
   "Because the Queen said, 'Go learn,' that's why." Rod tightened the
cinch on Fess's saddle.

   "It seems to me, Rod, that you take virtually any excuse to go on a
journey these days." Rod picked up the great black horse's voice through
an earphone imbedded in his mastoid process. Of course, he could have
heard the robot without it, now that Fess had figured out how to transmit
in the family telepathic mode—but the earphone didn't demand any
concentration.

  "Well, true," Rod conceded, "so long as Their Majesties are paying
expenses." He grinned wickedly. "Sometimes even if they're not. But it cuts
down on the explanations when it's official."

   "Still, you are pursuing a manifestation that resembled walking
corpses. Do you truly think it is safe to bring the children along?"

   Rod stopped with the saddlebags over his arm and ticked off points on
his fingers. "One: There was absolutely no sign of violence from the cold
ones. In fact, they seemed remarkably good-natured. Two: None of my
children showed much in the way of fear at the sight of them. Three: Do
you really think we could get them to stay behind, if we tried?"
  "Not unless Gwen did"—the horse sighed—"and she does seem to have
her mind set on the expedition."

   "And if she thinks it's safe enough for them to go, then it's safe."

  "I concede the point." Fess sighed, again. "Still, as the children's tutor, I
must protest this interruption in their studies."

   "Who said anything about stopping the homework? I'm sure you can
find time for a lecture or two." Rod slung the saddlebags over Fess's back,
led him out of the stable, and turned back to close and bolt the door.

   "There is small need for that, Lord Warlock," said a small voice from
the tussock of grass beside the building. "We shall ward thy cot and barn
well in thine absence."

   Rod inclined his head gravely toward the tussock. "I thank you,
brownie. Simply a matter of responsible behavior—I shouldn't task you
any more than is necessary. Oh, and I left the bowl of milk inside."

  "We ha' known of it," the invisible manikin replied. "Godspeed, Lord
Warlock."

   "I thank you, Wee Folk," Rod called out, then turned away to join his
wife and children, where they waited with their packs.

   Gwen looked askance at him, then turned to watch the children. Rod
didn't need to read her mind to know she was wondering about the
wisdom of letting Fess try to lecture about mathematics when the children
had clearly decided they were on holiday. For his part, Rod was beginning
to think it wasn't such a hot idea, either, especially from the degree of
ruddiness in Geoffrey's countenance.

  "Such a deal of parabolas and hyperbolas and tangents!" the boy finally
exploded. "What matter they to a warrior?"

   "They will matter greatly," Fess responded, "if you lay siege to a castle."

   Geoffrey stared at him. "How?"

   "Excellent question. How do you aim a catapult, Geoffrey?"

   "Thou dost point it at the castle, and loose!" The boy spread his hands.
  "And if the rock falls short of the wall?"

  Geoffrey expanded, delighted to talk about something he knew. "Thou
dost bring the catapult closer."

   "But the castle's archers will make pincushions of your men if you come
too close," Fess pointed out.

   "Why, then," Geoffrey said, disgusted, "one doth make a stronger
catapult."

   "Good enough. But let us say that you make it too strong, and the rock
sails over the castle wall and into the bailey."

  " 'Twill do some damage…"

  "But it will not breach the wall. You could tilt it, though."

  "Catapults do not tilt." Geoffrey scowled, suspecting a trick.

  "Then you must invent one that does."

  "Wherefore?" Geoffrey protested. "What good would it do?"

  "Why not make a catapult, and show them?" Rod suggested.

   Whatever Fess's answer was, it was drowned out by Geoffrey's cheer. He
and Gregory set about gathering sticks and creepers, and in ten minutes'
time had lashed together a serviceable imitation of a catapult, while
Cordelia and Magnus watched with indulgent smiles, trying not to look
interested.

  Fess said, with resignation, "Load the catapult, Geoffrey. "

   "Aye, Fess!" The boy snatched a three-inch pebble from the ground,
placing it into the cup at the end of the catapult's throwing arm.

   "Aim it at that large oak tree at the side of the road ahead," Fess
instructed.

   "'Tis the thickest for a rod's walk." Magnus grinned. "An thou canst not
hit that, brother, I shall have to fetch thee an oliphant."
   Geoffrey gave him a black glare, but before he could speak, Fess said, "I
did not ask for your input, Magnus. Is your aim complete, Geoffrey?"

  "Aye, Fess."

  "Loose, then."

  Geoffrey pushed the 'trigger,' and the arm slammed forward. The
pebble shot up into the air.

  "Notice that the path of the stone is a curve, children. In fact, if you
watch closely, you will see that it is a curve with which you are familiar."

   "Why, so 'tis," Geoffrey agreed. " Tis like to the path of an arrow, when
the archer doth shoot at a distant target."

  "It is indeed—and it is also a parabola. With the proper mathematics,
one can calculate from the elevation, the angle, the length of the catapult's
arm, and the tensile strength of its rope spring, exactly where that arc will
end."

   "And therefore where the rock will strike!" Geoffrey cried, his eyes
lighting.

  "Odd teaching method," Rod murmured to Gwen, "but for him, it
works."

  Gwen shook her head in exasperation. "He will learn naught if it bears
not on the waging of war."

   The stone smacked into the tree, and a reedy, distant voice said
distinctly, "Ouch!"

  The children stood stock-still, staring.

  Then they turned to one another, all talking at once.

  "Didst thou say 'ouch'?"

  "Nay, I did but watch. Didst thou?"

  "I never say 'ouch'!"
  "I did not. Didst thou say 'ouch'?"

  "Nay, for nothing struck me."

   "Children!" Gwen said sternly, and they stilled on the instant, turning
toward her. "Now—who did say 'ouch'?"

  "The rock did," Gregory answered.

   "That is impossible," Fess assured them. "Rocks cannot talk. They are
inanimate."

  "In Gramarye, Fess, aught can do anything," Magnus reminded him.

  Uncertainty underscored the robot's response, "You imply that the
pebble in question is a false stone?"

  "I do not, Fess. As thou hast taught us," Cordelia reminded, "we do not
imply—thou dost infer."

   "I must admit your accuracy," Fess acknowledged. "The rock must have
said 'ouch'."

   Rod was amazed at Fess's progress. "Time was when that would have
given you a seizure."

  The children gave a cry of delight and shot off toward the stone.

   "Stay back, children," Fess said, but they had already pelted across the
stableyard to the tree. Fess boosted his amplification. "Stay back! We
must assume it is dangerous, since we do not know what it is."

  Gwen frowned. "That is not needful, Fess."

  "But advisable," Rod qualified, "and he has given an order."

  Geoffrey reached out a forefinger.

  Gwen sighed, and called, Geoffrey! No!

   Admittedly, she gave the call telepathically, which may have been why
the boy yanked his finger back and gave her a wounded look. "It cannot
hurt me, Mama."
   "You cannot know that, any more than I can." Fess came up behind
them and lowered his head, searching for a fallen stick. He found one and
picked it up in his teeth. "No matter what it is, it can do far less damage
to my body than to yours, since I am made of steel, and you are only made
of flesh. Since it is apparently necessary to test this item, you must stand
back."

  The children took a small step away.

  "Giant step," Fess commanded.

  The children sighed and complied.

  "Three," Fess ordered.

   "There is no need," Cordelia huffed, but they did as he said, then held
their breaths as Fess reached forward slowly.

  In the silence, they became aware of faint strains of music, melodious,
but very repetitious, and with a heavy bass rhythm.

   Magnus lifted his head, looking about him. "Whence cometh that
sound?"

  "From the stone," Fess answered.

   They stared at the rock and strained their ears. Sure enough, it was
giving off music.

  " 'Tis a most strange stone," Gregory breathed.

   "Then it requires most careful handling." Very gently, Fess prodded the
stone with the stick.

  It giggled.

  "It lives," Gregory gasped, eyes wide.

  Rod and Gwen both stared. "What thing is this?" Gwen asked.

  " 'Tis not dangerous, at the least." Geoffrey straightened up, relaxing.

  "It would seem not." Reluctantly, Fess added, "Very well, children. You
may touch it."

   They gave a minor cheer as Geoffrey stepped up, knelt, and prodded the
stone with a forefinger.

  "Stop that!" It giggled.

  The children gawked. "It talks!"

  "Of a certainty I talk," the pebble said. "Dost not thou?"

  "Well… certes, I do," Gregory answered, "yet I am not a rock."

  "Of course not," the pebble told him. "Thou art too soft."

   "As art thou." Geoffrey picked up the stone and squeezed it. " 'Tis a soft
rock."

  They all stared, startled. In the silence, they could hear the faint,
endlessly repeating melody again, its strong bass chords thrumming.

  "Cordelia," Fess said, "please stop nodding your head."

  "I did not move it," she replied.

  Gwen frowned. "Nay, daughter, thou didst."

  Cordelia turned to her in surprise, and Fess interjected, "You simply
were not aware of it."

  "Put me down," the stone protested. "Thou dost tickle."

   "Give it me." Cordelia held out her hand, and Geoffrey gave her the
pebble. The rock giggled again. She stroked it with a forefinger, and the
giggling turned into a purr.

  "Oh, 'tis delightful!" She stroked it again. "As though 'twere moss!"

   "Moss." Gwen lifted her head. "Certes, my children. It must be a thing
of witch-moss."

   Witch-moss was a type of fungus exclusive to Gramarye. It was
telepathically sensitive; if a projective telepath thought at it, the
witch-moss would take the form and color of anything the telepath
visualized. It could even gain the power of speech and the ability to
reproduce.

   Magnus looked down at the stone, frowning. " Tis true—it must needs
be of witch-moss. An it were aught else, how could it exist?"

  "What doth it here?" Geoffrey demanded.

  "I make music," the rock answered.

  "What is the purpose of it?"

  " 'Tis but entertainment," the rock assured him.

  "An odd word is that. Where hast thou got it?"

  "Why," said the rock, " 'twas ever within me, sin that I was made."

  "If 'tis witch-moss, one must needs have crafted it." Gwen tilted her
head, eyeing the stone. "Who made thee, rock?"

  "Another rock," the stone answered.

  Gregory looked up at Gwen, startled. "How could another rock have
made it?"

   "Oh, silly!" Cordelia said in her loftiest manner. "How do mothers and
fathers make children?"

   Gregory just stared blankly at her, but Fess said, "I doubt it would be
quite the same process, Cordelia. After all, the stone referred to only one
other rock."

   "Then 'tis a babe," Cordelia crowed with delight. "Oh! 'Tis darling! I am
half a mind to take thee home with me, as a pet!"

  "Do not dream of it," Gwen said instantly. "I've trials enough without
music that will not stop in my house."

   "It will stop when 'tis indoors." Cordelia turned to the rock. "Thou canst
cease making music, canst thou not?"
   "Nay," the rock answered. "I am filled with melody; it must come out."

   "Art thou never empty, then?" Gregory asked.

   "Never," the stone answered firmly. "The music doth but grow and
grow inside me, until I feel that I… must… burst!" It bounced out of
Cordelia's hand. She gave a wordless cry and grabbed for it, but Magnus
caught her wrist. "Let me be!" she snapped, instantly furious. "I must
have…" Then her eyes widened, and she stopped, staring, for the rock was
rotating on the ground in front of them, hissing over the gauzy, iridescent
film that coated the dead leaves under it. Just as suddenly, it stopped.

   "How did it know when to turn, and when to stop?" Gregory whispered.

   "It has responded to light," Fess pointed out. "Note that it now lies in a
sunbeam. It is nearly noon; I believe you will find that it oriented itself by
the angle of the sun above the horizon."

   Rod stiffened. What Gramarye esper could know about solar cells?

   "Would it not rather orient at sunrise or sunset?" Magnus asked.

   "No, because at noon, the sun is at its zenith, and its angle above the
horizon indicates position north or south. The stone has positioned itself
relative to the pole."

   "It doth swell," Geoffrey breathed.

   They all stared. Sure enough, the stone was growing bigger.

   "Back, children!" Gwen ordered, and, "Down!" Rod snapped.

   Without demur, they all leaped back and hit the dirt.

   "Wherefore, Papa?" Cordelia called.

  "Because," Rod answered, "I've known things like rocks that fly apart
hard enough to kill people!"

   They all wormed back further, Geoffrey, Magnus, and Cordelia hiding
behind trees, Gregory ducking behind his parents. Then they peeked out
as the rock swelled and swelled, bloating up to twice its original size. It
began to tremble and shrink in the middle, pinching in until it looked as
though someone had tied a piece of string around it, and kept on
shrinking until, with a bang and a metallic crash, it split apart, two pieces
flying off into the air.

   The children stared, stupefied, but Fess saw a perfectly good
demonstration going to waste. "Notice its path as it cuts through the air,
children! What is its form?"

  "Oh, a parabola," Geoffrey said in disgust.

  "We must follow it!" Cordelia leaped to her feet and set off.

  "Now, wait a minute," Rod said.

   The youth brigade halted in the act of setting forth, then turned back to
eye their father with trepidation. "Thou dost intend summat," Magnus
accused.

  "May I offer an idea for consideration?" Fess asked.

  "Which is?" Rod asked.

   "Consider: This is presumably the same mechanism that brought the
rock here to this location in the first place."

  "Certes!" Magnus cried. "That is its meaning, in saying another rock
made it!"

   "Precisely, Magnus. There was one rock, but there are now two. It has
reproduced itself."

  "Yet with only one parent!" Cordelia said.

  "Indeed. This form of reproducing by splitting is called 'fission.'"

   "Yet why did it swell and burst?" Cordelia frowned. "What occasioned
it?"

   "The sun reaching the zenith no doubt triggered it. As to how it swelled,
did you notice where it landed when you dropped it?"

    Four pairs of eyes darted to the soft rock, and the gauzy sheen beneath
it. The patch of iridescence had shrunk to a half-inch circle around the
stone. "It did land in witch-moss," Cordelia breathed, "and did absorb it
all."

  Rod and Gwen exchanged glances.

  "Precisely. Let us hypothesize that it swelled so rapidly because it had
only just landed in more witch-moss, and noon was almost upon it."

  "Why hypothesize?" Geoffrey demanded. " 'Tis plain and clear!"

   "Many things are plain and clear until we count on them, and they fail
to happen. If you wish to be sure you have guessed rightly, Geoffrey, you
must create the same conditions and see if they cause the same result."

   "Why, this is the scientific method of which thou hast taught us!"
Magnus cried. "We first observed and gathered information, then we
sought to reason out what that information signified, and now we have
stated an hypothesis!"

  "Thou hast sneaked a lesson upon us, Fess," Cordelia accused.

  "Of course; we are still within school hours."

  "Keep it up, Metal Mentor," Rod breathed.

   "If you insist. I now propose that we test the hypothesis we have
formulated."

  "Thou dost mean we should experiment," Gregory translated.

  Geoffrey glared at him. "Showoff!"

  "Wast not thou, with thy catapult?" Gregory retorted.

  "Yes!"

   "How can we experiment, Fess?" Magnus asked. "Seek another soft
rock, and set it in a patch of witch-moss?"

  "Yes, and come to look at it shortly before noon tomorrow, to see if it
has grown," Fess answered.

  "Well enough!" Geoffrey clapped his hands, delighted by the prospect of
action. "Let us follow the rock!"

   "We could," Rod said thoughtfully, "or we could go in the opposite
direction."

   Geoffrey halted and turned back, frowning. "Wherefore?"

  "Why would a captain do such a thing, son, if he saw a scout ride
toward him?"

   Geoffrey gazed off into space. "Why—to seek out the army from which
the scout rode!"

   "And if we do backtrack the rock, we may find its parent?" Cordelia
asked, eyes lighting.

   "We may indeed," Fess said, "and we can use it for our experiment."

  "And in seeking it," Geoffrey asserted, "we will perform another
experiment—one that will determine whence the rock came!"

   "What a wonderful insight, Geoffrey! Really, there are times when you
delight me! You have hit the precise point—that we may as well perform
two experiments at once, thus answering two questions for the price of
one! Come, children—let us see if we have guessed rightly as to the rock's
source!"

   Cordelia, Gregory, and Magnus gave a shout and followed Fess away
from the musical rock. Geoffrey followed more slowly, flushed with
pleasure at Fess's compliment, but somehow feeling he'd been
manipulated.

   As his parents knew very well he had, and by a master. "I have never
truly known Fess's worth as a teacher," Gwen said softly as they followed
the children.

   "Neither have I," Rod admitted, "and I was his student."


                         Chapter Three
  The Gallowglasses set off cautiously, Fess following behind. They walked
awhile in silence. Then Magnus spoke.
  "Yet how could a stone make music? 'Tis not in the nature of the
substance; rock is hard and unfeeling."

  "Tis equally unnatural for stones to be soft, then," Cordelia reminded.

  "Not for a stone made of witch-moss," Geoffrey snorted.

  "Aye. What is not in the nature of witch-moss?" Gregory asked.

  Gwen smiled, amused. "Why not ask what is in its nature?"

  "Everything and nothing," Rod answered. "Right, Fess?"

   "That is correct," the robot replied. "Of itself, the fungus had no
properties other than color, texture, composition, mass, and the ability to
respond to projected thought. Its 'nature' is entirely potential."

   "I comprehend how it may be crafted; I have done it." Cordelia
frowned. "Yet how can it keep the aspects I give it, when I am far from it?"

    Rod shrugged. "Dunno—but it can. If I'm guessing right, the first elves
were made of witch-moss by people who didn't know they were doing
it—grandmothers, maybe, who were projective telepaths but unaware of
it, and who liked to tell stories to their grandchildren. But the nearest
growth of witch-moss picked up the stories, too, and turned into the
characters the story was about."

  "Dost say the Puck is a thing of witch-moss?"

  "Not where he can hear it—but he probably is."

  "Yet whosoever crafted him must be five centuries in his grave!"
Magnus protested. "How can the Puck endure?"

   "I should think he is sustained by the beliefs of the people all about
him," Fess put in. "One might say that, on Gramarye, the supernatural
exists in a climate of belief."

   "Thou dost mean that other folk with the power to send out their
thoughts do sustain him?" Magnus nodded slowly. "I can credit that; yet
how then can he think?"

  "Doth he truly think?" Gregory asked.
    Fess shuddered. "That is a philosophical question which I would rather
not broach at the moment, Gregory." In fact, he didn't intend to broach it
for about ten more years. "For the moment, suffice it to say that Puck, and
all other elves, do indeed exhibit all the symptoms of actual thought."

  "An it doth waddle and quack, can it be a hen?" Geoffrey muttered.

  "A what?" Cordelia asked.

  "A hen! A hen!"

  "Do not clear thy throat; thou shalt injure thy voice…"

  "Are they so real that they can even, um"—Magnus glanced at his sister
and blushed— "have babes?"

   "I had little difficulty accepting the notion," Fess replied, "once I
accepted the existence of witch-moss. It is only a question of whether the
crafter makes an elf of witch-moss himself, or does it by one remove."

  "And if we do credit an elf's thinking," Gwen mused, "wherefore should
we not credit a stone's making of music?"

  "But there are no tales of singing stones, Mama!" Geoffrey protested.

   "What difference does it make?" Rod countered. "If the people of this
land believe in magic, they probably believe in anything anyone can
imagine."

  "Yet a true rock could not make music?" Gregory asked anxiously.

  "Not a true rock," Fess said slowly, "though it could conduct vibrations,
and resonate with them…"

  "Then a rock could be made to convey music!"

   "In a manner of speaking—but it could not make music itself. However,
a person could make a substance that looks exactly like stone."

  "Thou dost speak of molecular circuits," Magnus said, relieved to be
back on the solid ground of physics.

  "I do. You have all seen the ring your father wears; the jewel contains a
molecular circuit, and the setting contains others."

  "Can it make music?"

   "Your father's ring? No—but it can 'hear' music, and send it to the
receiver behind his ear. Still, one could build a circuit of that size that
would create simple music—and that is certainly ail that is at issue here."

  "And 'twould look just like stone?"

   "It could," Fess confirmed, and Rod explained, "In a way, such circuits
are stones, since they're usually made of silicon—but they're very carefully
made rocks."

   "Ah!" Magnus looked up, finally connecting ideas. " 'Tis that which
thou didst research, by making the amulet thou didst give Mama!"

  "And that she very prudently gave the Abbot. Yes."

  Cordelia looked up at the robot-horse, a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
"Art thou pleased with the fruit of thy teaching, Fess?"

   "I cannot deny it, Cordelia—the boy turned out remarkably well, in
spite of it all. He not only absorbed the information, but also learned how
to think, which is a different matter entirely, though related. He even
began to enjoy learning, and eventually found it to be so great a source of
pleasure that he seeks new information purely as recreation now."

  . Rod tried not to blush.

  Geoffrey shuddered. "How could one enjoy learning?"

  That saved him. "Believe it or not, son, it can happen."

   "I have seen you reading of the famous generals of the past, Geoffrey,"
Fess pointed out. "In fact, when you learn that even peacemaking is an
extension of the same root purpose as warfare, you will find that virtually
any information is enjoyable."

  "Pray Heaven I never do!" Geoffrey exclaimed.

   "Yet if thou dost take such pleasure in learning, Papa, wherefore dost
thou so seldom seek new knowledge?" Cordelia asked.
  "Not that seldom," Rod protested. "I've always found time to read the
odd book or two."

   "And some of them are very odd indeed," Gwen added.

   "As for research," Fess said, "it is simply that he rarely has adequate
time for such pleasures."

   "He hath found such time this year," Cordelia pointed out.

   "Yeah, and it's been such a relief." Rod grinned, stretching. "Gramarye
seems to have been struck by a wave of peace for the past dozen months or
so. When your mother politely hinted that I was becoming something of
an encumbrance around the house…"

   "Oh, I do remember thy discussing that Papa had not been to the castle
for some time…"

   "That was the occasion, yes. So I went down into the spaceship, and
passed some time quite pleasantly in the laboratory, which is small but
spacious…"

   "Wilt thou never show us where it is?" Geoffrey demanded.

  Gregory said nothing; he had already deduced the spaceship's location,
but he didn't dare try to visit it.

   "It would be of small interest to you, Geoffrey, since it has only minimal
armament," Fess said, while Rod was still trying to think up a tactful
answer. "The laboratory is adequate for a broad range of research,
however, and your father settled down to see if he could grow a molecular
circuit that could function as a psionic transceiver."

   "All right, so it wasn't a complete success," Rod said quickly, to forestall
criticism. "Still, it should have some worth, as a transducer. In fact, I
would have experimented with it myself, if only…"He broke off, glancing at
Fess.

    "There is no need to hide it from them," Gwen said, "sin that 'tis where
it shall be safe."

   "What? what?" Magnus asked in concern. "Hath it a property thou hast
not told us of?"

   "More of a side effect than a property," Rod hedged. "It's not just that it
shifts one form of psi energy into another, see—it also turns the esper's
power back on its source."

   "Thou dost say that an I were to wear it, and seek to lift a stone with my
thoughts, I would instead find myself lifted?" Gregory asked, wide-eyed.

   "We can move ourselves already," Geoffrey scoffed.

   "I cannot," Cordelia pointed out.

   "You wouldn't want to," Rod assured her. "The thought-impulse picks
up energy from its surroundings, and comes back at you about ten times
stronger."

   Gregory stared. "Thou dost say that my own thoughts would come back
to me more strongly than I sent them forth?"

  "Oh! What a wondrous device!" Geoffrey cried. "I could move
mountains with it; I could make walls to tumble!"

   "Sure," Rod said sourly, "if we could figure out which power converts
into telekinesis—and if it would hit the wall. But it doesn't—it hits you."

  "If you sought to break a castle wall, Geoffrey," Fess explained, "that
purpose would turn back on you, and it is yourself who would be broken."

   That brought Geoffrey up short. "Mayhap I should not wish it," he said
slowly.

   "Only 'mayhap'?" Cordelia said aghast, watching him out of the corner
of her eye.

   "But there is worse to tell." Fess's voice was flat and toneless. "That
tenfold thought would still be projected out of you again, and the wall
would return it to your mind, multiplied by another ten…"

   "An hundred times stronger!" Cordelia breathed.

  "Exactly. And the hundredfold signal would push out, to be returned
multiplied by ten yet again."
      "A thousandfold." Geoffrey was definitely beginning to see the horror of
it.

  "Yes, Geoffrey; we call such a phenomenon a 'feedback loop.' And, being
uncontrolled…"

      "It would burn out his mind," Magnus whispered.

   "It would, if you did not cease pushing out your thoughts almost
instantly. Fortunately, your father knows what feedback is, and ceased the
experiment as soon as he felt his own mental power turning back on him.
Even so, he had a raging headache, and I kept a close watch on him for
twenty-four hours, fearing brain damage."

      "That was when he failed to come home!" Geoffrey exclaimed.

      "No wonder thou wast so distraught," Cordelia said to Gwen.

   "I was quite concerned," Gwen admitted, "though Fess sought to
reassure me."

   "I immediately informed her that he was well, but would rest within the
spaceship for the night. He had connected me to its systems, as he does
whenever he goes there, so I was able to monitor his condition closely
through his sickbed. But he recovered, with no sign of brain damage."

      "Did he ever dare use it again?"

   "I dislike that glint in your eye, Geoffrey. Please give over any thought
of using the device; it is simply too powerful."

      "But is it truly safe where it is?" Gregory asked.

  "The friars of St. Vidicon of Cathode have sifted such matters five
hundred years," Gwen assured them.

   "And five centuries of research into psionic affairs should give them a
certain competence," Rod pointed out. "In fact, Brother Al assured me
they were the best in the Terran Sphere, even better than the scholars on
Terra."

  "If they cannot handle it safely," Fess said, "no one can—and they will
have the good sense to know that at once."
   "Then they may destroy it?" Gregory sounded so disappointed that Fess
interpreted it as a danger signal, but his programming wouldn't allow him
to lie. "I cannot be certain, Gregory, for your father asked them not to tell
him if they did so."

  "I was kinda proud of it," Rod admitted.

   "So," Fess said, "they may liquidate it—or they may yet use it as a
research tool. We simply do not know."

   "Yet we can know that we will never have it out from there," Geoffrey
said, disgusted.

   "Quite so, Geoffrey." Fess was relieved to see his most tenacious student
finally let go of the notion. "Destroyed or intact, it has gone where it will
be safe."

   Geoffrey suddenly lurched, tripping over something among the dry
leaves. "Ouch!"

  They were all suddenly still, for there had been a very odd echo to his
word.

  In the silence, they heard music.

  "'Tis louder," Gregory observed.

  "And with a stronger fundament." Geoffrey's head began jerking
backward and forward in time to the beat.

  "Geoffrey," Fess commanded, "hold still!"

  The boy looked up at him, hurt. "I did not move, Fess."

   "Yet thou didst," Gregory assured him, and turned to Fess, wide-eyed.
"What insidious thing is this, Fess, that doth make one's body to move
without his own awareness?"

   "It is rock music, Gregory," Fess answered. "Come, look where Geoffrey
tripped."

   They turned back a step and pushed aside the leaves. Sure enough,
there it lay, the twin of the first rock they had found.
   "We were right!" Cordelia cried, clenching her fists and hopping with
delight. "Oh! Hath our experiment succeeded, Fess?"

   "It has, Cordelia; our hypothesis is validated. Now, gather more data."

  "Well enough!" Cordelia knelt and picked up the rock. It chuckled.
"Oh!" she said, surprised. "Tis harder!"

  "Yet still doth yield." Geoffrey poked the rock with a finger, and it fairly
howled with laughter.

   "Let me! Let me!" Gregory dropped down to probe the stone, and it
laughed so hard it coughed—right on the beat, of course. "Leave off!" it
wheezed between coughs. "Oh! I shall die of tickling!"

   Cordelia dropped it and rubbed her hands on her skirt.

   "Art thou alive, then?" Gregory asked.

   "Aye; no fossil form am I." The rock chuckled. "Oh! I have not laughed
so since last I split!"

   "Last?" Magnus looked up. "Thou dost halve oft, then?"

   "Have off what?… Oh!" The rock chortled. "Aye, foolish lad! Whene'er I
increase far enough!"

   "Didst thou divide today?"

  "Divide today into what? Oh! Morn and afternoon, of course! Nay, I did
not—the sun did that."

   "Whose son? Oh! Thou dost speak of the orb in the sky! Yet didst thou
split when it rose to its highest?"

   "Aye, lad, every day I havel 'Tis fertile land here, midst the leaves! And I
do take my leave when'er I may!"

   "Dost thou never work, then?"

   "Nay, I exist but to make music! A bonny life it is!"

   "So long as there is witch-moss by for thou to roll into," Cordelia
returned. "Yet wherefore art thou hardened?"

   "Why, for that I've aged. All things must needs grow hard as they grow
old."

   "Not every thing," Rod said quickly, with a glance at Gwen.

  "It is not entirely true," Fess agreed. "Still, I must admit that is the
common progression."

   "Yet an it hath progressed as its progenitor did…" Magnus stood,
gazing thoughtfully off into the trees.

   "Aye." Gregory pointed. "Yon doth continue the vector we did tread,
brother!"

   "Another hypothesis?" Fess was ever alert for the sounds of learning.

   "Nay, further evidence for the one we've tested. An we backtrack farther
on this vector, Fess, we should discover the parent of this parent rock."

   Fess nodded judiciously. "That is a warranted extrapolation, boys. Yet
time grows short; let us send the spy-eye." The pommel of his saddle
sprang up, and a metal egg rose out of it.

    "Fun!" Cordelia cried, and the children crowded around Fess's withers,
where a section of his hide slid up to expose a video screen that glowed to
life, showing a bird's-eye view of the immediate area. They could see Fess's
head, neck, and back with their own four heads clustered around, growing
smaller in the screen and swinging off to the left.

   "I did not know of this," Gwen told Rod.

   "Never thought to tell you," he admitted. "Remind me to dig up his
specifications chart for you one of these days."

   The rock increased the volume of its music, miffed at being so suddenly
ignored.

   "Cordelia," Gwen said, "cease tapping thy foot."

   Cordelia glowered, but stopped.
  On the screen, greenery streamed past faster and faster as the spy-eye
shot toward the west. Then, suddenly, it slowed to a halt.

   "Three hundred meters," Fess said, "the same distance we have come
from the first stone. Here is the audio, children."

   From the grille below the screen music blared, faster than that in the
air around them, and with a heavier beat. The music from the speaker
jarred with the music around them, out of phase; the children winced, and
Fess turned it down. "There is another music rock nearby, of a certainty.
Let the eye descend, Fess."

   The leaves on the screen seemed to swim upward, past the edges of the
frame and out, until the brown of fallen leaves filled the screen. The brush
swelled until the children could see the outlines of each stick and branch.

  " 'Tis there!" Geoffrey cried.

  "Directly where we said 'twould be," Magnus said, with pride.

   " Tis a darker gray." Cordelia pursed her lips. "Would it be harder,
Fess?"

   "Since this stone is harder than the first we found, and since it
maintains that hardness comes with age, I should say the prospect is
likely, Cordelia. Can you make any other inferences?"

   The children were silent, startled by the question. Then Magnus said
slowly, "Thou dost mean that an we seek farther in this direction, we shall
discover more rocks."

  "That does seem likely."

   "And then the farther away they are, the harder they will be?" Geoffrey
asked.

  "I would presume so, though the spy-eye cannot test it."

  "Yet it can see if they are there. Send it farther"— Magnus eyed the
angle of the sunlight that streamed through gaps in the trees—" farther
west, Fess."

  The scene on the screen shrank as the spy-eye rose, then shot into a
blur as it swept away.

   "Hypothesis: that the farther west we go, the more rocks we shall find,
at an interval of approximately three hundred meters," Fess postulated,
"and that each rock shall be harder, though we cannot test it…"

  "And darker!" Cordelia cried.

  "And with louder and more driving music!" Gregory added.

  "Harder, darker, and with more raucous music," Fess summarized.
"Why do we extrapolate so?"

  "Why, because the farther west we go, the older the rocks must be!"
Magnus said triumphantly.

  "A warranted inference, Magnus! Yet that insight should yield one
more."

  The children were silent, staring at the screen.

  "I would I had had such a tutor," Gwen murmured.

  "Why, that the first rocks… must have come from the west country,"
Magnus said slowly.

  "Excellent, Magnus! And what does that, in its own turn, tell us?"

  "That the crafter who sent out the first rock must be also in the west,"
Gregory breathed. "I had forgot that there must needs have been a person
who did make the first of these rocks."

  The scene steadied on the screen, and there it lay, neatly centered, a
dark gray rock. Fess turned up the speaker, and twining music with a
hard, quick beat boomed out at them. They winced, and the sound
dwindled quickly. "Hypothesis validated," Fess said, with a trace of
smugness.

  "I could use this form of thought to discover an enemy's camp,"
Geoffrey whispered.

  "It is a powerful tool," Fess agreed.
   "Yet this is not the only hypothesis involved," Gregory said, his little
face puckered in thought.

   "Indeed?" There was an undertone of anticipation in Fess's voice.

  "We have tracked the trail of this one rock," Gregory said, "yet
wherefore should the crafter have made but one?"

  His brothers and sister stared at him, startled, and Rod and Gwen
shared a proud glance.

   Then Cordelia said slowly, "Aye, 'tis unlikely. E'en an he did it solely for
the pleasure of it, would he not have made many, to delight in his own
prowess?"

   "That is possible." Fess carefully said nothing of the plague of songbirds
that had struck the area around the Gallowglass house earlier that spring.
"But how could we answer that question?"

  "An there were other rocks," Magnus said slowly, "they would have split
and flown three hundred meters at a time, even as these did."

  "That is sensible, if we assume such rocks were identical to the ones we
have already found."

   Magnus shrugged, irritated. "There is scant reason to think aught else.
They should therefore be each at a distance north or south from each of
these we've found, but at an equal distance east and west."

   "Why, how is that?" Geoffrey demanded.

   "Oh, see, brother!" Magnus said, exasperated. He caught up a twig and
dropped down to sweep dead leaves aside, exposing bare earth, and
scratched with the twig. "An the rocks begin from the crafter, there in the
west—let this dot stand for him—then the rocks we've found sprang from
him three hundred meters at a time, here… here… here… and so forth." He
made a series of dots moving farther and farther east. "Yet if another
stone so split, and sent forth offspring, 'twould be either hard by each of
these—and we know 'tis not, for we'd have seen them—or at some little
distance, here… here… here…" He punched another line of dots, moving
farther north as they moved east. Then he froze, staring down at his own
diagram.
  So did his parents.

   Slowly, Gregory reached in with another twig and punched another line
of holes south of the original line, moving farther south as they moved
east, then another line south of that, and another, and another…

  " Tis a set of circles," Cordelia breathed.

  "With a common center," Geoffrey agreed.

  "The term for such circles is 'concentric,'" Fess explained.

  Magnus looked thoughtfully at Fess. "There is no reason why this could
not have happed, Fess."

  "I agree," the robot said softly. "Let us send the spy-eye searching north
and south—though as you have noted, children, it must search in an arc,
not a straight north-south line."

   "Yet how shall it know how sharp a curve that arc must have?" Geoffrey
asked.

   "Why, by the distance from the center of the circle, brother!" Magnus
crowed. "Dost thou not remember that the circumference is equal to pi
times the diameter?"

  Geoffrey glared at him.

  "But in this case, we do not know exactly where the center is," Fess
reminded him.

  Magnus looked startled for a second, then had the grace to look
abashed.

   "Fortunately, the rocks we seek send forth sound," Fess added. "I shall
turn amplification up to maximum, children. If the spy-eye comes near a
rock, we shall know by its music."

   The children waited in breathless silence, trying to ignore the droning
of the stone behind them.

  A tinny, clattering sound came from the screen.
  " 'Tis there!" Geoffrey said.

   "We shall proceed in the direction of maximal increase of signal," Fess
told them. On the screen, the scene swooped down and around, and
steadied on…

  "Another rock!" Magnus cried, and Cordelia clapped her hands.
Gregory only smiled up at the screen, his eyes glowing.

   The rock lay in the center of the frame, medium gray, and heavily
thumping under its cascade of metallic notes.

  "Seek again," Magnus urged.

   "Seeking," Fess answered, and the picture blurred once more. The
children held their breath as one sound dwindled and another grew,
then…

  "'Tis there!" Magnus pointed, and the other children cheered.

  The rock lay in the center of the screen, almost identical to the last two,
both in appearance and sound.

   As the sound slackened, Gregory piped, "Fess—canst thou determine an
arc from three points?"

  The robot was silent for a beat, then said, "If we assume it is an arc,
Geoffrey, yes."

  "Then do so, please! And show us it on a map of Gramarye."

  Rod stared, amazed, as he realized what the boy was getting at.

  "Remember," Fess said slowly, "that this is only an hypothesis."

   "Hypothesis! Hypothesis!" Geoffrey protested. "Doth one hypothesis
lead ever to another?"

  "Yes, Geoffrey. That is how human knowledge progresses."

   The screen flickered, and the children found themselves staring at an
overhead view of the Isle of Gramarye. Then a circle appeared over it,
cutting through the western corner of Romanov, down along the western
edge of Tudor and the western corners of Runnymede and Stuart, to
intersect the Florin River in the middle of the Forest Gellorn, and on
through the western corner of Loguire to cut Borgia in half from north to
south.

  The children stared at the screen.

  Then Magnus asked, in a hushed whisper, "Where is its center, Fess?"

   "Where radü meet," the robot answered, and a large red dot appeared
at the western edge of Gloucester.

  "The center of the rock music is on the West Coast," Gregory breathed.

   "The hypothetical center," Fess reminded them, "and the word is
'western,' not 'west.' It is an adjective."

  "Oh, what matter?" Geoffrey grumbled. " 'Tis the location of the crafter
we do seek. Is he on the coast or not?"

  "Remember, we are making several assumptions that may prove false,"
Fess cautioned. "We really must have more data before we can claim our
hypothesis is sufficiently well validated to rank as a theory."

  "And a theory is a statement of fact?" Magnus asked.

   "Yes, Magnus, with the understanding that such a statement may later
prove to be only part of a larger pattern. Do not make the error, as so
many do, of saying 'theory ' when they really mean 'hypothesis.'"

   "Then let us hypothesize further." Geoffrey folded his arms, frowning at
the screen. "Let us ask what will hap if we are right, and this development
of rock music doth proceed without hindrance."

   "A valid question," Fess said slowly, while Geoffrey's brothers and sister
(not to mention his parents) stared at him in surprise. "Extrapolate."

  "This arc of thine will expand, at the rate of three hundred yards a
day."

   "Why, then, we may calculate how long it hath taken to come this far
east," Gregory said, eyes lighting.
  "How shall we do that, Gregory?"

   "Divide the distance from the western coastline by three hundred
yards!"

  The answer appeared on the screen in blue characters.

  "Two years and three-quarters?" Magnus stared. "How is't we've not
heard of this sooner?"

    " 'Tis but entertainment," the rock behind him answered. Magnus gave
it an irritated glance. Fess said, "It is probably correct, Magnus. No one
thought the phenomenon worth reporting; all thought it too trivial."

  "How long shall it be ere the whole country is filled with soft rocks?"
Geoffrey asked.

  "Good question," Rod murmured.

   "Extrapolating at the current rate of three hundred yards per day, and
assuming no change?"

  "Aye, aye!" Geoffrey said impatiently. "How long ere the rival army doth
conquer us, Fess?"

   The robot was silent a moment, then said, "I would prefer you not think
of these rocks as an enemy army, Geoffrey…"

  "Any pattern may be enemy action, Fess!"

  "Nay!" Gregory looked up, alarmed. "Any pattern may have a meaning,
but that meaning need not be hostile!"

  "Tend to knowledge, brother, and let me tend to arms. A sentry doth
not cause a war. How long, Fess?"

   "Four years and a month, Geoffrey"—the robot sighed— "and allow me
to congratulate you on correct use of the scientific method."

  Geoffrey leaped in the air, shaking his fists with a howl of triumph.

  Piqued, the music-rock boosted its volume.
   "I question, however, the purpose for which you have used it," the robot
said. "Still, I must applaud the alacrity with which you have learned the
day's lesson."

    "I have learned… ?" Geoffrey gaped at the robot. "Fess! Thou didst not
tell me 'twas school!"

   "We were still within school hours, Geoffrey. But it is so no longer; my
clock shows 1500 hours. School is out for the day."

  The children cheered, turned about, and plowed into the forest,
heading west.

  Rod stared after them, startled. "What do they think they're doing?"

  "Children! Come back!" Gwen called.

  "Fess did but now say school was out." Cordelia turned back, puzzled.
"We are free to do as we wish, are we not?"

  "Well, aye," Gwen conceded. "Yet what is't thou dost seek to do?"

  "Why, to test our hypothesis," Magnus said.

   "We must needs seek the information," Gregory explained. "Fess hath
said we have not yet enough."

  "Come to think of it, he did," Rod said slowly.

  "It was not intended as an imperative, though," Fess protested.

  "Is not that what we came to do?" Geoffrey demanded.

   "Not quite," Rod said, as much to straighten out his own confusion as
theirs. "We're supposed to be finding out who's sending zombies into
Runny mede, trying to scare the taxpayers!"

   Geoffrey cocked his head to one side. "And where shall we seek to learn
that?"

  Rod opened his mouth, and stalled.

  "Here, at least, there is a clear path to follow," Gregory pointed out,
"and the two phenomena are as likely to be related as not."

  "There is a tempting refutation of logic in that…" Fess said.

   "Yeah—it comes down to: when you don't know where to look, one
direction is as good as another." Rod threw his hands up. "So, okay! Why
not go west?"

  The young ones cheered, and charged into the woods.


                          Chapter Four
   "Do I suppose it, or doth the music gain in loudness?" Geoffrey frowned
at the echoing forest.

   "You have used the precise term," Fess told him. "The volume of sound
can be measured as a signal, and its 'gain' is its increase. Yes, the gain has
decidedly increased."

   "Doth this show that folk around about believe in it more?" Cordelia
asked.

   Rod stopped stock-still, struck by the idea. "Not a bad idea, Delia. The
music's been around this neighborhood for at least seventy-eight hours;
the local peasants must have heard it. They sure wouldn't doubt their own
ears. Yes, they'd believe in the music-rocks more strongly."

  "There are a greater number of rocks, too," Gregory noted.

  "That would certainly increase the overall ambience," Fess agreed.

  "Especially," said Gwen, "if thou art between two rocks."

  "Yet how can one not be, when there are so many?" Magnus asked.

   The trees opened out into a large clearing, and the children stared at
the sight that met their eyes. "Fess," asked Magnus, "what is that slanted
slab of rock that doth stand upright on its edge?"

    "The angle," Fess said slowly, "is that of the sun at midday. Can you not
tell me?"
   "It is a gnomon—the 'hand' of a sundial, that doth cast its shadow on
the number of the hour of the day."

  Fess nodded with satisfaction. "You did know it."

  "Then there should be numbers on the ground about it," Gregory said.

   "Why, so there are!" Cordelia said, astonished. "Yet they are so huge
that I did not recognize them. And made of flowers! Oh! How pretty!"

  "Why, thank you," someone said.

   "Not thee, horseface," Geoffrey said, glancing up with absent-minded
scorn, then back at the huge sundial—and spun about, eyes wide and
staring. " 'Tis a rocking horse!"

  "That talks?" Rod asked, amazed.

  "Certes I do talk. Dost not thou?"

  "I have heard that aforetime," Magnus muttered.

   "Small wonder, son," Gwen assured him. "It, too, must needs be made
of witch-moss."

  "The ingenuity of these psionic crafters astounds me," Fess murmured.

  The horse rocked gently in time to the music of the rocks—or was the
music coming from the toy itself? .

  "What dost thou here?" Cordelia skipped up to the horse, hands behind
her back. Her brothers glanced at one another; they knew her techniques.

  "I do seek to grow," answered the rocking horse. "Dost not thou?"

  "Aye, yet I did not know a thing of wood could gain."

  "Why, a tree doth, and 'tis a thing of wood. Wherefore may not I?"

  "For that thou dost lack roots," Gregory answered reasonably.

   "Thou dost, also. Yet I have arcs of wood beneath mine hooves, which
can gain nourishment from the grass I rock on. The more I rock, the more
I grow."

   Gwen glanced down at his rockers. "Small wonder; thou dost rock upon
a patch of witch-moss."

   "I think he may also gain from the beliefs of the latent projectives
around him," Fess murmured.

   "Didst thou not tell me that nigh onto all the folk of Gramarye may be
latent witch-folk of one sort or another?" Magnus asked.

   "'Espers,' son," Rod corrected. "You're old enough to use the more
technical term, now."

   "Yes, I did say exactly that," Fess confirmed. "I have calculated such a
saturation, based on the assumed proportion of the original colonists who
had latent psionic powers. That is, however, only an assumption. We
would need to check the character-profiles of all of them most carefully, to
determine whether or not there is any basis for that assumption."

  Gregory's eyes lost focus in a particularly dreamy look.

   "The things of witch-moss grow," Magnus pointed out. "That is
evidence of a sort for thy conjecture."

  "Yes, but scarcely conclusive. I would not yet develop it as an
hypothesis."

   "What wilt thou be when thou art grown?" Cordelia asked the oversized
toy.

  "A rock horse," the equine answered.

  Geoffrey frowned. "If that is what thou wouldst wish to become, then
what wouldst thou term thyself now?"

   "Oh, I am but a hobby," the rocking horse answered. "When I am
grown, I shall be a career rocker!"

  "Thou shalt career about on only two rockers?"

  "Nay! Regard my fetlocks!"
  The family looked, and saw large, brightly painted wheels attached just
above the arcs of wood.

  "I had thought them mere decoration," Gregory said.

   "Nay, they are more. The more I rock, the more I grow; and the more I
grow, the wider grow my wheels, till they shall touch the ground as I rock
forward, shooting me farther and faster along my way; and the rear pair
shall likewise touch and scoot me as I rock back. Thus shall I rock and roll
about, full-grown and strong, and fit to pull full many a gig!"

  "A small carriage? 'Twould be pleasant to ride in such a chaise,"
Gregory said wistfully.

  "It will take time for thee to grow so big," Cordelia warned the horse.

   "Not so long as thou dost think—for as I go about this dial, I shall make
the time go faster for me!"

   Magnus looked quizzically at Fess. "He cannot truly make time speed,
can he?"

  "No, Magnus, but he can create such an illusion for himself—and will
perhaps extend it to the people he meets."

   "And he shall gain strength from their belief! So that for him, time will
seem to go faster, and he shall grow the greater!"

   "All rockers are in a rush to grow up," the horse informed them, "and
therefore do I rock without ceasing, day and night."

  "Yet they would seek to remain also things of childhood," Gregory
pointed out, "as thou art."

   "What a wondrous thing, to be a child grown!" Cordelia exclaimed in
tones of wonder.

  Rod shuddered.

   "It will indeed," the horse agreed, "and therefore do I rock around the
clock."

  Fess exclaimed, "Full-grown human beings, with the independence and
abilities of adults, but the minds and emotions of children? What a
chaotic vision!"

   Magnus stiffened. "Chaotic? Fess… do I detect outsiders' hands in
this?"

  "Maybe you do, son," Rod said slowly. "Maybe you do."

   "Develop the inspiration," Fess suggested, "and see if you can formulate
an hypothesis."

  Magnus was silent, deep in thought.

  "I hesitate to offer a notion," Cordelia said, with that bashful manner of
hers that almost guaranteed the other person would ask—and the rocking
horse was no exception.

  "What thought hast thou in mind?"

  "Why, that thou couldst go more quickly an thou didst not depend
upon these arcs of wood for travel, but did use thine hooves."

   "What!" the horse cried, appalled. "Wouldst thou have me be off my
rocker? For shame, damsel!"

  "'Twas not well counselled," Geoffrey agreed. "What chance would he
have against a full-grown horse?"

   "Why, most excellent chance! Is not thy companion just such a one as I,
yet full-grown?"

  The children grew wide-eyed, then turned slowly to Fess.

  "In what sense do you mean that?" the robot asked carefully.

  "Why, thou art no more real than I—only a model of a horse, and just as
much a thing of crafting as I am! Yet thou hast grown, as I do strive to!"

  "We are both artificial," Fess admitted, "yet there the similarity ends.
My 'brain' is a computer, and yours is only a recorded pattern of responses
imposed on you by the mind that engendered you."

  "Fess," Magnus said, voice hollow with dread, "hast thou not but now
described a program?"

  The great black horse was silent, immobile. Then he said, "That
description is a horrendous oversimplification, Magnus."

   "Yet the point is well taken," Gregory pointed out. "Do witch-moss
crafters impose some form of program on their witch-moss toys?"

   "Toys!" the rocking horse snorted, insulted. "I am no toy, but a thing of
great moment!"

   "Of many moments, an thou dost hold to a clock," Geoffrey said, eyeing
the sundial.

   "Nay, such a hobbyhorse as thou wouldst be far more than a toy—thou
wouldst be a boon companion." Gregory pouted. "Where wast thou when I
did yearn for thee, three years agone?"

  The rocking horse stared at him, taken aback.

  "Peace, brother," Magnus assured him. "We all did wish for such a
companion in our nurseries."

  "Save Cordelia!"

  "Save thyself an thou dost say so!" Cordelia retorted. "I did ride
Magnus's hobby more than he did himself!"

   "It need not be a broom for her to ride it," Magnus agreed, "though
that last doth come more naturally to her."

  Cordelia stuck out her tongue at him.

  "Why," the rocking horse said slowly, "an thou dost wish my company, I
am glad to give it. Wouldst thou ride me?"

  "Oh, aye!" Gregory leaped up onto the horse's back. Startled, it rocked
back with a wild and musical neigh, rearing, and Gregory howled with joy.

   "Gregory!" Gwen cried, alarmed. "Do not…" But she held her tongue as
she gazed at the little boy swooping and ducking along the great arc of the
sundial, swatting at the rocking horse's flanks with his hat and whooping
with glee.
  "Let him be, dear," Rod murmured, smiling.

  "Do not tell him not to, Mama," Cordelia pleaded. "We see no danger."

   "Aye." Gwen relented. "He doth so seldom have the chance to behave as
the child he is!"

  "That had occurred to me," Fess admitted.

   "He hath almost never behaved as babes rightly should," Geoffrey said
stiffly, his body taut and his face a granite mask. Magnus saw, and started
to reach out toward his younger brother, then hesitated and took his hand
away. "I am sure the rocking horse will allow us all rides an we should
wish it."

   "Oh, aye!" Cordelia exclaimed, eyes alight, but Geoffrey snorted. "And
foolish thou shouldst look, brother—a youth of seventeen, on a child's
plaything! Nay, surely we who have grown past the nursery must be
generous in allowing the lad this play."

   Cordelia turned to him, startled. Then she saw the look on his face, and
her own expression saddened.

  So did her mother's.

  "Dost thou not agree, Delia?" Geoffrey ground out.

    "Oh, aye!" she said quickly. " Tis even as thou dost say, Geoffrey! Nay,
let the babe play."

  "And let him have some moment of childhood that is his alone," Rod
murmured.

   Cordelia looked at him in surprise. Then her face brightened a little,
into a tremulous smile. "Aye, Papa. He hath ever played in our shadows,
hath he not?"

   "His clothes were once mine," Geoffrey agreed, "and I, at least, had a
toy arbalest and catapult, which he disdained. Nay, let him be."

  Gregory finished the circuit and sprang off the horse, cheeks flushed
and eyes bright. He whirled about, doffing his cap and bowing low to the
hobby. "I thank thee, good horse! Ne'er shall I forget this ride!"
   "Thou art welcome," the horse answered, bowing forward on its
rockers. "Nay, come here again, and thou shalt once more ride."

  "Oh! May I?"

  "Mayhap on the way home," Gwen answered. "Yet now, I think, we
must needs be on our way, Gregory."

  "Cannot the rocking horse come?" Gregory asked, crestfallen.

   "Nay, though it doth warm mine heart to know thou dost wish it," the
rocking horse answered. "Yet I must needs rock here on my dial, or I'll not
grow. Wouldst thou deny me that?"

  "No," Gregory said, as though it were pulled out of him. "Yet I shall
miss thee, good horse."

  "And I thee," the horse answered, and for a moment, its music swelled
up, slower and sadder than it had been.

  "It must let thee go thy way." Cordelia laid a hand upon Gregory's
shoulder. "And thou must let it grow."

   "Indeed I must." Gregory turned away, following his siblings and Fess
with lowered gaze. Cordelia's eyes misted. But Gregory turned back and
called to the horse, "Shall I see thee when thou art grown?"

  "I doubt it not," the horse cried, rocking away on its arc.

   "Belike I shall be transformed into a great spring-steed—yet I will know
thee."

  "And I thee," Gregory returned. "Till then!" He waved once, then turned
away, catching his sister's hand as he straightened up, squared his
shoulders, and lifted his chin. "Come Delia! For I must let it rock!"

  She squeezed his hand and followed a half-pace behind, hoping he
would not see the tenderness in her smile.

  Gwen blinked several times, caught Rod's hand, and followed.


                          Chapter Five
   "This deal of sound could become a great nuisance." Gregory winced at
the raucous noise around him. As they walked ahead through the trees, it
dwindled behind them; but before it had faded, the music of the next rock
wafted toward them on a truant breeze.

   "It is not terribly loud yet, Gregory," Fess suggested. "It is not truly the
volume that irritates you."

   "Cordelia," Rod said, "stop nodding."

  "Mayhap." Gregory looked distinctly unhappy. "Yet the coarseness of it
doth jar upon mine ear."

   "Even so, son," Gwen agreed.

  "It is the timbre, the quality of the sound, that bothers you, is it not?"
Fess asked Gregory.

   "Cordelia," Rod said, "stop bobbing!"

  "The quality?" Gregory frowned, listening to the music for a minute.
"Aye, 'tis summat of the sort. 'Tis harsh; an 'twere less so, that fall of notes
might be a ripple, whereas now, 'tis a grating."

   "Perhaps it is the rhythm of the bass, the low notes, that bothers you."

   "Magnus!" Rod snapped. "Can't you walk without tapping your toes?"

   "Mayhap." Gregory cocked his head to the side, listening. "Aye, for each
third beat hath stress when it should not… Fess!" Gregory's eyes widened.
"It doth no longer grate upon mine ear!"

   "I had hoped that would occur."

   "Yet how hast thou…Oh! When I do begin to analyze it, the music doth
cease to irritate, and doth fascinate! Or if not it, at the least its
composition!"

  "Precisely, Gregory. There are few irritants that cannot become a
source of pleasure, if you make them objects of study."

   "Fess! It hath become greatly louder!" Magnus called.
  "It has." The robot-horse's head lifted. "What causes that?"

   The path widened suddenly, and they stepped past the last trees into a
broad meadow with a stream running through it; but on the other side of
the stream was a churning mass.

  "Well, then, what have we here?" Geoffrey growled.

   "Naught but a pack of children." Magnus looked up, frowning, then
stared. "A pack of children?"

  "'Tis the bairns of three villages, at the least!" Gwen exclaimed.

  "Each beast comes in its own manner of grouping," Gregory said.
"Sheep come in flocks, as do birds—and lions come in prides. Yet 'tis
wolves do come in packs, brother."

  "Then what do children come in?" Geoffrey demanded.

  "Schools," Gregory answered.

   Geoffrey turned away with a shudder. "Scour thy mouth, brother! An
thou dost wish to be fish, thou mayest go thine own way!"

  "I do not seek to gain on such a scale," Gregory protested.

   "Whatever their aggregate, we must discover their purpose." Magnus
jumped into the air and wafted over the stream toward the mob of
children. "Come, my sibs! Let us probe!"

   Rod started to call him back, alarmed, but found Gwen's hand on his
arm. "There is no danger, and we must discover wherefore these children
are gathered here."

   Rod subsided, nodding. "You're right. Let the younger generation take
care of its own."

   Cordelia, Geoffrey, and Gregory swooped up to follow Magnus with
yelps of delight.

   "However," Rod said, "I'd like to hedge my bets. Fess, you don't suppose
that you…"
    "Certainly, Rod." The great black horse backed up from the riverbank a
little, then bounded into a full charge, accelerating to a hundred miles per
hour in fifty feet, and sprang into the air, arcing high over the water to
come thudding down ten feet past the opposite bank. Not that he needed
to fear wetting, of course—his horse-body had been built with watertight
seams. But jumping was faster, and the river was muddy, and it would
have been so tedious to have had to clean all that sediment out of his
artificial horsehair.

  Still, the children could have waited.

  "I see a boat." Gwen pointed downstream.

   Rod looked up and nodded. "Careful, dear. It gets soggy, over there." He
offered his arm; they began picking their way through the cattails.

   By the time Fess caught up, the Gallowglass children had landed and
were prowling around the edges of the mob, staring, fascinated, for the
crowd of children was in constant motion, pulsing like some huge amoeba.
On closer inspection, the pack proved to be composed of smaller groups,
each doing something different—skipping, dancing, tossing a ball—but
each child was making every single movement to the beat of the music
that twined all about them, throbbing and swooping.

  "What hath set them to moving all together so?" Cordelia wondered,
nodding her head in time to the beat.

  "In truth, I could not say," Geoffrey answered, his hand beating time.

   "Why, then, let us ask them." Magnus reached out to tap a six-year-old
on the shoulder. The child looked up, nodding to the beat, but his eyes
didn't quite seem to focus.

  After a moment, he turned away and, on the downbeat, tossed a ball to
another six-year-old ten feet away.

   "Hold! I would speak with thee!" Magnus cried, tapping him again; but
the child only looked up once more with unseeing eyes.

  "What dost thou?"

  Magnus looked up to see a ten-year-old step up behind the smaller
child. "I do but seek to speak with him."

   The ten-year-old shrugged, head and shoulders bobbing, and spoke
with the beat. "He is young, and hath not yet caught the trick of speech."

  "Trick of speech?" Geoffrey was puzzled. "Why, how is this? A child
hath learned that much by the time he is two!"

   "But not the knack of speech in time," the nodding boy answered. "He
cannot therefore speak, till he hath caught the rhyme."

  "There may be rhyme to thee, but no reason! Nay, then, do thou tell
us—how dost thou come to all move together so?"

   "Together?" The boy frowned, looking about him. "We do not move
together. I move as I wish, and they as they wish!"

  "Yet thou dost all make thy movements of a piece, at the same instant!"

  "Why, how else can one move?" the boy asked, surprised.

  "I do not understand."

   "Then thou art dimwitted," a twelve-year-old said, stepping up. "Cease
to pester my brother, and let him return to his jackstraws."

   The children watched, astonished, as the ten-year-old knelt down in
three separate, rhythmical stages, picked up the jackstraws on one beat,
settled them on another, and dropped them on a third.

  "Can he not move between beats?"

  "What beats?" the twelve-year-old countered.

  Geoffrey's face darkened. "Dost thou seek to mock me?"

  The other boy's face hardened. "Have it as thou wilt."

  Geoffrey's arm twitched, but didn't swing—only because Magnus had
hold of it. "He doth not realize there are beats to the music about him."

  Geoffrey was totally dumbfounded. "Dost thou not hear the music?"
  "Aye! Why else would we have come?"

  "But is not the music everywhere?"

  The boy shook his head—in time to the beat. But his attention
wandered, and so did he. Geoffrey leaped forward to catch him, but so did
Magnus, catching Geoffrey. A twelve-year-old girl stepped in front of him,
smiling. "What seekest thou?"

   Her smile was radiant, and for a moment, Geoffrey was motionless,
gazing at her.

    Then Cordelia giggled, and he flushed and said, "We did but ask the lad
if this music is not everywhere."

  "Oh, nay!" The girl laughed. "Our grown folk did gather up all the rocks,
and hurl them hither! They cannot abide these sounds!"

  "I cannot blame them," Gregory muttered, but Geoffrey said, "They do
not come hither?"

  "Nay—and therefore may we here do whatsoe'er we please."

  "They allow thee?"

   The girl shrugged, her attention drifting. "We did not ask…" She
remembered her purpose and turned back to Geoffrey. "Wilt thou dance?"
He shrank back, horrified, and she gave him a strange look, then shrugged
again. "Thou art so offbeat." She danced away, her whole body bobbing
with the rhythm.

  "So then—they have come to the music, with no care for their parents."
Geoffrey frowned, watching the children, head nodding.

   "And the music doth make them to move." Magnus looked out over the
crowd. "There's none here older than twelve, from the look of them—and
none younger than ten could pause long enough to talk."

  "I have watched the two a-tossing of the ball," Cordelia told him. "They
have never ceased their game for a moment."

  "The younger they are, the more firmly the pulsing of the low notes
doth seize them," Magnus said. "Yet why cannot the oldest comprehend
our questions?"

  "Who could think with this sound beating at one's ears?" Gregory
answered.

  "Come!" A fourteen-year-old boy leaped forward and caught Cordelia's
hand. "Dance with me!"

   She gave a shriek, and her brothers yelled and leaped after her—but the
crowd closed around her on the beat, and the boys slammed into bodies,
bodies that rotated on one beat and punched at them on the next. Magnus
shoved Gregory behind him and blocked, but Geoffrey had the sense to
counterpunch on the offbeat, and his fist slammed home. His opponent's
head snapped back and he fell; his comrades weren't able to move aside
until the next beat, so he landed slowly, staring up at Geoffrey in
amazement. "How didst thou that?"

  " 'Tis almost as though the time between beats doth not exist for them,"
Gregory exclaimed.

   "Why, then, betwixt beats, we can wend betwixt bodies! Come,
brothers!" Magnus nodded his head. "One, AND two AND three, NOW!"

  They shoved through and saw Cordelia dancing, her whole body
bobbing and weaving, a delighted smile on her face and a glazed look in
her eyes as she stared at the boy who had pulled her in.

  "Is he handsome?" Gregory asked, with interest.

   "As lads go, I suppose," Geoffrey grudged, "though he cannot be much
of a boy if he doth wish to dance with a lass."

  "Alas!" a pretty blond twelve-year-old girl cried, catching his hand.
"Wilt thou not dance with me?"

  Geoffrey recoiled as though a snake had bitten him. The girl flushed,
hurt, and Gregory tried to smooth it over by asking quickly, "Dost thou
not mind this great press of bodies about thee?"

   "Nay." The girl beamed. "Wherefore should I? 'Tis but entertainment."
She eyed Geoffrey with a slow smile, but he recovered, straightening, his
lip curling. The girl saw and pouted for a beat, shrugged on the next, and
whirled away on the third.

  The boys stared at their dancing sister in the wrapping of music.

  "There are words to it!" Gregory said, wide-eyed.

  They listened, and heard the twanging music form into phrases:

   Chew bop, chew bop! Bee bee yum hop! Yum chew sip sop, Boy and
girl drop!

  "What arrant nonsense!" Gregory shivered with distaste.

  "What is its meaning?" Geoffrey wondered.

   "Naught, I hope," Magnus scowled. "Come, brothers! We must haul our
sister out from here."

  "Yet how?"

  "Catch her arms and fly."

  "They will seek to prevent us," Gregory warned.

   "I depend upon it." Geoffrey clenched a fist, his eyes glittering. "On the
'and,' brothers!"

  "One AND two AND," Magnus counted. "To HER left NOW, catch HER
arm AND rise AND fly NOW!"

   He and Geoffrey shot off the ground with Gregory trailing behind.
Cordelia disappeared so suddenly that her partner looked about for her, at
a loss—to left and to right, but not up above.

  She writhed and twisted in their hands. "OH! Do LET me GO now!
THOU foul KILLjoys!"

   "Sister, wake!" Magnus cried, but she kept twisting until Gregory
swooped up before her, beating time with his hands, then clapped
suddenly under her nose on the offbeat. Cordelia's head snapped up, her
eyes wide, startled. "OH! What…"

  "Thou wert ensnared," her littlest brother informed her.
  "I was not." She blushed and looked away. "I did only… attempt to…"

  "Study the phenomenon from within, perhaps?"

   All looked down, startled, to see Fess looking up at them from the edge
of the crowd.

   Cordelia couldn't fib with his plastic optics on her. "Nay, I was caught,"
she admitted grudgingly. "But, oh! It doth take such a hold of one!"

  "I do not doubt it," Fess said. "There is entirely too high a
concentration of rock music in this meadow. Come away, children, so that
we can hear one another talk."

  He turned and trotted away. The boys exchanged a glance, nodded, and
swooped off after him.

   After about fifty feet, Magnus looked up, alarmed, and circled back to
accompany his sister. "What kept thee?"

  "My broomstick," Cordelia reminded him. "Thou couldst have waited,
Magnus! 'Twas but a second's work to leap upon it—yet in that time, thou
wast an hundred feet ahead."

  "My apologies," Magnus said ruefully.

  Down, Gwen's voice commanded inside their heads.

   They looked down, surprised, to see their parents climbing out of a skiff
and onto the bank. Aye, Mama, Magnus thought back at her, and all four
children landed neatly in front of Rod and Gwen.

  "What hast thou learned?" she asked.

   Cordelia blushed, and Magnus was just starting to answer, when a
sizzling sound made them all turn and look up.

   Sudden heat seared, and a muted roaring swelled in volume and rose in
pitch. "Hit the dirt!" Rod yelled and leaped aside, knocking his children
down like bowling pins as a huge mass of flame shot by overhead and
plummeted away in front of them, its roar fading and dropping in pitch.

  "Children! Are you well?"
   "Aye, Mama," Cordelia answered shakily, and her brothers chorused
after her. "What is that?" Magnus cried.

  "The Doppler effect," Fess answered obligingly. "As the object
approached, its sound rose in pitch, and as it went away…"

  "No, not the sound!" Rob said. "The object! What was it?"

  "Why, do none of you recognize it? You have seen enough of them in
your lifetimes, I know."

  "Wilt thou te//us!"

   "Why," said Gwen, "it was a fireball, such as witches and warlocks
throw at one another! You have seen them ere now."

  "It was a fireball." Cordelia stared off at the trail of smoke.

  "That? 'Twas as much a fireball as a hillock is a mountain!"

  "The difference is merely a matter of scale," Fess pointed out.

  "A scale of mat much difference must come from a whale!"

  "The whale is no fish, thou ninny!"

  "Nay, but thou wilt be, and thou dost call me a…"

  "Quiet!" Rod snapped. "Here comes another one!"

  "Two more!"

  "Three!"

   They stood rooted to the spot, staring at the huge spheres of flame that
roared toward them. "They truly are great balls of fire," Gregory
marvelled.

  Fess's head snapped up. "But their elevation is significantly lower than
mat of the first! Flee! Fly! Or you will be seared for certain! Go!"

  The family leaped into the air, the boys shooting away over the
meadow, Gwen and Cordelia swooping away on their broomsticks. Rod
brought up the rear.

  But the fireballs swooped faster.

  "To the sides!" Gwen called. "Out of their pathway!"

  They veered sideways, Cordelia and Gregory to the left with their
mother, Magnus and Geoffrey to the right with their father—but the
outside fireballs only sheared off after them.

  "The menace comes with purpose!" Fess cried. "Up! See if you can rise
above it!"

   The family made a full-scale try at transcendence, swooping up into the
sky so fast their stomachs thought they'd been forgotten—but the fireballs
swooped up after them.

   "They have our measure!" Magnus cried in despair. "How can we evade
them?"

   "I see a river!" Rod called. "Dive, kids! With as deep a breath as you
can, then hold it! Maybe the fireballs will stay away from the water!"

   As one, the children gulped air and stooped, barrelling downward like
lead weights from the Tower of Pisa, and shot into the water as though
they were holding a splash contest, with Rod and Gwen right behind.

   The outside fireballs veered back toward the center one, and the three
of them shot by overhead. Fess knew he had to be mistaken; the noise of
their passage couldn't truly have had an undertone of disappointment.
"They have passed! You may come up!"

   Four waterspouts erupted with four children inside them, exhaling
explosively and gulping air like landed fish. They fell back into the water
with cries of relief. Rod and Gwen followed with a little more dignity.

   "They were chasing us!" Now that the crisis was over, Geoffrey could
afford to be angry. "They truly did chase us!"

  "Go rebuke them, then, brother," Magnus said, disgusted.

  "Who could have set them on us?" Gregory wondered.
  The four young Gallowglasses were silent, staring at one another.

  "We do have a few enemies," Fess admitted.

  "And these fireballs, like the rocks, have sprung from one of them!"
Geoffrey slapped the water. "Did I not say 'twas an enemy behind it?"

  "We do not know that, and… Out of the water!"

   "Wherefore?" Geoffrey asked, peering around him. "I see naught to
fear."

  "Aye," Magnus agreed. "There is naught but those four bumps on the
water's surface."

  "Those four bumps approach," Cordelia said nervously,

  "and there is a log on our other side that doth likewise come nearer!"

  "Out!" Gwen snapped, and gave them a head start with telekinesis as
Fess explained, "Those are no logs, but giant amphibians! And they are
hungry! Quickly, children! Out of the water!"

   The family shot out like pellets from a blowpipe, looking rather
bedraggled; the ladies' brooms were definitely not at their best with soggy
straw. The collection of bumps and the log shot toward each other,
slammed together, and climbed halfway out of the water, following them
in a crescendo of flashing teeth and writhing serpentine bodies. But the
huge jaws snapped shut a good yard short of anyone's heels, and the two
great lizards fell back on top of each other and lay glaring up at the
children.

   "Don't just sit there like a bump on a log," the bottom one grumbled,
"go get them!"

  "I didn't come equipped with wings, fishface!"

  "Fishface? Who do you think you're calling fishface, snaketail?"

  "What are they, Fess?" Cordelia stared down at them fearfully.

   "Why, I do know them!" Magnus said, staring too. "Thou didst show
them me in my bestiary—though we have never seen them here, and I had
thought them but myths! They are crocodiles from Terra!"

  "Very good, Magnus!" Rod said, impressed.

  "However," said Fess, "only one is a crocodile. The other is an alligator."

  "How canst thou tell?" Gregory demanded.

   "The alligator's snout is more rounded at the tip; the crocodile's is more
pointed. There are other differences, but those are the most obvious ones."

  "They got away," the crocodile groused, glowering up at the children.

  "Inflation does it," the alligator answered. "Everything's going up these
days—even food."

  "Well, it was a nice try." The crocodile sighed, turning away.

  "Probably sour children anyway." The alligator turned away, too.

   "Well! Such audacity!" Cordelia exclaimed, jamming her fists onto her
hips. "I'll have thee know I am quite mmfftfptl!" The last bit of
pronunciation was occasioned by the clapping of Magnus's hand over her
mouth as he hissed in her ear, "Wilt thou be still! The last we should wish
would be to have them think thee sweet and tender!"

   Cordelia gave him a murderous glare over the top of his wrist, but held
her tongue.

  "I'm gonna go hunt up some mud guppies," the crocodile grumped.

  "Yeah." The alligator turned away. "Me for some crayfish."

  "They'll do in a pinch," the croc agreed. "See you later, alligator."

  "With a smile, crocodile."

  They swam away, disappearing into the muddy waters of the river.

   "Well! Praise Heaven we have survived that!" Cordelia watched the two
reptiles depart, still miffed. "How dare they call me sour!"

  "Thou wouldst not wish them to know thee better, sister," Magnus
assured her.

   "Come," said Gwen, "let us be on our way, and quickly—I do not wish to
give them time to think again."


                            Chapter Six
   They hadn't gone far, though, when Cordelia stopped, staring down at
the grass. "What things are these?"

   "Let me see!" Geoffrey jumped over to her, and Gregory twisted his way
in between them. Gwen looked up, interested, and stepped over.

   An insect was toiling its way through the long grass, but with such
intensity of purpose that Geoffrey said, "Can it be a warrior bug?"

  "Not properly a bug." Fess's great head hung over them. "It is truly a
beetle, children. It is strange, though."

   Rod looked up, alert. "In what way?"

   "I had thought they were extinct."

   "What?" asked Gregory.

   "This particular variety of insect. It is a scarab, such as were
represented in ancient Egyptian art."

  "Here is another," Magnus called, ten feet away. "It doth move… why,
toward Papa!"

   "Toward me?" Rod looked down—and saw another scarab struggling
through the grass. "Hey, I've got one, too! Only it's heading toward you!"

   "Toward me?" Magnus stared.

   Cordelia clapped her hands. "Belike they seek one another!"

   "Nay," said Gwen. "They move toward the fairy ring."

   They all looked up and saw, midway between Rod and Magnus, a
flattened circle of grass—and in the center of it, a larger-than-average
rock, thrumming away.

   Rod frowned. "What's this? Are the Wee Folk helping out on rock
distribution now?"

   "Oh, nay!" Gwen said, with a mock glare at him. "Thou dost know the
Wee Folk dance in circles, and leave rings behind them—but here all is
flattened, not the circumference only!"

  "What hath made it?" Gregory wondered.

   "Perhaps the rock itself," Fess said slowly. He moved closer, being
careful not to step on the scarab, and lowered his head toward the circle.
"Yes, it is a small depression, a sort of natural bowl. If the rock landed
with enough momentum, it might have rolled around and around the
circle until…"

   A scarab struggled out of the grass on the far side, teetered on the
brink, and tumbled into the depression.

  "Oh!" Cordelia clapped her hands. "There is a fourth!"

  "Ours doth arrive now, too," Gregory noted.

  Magnus came up to the bowl a step at a time, eyes on the ground.
"Mine doth approach."

   "Mine, too." Rod was only a step away from the rim. "They're all
attracted to the rock."

  "Even scarabs?" Gwen exclaimed.

   Gregory was peering closely. "They are oddly colored, Mama—a slate
gray. One would almost think they were, themselves, stone to the core." '
~tT_

   Rod frowned. "Then the question arises, were the beetles attracted by
rock, or made by rock?"

  "It is immaterial—they only seek their own kind," Fess pointed out.
"But the question is academic. What is pertinent is that they are all
moving toward the rock."
   The four scarabs converged on the stone, reached out with their
antennae, and all touched rock at the same moment—then, frozen, they
glittered, glimmered, and all changed color.

  "Why, they have become silver!" Cordelia stared.

  "Hath the rock transformed them, then?" Geoffrey asked.

  "Or have they transformed the rock!" Gregory pointed. -"Hark!"

    The stone glistened, twinkled—and its music metamorphosed into
lilting, soaring melody. At its bass, though, the beat went on.

  "What wonder is this?" Gregory breathed.

    Magnus frowned. "The stone is a thing of witch-moss— which is to say,
it is imagination made concrete. Are these beetles also but things of
whimsy?"

  "Whatever their source, they have purpose!" Cordelia pointed. "See
where they go!"

   The four scarabs had joined together and turned away. With
determination, they struggled out to reach the world.

  Gregory leaped up. "We must follow them. Do not ask me why I know,
but I do!"

  "They trend west by south." Geoffrey pursued the scarabs attentively.

  "Cordelia," Gwen said, "leave off thy dancing, and follow."

  "They have touched another rock!" Geoffrey cried.

  Lilting music ascended.

   "They toil onward!" Magnus kept pace, following the silver scarabs with
avid interest.

  Behind them, the first rock split with a gunshot crack.

  "Duck!" Rod shouted, and his offspring hit the ground. The stone sailed
over their heads. Almost instantly, more of the lilting music rose.
  "It hath conveyed its strains to other rocks," Magnus murmured.

  But Rod was rising, looking toward the northwest. "Its better half is
making music, too."

   Cordelia said, incensed, "Why dost thou say 'better'? What music could
be more melodious than this?"

   "The stuff its brother is making." Rod went after the other rock. He
stood a moment, listening, then said, "Its music is richer, fuller."

   "Let me see." Gwen came over, then lifted her head, amazed. "Why, it
is—and there is summat of an under-song with it!"

  "More and more!" Magnus called from farther across the meadow.
"They leave a broadening swath of music behind them!"

  "Leave them be, and come this way!" Rod called. "Whatever they're
doing, it can't be as important as the progress this rock is making!"

   Cordelia clouded up, chin firming. "Nay! I will not leave them! I will
follow wheresoe'er they go!"

  Rod spun to her, taken aback by her sudden rebellion.

   "There is much of interest in them, Papa," Magnus said, stepping into
the breach. "Whatsoe'er hath seized this land, these scarabs may well
spread to encompass all."

   "They are important," Gregory asserted, staring intently up at his
father. "We must follow them, Papa!"

  Geoffrey said nothing; he only had eyes for the silver scarabs.

   Rod reddened, anger rising. He was alarmed at his own emotion and
strove to hold it down; but he also felt righteous indignation at his
children's refusal to obey.

  Gwen touched his arm, murmuring, "It is time to let them go awhile."

  Rod stilled.

  Fess said, "It is not as though they have never been apart from you."
   Rod found his voice—without shouting. "Yes, but they didn't exactly get
high marks for obedience that time."

   "Mayhap they did not," Gwen said, "but the Crown might have toppled
without their meddling."

   Rod stood still.

   "I kept them safe," Fess murmured, "though I will admit the margin of
safety was narrow at times."

   Rod lifted his eyes, gazing at his eldest two over a widening gap. For a
moment, he was afraid to let them drift away—but he knew Gwen was
right. "Okay. You kids follow the scarabs, and we'll follow the rock's
progress."

   Cordelia relaxed, beaming. "Oh, Papa!"

   "But you'll stay together!"

   "Oh, aye!"

   "I shall not let them stray from my sight," Magnus promised.

   "I'll hold you to it." Rod looked up at Fess. "You'll make sure they stay
safe?"

   "Certainly, Rod."

   Cordelia looked disappointed, but Gregory cried, "Oh, good! Fess will
be by us!" and Geoffrey cheered.

   "All right, then." Rod turned away. "You'll take the low road, and we'll
take the high." He managed a smile as he turned back to wave. "Be
careful, huh?"

   "Oh, aye, Papa!"

   "Godspeed, Mama!"

   "God be with you!"

   "God be," was all Geoffrey managed, before he was off trailing his
quarry.

   Rod sighed and turned away. "Hope we're making the right decision."

   "Be assured, husband." Gwen clasped his arm. "If aught miscarries, we
can be with them right swiftly."

  "Yes—and Fess can call even if they don't want to." Rod nodded. "Okay,
darling. I'll try not to worry."

   At their feet, the stone cracked with the sound of a gunshot, and its
pieces went flying.

   "Follow the northern shard," Gwen suggested.

   Rod nodded, and off they went after the progressive rock.


                          Chapter Seven
   As they moved after the scarabs, Magnus asked his sister, "I ken how
that music did fascinate those children—yet how can it have gained so
thorough a hold on thee?"

  "Thou canst not know till thou hast begun to dance to it." Cordelia
shuddered. "Do not ask, brother—but when thou hast begun to move thine
whole body to its rhythms willingly, it doth seem quite natural to
continue."

   " Tis a foul twisting of all that's right in the use of one's body," Geoffrey
said, disgusted. "Thy limbs should ever move with purpose, one set forth
by thy mind and made effective by practice; they should not twitch to
some sound that doth but pass by thy brain."

   " 'Tis horrid to see children so young become victim to it." Magnus had
to clasp his dagger to keep his hand from trembling. "I might credit it in
one of mine own age, though I would still deplore it. Yet in children!"

    "Aye, grandfather of seventeen," Cordelia said, with full sarcasm. After
all, she was almost as tall as he, at the moment.

  But Gregory said only, "How can mere music have absorbed them so
completely?"
   "How can it have become so much louder?" Geoffrey retorted. "I can
comprehend how it can induce bodies to move, for I do feel mine own
limbs respond to the beat of the music, almost as to mine heartbeat…"

  "Thine heartbeat! Thou hast it!"

  "Why, I should hope I do, else would I be dead." Geoffrey frowned.
"How is this, little brother?"

   "Thy body is accustomed to doing all to the beat of thine heart! In
truth, dost thou not gauge the strength of thy feelings by its speed? Thus
when the music doth pulse, thy limbs do respond!"

   "A most excellent notion, brother," Magnus agreed. "Yet the music's
beat is not my heart's—unless it should by some happenstance beat with a
very odd rhythm."

  "Such as a comely lass passing near," Cordelia said sweetly.

   Magnus gave her a dark look, but Gregory said, "Ah, but 'tis therefore
that thy limbs do move to the music! For an 'twere but thine heartbeat,
look you, thy limbs would be as much in accord as they ever were!"

   "Gregory may have a point," Fess said slowly. "There are certain natural
rhythms to the body's functions; the heartbeat is only one of them. And, as
Geoffrey points out, once the music becomes too loud to truly ignore, the
body naturally tends to respond."

  "I wot no physician would countenance such a notion," Magnus
muttered.

    "Yes, but I am not a physician," Fess noted. "And I must stress,
Magnus, that the idea we are discussing is only conjecture at the moment;
it is not yet sufficently detailed to even be termed an hypothesis."

  "Yet what hath made the music so much louder?" Geoffrey demanded.

   "Why, the grown folk, brother," Cordelia explained. "When they threw
so many stones together, there was more music in one place!"

  "That would suffice for that one field, sister," Geoffrey answered, "yet it
doth not explain the greater loudness all around us."
    Cordelia stopped, casting about her. "Why, it hath grown! I do hear it
all round! How is't I had not noticed that sooner, Fess?"

   The robot started to reply, but a sudden cry belted from farther down
the woodland path, around the bend. "Ho!" followed by a "Ha!" all in the
woodwind timbre of adolescent boys' voices, repeating and repeating. "Ho!
Ha! Ho! Ha!" Then, above their rhythm, came girls' voices, chanting:

   I sought for love, and love sought me, And found me there beneath a
tree. Touch and kiss and soft caress Taught me of sweet love's duress.

  Loving whispers, sweet love's moan. Say I'll never be alone. Lip to lip,
and heart to heart, Seek to cling, and never part!

  "What manner of song is that?" Geoffrey asked, goggle-eyed.

  Cordelia's nose wrinkled. "Oh! 'Tis vile! Is love naught but the press of
bodies?"

  "Yet who doth sing it?" Magnus asked, frowning.

   Round the bend of the path they came, a chain of thirteen- and
fourteen-year-olds, linked by clasped hands, their feet stamping out the
pattern of a dance, their bodies and heads tossing in time to the music.

  The Gallowglasses stared, astounded.

  "What comes?" Geoffrey demanded.

   Then the line of youths and maidens was upon them, twining them into
their cordon as the Gallowglasses lurched staggering from one to another.

  "Oh, come, or thou wilt never stand," a pretty maiden said, laughing.
"Thou must dance or fall!"

  "Must I truly?" Magnus muttered.

  "I do not wish to dance!" Geoffrey snapped.

   "Then leap aside," a hulking boy behind him retorted lightly. "Yet what
ails thee, that thou dost not wish to step?"

  "What ails thee, that thou dost wish it?"
   But the boy didn't even seem to hear him; he had turned his head to
gaze into the eyes of the girl behind him.

   "What manner of music is this, that doth order thy feet?" Gregory
gasped, hurrying to keep up.

  "Why, 'tis our music!" the girl next to him answered. "Its strains are
woven solely for folk of our age!"

  "Canst thou not control thine own feet?"

  "Wherefore?" The girl laughed. "I do love what they do!"

   "Brace thyself against it!" Cordelia enjoined her. "Thou must needs be
thine own master!"

  The girl looked at her as though she were some sort of monster. "What
manner of lass art thou, to not wish another to guide thee?"

   "Mine own! A lass who will not be a chattel! Dost thou not see this
throbbing sound doth rob thee of thy self?"

   "Nay! How could it?" said another girl, also laughing. " 'Tis but
entertainment!"

  "Who hath told thee that?" Cordelia demanded furiously.

  "Why, the very rocks do cry it!"

  "The throbbing of it is wondrous!" a third girl said, eyes glowing. "It
doth beat within thy blood; it doth set thy whole body to humming!"

   Cordelia's eyes widened in horror. "Assuredly thou dost not believe the
foul lie its words do sing!"

  The first girl frowned at her. "What lie is that?"

   "There is no lie in them, but truth!" said another girl farther down the
line. She was a little taller than the others, buxom, and very pretty. She
smiled at Magnus, eyelids drooping. "Dost thou not hear the wonder of
them? Love!"

  Magnus's eyes were fixed on her, fascinated, but he mustered the
strength to answer, " 'Tis not love those words do speak of, but the hot,
unbridled passion of the body's lust."

   "What difference?" the girl asked, puzzled. Then she smiled again and
leaned backward, and her lips seemed to grow fuller as her face swayed
close to Magnus's. "Wherefore dost thou not dance? Doth not our
company please thee?"

  "Nay," Magnus managed, but he knew he lied.

   She knew it, too. "My name is Lalaina. Wilt thou not tread the measure
with us?"

   "There is no measure, nor no rule, in that which thou dost seek." But
Magnus's feet began to fall into step with hers, and his gaze was riveted to
her face.

   "Wherefore should there be?" Lalaina breathed. "We are young, in the
season of joy! An we do not take our pleasures now, when shall we?"

   "Dance," the boy behind him commanded, "or step aside! For we would
raise the boughs with our singing, and thou dost bind us to the earth!"

  "Canst thou not dance?" jeered another boy, Magnus's own size.

   "Thou canst not be our friend an thou dost not tread the welkin with
us," said a third, grinning.

   Lalaina swayed a little further back, and let her lips brush Magnus's. He
jolted to a stop, electrified, and the dancers rocked to a halt with him. All
stood watching him, lips smiling, holding their breaths, poised…

  Then Cordelia screeched. "Thou hussies! Thou vile, grasping liliths!
Wouldst thou then drag him down with thee?"

  "Aye," answered one tall girl, "with all my heart."

  "And body." Lalaina gazed deeply into Magnus's eyes.

  "He cannot wish to dance with them," Geoffrey cried, appalled.

  "He doth hang in the balance." Gregory twisted away from the girl
holding his hand and dove toward his big brother. "Magnus! Wake thee!
They do weave a spell, they do enchant thee!"

   "Why, 'tis no enchantment," a boy scoffed. "Tis but entertainment."

  "Thou heartless wretches!" Cordelia stormed. "Dost thou think a
woman's naught but a plaything?"

   "Believe them not!" Gregory shouted to Magnus. "They do seek to
ensorcel thee, to draw thee into the selfsame maelstrom of droning and
stamping as they are caught in!"

   "Give in to it," a boy coaxed. "Thou wilt not believe the pleasure of it,
the heady giddy feeling!"

   "Hold fast!" Gregory reached up to thump his big brother's arm. "Thou
art thine own man, not some mindless puppet!"

  "The music is great, the music is all!" another boy countered.
"Submerge thyself in it; let it roll over thee! Then reach to find another's
hand, to touch, to stroke!"

   "Thou knowest right from wrong!" Gregory insisted. "Thou hast so
often told me of it! 'Tis wrong, thou didst say, to let another think for thee!
How much more wrong must it be, then, to let mere music make thee
mindless?"

   "Aye." Magnus's face hardened and, with a huge effort, he squeezed his
eyes shut, shook his head, and turned away from Lalaina. "I am my own
man still."

   "Then thou art not ours!" the hulking youth cried. "Avaunt thee! Get
thee hence!"

  "Didst thou say we are naught but things of play?" taunted a girl not
much older than Cordelia. "What more should we wish to be? Thou art
but jealous for that thou hast so little of thine own!"

   "What I have is mine own!" Cordelia answered hotly. "What! Wouldst
thou give thyselves to boys who see thee as naught but toys?"

   A long, scandalized gasp raked along the line of dancers. Then the girls'
faces hardened, and they stepped forward.
  "What a foul mouth thou hast!" a smaller boy snapped at Gregory. "We
must stop it for thee!" And he caught up a fistful of dirt.

  "Stand away!" Geoffrey leaped in front of his little brother, glaring.
"Thou shalt not touch him!"

   "Then we shall bury thee!" the hulking youth cried and, with a roar,
several of the boys leaped at Geoffrey.

  "Thou hast spoke too much now," Lalaina grated, glaring at Cordelia.
"Have at thee, wench!"

   Magnus leaped up beside his brothers, catching two of the boys by their
collars and hurling them at the hulking youth, while Geoffrey dispatched
the third with a left jab and a quick right cross.

  "Thoul't not touch my brothers whilst I can stand!" snapped Magnus.

  "Why, then, we shall hale thee down!" the hulking youth bellowed. "Out
upon him, lads!"

  With a roar, the boys all leaped at Magnus.

  With one unified scream, the girls leaped on Cordelia.

   "Repel them!" Magnus shouted, catching his brothers' hands, and
Gregory caught Cordelia's. Their faces turned to stone with strain, and the
air about them glimmered a split second before the girls and boys fell
upon them with the howl of a wolf-pack…

  … and slammed into an invisible wall.

   They bounced back, crashing to the ground with howls of surprise and
fright—but Lalaina screeched, "They are witches!"

  "Then we should fly," Magnus grated, tight-lipped. "Away, my sibs!"

  And the word ran through the mob like a trace of gunpowder:
"Witches! Witches! Witches!"

  "Then we shall burn them!" cried the hulking boy, and the crowd
answered with a roar.
   But the Gallowglasses had already disappeared down the woodland
path and around the bend, so the pursuing mob careened into a great
black horse, with a bong like a boxful of bolts in a belfry. They recoiled,
yammering and clamoring, and ducked under, around, and over as the
great horse danced about, maneuvering to make it harder for them—but
they all twisted past somehow, and sprang after their quarry, howling in
full voice.

  "We must go aloft," Magnus panted.

  "There is no space!" Cordelia answered, tears in her eyes. "There are too
many branches, all too low!"

  The pack rounded the bend, saw them, and burst into wild yelling.

   Then out of the roadside brush sprang slavering jaws with furious
barking, red-rimmed eyes above and sharp claws below, leaping and
growling and snapping, and the mob screeched to a halt in sheer shock
with howls of panic.

   "Throw!" Cordelia cried. Her brothers skidded to a stop, whirled about
to look, and every loose stick around leaped up spinning to shoot whirling
at the mob. The pack stood for a second, wavering; then the first stick
struck, and they turned about with a woeful yell, fleeing in panic.

  Magnus and Geoffrey stood tense, unbelieving, but Cordelia and
Gregory collapsed with a sigh. "I shall never trust a crowd of folk again,"
Gregory croaked.

    "Nor ever did, I wot," Geoffrey answered. "Mayhap thou hadst the right
of it, small brother."

   The dog turned and came up to them, wagging its tail. It was a tall,
rangy beast with long ears, drooping eyes, and jowls; but the eyes were all
friendliness now, and guileless. It sat down in front of Geoffrey, cocked its
head to the side, and barked.

  In spite of himself, the third Gallowglass began to grin.

   "And who art thou, who hast come so timely to help us?" Magnus
stepped forward, still wary, but opening his mind to the dog's.
   The dog barked again, and both boys read its feelings. "It did like us the
moment it saw us," Gregory said, grinning widely now. "What! Wouldst
thou be my friend?"

  The dog barked and wagged its tail.

  "Mama will never allow it," Cordelia warned.

  "Wouldst thou sleep in the stables?" Magnus asked.

  The dog nodded, panting and still wagging its tail.

  "There is another tenant in that room," Gregory reminded.

   Right on cue, the great black horse came round the bend toward the
children.

  Cordelia scrambled to her feet. "Do they rally, Fess?"

   "They do not," the horse told her. "In fact, as soon as you were out of
sight, they seemed to forget you; and when they had calmed for a minute
or two, they began to dance again. They have gone on their way, and one
would think they had never seen you."

  "Praise Heaven for that!" Cordelia sighed. "Mayhap this nepenthe of
music hath its uses!"

  "But how did you rout them, children? I trust you did no irreparable
harm…"

   "We only threw sticks," Magnus assured him, "few of which struck. But
the greatest work was done by this stalwart." Gingerly, he placed a hand
on the dog's head. "He sprang upon them so suddenly that the surprise
itself did rout them."

    "Then he is a friend in deed." Fess came closer, and the dog stretched
its nose up at him, sniffing. Then it sneezed, and stared up at him
indignantly.

  "There is no deceiving a large nasal cavity." The horse sighed. "He
knows I am no true equine."

  "Can I take him home, Fess?" Geoffrey asked.
   The robot horse stood immobile for a moment, then said, "You may
bring him, Geoffrey—but whether you may keep him is for your parents to
say."

  The dog's tail beat the ground furiously.

  "Papa could not turn away a valiant ally," Geoffrey protested.

   "I suspect you may be right—though I refuse to commit myself on the
issue. Bid him stay here, and he may join us when we return home."

   Geoffrey dropped to one knee, holding the dog by the sides of its head
and staring into its eyes. The animal panted up at him eagerly.
Concentrating, Geoffrey projected into the dog's mind a picture of him
watching the four children and the horse walking away, and the dog shut
his mouth, staring. Then Geoffrey made the picture darken into night,
then lighten with dawn, fill to midday, and darken to night again; then, on
the second dawn, the children and the horse came in sight again. The
dream-Geoffrey reached down to pet the dog, and the final picture showed
the four children, the horse, and the dog walking away together.

   The dog whined, and Geoffrey read in his mind a succession of pictures
of him leaping and snapping at five wolves until he drove them away,
while the four children cowered behind the horse; of the dog barking
furiously at a band of robbers, who turned tail and ran; and of the dog
taking on a huge bear single-handed, biting and clawing and howling until
finally the bear lay dead, and the children crowded around with petting
and cries of admiration.

  "Brother," Geoffrey said, "he doth…"

   "I have seen; he doth wish to protect us from all the hazards of the
forest, for he doth believe himself to be twenty times more powerful than
any canine could be." Magnus knelt down beside the beast, shaking his
head sadly. "Thou canst not do such great deeds, for thou art nothing but
a hound, dog. And we may not take thee with us now, for we know not to
what we go, and cannot halt for another member of our party."

  The animal's head drooped, and his tail flopped still.

  "Nay, 'tis not so bad as that," Geoffrey protested, rubbing the dog's
head and scratching behind its ears. "Thou art a most wonderful beast
indeed, and I do long to have thee for my companion all the years of my
youth!"

  The dog lifted its head with a hopeful look.

   "Canst thou not bide here in patience?" Geoffrey asked. "Then, when we
return, we shall take thee to our home. Wilt thou so serve me?"

  The dog stared up at him. Then its mouth lolled open again, and its tail
beat the earth a few times.

   "Stout fellow!" Geoffrey tousled its ears and jumped to his feet. "Bide in
readiness, then, and thou shalt yet be a stable-dog… An thou wilt, Fess?"
With trepidation, he looked up at the horse.

  "I would be honored to share my stable with so faithful a companion,
Geoffrey—but you understand that the decision must still remain with
your parents."

  "Oh, surely, Fess! Yet an thou wilt permit him the stable, I do not think
Mama will object!"

    "Come, then." Cordelia had been watching the whole affair with
ill-concealed impatience. "The West awaits."

  "Aye! I will come gladly!" Geoffrey turned and strode away, turning
back to wave goodbye only twice as he and his brothers and sister moved
away down the path with Fess behind them. He didn't even hear Cordelia
muttering under her breath, something about a great, smelly, slobbering
beast.


                         Chapter Eight
   The forest thinned; the trees became fewer and more slender. The
ground began to rise and, as the sun rose to mid-morning, the children
found themselves in an upland moor. Wind tossed their hair, and the
wide-open view lifted their hearts. "Oh!" Cordelia cried. "I could dance!"

   "Please do not," Fess said quickly. Even here, strains of repetitive music
rose from rocks all about them.

  Magnus looked about, his brow furrowed. "I see no springs or ponds,
Fess."

  "You will find very few," the robot confirmed. "Open water is rare on a
moor. When we do find some, we must fill waterskins."

   "And if we do not?"

   "Then we shall not turn back," Fess said, with decision, "until we do."

   "Do we not chance fate, Fess?"

   "With ordinary children, yes. But you can fly; when you begin to grow
thirsty, we shall go aloft."

   Cordelia swallowed. "I have thirst now."

   "That is only because we have been discussing the issue, Cordelia."

   "I might flit to the stream we camped by last night," Gregory suggested.

   Fess lifted his head. "Of course! I continually fail to correlate the full
range of your powers with current circumstances."

   "Thou doth mean thou dost ever forget what we can do."

   "Not 'forget,'" Fess demurred.

   " Tis only that he doth not wish to acknowledge it," Geoffrey muttered
to Magnus, but Big Brother shushed him.

   Fess affected not to have heard. "Then there is little peril from thirst,
since you can fetch water whenever you wish. However, there are bogs,
children. Be careful to remain on the path; those patches of soft earth
could swallow a child whole."

   "Not with thee by us, Fess," Gregory piped.

  "Yet Mama would be wroth at so much mud on thy clothes," Cordelia
pointed out. "Mind thy steps, brother."

   Gregory's lower lip jutted in a pout, but he followed as they set off up
the path, two abreast, Geoffrey and Cordelia in the lead, Fess following
behind.
   They crested the top of a rise and found a huge boulder blocking the
path. On top of it glowed a pair of girls' shoes, electric blue.

   Cordelia let out a cry of delight and ran to the rocky pedestal. "Oh! They
are so beauteous!" She caught up the slippers and held them up in the
sunlight. "And so soft."

  "Soft?" Gregory asked, wide-eyes. "Are they cloth, sister?"

  "Nay, they are leather—but velvet to the touch."

   "It is a leather-finish termed suede," Fess explained. "Cordelia! They
are not yours!"

   "Yet who else's could they be?" Cordelia kicked off her shoes and
pushed her toes into the blue slippers. "Surely, if someone left them and
went away, they must care not who takes them! And see, they are new
from the last!"

  "And also from the first." Magnus scowled. "Why do I mistrust them?"

   A bass note thrummed especially loudly. Magnus jumped aside, and
saw a new rock landing almost where he'd been. "A plague upon these
noisy stones!"

  "They are a plague." Then Gregory stared at his sister, wounded.
"Cordelia! Not thee too!"

   Cordelia's feet had begun to step lightly to the music of the rock, her
body swaying. "Wherefore not? Ah, now I ken wherefore this music hath
so strong a beat—'tis for dancing!"

   "I have lost all stomach for the sport," Magnus declared, "since we have
seen what others make of it. Give over, Delia! Let us be off!"

  "There is no harm in dancing, Magnus," Fess told him. "Let her amuse
herself for a few minutes; we assuredly have no pressing schedule."

   Magnus looked up at him, startled, and gave the robot a glare that
clearly accused him of treachery. Fess only watched Cordelia, though,
immobile and patient as a block of iron.

  " 'Tis more silly than aught I have seen," Geoffrey snorted, "to dance to
strains that go DOO-DOO-DOO." He grunted along with the tune, hopping
about in a crude parody of Cordelia's dance. She screeched in outrage.
"Thou vile boy! Canst thou not see another's pleasure, without need to
lessen it?"

   " 'Ware, brother," Magnus cautioned. "Thou dost begin to step quite
deftly."

   "Oh, aye, and to trip the light fantastic," Geoffrey said, with withering
sarcasm. But he forgot to grunt his musical burlesque, and went on
dancing. Sure enough, his steps began to be rather neat and nimble, and a
slow smile spread across his face.

   "Thou dost take as much pleasure in it as I," Cordelia gloated.

   Geoffrey jerked to a halt, paling at the insult. "Never! 'Tis a girls' game,
that!"

   "You will find it pleasant enough when you are grown, Geoffrey," Fess
assured him, "even as you will find the company of young women to be one
of your greatest delights."

   "I could wish not to grow, then!"

  "Do not, I prithee," Gregory said quickly, "for wishes have an
uncommon way of coming true—in Gramarye."

   Geoffrey glowered, but he didn't answer.

  "We have passed enough time," Fess said. "Come, Cordelia. Finish your
dance; we must resume our journey."

   "Oh, thou dost spoil the joy of it," Cordelia complained. "Naetheless,
the sun grows low, and I shall go with thee."

   "Well, then, come," Magnus repeated. "Cease thy dancing."

   "Why, so I do!"

   "Oh, dost thou!" Geoffrey grinned. "I could swear thou yet dost hop!"

  "Assuredly, thou dost not truly believe thou hast stopped, Cordelia,"
Gregory added.
   "Nay, I do not," Cordelia said, alarmed. "Yet I assure thee, brothers, I
do strive to! Nay, be still, my beating feet!"

  Fess lifted his head. "The shoes themselves continue to dance! They will
not let her stop!"

  "How can that be?" Gregory protested. "They are not living things!"

   "Perhaps a living being is nearby, to animate them; perhaps they are
alive, as much as any witch-moss construct is!"

  "Shoes of witch-moss!" Magnus said, unbelieving. "Surely they could
not endure!"

   "They need last only a bit longer than Cordelia's strength, to do their
wretched work," Gregory answered. "Come, throw all thy weight upon her
toe! Hold still her foot!" And he leaped at Cordelia, both heels slamming
down at her feet.

   But the slippers skipped aside, even as Cordelia screeched, "Do not step
on my blue suede shoes! I could not bear to have them spoiled!"

   "Then I shall catch thy body!" Gregory threw his arms around her
waist, just as a crow of victory split the moorland and a very large woman
leaped out from behind the boulder, whirling a net over her head. Her
skirts were full, her face was gaudy with rouge and powder, and her
neckline scooped low enough to violate the laws of aesthetics. "Two at one
catch!" she cackled. "Eh, I'll have much gold for them!" The net spun high,
weights on its border spreading it wide as it swooped down to snare
Cordelia, and Gregory with her. "A catch, a catch!" the woman cried, and
waddled toward the mound of netting that thrashed and heaved, for
Cordelia's body whipped in wild movements, the shoes still beating at the
ground in their dance.

  Cordelia screamed, and Gregory shouted, "Brothers, aid me!"

   Magnus and Geoffrey dove in with a will, Magnus throwing his arms
around Cordelia from behind in a bear hug, Geoffrey sailing in at the back
of her knees in a perfect tackle. Cordelia slammed down, and Magnus fell
with her, but her shoes kept striking about wildly, trying to continue their
dance. Geoffrey struggled out from under and yanked at the slippers.
   "Leave off! Leave off!" the harridan shrieked, swatting at him. " 'Tis my
catch!"

   "Nay, 'tis my sister!" Geoffrey whirled, scarlet with rage, unleashing a
glare at the fat woman. She staggered back screeching, as though a
football halfback had slammed into her, and Geoffrey's lip curled as he
turned back and with a violent jerk pulled one of the slippers off.

  "Ow!" Cordelia cried. "Gently, brother! 'Tis not a block of wood thou
dost hold!"

   "Pardon, sister, but there's small time for gentleness." Geoffrey yanked
the other shoe off.

   Another net swooped down around him, gathering all four of them into
a churning mass, and the overblown woman howled with glee as she
heaved at Magnus, rolling him over Cordelia into a hempen cocoon.
"Wouldst thou strike at a woman, then? Vile, unmannered brats! I have
thee now!"

    "What art thou?" Magnus cried, finally ready for the next danger on the
list; but the woman giggled, "Only a poor spinster, lad; and call me
Arachne, for I've caught thee in my web!"

   Geoffrey managed to draw his dagger with his left hand and started
sawing at the ropes. Magnus realized he had to keep Arachne's attention. "
'Twas thou didst craft these shoes!"

    "Nay! I may be wicked in my way, child, yet I'm not a witch! I found the
shoes, hard by a music-rock. And well they've served me—for they held this
little beauty till my net could settle over her!"

   "And what wilt thou do with her?" Magnus tried to sound as though
dread were hollowing him.

   "Why, sell her, lad, for gold!" Arachne replied. "I know a fine
gentleman, who dwells not far off within a cave, and who will come out
this night to give me gold for her. I've sold him girls before, and I doubt
not he will wish to have her. Nay, I wot that he may give me more gold for
each of thee, though thou art lads!"

  "Buy us?" Geoffrey protested, scandalized. "I shall not be a slave!"
   "Nay, thou shalt!" Arachne crowed. "And thou shalt do whatever he
doth wish thee to do! Now—wilt thou suffer thyselves to be bound and
hobbled, and walk before me? Or must I knock a rock upon thy pate, and
drag thee thither?"

    "Strike me an thou canst!" Geoffrey cried, surging up out of a long rent
in the net with his dagger stabbing out. Arachne shrieked and leaped
back. Then she clamped her jaw and lifted a huge, knobby cane, swinging
it up.

   A great black horse seemed to rise up out of the ground behind her,
rearing up.

  Geoffrey grinned, and pointed over her shoulder. "Beware!"

   "Dost thou think me a bairn, to be caught with so ancient a ruse?"
Arachne spat, just before a steel hoof cracked into her head. A stunned
look came over her face; then her eyes rolled up, and she slumped to the
ground.

   "Aye," Geoffrey answered her, then looked up at Fess. "Many thanks,
old ruse. How ancient art thou?"

    "Five hundred thirty-one years, ten months, three days, four hours, and
fifty-one minutes, Geoffrey."

   "Yet who doth count?" Magnus murmured as he fought his way loose of
the net.

  "Terran standard, of course," Fess added.

  Geoffrey nudged Arachne with a toe. "Mayhap we should bind her?"

   "Do, with her own net," Magnus agreed. Geoffrey nodded and knelt to
start packaging the harridan while Magnus turned to peel the other net off
Cordelia. She sat up with a shaky moan. "I thank thee, brothers. Tis long
since I have been so frighted."

  "She left the shoes as bait for her trap," Gregory informed her.

  "I believe I might have guessed that, brother."

  Geoffrey shrugged. "Guessed or not, thou wert snared."
   "Oh, 'twas I alone, was't?"

  "Your brothers were caught because they sought to aid you, Cordelia,"
Fess reminded her.

  She hung her head. "Aye, I know. Oh, brothers! I was so afeard thou
wouldst be trapped because of me!"

   "Aye, yet 'twas we caught the trapper." Magnus squeezed her around
the shoulders. "We could not allow her to harm our fair only sister, could
we?"

   "Nay!" Geoffrey's brows drew down, hiding his eyes. "None may touch
thee whiles we live! For thou art our sister!"

   "As thou art my brother." Cordelia leaped forward and caught Geoffrey
in a bear hug, planting a quick kiss on his cheek. He shrank back with a
cry of dismay, but she only beamed at him. "And none shall touch thee
without my leave!"

   If this boded ill for all their future courtships, Fess alone took note of it.
However, he only said, "Perhaps it is time to rejoin your parents,
children."

  They whirled on him, dismayed, erupting into a chorus of frantic
denials. "There is no danger, Fess!"

   "We are more than equal to any peril!"

   " 'Tis not even twilight yet!"

   "We have not found the information we seek!"

  "I would say we have found ample data," Fess contradicted. "We now
need time to sift it, organize it, and deduce its implications."

   'Ample, mayhap, yet not complete!" Gregory's chin jutted. "Wouldst
thou have us build hypotheses when we've less than full evidence?"

   Fess stood still and silent.

   "And there is that other poor lass!" Cordelia said.
  The robot-horse's head turned to her. "Which other juvenile female?"

   "The one that Arachne hath already sold to the man in the cave! Are we
to turn our backs upon her?"

  "Nay!" Geoffrey cried. "We must free her!"

  "There could be danger there, children," Fess said slowly.

  "Pooh! From one mere man, 'gainst four witch-children? Yet an he doth
prove more puissant than we expect, thou mayest step in and smite him!"

  "Provided I do not have a seizure…"

   "There's small enough chance of that," Magnus said quickly, ever alert
for egos needing bolstering. "Yet there's smaller chance of need of thy
strong hoof."

  "An thou dost doubt," Gregory suggested, "ask Papa."

   Fess heaved a burst of static. "Very well, I shall contact him." He turned
toward the northeast, opening his mouth to form a parabolic dish, and
shifted to radio frequency. Rod. Father Warlock—this is Fess. Tutor to
progenitor—come in, Rod.

  Receiving. Rod's signal was weak; the transmitter imbedded in his
maxillary was broadcast, not directional.

  We have encountered a potentially dangerous situation, Rod. It could
imperil the children.

  I doubt it, Rod answered. Still, it must be one hell of a situation, to give
you pause.

  No, only hooves.

  Are you developing a sense of humor? If you are, I'll have to see about
having it upgraded.

  Certainly not. Purely coincidental, I assure you. Fess was suddenly
aware of having been caught in an error, which caused a logic-loop almost
equivalent to an emotion. It was simply a failure to distinguish between
homonyms; I experienced a delay in interpreting contextual references. I
assure you it will not happen again.

  Oh, I don't mind. Just be a little more deft, will you?

   Unwittingly, Rod had given Fess a directive. The robot's memory
adjusted his program accordingly; Fess would now, obediently, make every
pun he could—except the really bad ones, if he could distinguish them.
Executed. Which is how you may wish to treat the woman the children
have just vanquished.

  Oh? Rod's voice tightened; Fess could almost hear the adrenaline
shooting through his veins. What'd she do to them?

  She trapped them, and intended to sell them to a man who lives in a
cave.

  Draw her and quarter her. Fury in Rod's voice, then sudden brooding.
On the other hand, is there anything left to draw?

   Oh yes, Rod. Your children have been well trained; they avoid serious
injury whenever possible, and shy at the thought of killing. She is merely
unconscious—and it was myself who struck the blow, not one of them.

  As long as she's out of commission. So what's the danger?

  The woman—Arachne, she calls herself-—has already sold at least one
young girl to this man in the cave.

   And the kids want to free her? Well, I can't really argue with that.
Just make sure there's something left of the man for the bailiffs to bring
in, will you?

   I shall take every precaution, Rod. Fess sighed. You are not concerned
for the children's safety, then?

   What, with only one nut to crack? The only problem is that he might
get mean enough so that they can't be gentle. If that happens, you knock
him out first, okay?

  As you say, Rod, Fess acknowledged reluctantly. Yet there is still the
possibility that I might have a seizure before I could intervene.

  Oh, all right! Rod sighed. I'll ask Gwen to call for a contingent of elves
to shadow you, unobtrusively. Think that will be enough protection?

   I had more in mind a command to rejoin you…

   There was a pause. Fess suspected Rod was discussing the situation
with Gwen. When he gave answer, it confirmed the notion.

   No. Categorically. We can't insulate them completely from the world,
Fess. If there's evil out there, they've got to learn something about it,
firsthand.

   Perhaps that experience should not be too vivid, Rod.

  There's no reason to think it will be, from what you've said so far.
Especially with you for protection, and a squad of Little People.

   That should be adequate, Fess admitted, capitulating. I do not think
they will be able to complete this mission before dark, though.

   Of course they will, if they fly! Don't let 'em take too long with this
slavemaster, okay?

   Even as you say, Rod. Over and out.

   Over and out. Good luck, Old Iron.

   Fess turned to the children. "Your parents have no objection—they only
ask that you exercise all due caution."

   The children cheered.

   "Where is the cave?" Geoffrey demanded.

   "We must seek that from Arachne's mind," Gregory answered.

   The topic of conversation moaned.

   "She wakes." Geoffrey dropped to one knee beside the harridan, hand
on his dagger. "Speak, monster! Give answer!"

   "Not so roughly." Cordelia knelt by the woman's other side. " 'Tis
flowers bring bees, not nettles."
  "Then beware their stings," Geoffrey growled.

  "I shall." Cordelia reached out to pat Arachne's cheek. "Waken, woman!
We have questions for thee."

  Arachne's eyelids fluttered, then cracked open, squinting painfully.

   "Aye, thy head doth ache, doth it not?" Cordelia said, with sympathy.
"Yet rejoice—thy pate's not broke, though 'twas a hard hoof that felled
thee."

   Arachne rolled her head to peer at the great black horse, who was
cropping grass for appearance's sake. "Whence came that beast?"

   "He was by us throughout. Thou wouldst have seen him an thou hadst
paid heed," Geoffrey sneered.

  Arachne turned her head to glare at him.

  Behind her, Gregory said, "There is no sense of greater room within
mine head, nor any sign that she doth hear our thoughts."

   Arachne's gaze darted up; she craned her neck, trying to see. "What
creature is that, which doth speak of hearing thoughts?"

  " 'Tis but a small warlock," Cordelia soothed, "my brother."

  "Thy brother!" Arachne stared, horrified. "Then thou art…"

   "A witch." Cordelia nodded. "And thou, we find, art not. Whence, then,
didst thou gain the dancing shoes?"

   "I have told thee—I found them by a music-rock." White showed all
around Arachne's eyes, and Geoffrey nodded, satisfied. She is too much
affrighted to speak falsely.

   She is terrified, Cordelia thought, rebuking; and aloud, "How didst
thou learn their power?"

  "Why, I put them on, and began to dance."

  Cordelia glanced at Arachne's large feet. "How couldst thou pull on
shoes so small?"
   Arachne reddened, embarrassed, but Gregory said, "I doubt me not an
they fit their size to the wearer."

  Arachne's eyes rolled up again in fear.

   Cordelia nodded. " 'Tis of a piece with their magic. Yet how didst thou
take them off?"

  "Why, I tired, and fell," Arachne said, as though it were the most
obvious thing in the world.

  "She hath not the endurance of youth, I wot," Geoffrey said grimly.
"And thou didst then think to use them to trap maidens?"

   "Well, young lasses, at least." The old woman frowned. "Such a one
came by, donned the shoes, and capered right merrily. When she began to
tire, I flung my net and caught her."

  "Wherefore? Didst thou know this cave-dwelling gentleman already?"

  "Aye, for I'd seen him about of nights, gaunt in the moonlight."

   Cordelia wondered what the woman had been doing out in the woods at
night.

  Belike she did seek to learn magic, Magnus's thought answered her,
and, failing, is the more in awe of we who have it.

  The more sin that we are so young, Gregory agreed.

  "And what had this proud gentleman done, to make thee think he
would buy a girl?"

   "Why, for that I saw him stalk a lass who dallied in a clearing, to meet a
lover. He fell upon her and carried her away to his cave—and thus I
learned where he dwelled."

  Cordelia felt a chill envelop her back. What manner of man was this,
who went out hunting maidens by night?

   'Tis an evil one, certainly. Geoffrey's thoughts were grim. He will also
be twisted and warped in his soul, I doubt not.
   We must rid the forest of him, Magnus agreed.

   "What did he to the lass?" Cordelia demanded.

   "Naught of great harm that I could see," Arachne answered, "for I went
to look the next day, and saw her sitting by the cave-mouth; yet she was
drawn and pale."

   "And did not seek to escape?" Magnus frowned.

   "Nay—so he could not greatly have hurt her, could he?"

  "Either that, or he hurt her vastly, yet in her soul, not her body,"
Magnus said gravely. "What, monster! Thou hast seen what he hath done,
and yet thou didst sell a young lass to him?"

  "Aye." Arachne's jaw jutted out. "For I saw no great harm, seest thou,
and he paid me in gold."

   "And gold is worth the vitality of a lass?" Geoffrey spat. "Nay, then! Let
us sell thee to the headsman, and take gold for thy pate!"

   Arachne's eyes widened in alarm.

   "She doth know she hath done wrongly," Gregory pointed out.

  "She doth that." Magnus frowned, bending over to glare down at the
harridan. "Where lieth his cave, hag?"

   "Why, to the west and north, hard by the dark pool before the cliffs,"
Arachne stammered, shaken by the look on Magnus's face. "Thou… thou
wilt not seek him out?"

   " 'Tis our affair," Geoffrey answered her, "as art thou still, I fear." He
looked up at Magnus. "What shall we do with her, brother?"

   Arachne cried out in alarm. "Assuredly thou wilt not hurt me!"

  "Wherefore not?" Geoffrey retorted. "Wouldst thou have scrupled to
hurt my sister?"

   "I—I did not know she was a witch!"
   "Which is to say, thou didst not know that she could hurt thee."
Geoffrey turned away in disgust. "Whate'er we do, brother, 'twill not be
excessive."

   "Yet I scruple to hurt her," Magnus said slowly. "Are we to be no better
than she, brother?"

  Arachne went limp with relief.

  "Shall we take her to the bailiff, then?" Gregory asked.

  "Why, what evidence shall we offer of her misdeeds?" Geoffrey
demanded.

   "Only our word of what she hath said," Magnus said sadly, "and 'tis the
word of young ones 'gainst that of a woman grown. Nay, we must seek
other justice to which to hand her."

  Arachne stiffened again, eyes widening.

  Geoffrey frowned. "What justice can that be?"

  "Why, that of the land itself." Magnus turned his head and called, "By
Oak, Ash and Thorn! An thou canst hear me, proud Robin, please come!"

   Arachne stared at him, her foreboding deepening; but Magnus only
held his stance, frozen, waiting, and his siblings watched him in silence.

  Then leaves parted, and Puck stepped forth. "Wherefore dost thou call
me, Warlock's Child?"

  "I cry thy justice upon this woman, Robin."

   Puck's head swivelled around; he stared at the harridan. Then his eyes
narrowed. "Aye, we have seen her aforetime, yet her offenses were never so
great as she yearned for them to be. What hath she now done, that thou
dost think her worth our concern?"

   "She hath stolen a woman-child," Magnus answered, "and sold her for
gold to a gentleman who doth dwell in a cave."

   Puck's face turned to flint. "We know of him; 'tis a vampire." Slowly, he
turned to Arachne. "And thou hast sold him a maiden?"
  She looked into the elf's eyes, and screamed.


                          Chapter Nine
   For Rod and Gwen, it had been a slow journey, since they had to wait
for the rocks to absorb enough witch-moss to split. A few times they
cheated by rolling a fragment of stone into the nearest patch of the fungus.
The children were well out of sight before they had gone more than a
hundred yards.

   So the sun was setting as they backtracked a flying stone out of a small
woodlot into a meadow. Before them, dimly seen in the dusk, another line
of trees loomed.

  "We must give the poor wee thing a chance." Gwen nudged the stone
toward a crop of grass webbed with fungus.

  But Rod heard a sound, and turned back to look. "Gwen…"

  "Aye, milord?"

  "We're, uh… being followed."

  Gwen turned to look, and stifled a shriek.

  It was at least as big as a pony, but it had a long, bushy tail and a
shaggy gray coat.

  "Grandma, what big teeth you have," Rod murmured.

  It was a wolf, dancing toward them on pads the size of platters.

  "Fight, or fly?" Gwen readied her broomstick—as a quarterstaff.

  "Go, but I think we can stay on the ground." Rod nodded at the huge
beast. "It can't go very fast, that way."

   The wolf's paws were weaving in the steps of an intricate dance. It was
surprisingly graceful, but it took two steps backward for every three
forward.

  "True," Gwen agreed. "Let us move toward the far wood, my lord, for
there may we entrap it, if we see need."

  "Good point." Rod moved with her, with quick glances back over his
shoulder. "Uh… it's not working."

  Gwen turned to look, and saw that the wolf had speeded up its dance. It
was stepping closer to them with every measure. "Let us walk as swiftly as
we may—the wood is better for us."

   "Anything you say." Rod was beginning to feel the old, atavistic dread
of teeth that go clash in the night. As much to reassure himself as her, he
said, "We can wipe it out any time we want to, of course."

   "Certes." Gwen frowned. "Yet I am loath to do so, for 'tis a living being,
even as we are."

   "Living," Rod agreed, "but dangerous to sheep and small peasants. We
can't really leave a thing like that around to roam the countryside, Gwen."

   "Mayhap it can be tamed," she offered.

    Rod shook his head. "Whether it was generated by imagination or
genes, it was born to be wild. We're going to have to find some way to pull
its teeth."

   Those teeth were coming entirely too close. The wolf's tongue lolled out
between them, almost in a smile, and the great eyes glowed in the dusk.

   "First," Rod said through stiff lips, "I think we'd better go aloft. Ready?"

   Something shot over their heads, a flurry of night wings and a long,
mournful, echoing call. The stepping wolf howled, dodged aside, then
leaped up, jaws snapping, but the giant bird banked away. It came
circling back, though,

   and the dancer had no attention to spare for its erstwhile quarry. The
night-spirit cupped its wings and stretched its claws down, landing
between the wolf and the humans—an owl eight feet tall, poising wings
that seemed to stretch out forever as a shield for the tender ones at its
back. Rod saw the gleam of a curved bill the size of his arm, and eyes the
size of dinner plates that stared at the predator. A long cry filled the night
again.
   "Who-o-o-o-o-o-o," the great bird called. "Who-o-o-o-o't"

   "Doth he mean to threaten?" Gwen asked.

   "Threat or comfort, it's music to my ears. But he can't really hold off
that wolf, can he?"

   The four-footed dancer seemed to have come to the same conclusion. It
crouched, snarling, readying itself for a leap.

   "Whol" the great owl exclaimed with a snap of its wings, and the wolf
rocked back, startled for a moment.

   Before it could regain its poise, a sonorous gong-roll filled the night,
and an awkward figure appeared, flapping long-sleeved arms for balance,
teetering in front of the giant owl. It wore a tall, pointed cap painted in
spirals of mauve and lavender, interspersed with stars and crescent
moons, which also adorned its patchwork robe, five sizes too big. "Here
now, here now, what's all this?" the small man said in a peevish tone. He
looked up at the great owl through a huge pair of circular spectacles.
"What did you call me for, Hoot?"

   The night-king gave a hoot, nodding its head toward the wolf. The
patchwork wizard turned to peer into the gloaming, adjusting his
spectacles. "What's this, what's this? A dancing wolf, you say? Well, let
him dance!"

   The owl hooted again.

   "People?" The wizard looked up at Rod and Gwen, startled. "Oh! Good
evening. I am Spinball the wizard."

   "Um—pleased to meet you." Rod hoped he wasn't staring too obviously.
"I'm Rod Gallowglass, and this is my wife, Gwen."

   "The High Warlock?" Spinball straightened, startled. "And the Wonder
Witch, too! Why, you have no need of me! You could skin and stuff this
animal before it even noticed!"

    "Well, yes," Rod admitted, "but we're a little reluctant, you see. I mean,
it's just doing what it was born to do, and we hate to end an innocent life
if we can avoid it."
  Spinball lifted his head, a glint of respect in his eye. "Ah, well. I can
understand that. Of course, yes."

   "Cannot this beast be tamed?" Gwen asked gently.

   "Oh." Spinball knitted his brows. "You haven't much of a knack with
beasts, eh? Well, that makes a difference. I'll see what I can do, then."
Abruptly, he smiled. "Nice to have a feeling of purpose for a change." Then
he spun away to the wolf.

   "He is quite nice," Gwen said carefully.

   "Definitely," Rod agreed. "Seems to be a bit of a screwball, though."

  "Here, now, Dancer," the wizard said. His tone was firm, but gentle.
"You really mustn't bother these people."

   The wolf growled.

   "Oh, yes, I know you're hungry," Spinball said, "but they have a right to
live, too, you know. Now, I can understand the occasional sheep, and
possibly even a small cow now and then—but human beings are absolutely
forbidden!"

   The wolf's growl became more ominous.

   "No!" Spinball said, with determination. "Absolutely out of the
question! Really, you should limit yourself to deer and rabbits, you know,
with now and then a bit of a boar. Taking livestock always brings hunters
with wolfhounds, after all."

   At that, the wolf threw back its head and howled. Rod and Gwen stared,
amazed—but were even more amazed when the howling began to slide up
and down in pitch, then to rise and fall with a definite feeling of structure.
Somehow, it seemed to synchronize perfectly with the thrumming beat
from the music-rocks that littered the meadow. It ended with a long, high,
mournful howl that held and rang, then dwindled away into the night. The
evening was still, except for the shrilling of crickets and, somewhere in the
distance, the drumming of a bullfrog—or was that a music-rock?

   But Spinball was nodding. He whisked something long and thin out of a
sleeve.
   "A magic wand?" Rod asked.

    But Spinball put the wand to his lips and began to play. A lovely melody
lilted out into the night, wafting toward the wolf, rising and falling in time
to the beat of the music-rocks. Then Spinball took the pipe away from his
lips, and began to sing:

  "One is one, and all alone, And ever more shall be so! Yet two are two,
and ever do Have other ones to seek to know!

  To reach, and nothing gain, is pain; To reach and touch is warming.
To see another may be bother, But often may be charming!

  They who slay shall never stay To fulfill themselves in others. They
who hate shall never sate The hollowness that shudders!

  Reach and touch, and feel and heal! Tumult soothe in sharing! Be kin
and kind, and seek and find! Angst unknot in caring!"

   The wolf sat, head cocked to the side, studying the wizard, who with a
flourish raised his pipe to his lips again, blew a last, lighthearted, skipping
tune, then whisked the pipe away as he bowed to the wolf. He rose out of
the bow to stand, head cocked to the side at the same angle as the lupine's.

   The huge wolf rose, danced lightly up to the wizard, and held up a paw.

   Spinball took the huge pads with a grave bow, looked into the wolf's
eyes, and nodded. The wolf returned the nod, turned away, and stepped
back into the woodland from which it had come.

   Gwen released a long-held breath, and Rod said, "Astonishing! Did he
really understand what you were trying to tell him?"

  "Oh, yes, of course! What I couldn't tell him with words, I told him with
melody! After all, a dancing wolf does have music in his heart, you know."

   "I do now," Rod said, and Gwen added, "Art thou certain he will harm
no human person?"

   "Quite sure," said Spinball, "for the music brought our minds into
harmony for a brief time. But I promise you, I'll seek out his thoughts
every day for a few weeks, just to be absolutely certain."
   "I thank thee," Gwen said slowly. "Such befriending of a wild thing doth
surpass my gifts."

   Spinball reddened with pleasure, but said, "Oh, no, my lady, not at all! I
couldn't even come close to your abilities, no, not if you're even half as deft
as rumor says. You must be a far greater magician than I!"

   That brought a smile to Gwen's lips. "Say not so, good sir. Yet I must
also thank your friend, who called you to us in this hour of need."

  "Who, Hoot?" Spinball looked up, surprised. "But he didn't call me, you
know—he made me!"

   Hoot gave an angry call.

   "No, it's true, Hoot, and you know it!" Spinball said stoutly, then turned
to explain. "He says that it was I who made him, but of course we know
that's nonsense, now don't we? Yes, of course it is, for how could such a
dizzy-head as I have sense enough to imagine a wondrous bird like Hoot?"

   "Who-o-o-o-o-o!" the great owl said, with conviction.

   "Oh, that's silly!" Spinball scoffed. "And don't you ever call yourself a
birdbrain again! I'll have you know you're my special friend, yes, my
closest friend in all the universe, at least in the part that's alive, so there!"

   "Who!" the owl said, mollified, and lapsed into a satisfied sulk.

  "It's an old argument." Spinball sighed, turning back to Rod and Gwen.
"He insists that I made him, and I insist that he made me. I don't expect
we'll ever see eye to eye about it. The only thing we disagree on, too."

   "A most excellent choice," Gwen said, smiling, "if friends must disagree
at all."

  "Oh, they must," Rod said softly. "Every now and then, they must. We
can't stand being too close, you know."

   That earned him a peculiar look from both wizard and wife, but the
great owl spoke up with a long and loud "Who-o-o-o-o-o-o!" that sounded
very satisfied with Rod's version of the affair.

   Rod glanced up, caught by a sudden change in the music. "You know, I
think you've had an effect on the ambience."

  "What, the rocks' music?" Spinball dismissed the notion with a wave.
"Hoot always does that. Every time he shows up, they change their tune.
Not that we mind, you understand. Keeps things friendly all around."

   "But we did seek to follow, to discover how the rocks progressed!" Gwen
turned to him. "We must find where they have begun, for we seek to
understand what this new force is that doth strain the land, ere it doth
rend it asunder."

   Again, Spinball waved the idea away. "Oh, don't be such a worrywart.
After all, it's just entertainment."

   "I've heard that before, someplace," Rod said, "and I'm beginning to
become a little wary of it. You wouldn't happen to know where this all
started, would you?"

  Spinball shook his head. "I wouldn't, for I seem to have started with it,
and so has Hoot. But we think it's south, yes, perhaps south, and certainly
west."

   Gwen glanced at Rod with doubt; he nodded and said, "Well, I suppose
the best we can do is follow where the rocks came from, then. Funny how
this one seems to be going north."

   "I thought so, too," Spinball admitted. "They seem to grow as a tree
does, branching out from a common trunk—but the roots lie in the west,
yes, and the south.

   Still, as each branch grows older its music seems to change—and, of
course, it spreads out, so that you find two rocks with entirely different
kinds of music, right next to one another."

   "They ought to put labels on 'em," Rod grunted. "That's how we came to
follow this branch, in fact—we found a rock near the other ones we were
investigating. Well, thanks for all your help. We're off to the west, then."

  "My lord," said Gwen, "we speak to no one."

  Rod looked up, startled, and realized that Spinball had disappeared.
"Well! Not very polite of him, to run off without saying goodbye."
   "Goodbye!" said a voice from empty air, and a long, mournful hoot
echoed down from the sky.

  Rod and Gwen exchanged a glance, then started quickly toward the
dark wood ahead. Over his shoulder, Rod called back, "Bye!"


                           Chapter Ten
   Many miles away, the children followed the guide Puck had assigned
them.

  "Yet what is a vampire?" Cordelia asked.

   "Have a care," said a reedy voice in front of them. "A root doth bulk up,
to trip thee."

   "Oh! I thank thee, elf." Cordelia lifted her skirts and stepped carefully
over the root, following the foot-high manikin who led them. " Tis _hard
going as the woods darken."

   "It will be night soon," Fess said, "and the vampire will be active. We
should return home and come here again by daylight, when the monster
sleeps within his cave."

  Magnus frowned. "Wherefore doth he so?"

  "Because he will turn to dust if sunlight strikes him." Fess lifted his
head sharply. "What am I speaking of? Vampires are mythical!"

   "Any myth may gain weight and substance, in Grama-rye," Magnus
assured him. "Yet thou hast not answered Delia, Fess. What is a vampire?"

    Fess heaved a burst of white noise and answered. "A vampire, children,
is a person who lives by drinking other people's blood."

   Cordelia froze, horrified. Geoffrey made a retching noise. " Tis
disgusting," Gregory said, looking a little green.

  "Why do Other folk suffer such a one to live?" Magnus demanded.

  "They do not, Magnus. When people learn of a vampire's existence, they
generally attempt to slay it—but the monsters cannot truly be killed, for
they are no longer completely alive."

   "Immortal?" Magnus asked.

   "Until they are disposed of, yes. A vampire can be immobilized
indefinitely by driving a stake through its heart and burying it at a
crossroad—or it can be burned."

   "What of their souls?" Cordelia whispered.

  "I am not programmed to conjecture about spiritual matters,
Cordelia."

   "Then there is no certain knowledge?"

   "Surely their souls must be lost!" Geoffrey protested. "Have they not
slain innocent folk?"

   "Not precisely. Vampires generally do not take enough blood to kill a
person at one sitting. But after several visits over a period of time, the
victim becomes a vampire in his or her own turn."

  "Thou dost not say so!" Cordelia gasped. "Is't to Ms that Arachne hath
condemned the lass she sold to the vampire?"

  "We must save her," Geoffrey said, with decision. Then he frowned,
uncertain. "Or hath she already become like to him?"

   "How are we to know?" Magnus asked.

  "By her vitality, according to the literature. If she is listless and
apathetic, the vampire is still feeding upon her; but if she is energetic and
burning with greed, she has become a vampire herself."

   "We shall know her when we see her, then." Magnus frowned. "If we can
see aught, in this gloaming."

  " 'Tis still light enough for that," the elf replied. He parted some ferns
and breathed, "Behold!"

    The sourceless twilight showed them a clearing in front of a cliff face. In
its base, a crevice widened into a cave mouth seven feet high and four feet
wide, with a semicircle of beaten earth before it and rubble to either side.
The rubble must have contained some music-rocks, for a three-chord
melody murmured through the clearing. The heavy thrumming of its bass
notes seemed to be moving the feet of the girl who danced in front of the
cave. Certainly she did not seem to be stepping by herself, for her face was
drawn and pale, and her whole body limp and drooping, waving vaguely to
the rhythm. She was perhaps sixteen, and should have been bursting with
the vitality of youth, but her eyes were only half-open.

  "Regard," Geoffrey breathed. "Her throat!"

  The children stared, fascinated and repelled, at the cluster of double
marks on the girl's neck.

  "She is apathetic," Fess murmured.

   "Why, 'tis so!" Cordelia lifted her head. "She doth care for naught! She
is not yet herself a vampire!"

   "We may save her, then." Magnus stood up, purpose settling about him
like a cloak. "Come, my sibs." He stepped forward into the clearing.

   "Beware," the elf said near his ankle. "When darkness falls, the vampire
will come out."

  "I await him with hunger to match his own," Geoffrey answered.

   "Thou shouldst hide thee, elf," Gregory advised, hurrying after his
brothers and sister.

  "Why, so I shall," the elf answered. "Yet be sure, a score of Wee Folk do
watch, and await thy need." Then he ducked down into the grass, and was
gone.

  Magnus stepped up to the girl and inclined his head. "Greetings, lass. I
am called Magnus, and I would speak with thee."

   The girl's glance strayed to his face, then strayed away. She gave no
other sign of having heard him.

   "Let me try." Cordelia moved in front of Magnus, gazing up at the
bigger girl. "I am Cordelia. Wilt thou not pause to speak with me?"

  The lass frowned slightly, her gaze wandering toward Cordelia; but it
never quite arrived, for her face smoothed out, and she ended by gazing
over the younger girl's head.

  "Oh!" Cordelia said. "How rude! Wilt thou not cease dancing for a few
moments' speech?"

   "I doubt me an she can." Magnus beckoned to Geoffrey and Gregory.
"Come, brothers! We must catch and hold her, an we wish speech with
her."

  "Done!" Geoffrey cried, and dove into a flying tackle.

   "Not that way!" Magnus threw his arms around the girl, holding her
up. Finally her gaze met his, looking up only a little, and her eyes widened,
almost completely open.

  "I have her feet," Geoffrey called out from below.

   "And I have her arms." Magnus leaned back a little. "Now, lass! Tell me
thy name!"

  The girl just blinked at him, not understanding.

  "Thy name," Magnus urged. "Thy name that folk do call thee by!"

  She blinked again, and said, "What matter?"

  "What matter!" Cordelia cried. "Wilt thou forget thyself also?"

   The girl's eyes strayed to her. She blinked again, and yawned. "Mayhap.
'Tis naught."

   "Naught!" Geoffrey exploded. "Is 'naught' thy name, then? Are we to
call thee 'Naught'?—'Ho, Naught! How dost thou fare? 'Tis a fine day,
Naught, is't not? Come, Naught, let us…' "

  "Geoffrey!" Cordelia pinned him with a glare. "The poor lass hath grief
enow, without thy…"

  "Nay, I have no grief." The girl puckered her brow. "Yet thou art truly a
rude fellow. An thou must needs know it, my name is Nan."

  Geoffrey returned Cordelia's glare. "There are times when rudeness
doth serve purpose, sister."

  "Aye, it angered her enow to draw her from her apathy a moment."
Gregory studied Nan, watching her face smooth into blandness again. "Yet
only a moment. Dost thou care so little for thy name, lass?"

  "I ha' told thee, 'tis naught," the girl murmured.

  "And thy life?" Gregory whispered.

   Finally, Nan sighed. "What matters life? The days do pass; one doth
sleep, then doth wake to another day that swimmeth by."

  "Wouldst thou liefer be dead?"

  "I care not." She blinked several times and yawned again.

  "Thou must needs care for summat!" Geoffrey insisted.

  But Nan only shrugged once more, her eyelids fluttering, closing. Her
head lolled to the side.

  "She sleeps," Gregory observed with a start.

  "Why, certes!" Cordelia lifted her head. "She hath so little of life within
her that if she doth cease to move, she doth sleep! Brother, wake her!"

  "Wake?" Magnus protested. "I do well to uphold her!"

  " 'Tis thine office, sister," Gregory explained. "Thou art most skilled at
moving thoughts within another's mind."

   "Thou art not greatly less so," Cordelia huffed, but she turned to gaze
intently at Nan, brow wrinkling with concentration. After a moment, the
bigger girl sighed; her eyelids fluttered again, and she lifted her head,
blinking and looking about her. She started to speak, but the words turned
into a yawn, and she passed her tongue-tip over her lips as she looked
about her. "What… ? Oh. Thou art not dreams, then?"

   "Nay," Magnus assured her, "but thou shalt be little more than such, an
thou dost not come away with us."

  "Come away?" Finally, Nan's eyes opened almost fully. "Yet wherefore
ought I?"

  "For that an thou dost stay, thou wilt be turned into a thing of evil!"

   Nan frowned, considering, then shrugged. "What matter what I shall
become? I have a dry, warm chamber within. Its walls are hung with
tapestries and the floor is covered with thick carpets. There be chairs and
tables that glow with the rich gleam of grand woods, and a great couch
with soft feather beds. Nor am I lonely, for a proud gentleman doth
company me. In truth, he doth dote upon me, bringing me rich foods and
fine wines, and doth dance and talk with me till I do sleep."

   "Then doth he drink thy blood," Magnus told her, his face grim. " Tis
therefore thou art so listless; 'tis therefore thou hast those marks upon thy
throat."

  Nan raised a hand, fumbling toward her neck. "These… they are but…"
Her voice trailed off in confusion.

   "He is a vampire," Cordelia explained, more gently. "He doth keep thee
to bleed thee for his supper."

  Nan frowned. "Oh. Doth he truly so?"

  "I assure thee that he doth," Cordelia said, shocked. "Dost thou care
naught?"

   Nan's gaze strayed. "I think I do not. Upon a time, I might have—yet I
do not now."

   "Oh, but thou must!" Cordelia cried. "Come away with us! We may still
save thee!"

  "Save me?" Nan frowned, blinking. "From what?"

   "From becoming thyself a vampire! An he doth continue to drain thee,
thou shalt become like to him!"

  "Oh." Nan pursed her lips, considering. "Is that so bad?"

   "Why, 'tis horrible!" Cordelia insisted. "Wouldst thou do to another
what he hath done to thee? Wouldst thou take the very life from another's
veins?"
  Nan concentrated, thinking it over…

  "Do not let it trouble thee overlong," Geoffrey said, with sarcasm.
"Come, wilt thou be good or evil? 'Tis as simple as that."

   Nan blinked, thoroughly confused now, and Cordelia glared at her
brother.

  "An she truly careth naught," Gregory mused, "we have but to pose the
question in another fashion… Nan, why not come with us?"

  "Aye!" Cordelia added. "Wherefore not?"

   Nan's brow creased in concentration. Then, finally, her face smoothed
again. "Wherefore not, indeed?" She actually managed a slight smile as
she lifted a hand. Magnus let her go, and stepped back—but her hand
came on up to touch his. "Where wilt thou go?"

   "Why, to the nearest village," he said, with immense relief. "Geoffrey,
lead!"

   Geoffrey didn't need persuading. He turned away, drawing his sword,
and led them back along the path. Magnus followed, propping up Nan,
with Cordelia and Gregory behind him and Fess bringing up the rear.

   Geoffrey led them around a curve and under a huge old tree. As they
neared it, Magnus pulled back. "Hold! There is summat about this oak
that…"

   A shadow stirred within shadows, detached itself, and stepped toward
them, smiling. His clothes were black, and skintight; his face was white as
paint, his eyes shadowed into points, and his lips very, very red. "Kiss," he
said, reaching for Cordelia. "Kiss. Kiss."

   She struck his hand away, stepping back, and Geoffrey leaped between
them, stabbing upward at the vampire, then riposting—but the vampire
only looked down at his shirt-front, nettled. "Thou hast ripped my cloth."

  Geoffrey stared. There was no spreading stain, no blood on his sword.

   The vampire grinned at his discomfiture, showing pointed fangs. "Nay,
steel shall not harm me—and I hunger. An thou wilt not give me to drink,
then return my lass to me." He reached for Nan.

   "Avaunt!" Magnus struck his arm down, in spite of the crawling
revulsion within him. "She is no thing of thine, but a woman sole in her
own right, and no man's chattel."

  "Thou knowest not of what thou speakest, boy," the vampire sneered.
"Tell, Nan—whose lass art thou?"

  "Why, thine." Nan tried to step toward him, but Magnus held her back.
"Lay off!" she cried, struggling against his arm.

  "By what right dost thou keep her, when she doth desire to go?" the
vampire demanded.

   "By what right dost thou keep her, when she would desire to go were
she recovered of her senses?" Gregory demanded.

   "What sprat is this?" the vampire snarled. "Be gone, mere
inconvenience!" He pounced, claws reaching for Gregory.

   Geoffrey shouted and leaped at him again, but this time the vampire
turned, catching him and lifting him toward his mouth. "Tender," he
growled, "succulent."

   Magnus let go of Nan and hurtled into the vampire, knocking Geoffrey
out of his grasp. The pale man went flying—and kept flying, as his cape
spread out into wings and all of him shrank into a bat. He wheeled about
in the air, streaking back toward Gregory.

   "Why, 'tis a birdbrain!" Geoffrey laughed. "Come, hen! What fowl prank
wilt thou play next? O bird absurd!"

   The bat wheeled, its eyes glowing fire, and pounced— but Geoffrey
dodged behind Fess. The bat didn't even try to follow—it sailed straight at
Fess's neck, needle-fangs glinting—and striking down through horsehair
with a resounding clang as they met Fess's metal neck. It spun toward the
ground, stunned, and just barely managed to pull out of its nosedive and
start flapping up.

  But that was long enough for Magnus to find a long stick. "One bad bat
doth deserve another," he grunted, and swung.
  The club cracked into the vampire. He lurched and went spiralling
down to the dirt, out cold.

   The children stood transfixed.

   Then Nan gave a wordless cry and reached out toward the fallen
creature.

  Geoffrey leaped to block her. "Nay! Thou art freed of him now, and
shalt remain so!"

  "It will be a while before she ceases to crave his presence," Fess advised
him. Geoffrey nodded, caught Nan by the wrists, and pulled her away.

   "What now?" Cordelia demanded. "We dare not leave him so, or he will
revive and begin his depredations anew."

  "Why, we have one who doth await the occasion," Gregory answered.
"Magnus, summon."

  Magnus straightened, gaining a smile and calling out, "Wee Folk! We
have done what we can! Now come and aid!"

   "Why, that will we, and right gladly!" The elves stepped out of the long
grass all around. "We had hoped for such as thee, young witchfolk, who
could disable this nemesis long enough for us to… seek its disposition."

   "Then we may leave it to thee?" Magnus asked, relieved.

  "Assuredly," an elf replied. "He shall ne'er trouble the folk of this shire
again, I promise thee."

  "In truth," a brownie agreed. "He was not here a year agone; he shall
not be here after."

   "Gramercy, then." But Cordelia was still troubled. "What shall we do
with Nan, though? We cannot bring her with us—and she cannot care for
herself now."

    "Be of ease in thy mind," an elf-woman assured her. "We shall care for
her till her body hath filled itself up with blood again, then take from her
mind all memory of Elfland and bring her once again unto her own
village."
  The circle of elves closed around the form of the vampire, and the
spokesman said, "Thou shouldst be gone now, younglings. We shall do as
we must, yet thou hast no need to see."

   "Why, therefore shall we take our leave," Cordelia said. "Fare well, good
elves! Be kind to Nan!"

   "We shall," the little woman assured her, and they turned away.

   They had only travelled for fifteen minutes or so when another elf
stepped out onto the trail ahead of them. They looked up and stopped.
"What cheer?" Geoffrey called.

   "All," the elf answered. "The lass sleeps, and mends; the vampire will
sleep forever—unless some fool comes upon him, not knowing how much is
at stake."

   "Thou hast buried him at a crossroad, then?"

  "Nay, for folk might come upon him there, if they sought to rear up
buildings. We have hidden him in a deep, dark cave."

   Magnus frowned. "There are ever human folk who cannot resist the lure
of such deep places."

  "Even so," the elf agreed, "so we have taken him by dark and secret
ways too small for mortal folk, or for any but an elf—or bat."

  " Tis well." But Magnus still wasn't smiling. "Yet there are folk, good elf,
who have much more of enthusiasm than of good sense."

  "And ever will be," the elf rejoined. "There is no guarding 'gainst them,
young wizard, whatsoe'er we may do."

  Magnus lifted his head, then gazed off into space. He had never heard
someone call him "young wizard" before, and the thought gave him pause.

   "And Nan will be well?" Cordelia asked anxiously.

   "She will," the elf assured her, "though she will never again be so filled
with the joy of living as she once was."

   "Ah." Gregory smiled sadly. "Yet is that not the fate that doth await all
folk, soon or late?"

   "Not always," the elf said.

   "Nay," Cordelia said, "it need not."

    That brought Magnus out of his daze. He glanced at her, worried—but
all he said was, "Come. Away!" And he turned to lead them on down the
trail again.


                         Chapter Eleven
   They had gone some ways, Magnus on Fess's back, when he suddenly
stopped and frowned down at Geoffrey. "What didst thou say?"

   Geoffrey gave him a look of exasperation and spoke again, but Magnus
could still barely make out the words. "Nay, say!" he demanded, more
loudly.

  •"Why, thou loon, canst thou not hear what's clearly spoke to thee?"
Goeffrey yelled.

   "Aye, now—and mind whom thou dost call loon! An thou dost speak so
softly, how am I to hear thee?"

   "I did not speak softly!" Geoffrey bellowed. "I did speak as ever I do!"

  "Which is to say, in impatience," Cordelia called. "If aught, Magnus, he
doth ever speak too loudly. Wherefore canst thou not hear him today?"

   "Wherefore dost thou call out?" Magnus returned.

   Cordelia halted, surprised, and stared up at her brothers. "Why, I did
call, did I not?"

   "Thou didst," Geoffrey assured her loudly. "Wherefore?"

   "I know not…"

   "Why, for that we'd not have understood her words an she had not,"
Gregory said reasonably, though at much greater volume than was his
custom. "Yet wherefore must she? Doth the air swallow our words?"
   They all looked at one another, confounded, trying to puzzle it out.

  Then, suddenly, each of them was struck with a subtle sense of
wrongness. Geoffrey looked up. "Summat hath changed."

   "Aye." Cordelia glanced about her, brows knit. "What is it?"

   Magnus eyed the trees around them with suspicion.

   Then Geoffrey said, "The music hath stopped."

   They turned to him, eyes wide. "Why, so it hath!" Cordelia exclaimed.

  With a sudden, jangling chord, all the rocks around them began
emitting music again.

  Gregory winced and clasped his hands over his ears. "That is why we
shouted so! The music had grown so loud, it had drowned out our voices!"

  "So it would seem." Cordelia smiled, head tilted to the side as she
nodded with the beat. "Yet 'tis pleasant withal."

   "As thou wilt have it, sister…"

   "As she will or will not!" Magnus called. " 'Tis all about us; we can go to
no place where it is not. Yet wherefore hath it grown so much louder?"

   "Belike because there are so many more rocks here," Geoffrey
suggested.

   "Mayhap." But Magnus seemed unconvinced.

  "Yet why did I not perceive that it had grown louder, till it ceased?"
Cordelia wondered.

   "And why did it cease?" Geoffrey demanded.

   "For that all the rocks do give off the same sound," Gregory explained,
"and the tune paused for a brief time."

   "Aye, then would it yield silence." Magnus nodded slowly. "And as we
have come west, the number of rocks making music hath increased, thus
yielding louder sound."
  "Yet so slowly that we did not notice!" Geoffrey agreed. "Thou hast it!"

   But Gregory still looked doubtful. "There would be some such increase,
aye—yet not so much as this."

  "Gregory is right," Fess declared. "The proportion of rocks to decibels is
not by itself enough to account for so great an increase in emitted sound."

  "Then what else?" Cordelia demanded.

   "Why, the music itself hath grown louder, sister," Gregory said,
spreading his hands. " 'Tis the only other source of gain."

  They looked at one another, astonished.

  "Assuredly," Magnus said. "What else, indeed?"

  "And now I bethink me, there's some other difference in the music."
Geoffrey tapped his foot impatiently. "What is it?"

   "Thou dost tap thy toe in time with the music, brother," Gregory
pointed out.

  Geoffrey stared at his toe, astonished. "Surely not! What dost thou take
me for, manikin!"

   "My brother," Gregory answered, "who hath ever hearkened to the
soldier's drum."

  "Aye…" Geoffrey was absorbed in the music, actually listening to it, for
once. "Thou hast it aright—there are drums, though of divers kinds."

  "More than there were," Cordelia agreed.

   "Aye, and a scratching, raucous note to the melody that was not there
aforetime," Magnus added.

  "If you must call it melody," Fess said, with mechanical dry ness.

  "Aye, assuredly 'tis melody!" Cordelia blazed on the instant. "The strain
doth rise and fall, doth it not?"

  "A strain indeed. It varies by no more than six notes, and uses only four
of them. Yet I must admit, it is technically a melody."

   "Oh, what matter is it, when the drums, and the deep notes, have so
much life in them?" Cordelia's eyes lit, and she began to move her feet in
the patterns of a dance. What dance is that?" Geoffrey said, perplexed.

  "I'll tell thee when I've finished the crafting of it."

  "The rhythmic patterns have grown more complex," Fess agree, "and
some are syncopated."

  "Sink and pay?" Geoffrey asked. "What meaning hath that?"

   "Nay, sink thy pate!" Magnus aimed a slap at his head. "Dost not know
the words speak of offbeats?"

  Geoffrey stepped nimbly back from the blow, leaped, and tagged
Magnus, calling, "None so off the beat as thou! What matters it, when the
beat is only for marching?"

   "Why, when it is for dancing!" Cordelia moved lightly on her feet, her
steps becoming more certain.

  Magnus eyed her askance. "Wilt thou dance, when thou wert so lately
compelled to?"

  "Aye, for now I'm not."

  "Art thou not indeed?"

   "The term syncopated refers to unexpected accents in the rhythm
pattern, Geoffrey," Fess put in. "Such accents usually come on downbeats;
in syncopation, they come on upbeats, or in between beats."

  "What beat is this thou dost speak of?" Magnus demanded.

  "The intervals of time between notes," Fess explained. "When a note
sounds during what we expect to be a silence, we say it is syncopated."

   "Why, that is the source of its excitement!" Cordelia cried. " 'Tis the
surprise of it, that it comes when we do not expect!"

  Her dance had grown considerably, in scope if not in complexity.
  "Is't a jig or a reel?" Geoffrey wondered, his eyes on her feet.

  " 'Tis neither, brother."

   "Yet to watch it, doth make me to reel." Magnus turned away, with
determination. "Come, my sibs! Let us seek further!"

   "Why must the music change so, and so quickly?" Gregory's brow was
furrowed in thought. "Was not the first form of it good enough?"

   "A pertinent question," Fess argued, "but one which we lack data to
resolve. Let us keep it open, Gregory."

  Magnus halted, looking down. "Mayhap we have found thy data, Fess."

   "Of what do you speak?" The horse halted, and the children gathered
round.

   A stone sat on the ground, vibrating with the loudness of the sounds it
blared out.

  "What manner of music is this?" Magnus demanded.

  "Why," said the rock, " 'tis but entertainment."

  "It doth glisten," Cordelia murmured.

  Geoffrey frowned. "Is't wet?" He reached out to touch it.

   "Geoffrey, no!" Fess cried, and the boy, from long experience with Fess,
halted. "An thou sayest it, I'll stay. I've ne'e'er known thy judgment to be
false. Yet what need for caution dost thou see?"

   "A rock that glistens when no water is near, is suspect," Fess explained.
"I mistrust the nature of its moisture."

  "Oh, 'tis naught of evil!" Cordelia scoffed. "Art thou, rock?"

  "Nay," the rock answered, and the children started, for the rock now
spoke by modulating the strains of its music. " 'Tis but entertainment."

   Gregory cocked his head, studying the sound. "This is yet a different
sort of sound that it doth give."
   "Perhaps a minor variation…" Fess allowed.

    "Nay, 'tis truly new!" Cordelia tried to match both beat and bray with
her feet, failed, and had to writhe her body to fit both. She gyrated, crying,
" 'Tis harsh, but 'tis filled with verve!"

   Magnus stared at her, shaken by her sinuous movements.

    Geoffrey shook his head, dissatisfied. " 'Tis not a proper sound. Its beat
is too uneven."

   "'Tis oddly structured, in truth." But Gregory was beginning to look
interested. "Nay, I sense some interlocking between two sorts of counts…"

   "It is employing two different time signatures in the same piece," Fess
said briskly. "Surely that is elementary enough."

   "Why, so it is!" Gregory cried. "How ingenious!"

   "Largely instinctive, I fear," Fess demurred.

  "And the tune! Note how the strains approach one another, till the two
notes are almost one, yet not quite! Anon they strengthen one another;
anon they war!"

  "Yes; the product of their phases is termed a beat frequency, Gregory.
Surely you cannot acclaim a lack of skill as ingenuity…"

   "Can we not, if they do it a-purpose?" Cordelia countered.

    "I mislike it." Geoffrey started to reach for the stone again. "Let us hurl
it far from us."

   "No, Geoffrey! I beg you, before you touch it, to perform a simple test!"

   Reluctantly, the boy straightened. "What test is this?"

   "An acid test. Reach in my saddlebag, and take out the environmental
kit."

  Frowning, Geoffrey reached up, rummaged, and came up with a metal
box.
  "Open it," Fess said, "and take out the tube filled with blue slips."

   "The litmus paper?" Gregory was surprised. "What dost thou think it to
be, Fess?"

   Geoffrey laid the box on the ground, lifted the lid, and took out a clear
plastic tube. "Shall I take a strip of it?"

  "Do, and touch it to the rock."

   Geoffrey pulled out the litmus and reached out to touch; the stone
giggled.

  The paper turned bright pink.

   Then it began to smoke, darkening; a hole appeared and spread.
Geoffrey dropped it with an oath, just before the whole strip of paper
disappeared, leaving only a fume behind.

  "What was it?" Cordelia whispered, shocked.

   "The rock is coated with acid," Fess explained. "I suspect that it exudes
the fluid. Put the kit away, Geoffrey."

   "Aye, Fess." Geoffrey bent to stopper the tube and put it back in the
box. "And I thank thee. Would my skin have burned had I touched that
rock?"

  "I do not doubt it… Yes, back in my saddlebag, that is correct."

  "Yet what are we to do with this thing?" Magnus looked at the stone.
"We cannot leave it here, to eat through any living creature that doth
chance to wander by."

  Cordelia shuddered.

   Fess looked up, nostrils catching the breeze—and feeding it to
molecular analyzers. "I detect a familiar aroma… Geoffrey, look beyond
those trees."

   Geoffrey stepped over. "I see a small pit, perhaps a yard across, filled
with some white powder."
   "It is alkali; I know it by the aroma. The problem is solved, at least in
this instance. Geoffrey, take a fallen stick and bat the stone into the pit."

   Geoffrey turned, coming back, stooped, and came up with a four-foot
branch. He took his stance by the stone and swung the stick up. As it
swooped down, the stone saw, and in alarm, shrilled, "Do not knock the
rock!" But Geoffrey had too much momentum, and wasn't about to stop
anyway; the end of the stick connected with the stone, and it flew through
the air, emitting a keening drone, to land in a puff of powder.

   "Well aimed, Geoffrey," Fess approved.

   But the boy was staring at his accomplishment. "What doth happen to
it?"

   The rock was drying out and, as they watched, gained an odd, crinkled
texture, with here and there a glint of reflected light. The music changed,
too, gaining a new sort of piercing twang.

  "Its surface has undergone a chemical change," Fess explained. "It
exuded acid—but you sent it into a pit of alkali, which is a base."

   "Then I have scored it with a base hit?"

  "And bases and acids combine to produce salts!" Gregory said. "But
why doth it glisten so, Fess?"

   "Presumably this alkali was a compound of one of the heavier elements,
children—or perhaps even the acid itself was. In any event, the salt is
metallic."

  "Aye—there is something of that in the sound." Cordelia cocked her
head to the side, listening.

   "But how could a soft rock turn into an acid rock?" Gregory wondered.

   "An excellent question, Gregory—and one which I am sure we will find
answered as we journey farther west." Fess turned his back on the alkali
pit. "Come, young friends. I confess I have grown curious as to the manner
of the transformation, for it is one I have never seen on Gramarye before."

   "Aye!" Cordelia skipped to join him. "That is the wonder of it—that it is
so new!"

  Her brothers fell in behind her with varying degrees of eagerness, and
marched away, following their equine guide.

  Behind them, the alkali pit emitted a steady stream of sound, growing
harsher and harsher as the rock hardened.

   Suddenly, with a sharp report, two rocks sprang out of the pit, sailing
away eastward. They flew in long flat arcs, ninety degrees apart, and when
they came to earth, their music was louder.


                        Chapter Twelve
   The day was waning as they came to a riverbank. Cordelia sank down.
"Let us stay the night here, Fess, I pray thee! For I'm overborne with the
toils of this day, and must rest!"

   Fess tested the breeze with electronic sensors. "Not here, young friends,
for the trees grow too close to the edge of the water. Only a little farther, I
pray you."

   "Courage, sister." Magnus extended a hand. "Tis only a little way. Lean
thou on mine arm."

  "Oh, I can bear mine own weight." Cordelia caught his hand and pulled
herself upright. " 'Tis only the burden of all the things we've seen that doth
weigh on me."

   "On me, also," Gregory said.

   "Aye," said Geoffrey, "yet thou art wearied by efforts other than ours,
brother." He forced himself to stand straight. Together, they turned to
follow the black horse, whose outline was beginning to be obscured by the
dusk.

   Gregory tried to blink away the sleepiness. "How dost thou mean, effort
other than thine?"

  "Why," said Geoffrey, "I am wearied by marching or battle, but thou art
wearied by striving to comprehend anything that confounds thee."
   "Everything is comprehensible," Gregory muttered. " Tis only a matter
of striving, until it comes clear."

   "True," said Fess. "Some problems, however, require generations of
striving."

  "Well, true," the little boy admitted. "Yet such riddles as those, I can tell
apart in a few hours' time. 'Tis the ones for which I've all the knowledge I
should need that confound me."

   "I think we have not yet found all that we require." Magnus clasped his
brother round the shoulder—and helped hold him up. "I, too, am worn not
only with marching, but also with striving to understand."

   "Riddle-me-ree, riddle-me-rune!" Cordelia sighed. "And I am wearied
with seeking to riddle it out."

   " 'Tis the bizarre folk we've seen, in a bazaar of sound," Magnus
protested.

    "And with a rack of bizarre behaviors." Geoffrey shook his head. "I ken
it not."

   Gregory plodded ahead, fighting to keep his eyes open. "Wherefore doth
the music change so oft? Is not one form enough?"

   "Or doth it truly change?" Magnus countered. " 'Tis not so great a
transformation, when all's said and done. Is it truly so, or is it only as we
hear it?"

   "Oh, be done!" Geoffrey said, exasperated. "Dost thou say all life's but a
dream?"

  "Nay, then, do not wake me!" Cordelia stopped, gazing ahead. "For
yonder lies a web of gossamer that no daylight mortal could sustain!"

   The river widened into a small lake, overhung by willows. The rest of
the forest drew back, leaving a little meadow between the bank and the
forest, and the current slowed, leaving room for a great abundance of
water plants. The evening mist blended outlines, and the gathering dusk
made the landscape indeed appear to be something out of a dream.
  "Let us rest now, I prithee." Cordelia sank into the soft meadow grass.

  "Yes—this location would be appropriate," Fess said. "Boys, gather
wood."

  "Aye—directly, Fess." But Gregory was near to collapse, leaning back
against Big Brother's knee.

  "He is done," Magnus said gently.

   "Nay!" Gregory struggled back upright, forcing himself to stay awake.
"I am as able as any!" He looked up at the lake. "What are these flowers,
Fess?"

  "Some are water lilies, Gregory, but most are lotuses."

  "Lotuses?" Magnus repeated. "I have ne'er seen their like before."

  "We have never been so far to the west, brother, either," Cordelia
reminded.

   Magnus felt a weight against his leg, and looked down to see that
Gregory had succumbed to sleepiness after all. He stretched his little
brother out in the soft grass, with a smile of gentle amusement. "I shall
gather wood, Fess. Sister, do thou…" He stopped, seeing Cordelia's lifted
head. "What do you see?"

  "Naught," she said, "yet I do hear yet another sort of music."

  Magnus cocked his head, listening. After a few minutes, he said, "I can
make out some hint of it."

   "And I." Geoffrey wrinkled his nose. "Wherefore must it ever
transform?"

  "I too hear it," Fess said, and of course that decided the issue.

   Around the curve of the river, lights came into view, seeming to float on
the water. One single light drifted up higher.

  "What manner of thing is this?" Cordelia wondered.

  As the music came closer, they could see that the lights were campfires,
with young people grouped around them, talking and laughing—and
growing more intimate. Cordelia gaped in surprise, then glanced
anxiously at her little brother, but he was sound asleep.

  "How now!" Geoffrey said in wonder. "Do they float upon the water?"

  "No, Geoffrey," Fess assured him, "they have rafts."

  And rafts there were, a half-dozen or more, each with a handful of
young men and women. Above each raft, a single lantern hung on a pole.

  "How can they have fires on rafts without burning the logs?" Cordelia
wondered.

  "Mayhap they brought hearthstones," Geoffrey suggested.

  One of the rafts bumped the shore near them, and a soft voice called,
"Wherefore dost thou stay lonely?"

  "Join us!" invited a bulky young man, beckoning to them with a smile.
"Pass a happy hour, and…"

  "Join us!" called a young woman's voice. "Leave thy cares to glower,
and…"

  "Join us!" called a dark-haired young beauty. "In our river bower,
and…"

  "Join us!" they called all together.

   "I misdoubt me…" Magnus began, but Cordelia had no hesitation. "Up,
sleepyhead!" She nudged Gregory awake. "Here are they who will spare us
a long day's march on the morrow!"

  "Nay," Geoffrey protested, "for we know not their intentions…"

    But Cordelia had already set foot on the raft, and what could he do but
follow?

  "I beg you, young friends, do not!" Fess's voice said inside their heads.
"You must not put yourself at the mercy of people who may be your
enemies!"
  "Pooh! An we cannot defend ourselves against the likes of these, we are
poor fighters indeed," Geoffrey said scornfully. "And if all else fails, we
may fly."

   Magnus stepped onto the raft. "Come, brother. If there's a trap of some
sort, each of us must clasp our sister by an arm and loft her high." He
turned to swing Gregory aboard.

   "I shall parallel your course on the riverbank," Fess assured them. "Be
careful."

  "We shall," Magnus subvocalized.

   A wiry young man pushed with a pole, and the raft floated out into the
stream.

   "Come, sit by me!" A handsome young man stretched out a hand
toward Cordelia. "I am Johann, and there's room a-plenty 'gainst my
pillow of fragrant boughs. Come nestle with me in idle dalliance!"

    "I thank thee." Cordelia sat primly, tucking her skirt about her shoes.
"I've need of rest."

   Johann smiled, accepting the implied refusal with equanimity. "You do
seem wearied."

  "Aye," Cordelia admitted, "for we have come far, and have seen much."

   "And heard much," Geoffrey added. "A cacophony of sound, and seen
strange ways a-plenty."

   "Tis horribly confusing," Gregory sighed, "and most dreadfully
ravelled."

  "Then let it be." The dark-haired girl smiled up at Magnus. "I am
Wenna. Unknit thy brow, and rest with me." She leaned back, hands
behind her head, stretching.

   Magnus's breath hissed in, his gaze fast upon her, and Geoffrey stared,
spellbound.

   Cordelia looked up, frowning at the sound, but Johann asked, "Is't so
great a coil, then, that doth confound thee?"
   "Aye." She turned back, relieved at being able to speak of it to a
stranger. "We have found stones that make music, and in following them
we have found strange creatures and seen folk who behave in senseless
fashions. 'Tis a web proof 'gainst all unravelling."

   "Ravelled indeed," said the girl behind Johann. "What confusion it is,
seeking to discover why mothers and fathers do as they do, not to us alone,
but to one another also."

  Johann nodded. " 'Tis even as Yhrene saith."

   "Aye," the wiry young man agreed. "Wherefore do they kneel to the
priest, and bow to the knight? There is no sense in it."

  "None, Alno," Yhrene agreed.

   But Gregory objected. "They kneel to Our Lord, not to the priest! And
the knight's of a higher station than they."

    "Even so," a lumpish young man growled, nodding. "It all seemed so
simple, when I was ten. But when I came to the brink of manhood, and did
begin to act as I thought a man should, I was rebuked. When I protested
that I did but as they had bade me, they told me that they had not meant
it that way."

  "Aye, Orin, I know the way of it," Johann said, with sympathy. "Long
and long did I seek, till at last I riddled it out."

   "Thou hast?" Gregory roused up, suddenly no longer at all sleepy. "How
didst thou make sense of it?"

  "Why, by seeing that there was no need to," Johann returned, with a
beatific smile. "This was my great insight. "

  Alno nodded. "And mine."

   "And mine," Yhrene said, "and all of ours. What great peace it brought
us!"

  "What?" Gregory asked, incredulously. "Did all of you see the same
answer at the same moment?"

  "And all the same idea," Geoffrey murmured.
   "We did, in truth." Johann smiled, quite pleased with himself. "Of a
sudden, we saw there was no need to puzzle it out—only to embark upon
the flood, and be happy."

  "We needed but to build rafts," said Orin, "and take ourselves
aboard—ourselves, and the stones that made our music."

  "Oh, it is thy music, is it?" Geoffrey breathed.

   "Naught but music?" Gregory was still wide-eyed. "What had you to
eat?"

   "The river provides." Alno reached out and pulled in a lotus as he
passed. Looking up, Gregory saw that the others were nibbling the plants,
too. He squeezed his eyes shut, then looked up again. "Thou dost say there
was no need to puzzle out the sense of the world, and its people?"

  "Aye, and what a deal of peace did it bring us!" sighed a redheaded lass.

   "Peace indeed, Adele. How blessed an end to all confusion," Wenna
agreed.

   Orin nodded with slow conviction. "Therein lay our error—in wrestling
with the world, in seeking to strive."

   "Nay, surely," the dark-haired beauty agreed, "for when we cease to
strive, there's an ending to strife."

  "But thou dost speak of ceasing to think!"

   "Aye," said Johann, "and therein lies tranquility. We ceased to ponder
the matter."

  "And gained a ponderous peace," Geoffrey murmured.

  "But how couldst thou still the workings of thy mind?" Gregory asked.

   "By hearkening to the music," Johann explained. "When thou dost
think of nothing but its sweet strains, all else doth ebb from thy mind."

   "I cannot believe it," Gregory protested. "Attending to music cannot
obliterate thought!"
   But it can, Fess's voice said inside his head, as concentration on any
one notion can dull any other mental activity. And the lotus aids them in
this, for it dulls the mind and induces a sense of euphoria. It is, after all,
a narcotic.

   "Narcotic," Gregory mused. "Doth not the word mean 'deathlike'?"

   , 'Pertaining to death' might be a more accurate definition. It usually
refers to a sleeplike state.

   "And Sleep is the brother of Death," Gregory murmured.

   Johann turned to Cordelia, holding out a lotus. "Come, join our bliss."

   "By ceasing to think?" she exclaimed, shocked.

   "Aye! Turn off thy mind."

   "Relax." Adele gave them all an inviting smile.

   "Float downstream with me." Wenna gave Magnus a roguish glance.
She leaned back and stretched languorously again, holding out a hand
toward Magnus. He gazed at her, fascinated, and Geoffrey stared, too.

  "Whether thou canst or no, thou must not!" Gregory seemed near tears.
"Thou must needs strive to understand, for all else is false!"

  "But what if there's no sense to be found?" Alno said, with a skeptical
smile.

   "Nay there is, there must be! For why else have we minds?"

  There is some sense to that notion, Fess's voice said, for your species
evolved intelligence to comprehend its environment. By doing so, it
became better able to survive and prosper. If the world were truly
random and without sense,

  the more intelligent person would not be any better fit, and so would
not survive.

   "Nay, in truth!" Gregory averred. "The sharper mind would be less fit
for life—for the world would drive it mad!"
   " Tis not so bad as that, little one." Yhrene smiled with sympathy and
reached out to him. "The world is as it is; we cannot change it. We can but
enjoy it whiles we may."

  "But what of the morrow?"

  "Tomorrow, we shall yet drift upon the river."

   "But all the rivers flow home to the sea!" Gregory insisted. "What wilt
thou do when thou art come to the ocean?"

  Adele frowned. "Be still, mite!"

   "Speak not so to my brother," Cordelia snapped, since it was the kind of
thing she might have said herself.

   Adele fixed her with a glare and was about to speak, but Johann
forestalled her. "When we come to the ocean? Belike we shall float!"

   Gregory rolled his eyes up, exasperated. "Nay, but think! What of the
barons through whose lands thy river doth flow? Will they leave thee to thy
pleasures?"

  "Wherefore should we care? We leave them alone."

 "Thou mayest leave Life alone, but it shall not always leave thee alone.
What shall thou do when it doth once again touch thee?"

  "Must we have aught to do with it?" Alno fixed him with a stony stare.
"We have that choice. Is there a law that says we must live?"

  "There is," Johann said softly, "but how shall they enforce it?"

  "Aye! How shall they reach us? We float on the river!"

  "Dam the river," Gregory shouted, "and they may!"

  Johann waved the notion away with the first signs of exasperation.
"Peace, peace! An thou wilt have it, then, there will come a day when we
must strive again for an answer! Will that appease thee?"

   "Nay," Gregory answered. "Dost thou not see thou must seek the means
to deal with that day ere it doth come?"
  "Dost thou not see that even the most earnest seeker doth need rest?"
Yhrene countered, striving to keep her tone gentle.

   Gregory paused, then finally admitted, "Aye. Even our minds need some
ease. Yet tell—how long is this rest to be?"

   "Oh—a day, a week!" Adele said crossly. "What matter?"

   "Why," said Gregory, "so long a rest is a sleep."

  "What matters it?" said Yhrene, amused now. "This is the little sleep,
not the great one."

   Geoffrey shrugged impatiently. "A great sleep, a little death—what
difference?"

   "Try the Little Death with me, and learn." Wenna stretched her arms
up.

   "Come dally with me!" Johann reached out for Cordelia. "Golden
slumbers kiss thine eyes! Smiles shall wake thee when thou dost rise!"

  "Nay," Cordelia said, as though it were dragged out of her. "I must
remain vigilant."

   Adele exhaled a sigh of frustration, and Johann said, smiling, "But even
the watchman must rest, soon or late. Come, repose thy brain awhile, as
we do. Hearken to the words of the music and let them fill thy mind."

   "Words?" Geoffrey looked up, alert. "What words are these?"

   "Why, in the music," said Orin. "Has thou not heard them?"

   "Pay heed," Yhrene suggested.

   The Gallowglasses frowned, listening.

   "I hear it," said Cordelia, "but 'tis not a voice. 'Tis the music itself doth
speak."

   "Yet I ken not the sense of it," Geoffrey said dubiously.

   "Thou hast but to attend," Yhrene assured them. "It will begin again. It
ever does."

   And it did, repeating itself. It only lasted a few minutes, but it started
again immediately—and again and again, cycling on and on. Gradually,
the words became clearer:

   Why do they do the things they do?

   Why is the world as it is?

   Why are there customs, and why are there laws?

   Why must we labor, with never a pause?

   Why are we living, and where is our cause?

   And why must we never stray? Why not just turn away?

   Why do our parents do as they do?

   Who bade them leach out their time?

   Why must they labor all day on the soil?

   Why must so many grieve, and so many toil?

   Why to those who command them must they ever be

   loyal?

  Why so many questions to cause us turmoil? And why must we obey?
Why not just turn away?

   Why are there rulers, and why must we bow?

   What is their worth to the world?

   Why are there kings, and why are there lords?

   Why must they all bear armor and swords?

   Why are they misers who lock away hoards?
  And why should we obey? When we could just turn away?

  Why so many frowns on so many faces?

  Why are there so few who smile?

  Why must the lasses refuse our embraces?

  Why must we try not to give them caresses?

  Why so many "noes" and so very few "yes'es?

  And why should we obey? Why not just drift away?

  Why must we do the things that they do?

  Why must we never seek joy?

  Why so much sorrow and why so much pain?

  Why so much striving without any gain?

  Why do these questions belabor my brain?

  And why not just drift away? Why not just drift away?

  Why should we do as our parents have done? Whv wear their shackles
and chains?

   Why not eat lotus, and let the world be? Find lotus, on rivers that flow
to the sea! Taste lotus, recline, and seek pleasure with me! Let us taste of
each other and drift away free! And let us go drift away, let us go drift
away…

  Gregory's eyes were huge. "Why, what manner of song is this?"

   "Aye," Magnus agreed. "There's a scant meter, and little enough of
rhyme in it."

   "And less of reason," Geoffrey declared, "to say to do naught, for no
better reason than that the why of it doth not leap up to strike one in the
eye! Do they not see that a man must strive?"
  "Wherefore?" Johann said simply.

    "Wherefore?" Gregory asked in consternation. "Why— because without
it, he has no worth!"

  "But there is no virtue in labor by itself," Orin protested. "What
purpose doth it serve?"

  "But there is virtue in it! Men need labor as a plant needs sun!"

  "Why, what a poxy lie is this?" Alno stirred impatiently. "Hast thou not
heard but now? There is no worth in toil!"

  Gregory persisted. "And who hath told this to thee, with what proof?"

  "None need tell me! 'Tis plainly seen!"

  "And thou dost believe it?"

  "Aye! Wherefore not?"

  "Yet wherefore shouldst thou?" Geoffrey said, low.

    Because, said Fess's voice, he has heard the song say it. He has heard
it time after time without noting the words, though they did register in
the back of his mind. Then, once he understood them, he paid attention
to them for only a few recitals; after that, each time he hears the song,
he does not truly pay attention to it.

  "The backs of your minds do heed these words you scarce understand,"
Geoffrey explained to Alno.

  Orin frowned, unsure whether or not to take offense.

   Yes, because they do not expect to be targets of persuasion; they only
expect to be entertained. Simple repetition by itself would persuade
them, when it is perceived at so fundamental a level.

  "Yet why should you listen to a song when you cannot understand the
words?" Geoffrey wondered.

  "Why, for the pleasure of the music," Wenna said, with a sinuous
wriggle.
   Do not grind your teeth, Geoffrey. The young woman speaks truly—
the music has a beat and lilt that elicits the sensations that people of this
age wish to feel.

   "Sensations," Magnus mused, his gaze on Wenna. "The songs speak of
pleasures you wish to enjoy, but have been told you must not—until you
are wed."

   Wenna flushed, and Alno sat up, annoyed. "Is there nothing to life for
thee, save rules and orders?"

   "I but spoke of marriage," Magnus said easily, and Alno started to
retort, but noticed the women looking at him, and closed his mouth with a
snap.

   The point is taken, Fess's voice said. Yes—if the words of the song
justify the behavior they wish to practice but have been taught not to,
they will wish to believe those words. From there, it is only a very small
step to persuade oneself that they are true.

  "Yet surely," Cordelia protested, "these songs are but entertainment."

  Fess was silent.

  "The song bade them eat lotus, sister," Geoffrey pointed out.

  "Aye." Orin smiled. "I told thee it spake truly."

  Yes, Geoffrey, came Fess's voice again, that is the final stage in the
persuasive process—the call to action. The song ends with an imperative
—and it is heeded.

   "Thy lotus," Cordelia said, seized by a sudden notion. "Doth it enhance
the music?"

  Johann sat up, leaning close to her. "Why, how couldst thou have
known?"

  Yes, Cordelia—once they have begun to eat lotus, it dulls

  their thinking processes, and makes them much more suggestible.

  "For that it bids thee do what thou dost wish to be told to do," Geoffrey
answered. "Tis simply a matter of telling thee what thou dost want to
hear, and mixing into it what someone else doth wish thee to do."

   Alno sat bolt upright. "Why, how is this?"

   "It is the source of thine 'insight,'" Magnus inferred. " 'Tis given thee in
the music, and thou dost make it thine own."

   He was met with a full chorus of denials. "Nay, not so!"

   "What we believe, we have seen of ourselves!"

   "None have taught us—we have learned of our own!"

  "Learned, forsooth!" Gregory cried, exasperated. "Thou dost but repeat
what the stones tell thee!"

   "And is there not truth in the rocks that endures?" Alno challenged.

  "Truth in words that have been fed thee like bran in a manger?"
Cordelia retorted.

   "What need for an army?" Geoffrey said, with a laugh. "I could take a
city with but a handful of men, had I music like this to precede me!"

  "Conquest! Battle! Rule!" Johann's face darkened. "Canst thou think of
naught but strife?"

    "Why, if I do not think of it, another will," Geoffrey gibed. " 'Tis sad, but
'tis the way of men, is't not? There will ever be one who will not let others
bide in peace, when he could bring them under his sway!"

   "Thou shalt not do so to us!" Johann rushed him, hands out to grasp
his neck.

   Geoffrey twitched aside, and Johann sailed into the river with a huge
splash.

   "A rescue, a rescue!" Yhrene cried. "He cannot swim!"

   Then Orin fell on Geoffrey like a wall.

   Magnus leaped to pull him off, but a chance elbow caught him under
the jaw. Then the big youth's body heaved as Geoffrey slipped out from
beneath, scrambling to his feet; but the wiry Alno seized him, kicking and
biting. Frowning, Geoffrey twisted around, catching Alno's collar and
wrist in a lock that should have given him unbearable pain; but the lanky
lad only whined, his eyes bulging, and tried to swivel the bound thumb
into Geoffrey's eye as his knee slammed into Geoffrey's groin. Geoffrey
emitted a loud groan, folding but pulling Alno down with him, the two of
them holding one another up.

  Then Magnus caught the wiry one and threw him aside into the water,
and swung back to prop up his brother. "Art thou well?"

   "Hurting, but not hurt," Geoffrey groaned again and forced himself to
bend and stretch, biting down to stifle the pain. "I must… before I am
set…"He rested a moment, panting, leaning on Magnus's shoulder. "What
of… Orin?"

  "He sleeps, though not entirely willingly."

  "Oh, help Alno!" Adele cried. "He too cannot swim!"

   "An I must, I must." Gregory sighed, and stared at Alno's thrashing
form. Slowly, it rose out of the water and drifted back to the raft.

  "Thou art witchfolk," Adele whispered.

  "She saith it with fear," Geoffrey muttered, "she, who hugs things of
magic to her bosom for their sweet sounds!"

  Magnus turned, frowning. "What of the first man overboard?"

  "He is here, brother." Cordelia stood, arms akimbo, glaring at Johann,
who floated thrashing and squalling in midair. "Nay, thou'It not come
down till thou art done seeking to strike out!"

   "Why, who art thou to give commands!" Yhrene demanded in
indignation.

   Cordelia stood stiff with surprise for a moment, then turned slowly to
Yhrene, her eyes narrowing. "Why, I am she who hath hauled thy lad from
the river! Shall I let him go?"
   "How like the old folk they be," Adele said contemptuously, "to think
that mere might doth give them right to command."

  "Aye," Cordelia spat, "even as Johann sought to sway my brother by
sweet reasoned discourse! Nay, wherefore should I uphold a hypocrite?"

   Johann hit the water with a champion splash again. But he managed to
catch the edge of the raft this time and hauled himself up, spluttering and
blowing.

  "Oh, poor darling!" Yhrene cried, dropping to her knees and helping
him pull himself onto the raft.

  "I… I wish them gone," Johann gasped, and managed to push himself
upright. He stood before the Gallow-glasses, soused but commanding, "We
need no witchfolk here. Get thee hence!"

   "Aye." Alno came dripping up behind him. "Go! If thou canst not be
tranquil and enjoy sweet sensation with us, go!"

  "Even so," Johann agreed. "This raft is for none but they who love
peace!"

   "Love the lotus, thou dost mean," Geoffrey grated, still bent and
clasping Magnus's shoulder. "And the music. Nay, my sibs, let us go. They
shall have the life they have earned."

  "Earned, earned!" Wenna exploded. "Dost thou never think of aught
but earning?"

   "Nay, we never do," said Magnus, "just as thou dost never think of
gravity."

  "Why, wherefore should I wish to be grave?"

  "Thou hast no need—yet wilt thy feet stay on the ground."

  "If they are there at all," Cordelia added.

    Wenna glared at her, not wanting to admit her own lack of
comprehension. "Thou dost not think an air of gravity would help thee
fly!"
   "Nay, certes," Cordelia retorted, "though the sort of flying thou dost
seek will make thee gravid."

   Wenna flushed with anger, finally understanding. She was about to
start clawing, when the raft jarred against the shore.

  Johann stared. "How came we here?"

   Gregory looked up from his station by the edge of the raft, all
innocence. "A trick of the current, belike."

   "Or a current trick." Johann's eyes narrowed. "Nay, assuredly we have
no need of thy kind! Get thee hence!"

  Magnus bowed with a flourish. "Ever are we glad to please those whom
we respect."

  "Aye," Geoffrey agreed, looking about, puzzled, "but where shall we find
any?"

  Johann reddened. "Begone!"

   "Thou art of acute perception," Geoffrey growled. "We have." He glared
at the raft, and it slid off into the current so suddenly that Wenna and
Johann fell, and the others rocked on their feet, crying out.

  Cordelia rounded on Geoffrey. "That was ill-done! Couldst thou not
have let them depart with dignity?"

  "I am somewhat preoccupied with mine aches," Geoffrey rasped, still
bent. "Why, dost thou think they would mind?"

  "Certes thou dost not think so poorly of them!"

  Geoffrey shrugged, and nodded toward the raft. "Behold, sister."

  Cordelia looked. Johann had fallen close enough to Wenna so that he
was able to reach out to touch her—and he was doing so, as their lips met.

  "Why, the scoundrel!" Cordelia gasped, scandalized. "Was he not
Yhrene's lad?"

  "At that moment," Magnus allowed. "Yet what cares he which lips he
doth kiss?"

   "He is a lad for all lasses," Geoffrey muttered.

   Cordelia turned away, her face flaming.

   Magnus glanced at her, concerned.

   "I must walk, or I'll be lamed awhile," Geoffrey groaned. "Brother, give
aid."

  "Gregory!" Cordelia scolded. "Do not stare! Nay, do not even look at
what they do! Turn thine eyes away!"

   Gregory looked up, surprised, then turned away with a shrug.

   Magnus relaxed. "We'll have naught more to do with the floating world,
I warrant."

   "Aye, forsooth," Cordelia agreed. "It seemed pleasant enough whiles I
did tarry there, but its folk care so little for what they do that they cannot
be trusted."

  "For what they do," Geoffrey grated, "or for one another, or their duties.
Nay, I am schooled."

  "Aye," Magnus agreed. "To them, honor's a mere scutcheon—and thus
ends their catechism."


                       Chapter Thirteen
   Meanwhile, the elder Gallowglasses continued their part of the quest.

  The sun set, turning the sky into rose and pink, reaching long streamers
out toward Rod and Gwen as they hiked toward it.

  "I had felt tired," Gwen said, "and a-hungered—but now, by some
happenstance, I do feel invigorated, and mine hunger has abated."

   "A bait that I would have taken," Rod said, "and dealt with the trap if
I'd had to. But I know what you mean—I'm ready to greet the day. Only it's
dusk."
  "Could it be the music that hath done it?" Gwen asked.

  "Can you call it music?" Rod returned.

  "Whatever 'tis, 'tis wondrous," Gwen answered.

   And it was—a magical blending of sound that almost seemed to lift
them and lend wings to their heels. They walked on into the sunset with a
spring in their steps. Almost without realizing it, they joined hands.

  But the pinks went on much longer than they should have; surely the
sun must have set long ago! Nonetheless,

   all the sky was rosy still, and Rod suddenly realized that everything
around them was pink-hued too. "Gwen—we're looking at the world
through rose-colored glasses!"

   Gwen looked about, eyes widening. "So it would seem— yet we wear no
spectacles. How comes this, my lord?"

  "Don't ask me—you're the magic expert." Rod grinned. "Why worry,
anyway? Let's just enjoy it."

  For a second, he could have sworn the breeze whispered in his ear, " Tis
but entertainment." But he knew it must have been his imagination.

  "Rose-colored glasses, indeed," Gwen said after a while. "The pinks
have deepened."

   "Yes, they have," Rod mused. "In fact, some of them have turned a
definite red."

   Then suddenly, the music that had been all about them was in front of
them, and scarlet light glimmered through a screen of leaves ahead.

  "What have we here?" Gwen murmured.

  "Go gently," Rod whispered.

  Together, they stole up to the screen of leaves, and peered in.

   It was a throne room—it had to be. There was a huge chair on a high
dais, which could only have been a throne, and a mass of courtiers
treading the measure before it. They were all different shades of
red—ruby, scarlet, deep rose— and the man who sat on the throne was
crimson, with a crown of red gold adorned with rubies. He nodded and
beat time with his sceptre, for it was rock music they danced to—and even
the tallest of them could scarcely have reached Rod's knee.

   "I thought that I knew all of the Wee Folk, or at least knew of all their
kingdoms," Gwen whispered, "yet ne'er have I heard of these."

   "They may not have been here before," Rod whispered back. "After all,
that music they're dancing to wasn't here before, either. Maybe they came
with it."

   The courtiers bowed and curtsied, rose and swirled, and the crimson
king nodded and smiled over all, delighting in his subjects' bliss.

    ' 'Twould be shame to trouble them," Gwen whispered. "Come, my lord,
let us go."

   They stole away, leaving the king and all his court to their endless ball.

   But as they went farther and farther into the wood, the tones of color
deepened and changed—maroon, then purple, and finally indigo—and the
music became slower, even rather sad, but with a strident beat that lifted
the spirits before they could sink too low.

   "I am saddened." Gwen leaned her head on Rod's shoulder. "I have no
reason to be, I know—yet I am."

  "Must be the music that's doing it." Rod held her close, trying to cradle
her as they walked. "I feel it too. Lean on me, love—it makes it better."

   "I shall," she murmured. "Thou must needs support me now."

  "I promised to once, in front of a congregation of elves, didn't I?" Rod
smiled. "We really must get around to a church wedding one of these
days."

   "Would not our children be scandalized, though?" she murmured.

  "Are you kidding? You'll have all you can do to keep Cordelia from
making the arrangements."
  She lifted her head, smiling up into his eyes. "Thou canst ever buoy me
up when I sink, Rod Gallowglass. Mayhap 'tis that for which I love thee."

  "Well, you manage to put up with some awfully rough changes in my
temperament," he reminded her. "You're not the only one who's moody
now and then."

   "Now most of all," she said. "Come, speed my steps. We must move out
from this place of blue hues, or it will sadden us to death."

  "Only a little farther now," he murmured. "It's getting darker."

  "Can that be good?"

  "Of course. It has to get darker before it can start getting lighter,
doesn't it?"

   She gave him a thin smile in answer, but her face was growing pale.
With a stab of anxiety, Rod noticed that she had become heavier, as
though some weight were dragging her down. Looking up, he saw that all
the leaves had fallen, and bare branches glimmered in starlight. Off to his
right, a dark lake lay like the gathering place of lost hopes, a well of
despair, and Rod shuddered and pushed on, half-carrying his wife now.
Her feet still moved, but her eyes had closed, and she was murmuring as
though in a fever. All around them, the music still strummed with a steady
beat, but a slow one now, sad and lonely. High above it, like an arpeggio,
came a long, eerie howling that sank and died into a gloating laugh. It was
distant, but it made Rod shiver. He pushed on, walking a little faster.

   Finally, the haunted woodland sank behind them—but they were in a
place that was bleaker still, a barren land broken by harsh upthrusts of
rock, sharp-edged and unworn, like flints new-broken in a new-made
world. Light glimmered on their points and edges, but starlight only. It
didn't bother Rod, really—he had grown up on an asteroid, and to him, it
seemed almost like home. Yes, quite like Maxima, or perhaps even Luna,
between sunset and earthrise—the dark side of the moon.

  Rod took a deep breath and actually relaxed a little—it might be stark,
but at least it was clean. That other place had felt of sickening and decay.

  Gwen lifted her head, eyelids fluttering open. "My lord… what did I…"
   "The blues got to you, darling," he said softly. He felt good about having
helped her out for once. "We're into a new land, now. In<fact, it looks very
new."

  Gwen looked about her, and shuddered. She nestled closer to Rod.
"Cold… I feel so chilled…"

   "Well, you just woke up, sort of. But keep walking, dear. If nothing else,
the dawn must come sometime. Just keep moving your feet, and we'll be
out of it."

  "I will," she murmured. "'Tis not so hard, now. The music doth aid."

   And it did, rising and soaring, still with that pronounced beat, but you
had to listen for it sometimes now, and Rod could even recognize the
sounds of strings.

   Softly, almost in silence, they came to a place where the land dipped
down, and a river ran. It should have been silver, or at least reflected the
glitter of the stars, but it was black, totally black, dark as velvet. Their
path followed the incline down to a landing, where a boat waited, with a
ferryman leaning on his pole, head bowed.

  "I mislike that river," Gwen murmured.

   "I know what you mean," Rod said, "but I like what's behind us even
less. Come on, darling—the boat looks safe."

   As they came up to the pier, though, the old man lifted his head, then
raised his pole to bar their path. "Wilt thou not carry us?" Gwen pleaded,
but the ferryman shook his head.

  "Here, maybe he wants money." Rod opened his belt pouch and drew
out a silver coin. The old man released his pole with one hand, which came
out cupped. Rod dropped the coin into his palm and reached down to his
pouch again. "Maybe I have another…"

  But the old man shook his head again and turned away, slipping his
pole into the dark water, waving a hand toward vthe seats in his boat.

  Rod held the gunwale while Gwen got in, a bit awkwardly—she hadn't
been in boats very often. Then Rod climbed in himself and sat beside her,
holding her close. The old man's expression was kindly enough, but there
was something forbidding about him all the same. He pushed on his pole,
and the boat glided out into the current.

   That was a very eerie trip indeed, totally in silence, except for the music
coming from the shore, which waned as they moved out into the middle of
the river. There it was silent indeed. Curls of mist rose from the water,
more and more of them, thickening and twining together, swelling into
roughly anthropoid shapes with darknesses for eyes and mouths,
gesticulating and beckoning. Gwen gasped and crowded closer to Rod,
which he was very glad of, since he wasn't feeling any too cocky himself.
They slid through the silent shapes, mists of ghosts wreathing up all about
them,

   until finally they began to hear music, faint but unmistakable, coming
from the approaching shore.

  Then they could see the land, and they knew dawn was near.

   The ferryman pushed the boat up against a pier, and they stepped out
into the false dawn. Rod reached into his pouch again, but the ferryman
was already turning away, shaking his head and poling out into the middle
of the stream.

   "Strange old duck," Rod murmured, but the jaunty words had the false
ring of bravado.

  Together, they clambered up the bank into a meadow.

   Rod yelped with pain and surprise. The missile that had hit him
glanced away, spinning up and around, swooping back at him. It was a
discus, looking like two dinner plates glued together rim to rim, only it
was made of metal.

  "Duck!" Rod shouted. "That edge is sharp!"

   They dove for the ground, but the strange missile skimmed past a bare
foot above them—and it was being joined by others like it, a dozen, two
dozen. As they came, they made a humming, thumping, syncopated music
that drowned out the magical sounds Gwen and Rod had followed through
the long night.
   Gwen glared at them. With a surge of relief, Rod remembered that she
was telekinetic. Then he remembered that he was, too, and glared at a
saucer that was skipping through the air toward him, thinking down and
away.

  It went right on skipping.

   Rod felt a surge of indignation—how dare it ignore him? But Gwen
said, "My lord, they will not answer!"

  "So don't ask," Rod snapped. Then he realized what she had said, and
whirled to her. "They what?"

   "They will not answer," she said again. "I think at them, I seek to turn
them with my mind, but they do not respond."

  "You mean these flying discos have nothing to do with mind power?"
Rod frowned. "Well, we'll have to cope with them, anyway."

  "What can we do?" Gwen asked.

  "Rise above it!" Rod answered. "Ready, dear? Up and away!"

  She shot off the ground on her broomstick, and Rod rose up right
behind her. The discos oriented on them and came singing after, but they
were out of their league, and the High Warlock and his wife left them far
behind.


                      Chapter Fourteen
  Back on the shore of the river, the children trudged on.

   "We still have not found the magic that maketh the soft rocks exude
acid," Gregory reminded.

  "I doubt not we'll discover it," Magnus said grimly, "at least, if that one
we came upon was not alone among its kind."

  "Well, we have found summat." Geoffrey stopped, looking down.

  There on a patch of bare earth, a knot of grass was walking.
  "What is't?" Cordelia breathed.

    " 'Twould seem to be a bunch of dill weed that hath been cut off from
its roots," Gregory observed.

  "A bob of dill? How came it to walk?"

    "How came thy toes to tap?" Geoffrey returned. "This music about us
would set the dead to prancing, sister! How much more likely, then, is't for
a living thing?"

  But Gregory, more practical, observed, " 'Tis a thing of witch-moss."

   "I doubt it not," Magnus agreed. "Must not all these music rocks be
so?"

  "Behold! Tis our beetles again!" Geoffrey exclaimed, pointing.

   The others turned to look. The four insects crouched around the circle,
almost exactly alike, watching the dill with sharp attention.

  "Scarabs," Fess pronounced. "They would seem to be identical with the
ones you saw earlier."

  "Can they be the same?" Cordelia wondered.

  Magnus knit his brows. "How could they have come so far, so fast?"

    " 'Tis a wonder if they have." Geoffrey gazed thoughtfully down at the
little panorama. "What doth the dill?"

  The animated grass was dusting its way to a soft rock that sat at the
edge of the bare patch. It reached out with its stem tops to touch the
pebble, and froze.

  "Doth it have so great a liking for the sound, that it must touch?"
Gregory wondered.

  A thin curl of lavender spiralled up from the stone.

  "What smoke is that?" Gregory asked.

  "Mayhap a thing of hurt!" Cordelia caught his arm and yanked him
back. "Away, little brother! It might sear thee!"

  "Hist! The tone doth harden!" Geoffrey said.

  Gregory watched, wide-eyed—for the timbre of the music had indeed
changed, to a more brazen sound.

  "It doth glisten!" Cordelia breathed.

   Sure enough, where the dill touched the surface of the stone, moisture
grew and spread, expanding to cover the pebble.

   The dill broke contact and turned around toward the scarabs with a
flourish, seeming almost boastful.

  The scarabs waved their antennae, then scurried away into the grass.

  The children sat for a second, taken by surprise. "What do they?"
Cordelia breathed.

  "Follow!" Geoffrey cried.

  The children scattered, each seeking out a scarab.

   "Yours has turned northward, Geoffrey," Fess directed, tracking the
silver with his radar. "Magnus, yours has turned right… South by
southeast, Cordelia… Gre-gory, you have overshot the mark; yours has
already stopped."

   Gregory slid to a halt, whirled about, and stepped back, eyes on the
ground. Then he called out softly, "It hath found a soft rock, Fess."

  "So hath mine," Cordelia answered.

  "What do they do, children?"

  "Mine doth reach out to the rock with its antennae," Gregory called
back. "It doth touch the surface."

   "Fess!" Cordelia cried. "Moisture doth spread from the beetle to the
stone!"

  "As doth mine," Magnus called.
  "And mine!" Geoffrey echoed.

   Four curls of lavender mist rose up from the grass, deepening in color
as they spiralled higher.

  "Surely it cannot, children!" Fess stepped over to look. "How can silver
and silica create acid?"

  "Mayhap the silver is only the scarab's shell," Gregory suggested.
"Within, their ichor could be acidic."

  "Whatever the means," Geoffrey responded, "it doth occur! Dost thou
doubt, Fess? Shall I take it up to hurl?"

   "No, do not!" the robot said quickly. "We can tell it by its music,
children—the rock has indeed turned to acid."

   "But what substance can the bobbed dill have spread to the scarabs,
that they may use to transform rock itself?" Gregory marvelled.

  Geoffrey looked up, brows knit. "Doth the day darken already?"

  They looked about.

  "It would seem that it doth," Magnus said.

  Fess was quiet, analyzing their surroundings with spectrometer and
chemical assayers. After a minute, he said, "It is not the sunlight, children,
but some localized substance which seems to fill the air."

  "The purple mist!" Gregory cried. "It hath risen and spread into a
haze!"

  Five more curls of lavender rose about the clearing, deepening and
adding their mist to the ambience.

  "What manner of mist is this?" Gregory wondered.

   "Whatever it may be, I do not trust it!" Fess paced forward into the
melange of droning, pulsing music. "This springs from no natural
chemical reaction, children! Such things cannot happen—and the
inference is obvious!"
  "Magic," Cordelia breathed.

  "Illusion, sent by an enemy," Geoffrey snapped.

   "A projected illusion, carried by the rock and strengthened by the
beetles," Gregory deduced. "What genius of magic hath concocted this
spell?"

  "A genius indeed," breathed a husky voice, "if he hath led me to you!"

   It was a nymph, coalescing out of the haze, wrapped in a mauve gown
of gauzy mist, with long, purple hair that twined about her to hide her
secret. She undulated through the air, curling about Magnus.

   "A succubus!" Cordelia leaped to her feet in indignation. "Avaunt thee,
witch!"

  But Magnus was staring, spellbound.

  "Be not so hard," a warm masculine voice cajoled. "Let them be, and
come to me."

   He was a strikingly handsome young man, glad in jerkin and hose of
purple, drifting through the air to bow low before Cordelia, to catch and
kiss her hand.

  "However bad the nymph may be, thou art worse!" Geoffrey's sword
whispered out of its scabbard. "Stand away from my sister!"

  But the purple man only laughed.

   Geoffrey reddened and thrust out his sword to prick the stranger's
throat.

  The point passed through the skin.

  Cordelia cried out in alarm.

   Once again the stranger only laughed, and slid on down the blade
toward Geoffrey. "Thy sword avails thee naught, foolish lad—for it is but a
dream, and I am real."

  "Thou liest, foul image!" Geoffrey fairly screamed. "The sword is
real—the truest steel!"

   "Nay," said the image, " 'tis I am real—for look upon my riches." He
turned with a flourish and gestured towards a castle towering above them.
The drawbridge was down, the portcullis up, and through the gatehouse,
they could see chairs of gold and cups of amethyst, with chests of rubies
and sapphires around them.

  "All this is real," the young man breathed. "Come in with me."

  "And me," the nymph cooed.

   "Why, how is this?" Gregory stepped forward, confounded. "How canst
thou be real, who art but a dream of purple haze?"

   "I?" the stranger laughed. "I am true, I am a man of substance! Thou
art my dream, child, and all thy life is but an idle invention of my
slumbering brain!"

  "This cannot be true!" Gregory argued. "I must exist, for I do think!"

   "Thou dost but think that thou dost think," the nymph murmured. "
'Tis all a part of my brother's dream—that thou dost walk, remember, talk,
and think."

  "But… but…" Gregory sputtered, at a loss to prove his own existence.

  "Behold!" The young man turned with another flourish. "Yonder lie
what all children wish! I know thy desires, for I did make them!"

   On the golden table inside the castle, a huge sugarplum appeared, two
feet across if it was an inch.

   Gregory's eyes grew big, and he took a mechanical, dragging step
forward.

   Fess saw the white all around his eyes and knew the agony of soul for
what it was. "Do not be deceived, Gregory. You are real, and these riders
of the purple haze are only dreams."

   "Why, thou firm illusion!" the young man mocked. "How canst thou say
that thou art real?"
   "Because I am not organic, and cannot be influenced any more by
specious arguments than by glamours of mist. I was not born, but made in
a factory, and recall every second of five hundred years and more. You
have existed for exactly seven minutes, thirty-four seconds… thirty-five,
now. And no longer!"

  The young man stared, incredulous, then laughed with a harsh and
mocking sound.

  Fess turned his back on the illusion. "Let us go, children! You are real,
and proof against delusions—for you are of the line of d'Armand! Come!
Reality awaits!"

   He stepped away toward the surrounding forest, not even looking back
to see if they were following.

   Gregory shivered and whirled about, staring after Fess, then ran to
catch up. Geoffrey marched after him, face burning with anger, but
obedient to command.

   "Away, hussy!" Cordelia caught Magnus's hand. "What, brother! Wilt
thou be enslaved by thine own waking dream?"

  Magnus shook himself, and turned away from the purple nymph,
moving slowly and mechanically, but moving.

  "Tis I shall be thy slave," the purple youth purred. "Only stay with me!"

  Cordelia wavered, leaning toward his ready embrace.

   Magnus's head snapped up as though he'd been slapped. Then his eyes
narrowed, and he strode forward to catch Cordelia's wrist. "Why, what a
poxy lie is this, that would seek to entrance a maiden with her own
longings! Begone, foul seducer! My sister's not for thee!" And to Cordelia,
"What—wilt thou not wait for a true love who's truly real? Is not a real
man, however flawed, of greater worth to thee than barren dreams?"

    "Mayhap not," she murmured, but fell into step with him. "I cannot
tell…"

  "I can!" Magnus proffered his arm, somehow managing to catch her
hand around his biceps without releasing his hold on her wrist. "Come
away, fair sister! Come, walk with me… so! Forever, we shall walk
together… and thus shall we save one another!"

  And so they did, each following the other's movements, step by step, up
out of the haze of illusion, back into the light of day.

   Before them, their brothers marched, following the robot, whose horse
sense could pierce through dreams.

    As they caught up, Gregory was saying plaintively, "Yet how can I prove
it, Fess? How can I know that I am real?"

   "Aye." Geoffrey was scowling. "This Bishop Berkeley that thou dost
speak of—was he not right? Does nothing exist if it is not perceived?"

   "That is a matter decided some years ago," Fess answered, "if ever it
can be." He lashed out with a hoof, and a rock spun through the air,
bounced off a tree, and fell to the forest floor—all without missing a beat.
"Thus did Dr. Johnson refute Berkeley," Fess replied. "And I submit that,
like Dr. Johnson, you, Geoffrey, gave as much evidence as we can have,
when you batted the acid rock into the pit."

   Gregory perked up. "Why, how is that proof? If 'tis our eyes that are
fooled as well as our ears, did we truly see the rock fly through the air, or
did we but dream it?"

   "'Twas true enough for me," Geoffrey assured him. "The stone did sail
through the air; I saw it do so, I felt the shock as the stick hit the rock!"

  "That was Doctor Johnson's point when he kicked a cobblestone,
Geoffrey."

   "Yet his eyes might be deceived as easily as thine ears," Gregory
objected.

   "And what of his foot?" Geoffrey jeered.

    "Yet that too could have been illusion! The sight of the rock flying
through the air was only what mine eyes did tell me! It might be as much
illusion as that purple castle—for did not mine eyes also tell me of that?"

   "Yes," said Fess, "but your senses were distorted when they received
that impression, distorted by the purple haze."

  "Were they?" Gregory challenged. "How are we to know that?"

  "Because I did not see them directly," Fess answered. "I perceived them
only at second hand, through your thoughts."

  Gregory stopped, eyes losing focus. "Nay, then… Assuredly, they were
not there…"

  "Yet, Fess, we will not always have you with us," Magnus said.

   "I fear not. Remember, then, that Bishop Berkeley's main point
holds—we cannot totally prove what is real and what is not; some iota of
faith is necessary, even if it is only faith that what we perceive, when our
senses are clear, is real."

  "Yet how are we to know if it is truly real, or is not!"

   "By whether or not it is there when you come out into the light again,"
Fess said severely, "by whether or not what you see by night is still there in
the morning: by your interaction with other objects, and their interaction
with you. The cobblestone might have been illusion, but if so, it created a
very convincing illusion of flying away from Dr. Johnson's foot. Dr.
Johnson may have been an illusion, but I suspect he had a very convincing
sense of pain when his toe hit the cobble."

   "But we cannot prove…" Gregory let the sentence trail off, not sounding
terribly worried anymore.

  "Thou dost say that whether it is real or not, it will hurt as though it
was," Geoffrey amplified. "My sword may be an illusion, but it will
nonetheless spill another illusion's blood."

   "You approach the solution. What if you had touched the gleaming
rock, even though I bade you not to?"

   "Then my illusory hand would have felt illusory agony, and my illusory
skin would have rotted as the illusory acid seemed to eat it away," Geoffrey
answered, "and my illusory self would liefer not, thank you! Thou mayest
burn thine own illusion, an thou dost wish!"
  "But then… our whole frame of reference may be illusion…" Gregory
ventured, his expression troubled.

    "That is the point." Fess nodded. "It is real within our frame. Whether
it is ultimately real or not is beside the point; it is pragmatically real. It is
the reality you must live with, like it or not."

   "I see." Gregory's face cleared. "It may not be ultimate, but it is the only
reality we have."

   "Even so."

   Magnus frowned. "Then the purple lad and lavender lass, they were not
real at all?"

   "Certes, they were not real!" Cordelia said with a shudder, "and I thank
thee for saving me from them, brother."

  "As I thank thee, for saving me," Magnus returned. "Yet how can we
have needed saving from them, if they were not real?"

   "Because they were real illusions," Fess explained. "Be sure,
children—illusions can do as much harm as anything else in this world. By
clouding your perception of reality, illusions can kill."


                         Chapter Fifteen
   Many miles away, Rod and Gwen finally began to hear the roar of surf.
Coming out of the forest, they found themselves on a rocky beach with a
thin strip of sand near the foaming breakers.

   "How beautiful!" Gwen exclaimed.

   "It is," Rod agreed, gazing at the dark green mass of water, smelling the
salt air. "I keep forgetting."

   They strolled toward the tide line, watching the gulls wheel about the
sky. But they couldn't hear them— whenever there was a lull in the sound
of the surf, all they could hear was the snarling and beating of the music of
the metallic rocks.

   "Here?" Gwen cried. "Even here?"
   "I suppose," Rod said with resignation. "They fanned out from wherever
they originated—and there's no reason why this edge of the fan should
end, just because it's come to the ocean."

   Something exploded, just barely heard above the roar of the surf, and
they saw a rock go flying off into the waves. The other rock went…

   "Duck!" Rod dove for the sand, pulling Gwen with him. The rock sailed
by right where her head had been.

  "Look!" Gwen pointed.

   "Do I have to?" Rod was noticing how wonderfully the fragrance of her
hair went with the scent of the surf.

   "Oh, canst thou never pay heed to aught else when I am by?" she said,
with exasperation (but not much). "See! The' waves do hurl the rock back
at us!"

   Rod followed the pointing of her finger and saw the new rock come
sailing back, shooting by over their heads. They heard its whining
thumping as it hurtled past.

  "The sea will not have it!" Gwen exclaimed.

   "Sure won't." Rod pointed to a yard-wide swath of thumping, twanging
stones at the edge of the water, shifting like sand with each surge and ebb
of the waves. "Thank Heaven." He had a sudden vision of the sea filling up
with layer upon layer of stones, each vibrating with its own rasping beat.
Then he realized that the same phenomenon was happening on land.
"Gwen—is there any end to how many music-rocks can be produced?"

   She shrugged. "As much as there is a limit to the witch-moss of which
they are made, my lord."

    "And there's no shortage of that—new patches crop up after every rain.
It spreads like a fungus—which it is." Rod struggled to his feet. "Come on.
We've got to find out where those rocks come from and put a stop to their
making, or they'll bury the whole land."

  "Husband, beware!" Gwen cried. "The waves…"
   Rod leaped back as a new wave towered above him. "My Lord! Where
did that one come from?"

   The new wave hammered down on the heavy metal rocks and, for a
moment, their music was drowned in its roar. Then, as the wave receded,
the music made itself heard again.

  Gwen came up behind Rod, touching his arm. "Husband mine… the
music…"

  "Yes," Rod said. "It has changed again."

  "But can we call that a change?" Gwen murmured.

  It was a good question. The music had the repetitive melodic line and
metrical beat they had first heard, near Runny mede.

  "Well, it's a change," Rod said, "but it seems as though that wave has
washed everything new out of them. It's the same music as it was at first."

  "No, wait." Gwen frowned. "I think…"

  Rod waited, watching her closely.

  Finally, Gwen shook her head. "What e'er it was, 'twas so slight that I
could not distinguish it. For all that I can tell, 'tis as it first was."

  "And so we end where we began." Rod caught her hand and turned
away. "Come on—if the music can go back to its beginning, so can we."

  "To the place where the music began?"

   "Yes. Every time a rock split, we followed the northern pebble—and this
is where it ends. Time to swing south. If this is the end, the beginning
must be down there."

   "There is sense to that." Gwen fell in beside him, but found a huge swell
of peace and joy in her heart. To be walking with him, by the sea, was
enough; she found she didn't really care whether or not they found what
they were looking for.

  "This rock music has a strange effect on me," Rod muttered.
  "I am glad," Gwen murmured.

  "How's that again?"

  "Naught."

   "Oh. Right." Rod's stride became more purposeful. "Yes. We do have to
find the source of this rock music, you know."

  "Oh, aye."

   "That's right. The stones already around are all well enough, but we've
got to choke off the source, before Gramarye is totally buried under rock."

  "Yes," Gwen agreed, "we must."

   And they went off south, hand in hand, with the sea and the sunset on
their right, and a land of music on their left.
                                   ***

   Far to the south, Magnus came wide awake. He frowned, looking about
the clearing where they had camped for the night. The embers of the fire
showed him the blanket-wrapped forms of his brothers and sister, and the
bare outline of Fess, black against night, brooding over the scene.

  What had wakened him?

   "I heard him, too, Magnus," the great black horse assured him. "It is no
dream."

   But Magnus didn't even remember a dream of someone talking. Before
he could ask, "What?" it came again, inside his head. Magnus. His father's
voice.

  Aye, Papa, he answered, watching his siblings.

  We're on the way back now, Rod said. Where are you?

   Some ways south and west of Runnymede, Papa, Magnus replied, and
looked up at Fess with a question.

  Ninety-eight miles southwest of Runnymede, Rod, Fess advised.
  Right. We're about fifty miles northwest of you, Rod said. Should meet
you in two days, but it could be tomorrow about noon. Should we rush?

  Magnus looked at Fess again, then said, There is no need.

  Good. See you tomorrow, then.

  Papa, wait!

  Yes, my son?

  What hast thou found?

   Some things that are very interesting, but nothing that seems to
provide much information, Rod reported. Tell you all about it over
dinner two nights from now.

  Aye, Papa. Safe journey to you.

  Godspeed. And he was gone.

   Magnus lay down again, feeling rather disconcerted. But after all, at
seventeen, he couldn't very well admit that he had felt reassured by even
the mental presence of his father—now, could he? No, of course not. Not
even to himself. Instead, he rolled up in his blankets and recited a koan.
He fell asleep listening for the sound of one hand clapping.


                       Chapter Sixteen
  The next evening, Gregory piped up, "I am hungry."

  "Let it not trouble thee," Geoffrey advised. "It is but illusion."

   "Illusion or not, you had best answer it with real food." Fess came to a
halt, turning back to face them. "Or would you rather have an illusory
dinner?"

  "True substance, by choice." Geoffrey pressed a hand over his stomach.
"Now that I bethink me of it, my little brother speaketh aright."

  " 'Tis only past sunset, Geoffrey."
  The boy shrugged. "I care not. I can be a-hungered at any hour."

  "Yet thou didst dine but four hours agone."

  "Aye, 'tis gone indeed." Geoffrey frowned around him. "There is sign of
game hereabouts. Mayhap we should hunt down our dinner now."

  "What," Magnus scoffed, "lose time for naught but an empty belly?
Nay, where is thy soldier's fortitude?"

  "It hath fled with the last of my dried beef," Geoffrey answered.
"Naetheless, thou hast the right of it, brother—I must endure."

  But Gregory' pointed to a column of smoke that stood against the sky.
"Yon are folk. Mayhap they will have some victuals to sell."

    They followed the path through the trees, till it opened out into a
meadow. "Go warily, children," Fess cautioned. "Let us be sure they are
friendly."

   "As thou wilt." Cordelia sighed, and stepped through the last screen of
leaves.

  "It is certainly no village," Geoffrey said.

   All over the meadow, young men and women were sitting up and
shaking their heads, as though waking. They yawned, stretched, and put
something in their mouths. A few were straggling down to a stream to
drink and splash water on their faces; others were returning, far more
sprightly than when they had left. Two others added sticks to a small
tongue of flame, their movements quick, but so energetic that they
sometimes nearly buried it.

  "They are so gaunt!" Magnus said, unbelieving.

  And they were—not emaciated, but devoid of any ounce of fat, pared
down to stringy muscle. Their cheeks were hollow, their eyes too bright.

   "The poor folk!" Geoffrey turned away, drawing a sling from a pouch at
his waist. "Come, brothers! Let us find them meat!"

   Fifteen minutes later, they approached the fire shoulder to shoulder,
laden with squirrels, rabbits, and partridge.
   The couple around the fire were chatting with each other, scarcely
pausing for breath. They looked up, surprised; then the girl recoiled, face
twisting in disugust. "Faugh! The poor beasts!"

  "Aye." The young man frowned. "Wherefore didst thou slay them!"

   They spoke so rapidly that the Gallowglasses could scarcely understand
them.

  "Why… why…" Geoffrey, his gift spurned, was at a loss.

   "We have brought thee food," Magnus explained. "All thy folk do seem
a-hungered."

  The lad and lass stared at them in amazement. Then, abruptly, they
burst into laughter—too loud, too hard.

  "Why… wherefore…" Gregory looked around, perplexed.

   "How ill-bred art thou!" Cordelia stormed at the couple. She threw her
bundle of game down by the fire and set her hands on her hips. "To so
laugh at those who seek to aid thee!"

   But other young folk were gathering around now, and joining in the
laughter.

   "Be not offended, I prithee." A young man, perhaps a little less
hard-faced than the others, choked back his laughter and smiled at them.
"And your gift is welcome, for we must eat now and again, whether we
wish to or no."

  "Not wish to?" Geoffrey asked. "How is this? Wherefore wouldst thou
not wish to eat?"

   "Why, for that we have these." A girl who had once had a shapely figure
held out a double handful of white pebbles. "Eat of one, and thou'It be no
more a-hungered."

   Geoffrey shied away, and Cordelia eyed the pebbles askance. "How now!
Is not mistletoe a poison?"

 "They are not mistletoe," another lad assured her, "but magic stones.
What Greta offers thee are near to being the apples of Idun!"
   "What, they that conferred eternal youth?" Magnus took up a pebble
and inspected it narrowly. It had an unhealthy look somehow, a
translucence that hinted at corruption just under the surface.

   "Well, mayhap Tannin doth overspeak his case," the first youth allowed,
"though when thou hast swallowed these stones, they fill thee with so great
a sense of well-being that thou dost indeed feel as though thou wouldst
ever be young."

   "And end thine hunger," Greta asserted. "Thou wilt not wish to eat, and
will be bursting with vigor."

  "Here! Try!" Tarmin's hand shot out toward Magnus's mouth, a white
pebble pinched between thumb and forefinger.

   He almost punched Magnus in the nose, but Magnus recoiled just in
time. "How now! I've no wish to eat of it!"

   "Nor I," Geoffrey said, scowling about, "if it will waste me as much as it
hath thy selves."

  "Waste!" the first young man cried, offended. "Why, I am the picture of
health!"

  "He is!" another girl asserted. "Alonzo is the very portrait of robust
young manhood!"

  "Busted, mayhap," Geoffrey allowed. "I thank thee, but I'll not eat."

  "Nay, thou wilt," Alonzo insisted. "What! Wilt thou thrust our gifts
back in our faces?"

  "We do not wish to offend," Magnus soothed, "but we will not eat."

   "Why, how rude art thou!" Greta said, offended. "When we do but wish
to share with thee. We would not be alone."

   "Dost thou say that we do wrong to eat of them?" Tarmin demanded,
glowering.

  "Now that thou hast said it," Geoffrey replied, "aye."

  "Then thou must needs partake of them," Alonzo stated. "We will not be
wrong! Everybody must get stoned! Kindred! Catch and hold!"

   And the circle closed in with a shout.

    But a spirit screamed behind them, a huge black form towering out of
the night above them, steel teeth flashing in the firelight, steel hooves
flailing down.

   The young folk screamed, terrified, and cowered before the
night-demon—and the Gallowglasses ran through the gap toward Fess.

   "Around me, and run!" the horse told them, and they shot past him, off
into the night.

   Alonzo shouted, seeing his prey escape, and leaped after them. Fess
slammed his hooves down—he didn't have enough cause to really attack,
but he could bar the way. Alonzo jarred into his steel side and reeled back,
arms flailing, into Greta's embrace. The other young people raised a huge
shout and, seeing that the demon was only a horse, leaped past it after the
fleeing Gallowglasses.

   "Where… to?" Gregory panted. Night had fallen, and he could not see.

  "Over here, brother!" Geoffrey called. "There is a path!" He pounded
away, taking the lead, his night-sight better than the others'.

  "Fly," Cordelia called to her little brother, "or thou'lt be caught for
weariness!"

   "They will not." Magnus looked back over his shoulder. "Whence gained
they such a store of strength, with so little meat upon them?"

   "Do not ask, brother! Run!"

   The leaders had yanked sticks out of the fire, pursuing them by
torchlight. Magnus glanced back at the bobbing lights. "They come…
closer," he panted. "Nay, find some way… to lose them! Or they'll… outrun
us yet!"

   "Into the wood!" Geoffrey called, and swerved in among the trees.

   Behind them, a joyful shout split the air.
  "They cheer with reason," Magnus cried. "We must go slowly here!"

  "So must they," Geoffrey called back, "for I've spied a bog!"

   The trees became more widely spaced, and between them some sort of
sticky, mudlike substance roiled. Here and there, it puffed up into a
bubble, sometimes of amazing dimensions, which finally popped and
subsided into a sticky mess that closed off its own crater.

   "The trees are all of one kind." Cordelia looked up about her. "What
sort are they?"

   "Gum, by the look of them," Magnus answered, "though 'tis too dark to
see clearly."

  Cordelia turned back to the business at hand. "How shall we cross?"

  "There are stepping stones!" Geoffrey called. "Step where I step!"

   They hopped across the bog, the boys levitating, ready to dash to catch
their sister on the instant. But she sprang from rock to rock, more
sure-footed than any of them.

   Behind them, the mob came up against the sticky substance and jarred
to a halt, one step from the mire.

  "They stop," Cordelia cried. "They'll have none of this bog!"

   "Small wonder." Magnus wrinkled his nose at the sickly sweet smell
that rose from the bursting bubbles. "What manner of mud is this, that is
pink?"

   "Mayhap 'tis not its true color," Geoffrey called back. "We see by
starlight, look you."

  "I look," Magnus answered, "and I hear, and wish I did not."

   The air about them was filled with soft rock music, perhaps softer than
ever. Certainly the melodic line was simpler, varying only by a few notes,
repeating over and over.

  "I find it pleasant," Gregory said, smiling.
  "Aye," Cordelia puffed, "but I'll warrant thou dost find the scent of this
bog to thy liking, also."

  "Why, so I do. How couldst thou know?"

   "Because thou alone among us art still young enough to be truly a child,
brother, and children do ever like sweetness."

  "What, will I one day dislike it?" Gregory asked in surprise.

   "Belike," Magnus admitted. "I find I have come to have a liking for
sharper flavors."

  "Then why dost thou not like the music we have heard?"

  "I do find some of it suiting my taste," Magnus admitted.

  "Safe ground!" Geoffrey cried, with one last bound. He climbed up the
bank several paces and sank down to rest. "That was trying. Rest, my sibs,
but not o'erlong."

   "Aye." Cordelia joined him. "Those lean ones may yet find their way
around this bog."

  "But what of Fess?"

  Geoffrey looked up at a slight sound. "He comes—or trouble doth."

   "I am not trouble, Geoffrey." The great black horse shouldered out of
the night. "As you guessed, however, your pursuers are coming around the
bog; there is a trail, and they know their way."

  " Tis their country." Magnus pushed himself to his feet with a groan.
"Come, my sibs! The chase is on!"

   They dodged around tree trunks and did their best to avoid thorns. "Is
there truly a trail, Geoffrey?" Magnus called.

  "Not truly, no. There is a game track that I follow."

   "It should lead us to a larger." Cordelia looked back with apprehension;
jarring music echoed in the distance behind them, with faint but
enthusiastic shouting. "Find it quickly, I prithee! They gain!"
  "We must fly, then," Magnus said, tight-lipped, "and 'tis dangerous
enough in a daytime forest, let alone one benighted."

    "Not so," Geoffrey called as he broke through some underbrush. "Here
is a pathway!"

   "Then we can run," Cordelia panted. She followed Geoffrey through the
gap and began to sprint down the pathway. Magnus and Gregory followed,
the younger boy gliding an inch off the ground, keeping pace with
Cordelia.

   Behind them, a huge crash announced their pursuers' breaking in upon
the path. A whoop filled the air behind them, then the thunder of
pounding feet.

  "They follow," Magnus panted. "Run!"

   And they did—but the mob stayed hard on their heels, whooping with
glee.

  "Where does… this path… lead?" Magnus puffed.

  "I have… no notion… brother!" Geoffrey replied.

  "So long as 'tis… away from them," Cordelia called.

  Gregory piped up, "Is not that… tree ahead… the one near which… we
came onto… the path?"

  As they shot by it, they saw the broken screen of brush where the mob
had tumbled through onto the trail.

  "It is!" Geoffrey cried. "We are on a circle!"

  "Then our pursuers are, also," Cordelia called back.

  But Magnus frowned. "I hear them—but not… behind us."

   "Aye," Gregory called. "By the sound, they are beneath!" And he
stopped, peering down at the path.

  "Nay, brother!" Magnus caught him up and started him running again.
"An they still follow, we must not let them gain!"
   But it was the Gallowglasses who gained; the sound of the mob began
to fall behind them again.

  "How is this?" Gregory wheezed. "I could swear we have passed them!"

  Cordelia looked up, frowning. "Their voices come from the side, now."

   They all looked—and the spectacle made them jar to a halt. The mob
was in sight, but across from them, on the other side of a curve—and the
young peasants were running upside down, seeming to hang from the
path.

  "What manner of magic is this?" Geoffrey demanded.

    "Whatsoe'er it may be, they still follow, and we must flee!" Magnus
stated. "Yet they will run us to ground if we keep to our feet. Up, sibs, and
fly!"

   He and Geoffrey grasped wrists in a fireman's carry, swooped Cordelia
off her feet, and rose up a foot above the path, sailing away down its
length. Gregory wafted alongside them, demanding, "How can they run
inverted?"

   "I know not," Geoffrey grated, "but we must run faster if we wish to lose
them. See! They are still across from us!"

   Gregory stared. "How can that be? We have flown a quarter-mile, at
least!"

  " 'Ware!" Geoffrey called. "We come to where we came in again!"

  "Aye!" Magnus swerved toward the break in the underbrush. "And
whence we came in, we can leave!"

   But as they shot toward the break, it seemed to start moving itself,
staying just a few feet ahead of them.

  "Why, how is this?" Geoffrey demanded. "Doth the circle turn?"

  They were all silent as insight hit a hammer blow.

  "Many circles turn, brother," Cordelia said. "They are wheels."
   "And so is this, upon which we run! Nay, then, we must go faster than
the wheel, to catch its entrance! Fly, my sibs! At thy fastest speed!"

  And fly they did, flat out, exerting every ounce of psi energy they
possessed—but the gap stayed just ahead.

  "Wherefore… did it not flee… before?" Cordelia panted.

    "Belike because we did not seek to catch it! Save thy breath, sister, and
fly!"

  It was Geoffrey who realized their danger. "Slacken, sibs! Or we will
overtake our pursuers!"

   Sure enough, the mob's torches were just barely visible in front of
them—right side up again.

  "What unholy manner of loop is this?" Geoffrey moaned.

   "Who asks?" called a clear alto, and two figures stepped through from
the brush screen. The Gallowglasses cried out, and did their best to
stop—but couldn't arrest their motion fast enough; they sailed into the
strangers…

   Who caught Cordelia and Gregory in one-armed hugs, and reached out
to catch the older boys by the arm. Magnus jolted back, trying to break
free, saw the stranger's face, and froze. "Papa!"

   "Mama!" Cordelia cried, throwing her arms around her mother. "Oh,
praise Heaven thou art come!"

  Geoffrey squeezed his father in a quick bear hug before he remembered
how old he was and drifted back, saying, "Alas! Now thou, too, art caught
here with us!"

  "Caught?" Gwen asked in alarm. "Have we come into a trap, then?"

   "Aye! For this path is a circle, and we must run faster and faster to
escape it!"

  "But speed is not enough!" Cordelia explained. "The entrance stays ever
ahead of us!"
  "And there are those who chase us." Magnus looked back over his
shoulder nervously. "By your leave, my parents, let us fly."

   "Well, an thou wilt." Gwen levelled her broomstick; Cordelia hopped
aboard. They drifted up above the path, and the boys rose to parallel
them.

  "If I fly, I can't really do much thinking." Rod started trotting alongside.

   "You must ride, then, Rod." The great black horse shouldered through
the brush and onto the trail.

   "Fess! Praise the saints!" Cordelia called. "I feared they might ha' given
thee a seizure!"

   "No, Cordelia, though I thank you for thinking of me." Fess nodded to
Rod, who mounted. "The gaunt young people ran past me; I had but to
follow, since they pursued you."

  "Why didn't you join them sooner?" Rod asked.

  "I had to wait for them to come around again, Rod."

  "Around? So it is a circle, then."

   "But a most strange one, Papa," Cordelia burbled. "Anon our pursuers
are across from us—but upside down!"

  "Aye," Gregory agreed, "but after some time, they are before us
again—yet right side up!"

  Gwen frowned. "Husband, what manner of spell is this?"

  "Probably a projective illusion," Rod said thoughtfully.

  "Oh, I ken the manner of its casting!" his wife said impatiently. "Yet
what hath been cast?"

  "From the sound of it, I'd guess a Mobius loop."

  "A Mobius loop?" Gregory questioned. "What is that, Papa?"

  "A loop with a half-twist in it—it only has one side. Stay on it, and you
eventually come back to where you started— but on the other side of its
single surface."

  " 'Tis nonsense," Geoffrey said flatly.

  "Nay, 'tis wondrous!" Gregory's eyes were huge. "Wherefore have I not
heard of it aforetime?" He gave Fess an accusing look.

  "Because you are not yet ready for topology, Gregory," the horse
answered. "I must insist on your learning calculus first."

  "Teach it quickly, then!"

  "Not now." Magnus looked back over his shoulder with apprehension.
"We have either lagged, or gone too fast— they approach from behind
again."

  "Faster," Geoffrey urged, and they all picked up the pace.

  "How shall we break out of this circle, husband?" Gwen asked.

   "We must run faster!" Geoffrey declared. "Soon or late, we will catch
the break in the brush through which we came!"

   "Not so, brother," Magnus reminded him, "for the faster we go, the
faster it doth go."

   "Synchronizing its rotation rate to yours, huh?" Rod pursed his lips. "So
you have to run faster and faster to get out of the trap—but there's a
catch."

   "Yes," Fess corroborated. "The faster you run, the faster the loop's
rotation—and the faster its rotation, the greater its attraction."

  "The more speed, the more you're stuck in the rut." Rod nodded. "That
makes a weird sort of sense."

  "Weird it is," Gwen agreed. "A trap."

   Magnus stared. "Dost thou say that as we run harder, we hold ourselves
better to it?"

  "Of course!" Geoffrey cried, "even as a sling-stone sticks to the pouch of
the sling!"

   "Then loose, and throw," Magnus urged.

   "Good idea." Rod skidded to a halt just short of the break in the
underbrush, caught Gregory, and threw him through the gap. He squalled,
then remembered to fly as he sailed up and over. He sank out of sight,
then bobbed up again, calling, "I am free!"

   "I thought so." Rod nodded. "Just a matter of making the effort to
break the vicious cycle. Hold still, everybody— then jump!"

   They all came to a halt—and the gap slowed with them, then halted,
seeming ready to take off again.

   "Now!" Gwen called, and the whole family arced up and over. They
landed in a crackling of underbrush and bounded to their feet. "You too,
Fess!" Rod called.

   The great horse followed, landing in their midst.

   Howling approached, and torches flared near. The young folk sailed by
in a storm of thundering feet.

   "They do not even know we're gone," Cordelia said, staring after them.

   "I think they do not care," Magnus said, with a cynical smile. "They
take joy in the running; they care not if they never come to their
destination."

   "What destination?" Geoffrey wondered.

   "Well asked," Magnus agreed.

   "Leave them be," Rod said firmly, and turned his boys' heads away from
the Mobius trail. "Some people you just can't help."

   "But we must try, Papa!" Cordelia protested.

   "It is to no purpose, daughter," Gwen said gently. "You cannot succor
those who do not wish a rescue. Come, leave them to their trap, and let us
seek our beds."
   Everything considered, Fess forbore to wake them and, by the time Rod
rose, the sun was high in the sky. The family had a late breakfast of
journey rations, with the parents asking the youngsters what they'd seen.
They were only too glad to oblige, and by the time they got around to
asking what their parents had seen, it was noon. Gwen filled them in, with
a few details from Rod. The youngsters shivered with delight at their
descriptions and, when they'd finished, Gregory asked:

  "Have we now enough facts to make some guess as to who hath
wrought this coil? Or is't but happenstance?"

   "Surely not happenstance!" Geoffrey said. "'Tis too much of a pattern."

   "Ah," said Gwen. "What pattern dost thou see?"

  "Chaos!" Cordelia answered, and Rod nodded. "I'd say that's pretty
good. It's almost as though the younger people become addicted to the
music, and disregard any social rules they've been taught."

   "I would not say that," Geoffrey demurred. "There is some faint ranking
that I've seen, some one who doth assert himself as leader, each and every
time."

   "Thou couldst say that, too, of birds and beasts," Gregory objected.

  "An excellent point," Fess said. "What little social order is left, is of the
most primitive."

  Rod sat there and glowed as he watched his offspring putting their
heads together to work out a problem.

   Magnus lifted his head. "No order but the most primitive? That hath
the ring of anarchy!"

  "Not quite," Rod disagreed. "The ideal anarchy has everybody
cooperating with everybody else, and nobody giving orders."

   Gregory stared. "Is't possible?"

   "Oh, surely," Cordelia scoffed, "and 'tis possible that a fairy came to
take thy tooth away and leave thee a penny for it!"

   Gregory stared at her, in shocked disbelief. "Dost thou mean the fairy
comes not?"

   Cordelia bit her lip, irked with herself. "Nay, certes not. We but spoke
of what is possible, brother, not of what doth truly exist."

   Neat try at covering, but the cat was out of the bag now, and Gregory
had that much less left of childhood's wonder. Rod had to remind himself
that intelligence can only make a child seem to be more mature.

   But Magnus was nodding. "Such an ideal anarchy may be as possible as
the Wee Folk, but is far less likely; it doth require that all folk agree
without saying so, and that none seek to violate that common trust for his
own gain. Can people truly believe that such a thing may hap?"

   "People can believe anything, if they want to badly enough," Rod
murmured, "and the anarchists who are trying to subvert Gramarye want
very badly to believe that no one is better than they are. Not the other way
around, of course—but they're not really worried about proving that they
can't be superior."

  "So," Magnus said, "it would seem that these music-rocks are made
and spread by thine ancient enemies, the anarchists."

  "Not ancient—but, let's say, well established, anyway. And, yes, I'd stake
my job on the future anarchists' being behind this phenomenon."

  "How have they wrought it, then?" Magnus asked. "Have they won a
convert among Gramarye espers?"

   "That's their standard operating procedure, and I don't see any reason
to think they're not doing that now. Might be more than one—it would
take a dozen espers to spread these music-rocks all over Gramarye."

   Gwen shook her head. "I cannot believe there could be more than one.
'Tis a wondrous accomplishment, husband, to make rocks such as these
that will make their music, and make more of themselves, when they are
far from their crafter—and 'twould take an amazing mind to think of it,
too. He or she would be a very genius of a witch."

   "But intelligence and shrewdness don't always go together, dear. We're
talking about someone who's not only an amazingly gifted crafter, but who
also has a very thorough grasp of organization and leadership."
  Magnus frowned. "That hath the sound of two separate people."

    Husband and wife looked up, amazed. Then Gwen said slowly, "Why, so
it hath. Gramercy, my son."

    Magnus shook off the compliment with irritation—he was getting a
little old to be showing pleasure at praise. "I thank thee, Mama, yet 'tis of
greater import to discern who is which, and where they are."

  "As to where," said Cordelia, "I've seen naught to make us think 'tis not
come from the West."

  "All the evidence does seem to point in that direction," Fess agreed.

  "Why, then, there's an end to it." Magnus rose, dusting off his hands.
"Westward ho!"

   "Aye." Gwen looked up at him, her eyes bright. "Yet where shall we go
to in the West, my son?"

   Magnus shrugged. "There is not enough to tell us that yet. We must be
alert for clues and signs that may direct us as we go. Must we not,
sprout?" He slapped Gregory's shoulder affectionately.

  Little Brother looked up, his eyes alight. "Aye, Magnus! Assuredly, we
know not yet all the answer—but I've no doubt we shall learn it. Let us go!"

  "Bury the fire." Gwen rose, and began packing up the journey bread
and pemmican. The boys kicked dirt over the flames, made sure they were
dead out, then turned to follow her toward the sun's destination.

   Rod followed, subvocalizing, "The kid amazes me, Fess. He's showing a
talent for leadership that I hadn't expected."

  "Yes, Rod. His seeking of confirmation of his conclusions was deftly
done."

   Rod nodded. "After all, Big Brother couldn't admit that Little Brother
might be better at thinking things through—at least, not if he wanted to
keep leading."

  "It is not Gregory who would question his leadership."
    "No, but Cordelia and Geoffrey both would, if they thought Magnus had
to refer his decisions to the youngest— and he has to keep them on his side
if he wants to get anything done." Rod nodded. "Oh, yes. If anybody can
keep them working together, Magnus can."

  "Or Gwen, Rod. Or yourself."

  "Well, yes," Rod agreed, "but we won't always be here, will we?"

   "Prudent, Rod, but rather morbid. Shall we think of more pleasant
things?"

   "Such as finding out who's behind these music-rocks? An excellent
idea, Fess. Let's go."


                        Chapter Seventeen
   A day's journey was uneventful, and a night's sleep the same. The next
morning they were dousing the fire as the sun cleared the horizon. The day
was fresh and clear, and might have been filled with birdsong, but the
strains of rock music drowned them out.

  "

   "Us odd how we did sleep through the night, without the music's
slackening," Geoffrey opined.

  "Not for thee," Cordelia taunted. "Thou wouldst sleep through the
Trump of Doom!"

  Geoffrey considered the notion, and nodded. "True. Gabriel will not
summon us to battle."

  "Hist!" Magnus put out a hand to silence him. "Look up!"

  They all did—and saw it float by, glinting in the dawn light, gray
against the early blue of the sky.

  "'Tis a giant egg!"

   "Nay—'tis far too elongated," Gregory disagreed. "What manner of
object is't, Papa?"
   "A blimp." Rod was taut as a guitar string, eyes narrowed. "Like a
balloon, only made of metal."

  "So much iron as that?" Gwen sounded doubtful.

  "Not iron, dear—aluminum. It's a lot lighter."

  "But it doth not glister," Gregory objected.

  "A point." Rod thought a moment. "Maybe some other metal."

  "Yet it is not of Gramarye," Gwen inferred.

  The children looked up in alarm.

  "No," Rod said. "It takes a much higher technology than we have here."

  "So it is of our enemies," Geoffrey said flatly.

   "Why, yes, son." Rod felt a small glow that his offspring so readily
assumed Rod's enemies were his. "It definitely is."

   "Might it have aught to do with the dancing dead, and the stones that
bring music?" Cordelia guessed.

  Rod shrugged. "It does seem likely."

   "Not really, Rod," Fess protested. "The phenomena merely coincide
chronologically; there is no indication of causality."

   "Not by thine own teaching," Geoffrey said stoutly. "Thou hast taught
me that once may be chance, and twice may be coincidence, but thrice is
the work of intelligence."

  "I do remember saying something of the sort," the horse sighed.

  "Then we follow it!" Geoffrey set off after the blimp, not waiting for
anyone else.

  "Why call him back?" Rod asked rhetorically. "En avant, troops!"

  They set off, following a bubble.
   Fortunately, the sun was behind them, so they were able to see the
broad reach of the sky as they came out of the woodlands; and equally
fortunately, they were following the blimp, so they were looking up.

  Magnus frowned. "Why are there so many hawks ahead?"

  "Belike due to a plenitude of game, brother," Geoffrey guessed.

   "Mayhap," Gregory conceded, "but wherefore doth the blimp course
toward them?"

   "Why, it doth steer toward the west," Gwen answered, "and here, at
least, I think we may say 'tis coincidence."

  Gregory shrugged. "As thou wilt."

  But as they hiked westward, one of the hawks broke loose from its
mates and sailed toward them.

  "What?" said Magnus. "Doth it seek us out?"

  The small blot grew bigger in the sky.

  "Either it's mighty close," Rod said, "or…"

  "'Tis a giant!" Geoffrey snapped.

   It had to be, with a wingspan of at least thirty feet. As they watched,
those wings folded, and the bird suddenly dropped toward them, swelling
hugely.

  "It doth stoop—upon us!" Geoffrey cried. "Back, all back!"

  "In a semicircle!" Rod shouted. "And get ready to hit it with everything
you've got!"

  The bird plunged with a cry that filled the air—straight toward
Gregory. The boy tried to dodge, but huge talons caught him up.

   "Hit him!" Rod yelled, and his dagger shot through the air, with
Magnus's and Geoffrey's right behind it, to bury themselves in the bird's
breast. A storm of rocks and sticks shot up from Cordelia and Gwen, and
Rod hurtled into the midst of them, sword first. The giant hawk screamed
and tried to rise, but Rod slammed into it before it could lift more than a
yard. The hawk slashed with its beak, and blood welled in a long gash on
Rod's left arm, shoving him slightly off target. He howled with the pain
but drove the sword in, then wrestled it out and stabbed again—and the
bird's face was peppered with stones and sticks. It reeled, keeled over, and
fell to earth with a thud. Gregory sprang free, and Gwen swept him up in
her arms.

   Rod sprang for the bird's head, but saw the eyes glaze. He stood,
trembling, watching its last spasmodic shudder, muttering obscenities.

   "Vile raptor, to prey upon children," Magnus spat, and slashed its
throat.

  "Well done, my son," Gwen said. "Thus may it be to all who seek to
harm little ones! There, now, Gregory, thou art not hurted."

  The boy's trembling slackened.

  Rod stood looking down at the dead hawk.

  Come away, Rod, Fess's voice said inside his head. It is dead.

   "Yes." Rod's eyes were hidden under his brows. "I've just taken the life
of a living being. Why don't I feel guilty?"

   "Because it deserved to die!" Cordelia spat. "Be exalted, Father! It was
evil!"

   "Yes. It was, wasn't it?" Rod turned away. "Fess, what kind of bird was
that, anyway?"

  "A chicken hawk, Rod, though immensely gross."

   "And evil." Gwen set Gregory free, and Magnus clapped him on the
shoulder and took him aside. Gwen turned to Rod. "Now, husband, we
must see to that wound. There is no telling what manner of foulness may
have been in such a monster. We must use strong spells, to banish its
corruption."

  "We can try, anyway," Rod grunted.

  Half an hour later, they were back on the trail. The blimp was only a
smudge on the western sky, but it was still in sight.

  "Look out!"

   Rod reached out to catch Gregory ar_ound the middle and yanked him
back just in time. A foot-thick boulder came crashing and banging down
the hillside in front of the family, narrowly missing them. Rod let out a
shaky breath. "Son, I keep telling you—when you're mulling over a
problem, sit down! Don't go wandering around half-aware !"

  Gregory swallowed. "Aye, Papa."

   " 'Ware!" Gwen cried, and Rod looked up the hillside to see another
small cannonball bowling toward them. He leaped back, hoisting Gregory
high.

  "Fly, Papa!" Magnus called.

   Rod spat an impolite word; when would using his psi powers start
becoming automatic for him? He concentrated on pushing the earth away,
and the world grew dim; the rattling and bouncing of the boulders
seeming distant. Then Gregory wriggled out of his arms, and Rod's
concentration disappeared as he made a frantic grab for his son. But he
saw that Gregory was floating ten feet off the ground, realized he himself
was falling, and just barely managed to push the ground away in time to
loft him above the trajectory of the next cannonball. Not quite high
enough—it smacked him a wicked one on the great toe—but he managed
to stifle a yelp, keep his concentration, and still observe the hillside, in a
remote sort of way.

   The first thing he noticed was that his wife and daughter were circling
over it on their broomsticks. The next was that his sons were floating in
the updrafts.

   The third was that there were an awful lot of those spinning, jouncing
stones.

  "Why are they so round?" Cordelia called.

  "Because they have rolled so far down the hillside, sister," Gregory
answered. " 'Tis a very long hillside, and hard."
   So it was—only a ten-degree slope, but it had to be a quarter of a mile
long. That was a plateau up there, not a crest—and the hillside itself was
rough and rocky, with glints of flint. "That's a long way to slide, once you
start to slip," Rod said.

  And totally barren, of course. Anything that had tried to grow there, the
tumbling boulders had mashed flat.

  Fess posed a question. "How long have they been rolling?"

  Geoffrey retorted, "What made them start?"

  Gregory's eyes lost focus again. "The hill slopes up toward the east.
Belike there are soft rocks down here that split, and shoot their offspring
up—and those that cannot fly past the ridge above come tumbling back
down here."

    A loud crack sounded. They looked up in surprise, and saw two rocks
flying toward the top of the hill.

  "Why," said Cordelia, "that was a rock that lodged in a cranny, until it
was time for it to split!"

   Rod nodded. "And thus they do eventually get up to the top; it's just
that some of them probably go up that hill and come back down several
times, before they're finally lucky enough to lodge against an outcrop that
will hold them."

  "But every time they start again," Gwen called, "they do so by splitting.
Nay, of course there are so many here!"

    "An excellent resolution," Fess carolled. "Really, Rod, your whole family
fills me with pride! Though of course I cannot take any credit for Lady…"

   "Wait a minute." Rod frowned. "That rock that mashed my toe wasn't
so soft." ,

  They all studied the rocks, struck by the notion.

  Then Fess said, "Could it be that the long tumble back down the hill
hardens them?"

  "Of course!" Gregory cried. "As they roll, they compress!"
   "And as they compress, they harden." Magnus nodded. "Yet how large
they are!"

  "They have been long here," Cordelia said. "Mayhap they swell as they
wait."

   "Or mayhap," said Gregory, " 'tis simply that we near the stones'
source."

  Rod had another question. "But why does becoming hard make their
music so much more strident?"

  Everybody was silent, trying to puzzle it out.

   Finally, Fess said, "We have noticed constant mutation in the music, as
though some force were ever striving to create some new form. But such
evolution must surely be cultural, not physical."

  "I take it you mean 'cultural' in the broadest sense." Rod scowled.
"Look, can we move on, please? I'm getting a headache."

   "Poor Papa!" Cordelia sympathized. "And surely we will lose the
skycraft if we tarry longer."

  "Aye. Away!" Gwen called. She banked toward the west, the boys
swooping to follow her.

  Or at least two of them did. "Magnus!" Rod called. "Snap out of it!"

   Magnus looked up, startled. "What, Papa?" He looked around and saw
his mother and younger brothers drifting away. "Oh, aye! Forgive my
distraction!" Then he drove off after them—but his feet were still tapping
the air, in time to the music of the hard rocks..

  Someone else was still hovering about.

  "Daughter," Rod intoned.

   Cordelia looked up from the intricate routine she was trying to work
out, involving the front end of the broomstick moving in circles while the
bristles went up and down—and all, Rod could have sworn, in time to two
different sets of beats coming from the same music. His daughter finally
focused on his face, looked startled, glanced quickly around, then gave a
little cry and peeled off after her mother.

   Rod heaved a sigh and sailed off after her. "You coming, Fess?" he
called out. "Fess!"

   "Here, Rod. I had my audio amplification turned down. Yes, I am
following along on the ground."

   "That's reassuring, anyway." Rod glanced back at the hillside with
trepidation. "So by the time any rock gets over that ridge, all those trips
down the hillside have turned it hard."

   "That is true, Rod."

  "And that means that after a while, all the rocks east of here will be
hard, too."

   Fess was silent for a moment, then said, "I think not, Rod. There are
already many soft rocks in the lands we have passed through, and they are
multiplying. There is room for both types of rock in the East."

   "I hope you're right." Rod lofted higher, hoping the music would
become fainter. It did, but not much. He sailed on west, with only one
glance back at the hillside where the rolling stones developed into hard
rock.


                       Chapter Eighteen
   The children were beginning to stumble with weariness as the sun set,
and Rod was about to call a halt if Gwen didn't; the metal blimp would
just have to get away. But as the dusk gathered, the blimp slowed and
stopped.

   Gwen halted, eyes still fixed on its swollen form. "Doth it sleep?"

   "It would seem so," Rod said slowly. "If it throws out a mooring line…"

   An anchor swung down from the blimp and snagged in the top of a
tree. Rod relaxed, nodding. "It's set for the night. Collapse, kids. I'll find
the raw materials." As the youngsters sank down, he touched Gwen's
hand. "You could rest a little, too."
   "I thank thee." She smiled up at him. "Yet I'm not so tired as I might
be."

  "You're a wonder—it's been a long hike."

  "I, too, could last some while longer, Papa."

   Rod looked up at Magnus and decided they could both benefit from the
lad's proving how tireless he was. "Okay— you go bag a couple of rabbits."

  Magnus smiled, turning away and taking out his sling. "Will squirrels
do?"

   "Oh, no!" An unfamiliar voice called out. "Get back, get back!" They
looked up, startled. A young man in glittering garments was coming out of
the wood, manic energy in every step. "No, no!" he cried. "Be nice, be
nice!"

  Cordelia reached up to catch Gwen's hand. "Mama—his face!"

  Gwen looked, then gasped. "Even so, daughter! Doth he mock?"

  "He must," Cordelia said.

  Geoffrey frowned. "What ails thee?"

   "Why," said Cordelia, "that young man doth—for thus will Prince Alain
look when he is grown."

   Geoffrey swung back to stare, amazed. " Tis even so!" He leaped to his
feet, sword flickering out. "Avaunt thee, pretender!"

  "Avaunt!" the mimic mocked. "Get back, get back! Who gives orders?
What a fool!"

  Rod's eyes narrowed. "Watch your tongue!"

   "Oh, great man!" The mimic held up his hands in mock horror. "Oh,
shall I bow? No—thou shalt bow, to thy prince!"

  "The true prince is only half thine age," Gwen snapped, "and thy
mockery hath little of amusement in it."
  "A joke, a joke! The lady doth smoke!"

   "Nay, but thou shalt, if thou wardest not thy tongue." Magnus stepped
forward. "Shall I slay rabbits as thou slayest humor?"

  "A slayer, a butcher!" the man screamed. "Murdering thief! Get back!
Get back!" He leaped at Magnus, foot lashing out in a kick.

   Magnus ducked easily, but the mock prince slapped him as he went by,
catching Magnus a sharp blow on the cheek. The young warlock's face
reddened; he lashed out with his empty sling.

   "A weapon!" the mock prince cried. "I have one, too!" He yanked off his
doublet and hurled it at Magnus, who slapped it away and stepped in to
swing at the man—but he caught a boot square in the eye. He howled in
anger, ducked the next boot, and came up swinging—to catch the youth's
hose right in his face. The mock prince hooted with delight and slashed
another kick—but Magnus caught the foot, twisted, and shoved. The mock
prince hopped backward with a howl and fell, but did a backward
somersault and rose, hurling his singlet at Magnus and catching at his
loincloth.

   Cordelia stared, not believing what she was seeing—only for a split
second, though, before her mother clapped a hand over her eyes.

   But the mock prince had only pulled a knife out of his loincloth, and
that was his undoing. He slashed at Magnus, who caught the wrist,
whirled, and cracked the young man's arm backward across his knee,
locking the mock prince's elbow in the crook of his own arm. The imposter
howled, eyes bulging, and the knife dropped from his fingers.

  "Wait, hold it right there!" Rod called. "He's in the ideal bargaining
position!"

   Magnus looked up. The bellowing imposter twisted, and Magnus
reacted barely in time to tighten the elbow lock. "What can he know?"

  "Only the item we're wanting most." Rod went over and caught the
young man by the hair. As the mock prince jerked his head up to yell at
Magnus, he howled. "Yeowtchl"

  "Yes, that gives you a reason to hold your head still," Rod said. "Now,
pay attention for a second."

  "What for, big man?"

  Magnus applied a little more leverage. The imposter groaned, eyes
bulging.

   "Now that we have a basis for discussion," Rod said, "maybe you can
tell us where these music-rocks came from."

    "Oh no, big man." The youth tried to shake his head, winced, and gave
it up as a bad job. "Oh no, I can't. I only know they came one day—and
never has my living life been dull a moment since."

  "I wonder an he doth tell the truth." Magnus bore down,

  and the young man yelped. "The dead! Only the dead know, only the
dead! I mean it… YEOWTCH!"

  "Magnus!" Gwen scolded. "What honor's in this? Thou hast reason to
hold him still, naught more!"

  Magnus looked up, realization dawning. "I cannot stay here all year,
Mama."

  "Mama, Mama," the young man mocked. "Oh, pretty honor, little
b—OWWWW!"

   "You shouldn't have made him angry," Rod explained. "Either control
your mouth, or don't use it. As to your dilemma, son—we could put him to
sleep."

  Magnus shook his head. "He would but follow us when he waked,
Papa."

  "What dost thou intend!" Gwen said with indignation.

  "I know not," Magnus confessed.

  "Give him more of what he doth wish," Gregory suggested. •

  "No can do, little man! I want everything!"
  "Aye, but what dost thou want most?"

   The imposter's eyes roved toward Cordelia, but his arm creaked, and he
groaned. "Music. Most of all, music!"

  "He shall have music, wherever he goes." Geoffrey shrugged.

  "An excellent idea, brother!" Gregory caught up two rocks.

  "What?" Geoffrey stared blankly. "What have I said?"

   "That he should have music, wheresoe'er he doth go!" Gregory placed
the two rocks over the youth's ears. Instantly, his eyes dulled and lost
focus.

  "Maybe, just maybe," Rod said thoughtfully.

  "Bind them in place," Gregory suggested.

   Geoffrey caught up the youth's singlet, tore off a strip, and tied it
around his head, crown to chin. Then he tore another and bound it from
nape to forehead. "They shall stay, unless he doth take them off."

  "He won't, or I miss my guess," Rod said. "Let him go, son."

  Magnus let go, and the young man fell like a stone.

   Magnus looked down at him with disgust. "What, hast thou no pride?
Rise and walk, man!"

   The prince-mocker picked himself up, looking dazed, and ambled away.
He walked right between Gwen and Cordelia, unseeing, and wandered into
the wood.

   Rod nodded with satisfaction. "Wonderful idea, boys! He's out of
trouble for the rest of his life!"

   "Or until someone doth take the rocks off from him," Geoffrey pointed
out.

   "By then, we shall be long gone," Magnus said with satisfaction, "and
our trail grown very cold." Then he frowned. "What did he mean by
saying, 'only the dead know'?"
  "A metaphor," Gregory suggested, "to show that none living can have
any idea of the rocks' origin."

   "No." Rod was quite certain. "What started this whole exploration,
son?"

  Gregory looked up, startled. "Why… the dancing dead."

  Rod nodded. "So if he says that only the dead know, those zombies
might just be the dead he speaks of."

  "But where," asked Cordelia, "shall we find the walking dead?"

   "Somewhere between sunrise and dawn." Rod turned to pick up sticks.
"But I, for one, am not minded to go searching just now. Fire and food,
kids. We'll go hunting tomorrow. Maybe the blimp will show us."

  "Aye," Gwen agreed. "For now, dinner and bed."

   They managed to sleep well in spite of all the music—or perhaps
because of it. Rod's last thought, as he drifted into sleep, was that maybe
his ears were beginning to grow numb.


                      Chapter Nineteen
  The next day was a hard one. They followed the blimp from sunrise to
sunset and beyond. Past dark, they came to a village.

  "We truly ought to have stopped some while ago, husband, whiles there
was still light."

   "I know, dear, but you'd been talking about wanting to sleep in a real
bed, and frankly, I just couldn't resist the notion. Besides, I thought you
might appreciate not having to cook." Rod frowned down at the village
below them in the gloaming. "But I'm beginning to wonder if this hamlet
is big enough to have an inn."

  "It hath a graveyard," Magnus noted.

   They stood atop a ridge, with the village nestled in a bowl of trees below
them, centered around a small church with a broad yard dotted with
grave markers. Lights warmed the darkness here and there, but none
bright enough to indicate an inn.

   "Well, if there is an hostel, it'll be near the church," Rod noted. "We can
always go on through and camp on the outskirts, if we come up dry."

  "Papa…"

   "Patience, Geoffrey," said Gwen. "If there is an inn, thou'lt have thy
dinner straightaway."

  The boy signed and followed his father down the hill.

   But as they passed the churchyard, Gregory winced at the volume of
sound. "Is this reverent, Papa? How can there be so much more noise
here?"

   "It is suspicious," Rod admitted with a glance toward the church,
"almost as though someone were attacking the chapel…"

   "We have seen a meadow where folk did throw music-rocks, to be rid of
them," Magnus contributed.

  Gwen frowned. "But wherefore would they throw stones at the church?"

  Gregory jolted to a halt, staring.

  Rod stopped. "What's the matter, son?"

  "The graves," Gregory gasped, affrighted. "Papa… so many…"

  In front of a score of tombstones there were gaping, ragged holes. Rod
was aghast. "What is it?" he asked. "The plague?"

   "No, Rod," Fess answered. "I am enhancing my night-vision, and can
see that the holes are those of old graves. It is not the work of a sexton,
though it might be the detritus of grave robbers."

  "Or ghouls," Cordelia said, with a delicious shiver.

  "I think not, Cordelia. From the pattern in which the dirt has fallen, I
would say that the graves have been opened from within."

  The whole family was very quiet for a minute or so.
  Then Magnus said, "Fess—dost thou say these graves were…"

  The ground in front of one of the tombstones began to tremble.

    Gregory cried out, and Gwen caught him up in her arms. "Peace, my
little one, peace… Husband, away!"

   "Good idea." Rod crouched down to hide behind the wall. "You folks get
going."

  Gwen hopped onto her broomstick, then turned back, startled.
"Assuredly thou dost not mean to stay!"

   "What danger could there be?" Rod asked. "Don't worry, I'm only going
to watch."

  "Wherefore take the chance!"

  "Because," Rod whispered, "I think we just may have found out where
our zombies came from."

  Gwen made a little noise of exasperation, then commanded. "Cordelia!
Geoffrey! Aloft!"

   The younger children circled up reluctantly—until Geoffrey noticed that
his mother had that withdrawn look that she had whenever she was
readying magic. He had a notion he might just see a flying tombstone.

   For the moment, though, he saw his father and his big brother
crouched behind a wall and, in a patch of moonlight, ground bulging in
front of a headstone. It bulged, it heaved—and clods of earth spewed up as
a hole appeared and widened. Then the dirt stopped flying, and two hands
of bone rose out of the hole. They groped about, found purchase on the
ground at the sides, and heaved. A skull catapulted out of the hole with the
rest of the skeleton behind it. It knelt on the edge of the grave, scrabbled
for purchase, then rose up tall in the moonlight, gleaming white, wrapped
in the rotting remnants of a shroud.

   Gregory moaned and hid his head in Gwen's shoulder. She made
soothing noises as she glared at the tombstone; the skeleton didn't see it
tremble.
   No, it was the skeleton who was trembling—or rather, nodding. It made
a happy noise, then moved away from its grave, stepping in time to the
music, its whole body bobbing and weaving as its skull rotated, seeking.
Suddenly it stiffened, facing west, then leaped in the air, landing with the
sound of a xylophone run. It gave a joyous yelp and set off in a stiff and
awkward dance, moving away down the main street of the village.
Shutters slammed in its wake, but it didn't notice.

  Rod and Magnus rose from behind the wall. "If I hadn't seen it, I
wouldn't have believed it!" Rod breathed.

  "It doth not seem ill-intentioned," Magnus pointed out in a shaky voice.

  Fess stepped up behind him out of the night. "It does seem harmless."

    "Ya-a-a-h!" Magnus leaped five feet straight up. "Must thou move so
silently!"

  "My apologies, Magnus. Rod, may I recommend seeking a campsite?"

  "Uh, not just yet." Rod set off down the road.

  "Where dost thou go?" Gwen cried down in anguish.

  "Why, after that skeleton, of course. You can't think it would mean any
harm! Why, it's fairly whistling!"

  "To whistle," Fess pointed out, "one must have lips."

  "And it needs vocal folds to sing, but it's doing a pretty good job of that.
Gwen, you didn't tell me witch-moss could grow in graves."

  "I had not thought it," she admitted, swooping low. "Now that thou
dost speak of it, I wonder an it doth occur by nature's way."

   "Nay! Someone did seed each grave with witch-moss!" Geoffrey cried,
alighting next to Rod.

  Rod looked at him askance. "And where do you think you're going?"

  "Why, with my father! If 'tis as safe as thou sayest, then I am at no
hazard!"
   Rod opened his mouth to answer, then closed it with a sigh. "One of
these days, I'll start saying no."

   "Tomorrow," Cordelia suggested, "or mayhap next year."

   "A possibility. Okay, family, let's go see where the skull is headed. Just
be ready to hit the treetops on a moment's notice, okay?"

   The skeleton led them out of town, past three fields, and into a pasture
that was bordered with a circle of piled stones—musical ones. The night
was filled with hard, jangling sound, and the cows had fled to the nearby
wood-lot. Rod had a notion there wouldn't be much milk in the morning.

   Not that the field was empty, of course. In fact, it was rather full—of
bones. Not heaped, but articulated. It was a night of the walking dead, in
various stages of mummification.

   There were only twenty of them, though—Rod counted. The rest of the
crowd…

   "Papa," Cordelia gasped, "they are living folk!"

   "Yes, dear—their descendants, no doubt. A little on the young side, too."

   In fact, they were still trickling in—young folk in their teens and early
twenties, heads nodding, feet weaving in intricate patterns, bodies moving
in time to the music.

   "Are they blind to the presence of the dead?" Magnus demanded.

   Rod was about to say "yes" when he saw a zombie rise up in the center
of a circle of young folk, who shouted and clapped their hands as their
ancestor cavorted. After a few minutes, they left off clapping and began to
dance with one another in the stiff, awkward movements of the skeleton,
while he beat time over their heads, signalling them in their progress
through the dance.

   "Nay," Gwen said, coming down to earth. "They see, but do not see."

   Rod frowned. "How can that be?"

   "Like the drifters we met," Magnus explained. "They used lotus to rid
their minds of thought—but for these young folk, the music alone doth
suffice to achieve that end."

   Rod turned to him, appalled. "You don't mean they're trying not to
think!"

  "Aye," Cordelia said. "They told us they had wearied of the sad and
endless task of seeking to make sense of the world."

   Rod remembered his own adolescence, and held his peace. He turned
back to watch the dancers for a while, then whispered, "Of course. They
seek to be like the zombies."

  "Rod."

  He shook off the mood. "Yes, Fess?"

   "You must establish the mechanism and, if possible, determine who has
created this situation."

  "A good point." Rod frowned. "Any advice on methodology?"

  "Gather data."

  "How are we to do that?" Magnus asked. "Will watching tell us aught
more?"

   "Maybe," Rod said, "but I'd like to try a more direct approach." And,
before anybody could stop him, he dove into the center of the circle of
dancers. Gwen gave a scream, then clamped her lips shut, pale with anger.

  "He will be well, Mama," Cordelia said faintly.

  "An he is not, we shall drag him out! Children! Be ready!"

   Rod surfaced inside the circle, coming up right next to the dancing
bones. Now he could see why the skeleton stood head and shoulders above
the youths—it danced on a broad stump.

  Rod waved. "Hi, there!"

  The skeleton turned about, bobbing and beating time, not seeing him.

  Rod steeled himself and reached up to tap a scapula. "Hey! Got a
minute?"

   "Eternity." Now the skull swivelled toward him, the sightless eyes
seeking his own. "What wouldst thou of me?"

   Rod swallowed. "Just some information. Mind telling me the reason for
the party?"

  "What is a 'party'?"

   No, the culture wasn't ready for democracy yet. "This festival, then. Any
particular reason you climbed up out of your grave? Or did you just feel
like taking a walk?"

   The skeleton made a dry, rattling sound that Rod hoped was a laugh. "I
only know that I swam up from darkness to feel a steady rhythm round
me, like to a heartbeat. I wished to hear more of it; I swam up through the
earth, and the closer I came, the more clearly I heard—till I broke through
to air, and climbed again upon the surface."

  Rod stared. "You mean the music was loud enough to wake the dead?"

   "Aye. I was the first; anon I gathered all the pretty rocks that made
such wondrous sound, and brought them here, to set in a circle by which I
might dance. Ere the night had ended, others had waked from their long
sleep to join me."

  Rod swallowed. "Well—at least it doesn't seem to be doing you any
harm."

   "Oh, nay!" the skeleton carolled, and pirouetted for joy, stamping a foot
down to stop so that it faced Rod again, and all its bones rattled like
castanets. "Nay, this music doth make me stir as though with life again; it
doth fill my bones with the need to dance! Oh, happy are we all for this
second chance at life, and ten times thankful to be waked!"

  Just what Gramarye needed—a band of grateful dead. "You're setting a
bad example, you know."

   "What—by dancing?" The skeleton stared with sightless eyes,
incredulous. "How can that be so bad?"
   "Because your descendants are imitating you. They were raised to
respect their elders, after all."

   " 'Twas we who were raised, not they." But the skeleton looked about at
the young people. "How is our example harmful to them?"

  "Because they're trying to become just like you— mindless zombies. You
don't want them to grow up to be deadheads, do you?"

  "Wherefore not?" The skeleton turned a toothy grin on him.

   Rod was still trying to phrase an answer, when the skeleton looked past
his dancing circle and saw the family. "Oh, I see! Thou hast children of
thine own, and dost fear to lose them!"

  "Well, there is that, yes."

   "Let me see!" The skeleton hopped down off its stump and pushed
through the dancers, over to the ring of stones. The children saw it
coming, and drew back—but the skeleton halted a dozen paces away.
"These are not of my village."

  Rod brightened. "Does that mean they're immune to your music?"

  "Aye—but they have ancestors of their own."

  Rod relaxed, reflecting that most of the children's local ancestors were
not only still alive, but likely to remain so. Their more frail progenitors
were thirty light-years away. "You know, I can't help wondering…"

   "Poor fellow. Only listen to the music awhile, and it will cure thee of
that malady."

   "Yes, I don't doubt it. But, um, I was going to say—you are beginning to
look a little weary."

   The skeleton was silent for a minute, then admitted, "Aye. I feel the first
faint edge of tiring. I am not so young as once I was, a hundred years
agone."

  "I kind of thought so. You're going to want to rest before too long."

  "I doubt it not." The sigh was a gust of breeze. "Yet I have rested so long
that I am loath to lie down again."

  "Don't push it too hard." Rod glanced at the dancers with
apprehension. "You may need a vacation from your holiday. "

   "And if thou dost not, thy young folk will." Gwen gazed past the
skeleton to the dancers, with concern. "Wilt thou never release them from
this spell?"

   "Only if they wish it—and I think that they will not. Be not troubled in
thy heart, kind lady—there have ever been deadheads, and ever will be. In
truth…" Its empty gaze lingered speculatively on Magnus and Cordelia.

   "Don't even think it," Rod snapped. "Fear not. I can see that these have
too much joy in thought; they would be loath to be deadheads."

   Gregory tugged at Rod's sleeve. "Papa—dost thou recall? That
pretentious prince did say that only the dead did know."

  Rod looked up at the zombie, startled. "That's right, he did, didn't he?
And here are the dead!"

  "Of what dost thou speak?" asked the zombie.

   "The music-rocks." Rod demanded. "Can you tell us where they came
from?"

  "Nay, only that I am right glad they did. Yet mayhap Destina would
know." He turned his hollow eyes back toward the crowd, crying, "Destina,
come!"

  Cordelia frowned. "What is Destina?"

   Another zombie came dancing out of the crowd toward them. From the
tatters of a skirt and bodice adorning its bones, they could tell it must
have been a woman once.

  "Destina," said the leader. "Tell: Whence come the music-rocks?"

   "Ah," said she, "the first did fall from the Sky Egg. But find and follow
it"—she turned toward the Gallowglasses— "and belike thou shalt find…
Why, so!"
  "What?" They all gave her a blank look.

  "A right comely lad!" Her bony hand reached out to chuck Magnus
under the chin. "Art thou wed, sweet chuck?"

  Magnus recoiled. "Nay!"

  "He is too young," Gwen said, with steel in her voice.

   "Wherefore? My first was a father by the time he had come to this
height! Nay, I've need of another husband, handsome youth. Wilt thou
come with me to wed?"

    "Oh, no!" Magnus took another step backward. "Thou canst not mean
it!"

   "I doubt not she doth," the leader said. "Nay, come along with ifs, and
taste life eternal!"

  "I'm afraid she's not quite what I had in mind for a
daughter-in-law…"Rod began.

   "Thou shalt be of another mind when thou hast kissed me." The
skull-face thrust closer to Magnus.

  "Thou dost lie!" Magnus stumbled back. "Pray Heaven thou dost lie!"

   "Come, essay it!" The leader reached out for Magnus, and Destina
giggled and stepped forward. "We shall insist thou stay with us a while!"

  "He most assuredly shall not!" Gwen stepped between her son and the
zombie, arm raised—then hesitated.

  "Do not, Mama." Magnus's voice trembled, but he persisted. "They are
but poor and empty things!"

   Gwen's mouth twitched. "I am loath to give hurt to ones who have, at
long last, gained so pitiful a measure of pleasure."

   "Measure of pleasure!" The leader lifted his skull, eyes lighting. "A
measure of pleasure! Aye, a measure indeed!" And he began to beat a
rhythm on his pelvis and a tune on his rib cage, chanting,
   "He shall have a measure, A quantity of pleasure! Let him with us
tarry, Dally and be merry!"

  Magnus swallowed. "Said he, 'be merry,' or 'be-marry'?"

  "Now, come!" The leader sprang at Magnus.

  The lad leaped back as his father leaned in; the skeleton slammed into
Rod's chest and fell in a jumble of bones.

  "What hast thou done!" Destina keened.

  "More to the point, what should we be doing?" Rod corrected.

  The leader began to pull himself together.

   "I am loath to fight them." Coming from Geoffrey, that was saying a
great deal.

  "What else can we do?" Cordelia asked.

  The leader rose up, singing,

  "We do not measure please,

  But give pleasure in full measure!

  So if thou wouldst thy pleasure measure …"

  "We can run!" Rod shooed them away from him.

  They ran.

  The zombies yelped with joy and bounded into a bone-shaking chase.

  "Where can we go?" Gregory panted.

  "Where but straight ahead!" Magnus outdistanced them all.

  "Fly!" Gwen commanded. "Lest thou dost break thy leg in a fall!"

  They all rose up a foot off the ground, skimming along as fast as they
dared in unknown country. Behind them, the young people added their
enthusiastic shouting to the chase. The music-rocks picked up the
excitement, and began to boom and howl all about them.

   Then, suddenly, they crested a rise—and found themselves in a
cul-de-sac, a box canyon, surrounded by stone on all sides.

  "Back!" Magnus whirled about. "Out from this place, ere our
pursuers…"

  The mouth of the canyon filled with walking bones and bonny youths.

   "Too late." Rod spread his arms, trying to shield his whole family.
Before them, the crowd advanced with glee and stones, holding out rocks
that were racketing with an unholy din.

  Then the noise began to beat at them from the back.

  "It doth echo off the cliff walls!" Cordelia called.

  "Nay," Magnus shouted, "they do take it up!"

   It was true. The canyon walls had begun to vibrate in sympathy,
resonating and re-emitting the music of the stones.

   "What can we do now!" Gregory wailed. "We are caught between their
rocks and a hard place!"

  "We can fly!" Gwen snapped.

  On the word, Cordelia's broomstick took off like a rocket. All three boys
shot up after her, with Rod and Gwen right behind them.

  Below, a disappointed moan filled all the canyon.

  The music dwindled behind and below them.

   "Praise Heaven!" Magnus shuddered. "I feared I would have to
dismember them!"

  "Where shall we go now?" Geoffrey asked.

   Rod looked up with a sudden smile. "Hey! We're in the right place to
look for it…"
  "For what?" Gwen asked.

  "That female zombie said something about following a Sky Egg!"

  "But how can there be an egg in the sky?" Gregory said reasonably.

  "Mayhap she meant the moon," Cordelia suggested.

   "An that be so," Gwen pointed out, "we must wait—for the moon hath
set."

   "All right, I suppose we should"—Rod sighed— "especially since I'm
afraid she didn't mean the moon but just that blimp we've been
following."

  "Why—'tis so!" Cordelia said, surprised.

   "Even so," Geoffrey agreed. "Dost recall that when first I saw it I said
'twas a giant egg?"

  "It seems to run all through this terrain," Rod growled.

  "Have we come in a circle, then?" Gwen asked.

   "Traid so, dear—and we'll have to break out of it, tomorrow. But for
tonight, let's get some sleep. Pick a good camping place. Sorry about that
bed you wanted."

  She sailed up alongside him to squeeze his hand. " 'Twas more a door I
had a-mind—but let it rest."

   "Not much choice, now," Rod said, resigned. "Come on, my love. Let's
see if we can get a little sleep, at least."

  "And food," Geoffrey reminded them.


                        Chapter Twenty
  They had journeyed an hour or two the next day when Cordelia tilted
her head back and sniffed the wind. "I smell brine."

  "We do come near to the sea, then," her mother said. "Magnus, go aloft
and tell if thou dost see water."

   Magnus bobbed up as though he'd hit a thermal, skyrocketing to a
thousand feet. His mental voice said, Aye, Mama! Ah, 'tis ever a noble
sight! Such a vast expanse of water, so wide and flat, clear to the edge of
the world!

   "Stop being so poetic," Rod said, grinning. "It's just the horizon."

   Ah, but who doth know what may lie beyond this horizon?

   "More water, and you know it darn well." Rod felt a stab of anxiety,
though; Magnus was almost of an age to begin wandering. How soon
would his son leave him?

   "How far is it?" Gwen asked.

   Twenty miles or more, Mother. Two days' journey afoot, at least.

   "Anything worth looking at in between?" Rod asked.

   Dost thou wish to look at fens and marshland?

    "Let us leave no stone unturned." Rod sighed. "Come down, son, and
let's see what the fen has in store for us."

   But they found out on the way. They happened across a road and, as
they neared the scrub growth that marked the fen, they saw a group of
people ahead—and another even farther ahead. Rod frowned. "What is
this, a procession?"

   "Aye," said Gregory. "Behind us, Papa."

  Rod looked back and saw another handful of people following a
hundred yards to the rear. "We seem to be popular."

   "Or the fen is," Gwen pointed out.

   "Wherefore are there only small children among them?" Cordelia asked.

  "Interesting point, that." Rod lengthened his stride. "Let's ask
someone."
   They caught up with the group ahead—two men and two women in
their forties, a woman in her sixties, and three small children.

   "Where are you going?" Rod asked, but the people plodded on as
though they hadn't heard. Rod throttled his irritation and was about to
ask again, when Fess noted, "They wear bandages about their heads, Rod.
Between that and the clamor of the rock music, they may not have heard
you."

   "Good point." Rod reached out and tapped the shoulder of the peasant
in front. The man shied away like a critic hearing a countdown, then took
in the sight of Gwen and the children. He relaxed a little, but eyed Magnus
and Cordelia with caution, almost hostility.

   Their voices echoed in Rod's head. Who hath hurt him, Papa? Of what
is he so wary?

  Of us, sister, Magnus answered. But why should he fear a youth and a
maiden?

   Let's ask. Rod pointed to his ear and said, "Can you hear us?" loudly
and slowly. The peasant frowned, shaking his head. He pulled the bandage
off his head, popped a wax cover off his ear, and promptly winced. "Aiee!
The noise! I trust Your Worship hath good reason to rob me of my ward."

   "I just want to know why so many of you are going to the fen," Rod
called, trying to project over the sound of the music.

   "Why, to escape this coil of howling," the peasant called back. "Come,
but ask no more until we've gained shelter, I beg of thee." Still, he didn't
turn away; Rob was obviously gentry.

  Impatiently, Rob called, "Right. Go ahead."

  The peasant smiled in gratitude and replaced his earcover, pulling the
bandage back to hold it in place. He relaxed visibly, then gave the
Gallowglasses a smile and turned away to trudge toward the fen.

  "Can they truly seek refuge from the music?" Cordelia asked, wide-eyed.

   "They can," Gwen assured her. "For myself, I do not wonder at it; 'tis a
veritable cacophony."
  "Nay, Mama! 'Tis pretty! Well… not 'pretty,' surely. But 'tis most
appealing!"

   "If that's appeal, I'll steal the bell," Rod growled. "Come on, family. If
there's silence ahead, I crave it."

   "If thou wilt." Magnus sighed, and followed after.

   "Magnus," said Fess, behind him, "must you put in extra steps for each
stride?"

  "It doth no harm, Fess," Magnus answered, "and this music doth make
me feel so filled with movement that I must needs find some way to let it
out."

   "Well, if you must, you must." The horse sighed, and followed the
family, remembering how Will Kemp had danced his way from London to
the seacoast, never taking a normal step for nine days.

   The ground became marshy to either side of the road. Soon small pools
appeared. Then they were in among the low scrub growth, and the peasant
family stopped to take off their bandages and earcovers, warily at first,
then quickly, with sighs of relief.

   "Was it truly needful, Mama?" a ten-year-old asked.

   "Mayhap not for thee, sweet chuck," his mother answered, "but it was
for me."

  "We would liefer not have thee heed the clamor about us, as thy brother
and sister have done," his father explained.

   "What clamor?" the boy said. " Tis most sweet strains, here."

   And they were. The music was soft, very melodic—and so peaceful that
Rod almost didn't realize it was there, until he stopped to listen. The tunes
had a much greater range of notes, and the bass line and rhythm were no
longer dominant.

   "Aye, there be sweet sounds here," said the other man. "Thou art within
the fen, and its music doth bar that howling that we have waded through
these two days."
   "The music doth emanate from some place ahead," Magnus pointed
out.

  "Let us go to it," one of the men said, "for I crave its shelter."

  Everyone started down the road again, but it wasn't wide enough for
more than four abreast, so the Gallowglasses followed after.

  "Husband," said Gwen, "go up among these folk, and learn why they
have come."

   "If you say so—but I would have said it was pretty obvious." Rod
lengthened his stride and caught up with the peasants. "If you don't mind,
goodman—I need a bit of information."

  "Assuredly, my lord! What wouldst thou?"

  "Well, for starters—how did you find out about this place?"

  "Word of it hath run through every farm and village," the wife
answered, "wherever folk do groan under the burden of this clamor that
hath begun these few months past."

   More than two months, then, Rod noted. "You've had to try to keep up
with your daily work all that time?"

   "Aye, and it hath become a trial greater and more sore as the days have
rolled," her husband said. "A neighbor told us there was sanctuary in the
fen, yet we had crops in the field, and sought to keep our daily round."

   "Yet our heads began to ache, and sorely," the wife added. "We stopped
our hearing with waxen covers for our ears, we tied bandages to hold
them—yet still the strident thumping came through, to make us falter."

  "I began to stumble as I went out to the pasture," the other peasant
man explained. "I found that I did trip as I sought to follow the plow."

  "Anon the burden became too great to bear," his wife said, "and so we
came here, for sanctuary."

   "Ere any others of our children were reived from us," the first wife said
darkly.
  "Children reived!" Cordelia stiffened. "Who would do so craven a deed?"

   "The music, maiden," the first man answered. "The music, that doth
capture the affections of our older children."

  "Why, how is this?" But there was foreboding in Cordelia's voice; she
remembered the groups of young people she had seen.

   "Our son was aged twelve, when he began to twitch with the music's
rhythm," the second wife answered. "Our daughter was fourteen. Her head
began to nod, and she commenced singing wordless songs as she went
about her chores…"

  "Not wordless," the ten-year-old protested.

   "Well, if there were words to them, I could not make them out. She did
move more slowly about her tasks, and more slowly still, till finally she
threw them over, and went off to join the other maidens in the forest."

  "Pray Heaven they are maidens still!" the second father said with a
shudder, "for the older boys and young men have gone to the forest, too.
Mine eldest was twenty, mine other son sixteen. Where are they now?"

  Magnus saw the real worry that lined his face. "Peace, goodman. He's
well, I doubt not."

   "Then thou hast not seen what we have seen," the first father grunted.
"The twitching and spasms they call dancing, the strange foods they
gather, the bands of them that wind about the countryside with strange
kicking steps, knowing not whither they go— Pray Heaven they have not
come to their undoing!"

   Magnus started to say that he hadn't seen the youths doing anything
dangerous, but remembering the sense of peril he had felt with the
lotus-eaters, the cadaverous pebble-eaters, and the vampire, he held his
peace.

   "So many families!" Gwen saved him with a change of subject. "And
look, they do come from all points of the compass!"

  They could see for a mile or two in each direction, for the fens were flat
and level, and covered only with bushes and tussocks, with here and there
a small stand of trees. Against the waning sun came the silhouettes of
families and groups of older peasants, trooping in from all directions.

  "Where are they going?" Rod asked.

  "We shall know soon enough," Gwen assured him.

  "The music has grown louder," Gregory noted.

  It had, though not unpleasantly so. Rod glanced at his children, and
saw that even Geoffrey was beginning to relax—and he was relieved that
Magnus and Cordelia had stopped twitching.

   Then they came into a grove of small, stunted, twisted trees, and saw a
large pool in front of them. It lay still, molten gold in the late-afternoon
sun, its surface rippled only by a passing breeze—and the whole pond
seemed to resonate with the gentle melody. All around its edge, people
were sitting or reclining, doing simple chores such as whittling or
mending. Campfires blossomed.

  "Water at last!" Magnus knelt by the pool. "I thirst!"

   "I would not," the older peasant said, but Magnus had already dipped
up a handful. He sipped, then shook the water off, making a face. " 'Tis
brackish."

   "Aye," the peasant said. "This is fen-land, look you, young master. We
are near the sea; the water is salt."

  "Even as our blood is," Rod murmured.

  "How sayest thou, gentleman?"

  "Nothing major." Rod sat down with a sigh. "We'll have to get a
campfire going, of course."

  "Certes." Gwen sat beside him. "Yet we may rest awhile."

  "I shall search for water," Magnus said.

   "Don't bother, son." Rod held up a hand. "Any water you find will taste
of the sea. Anything in that waterskin, Gwen?"
  His wife held up a leather bottle that was almost flat. Suddenly, it
bulged. "Aye," she said. "Here, my son."

  Magnus took the skin thankfully and squirted a long stream into his
mouth.

   "Cordelia," Gwen called, "what dost thou?"

   The girl was ten yards away, by the brink of the pool. "Only looking to
see what lies under the water, Mama," she called, all innocence—but she
was making faces, giving exaggerated looks behind her, where Gregory
was prowling along the shoreline on hands and knees, studying the water
with a pensive expression.

   Gwen smiled. "Oh, aye. Thou hast not seen such a pool aforetime, hast
thou?"

   "Nay, Mama," Cordelia said, with a smile of relief. She turned back to
making sure that Little Brother didn't fall in—when he was so consumed
by curiosity, he tended to ignore little things like safety. But of course it
would have hurt his feelings if Cordelia had come right out and said she
had to take care of him—or thought it, for that matter.

   "Are there other places like this?" Rod asked one of the peasants.

   The man looked up from setting kindling. "We have heard of some. A
minstrel came by with clay o'er his ears; he had come from a grove to the
north, where some chandlers had moved their shops, and did sing of the
sea. He did say he was bound for the south, to an island on which some
troubadors had gathered, where the music of the sea did keep the clamor
at bay."

   "A few little oases of calm, all up and down the coast, I'll bet." Rod
nodded and turned to Gwen. "We'll have to encourage their growth
inland."

   "Aye, my lord. There is need for refuges from the wild life."

   "Mama! Papa!" Cordelia called. "Come see! 'Tis most amazing!"

  "Not truly, sister," Gregory disagreed. "They are but clams, after all.
Wouldst thou not expect to find such near to the tidewater?"
  "Not such as these, addlepate! Tis they who do make the music!"

  Gregory looked up, incredulous.

  Rod pulled himself to his feet. "I think we'd better have a look at this."

  "Aye," Gwen agreed. "What manner of creatures are these?"

  They moved around the curve of the pool, followed by Geoffrey and
Magnus. Fess stayed where he was, but kept an eye on them.

   Cordelia had followed Gregory out onto a sand-spit that ran twenty feet
into the pool—and, sure enough, there they were, on a ledge two feet under
the water: five clams, standing on end in the sand, almost in the middle of
the pond, and they were moving, though slightly, in time to the music.

  "But how can clams make music?" Gregory wondered.

  "Why," said a voice from the water, "how can I keep from singing?"

   The children did a double take, and Gregory asked, "Was it thou who
didst speak, little clam?"

  "Aye," she answered, "if 'twas thou didst ask."

  "These," Rod whispered to Gwen, "are not your average clams."

  "I had guessed it," she returned.

   "It was a little obvious," Rod admitted. "Is there no end to the wonders
of this island?"

  "Only in people's hearts and minds, my lord."

  "Dost thou sing only because thou must?" Cordelia asked.

  The clam gave a melodious chuckle. "Is that so little?"

  Cordelia blushed, and Gregory said, "Then why must thou needs sing?"

   "Why," said a deeper voice, "we seek to keep alive the music that
otherwise might die for want of singing."
  "Do you unearth new tunes, then?"

   "Some new, but many old. We seek to keep alive simple music, and
ornate music, and songs with words worth hearing—but, more than aught
else, we seek to foster melody, that the Land of Song may not die."

   "'Tis poetry, look thou," said another clam, "the lyric poetry that had its
birth in song."

  " Tis beauty," said a fourth, "beauty of poetry and melody alike."

   "But if you keep it alive," said Geoffrey, "then it must have begun before
thee."

   "Thou speakest aright," said two clams at once, and a third said, "The
fen was once filled with the sounds of natural music until the hard rocks
drowned them out, and we clams do keep the music of the fen alive."

  "Also the music of the folk," said the fourth clam.

  Gregory sidled over to Rod and said, low-voiced, "I have discerned the
manner of five small beings making music enough to fill this grove."

  "I don't think they're doing it deliberately," Rod pointed out.

   "That they may not realize how much they do? Aye. Yet their sounds
are carried by the water, making the whole pond to vibrate—and thus
their music spreads."

   You are correct, Gregory, said Fess's voice. They have set up a ripple
effect.

  "Yet if what thou dost say is true," Cordelia said to the clams, "thou
must needs treasure all music."

  "All good music, aye."

  "Is there no good rock music then?" she protested.

   "Music that the rocks have brought? Aye! There do be some!" the first
clam said, but even as she spoke, a bass voice near her had begun to
thrum in a steady rhythm. Then three other voices began to vocalize in a
higher register, repeating a wordless refrain.
  The Gallowglasses looked at one another, astonished. " 'Tis like the
music of the first soft rocks we did hear," Magnus said.

   "It is the same," Cordelia said.

   Then the tenor clam broke in, singing,

   "Live with me, and be my love, And we shall all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dales and fields, And all the craggy mountains
yields.

   There will we sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds and their
flocks, By shallow rivers, by whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals.

  There will I make thee a bed of roses, With a thousand fragrant
posies, A cap of flowers and a kirtle Emblazoned all with leaves of
myrtle.

    A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs, And
if these pleasures may thee move, Then live with me and be my love."

   The soprano clam sang the answer:

   "If that the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd's
tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee and be
thy love."

   "Why, 'tis beauteous!" Gwen said, enthralled. "At the least, it is when
thou dost sing it."

   But Cordelia frowned. "The tune, I know—yet the words are new."

   "Thou speakest aright," said a baritone clam. "It was but melody when
first we heard it. Later, there were words, but we liked them not, so we
gave the tune to other verses that we'd heard anon."

   Rod frowned. "I don't know if I quite like the drift of that song's
sentiments."

   "Oh, thou art but one who would kill joy!" Cordelia scoffed. "Is not the
lass's reply enough for thee?"

   "It is," Rod said, "if you remember it."
   "It was indeed the music of the soft rock," Gregory said. "Yet assuredly
thou canst find no delight in the hard rocks' music!"

  "Wherefore not, brother?" Geoffrey asked. "That, at least, I can begin to
comprehend, for it hath the sound of an army on the march."

  The clams began to vibrate with a strong, quick rhythm, and chanted:

   "Crabbed age and youth Cannot live together, For youth is full of
pleasure, Age is full of care!

  Youth, like summer morn, Age, like winter weather; Youth, like
summer brave, Age like winter bare.

  Youth is full of sport, Age's breath is short, Youth is nimble, age is
lame, Age, I do abhor thee!"

  "Now, wait a minute," Rod said; but the music rode right on over his
words:

  "Youth, I do adore thee!

  Oh, my love, my love is young!

  Age, I do defy thee!

  Oh, sweet shepherd, hie thee,

  For methinks thou stay'st too long!"

  "Definitely," Rod said, "I find that offensive."

  "Wherefore?" asked a baritone clam. "Thou art not aged."

   Rod froze, agape, then managed to close his mouth. Cordelia giggled.
Rod gave her a black look, then said to Gwen, "Of course, I do kind of
agree with the sentiments of that last verse."

  But her eyes were already glowing at him.

   "Twas fair, I will allow," Geoffrey said. "Yet surely thou canst do naught
with this plague of noise that doth come from the heavy metal stones!"
    "Oh, but we have heard good sounds from them!" another baritone
clam cried. "Aye, mayhap nine in ten are worthless—but is not that true of
all things? The tenth is well worth keeping."

   But the tenor clam was already vibrating, and Rod was awestruck at
the sound.

   It was like surf breaking on a shingled shore, like wind howling over a
frozen tundra. It was an ancient locomotive, throbbing across that barren
plain; it was a driving rhythm that beat and battered at him, then broke
into a cascade of jangling notes as the tenor voice cried out:

  "/, who am not shaped for lover's tricks,

  And made to shun my looking glass,

  I, that am rudely shaped,

  Cheated of feature by all-lying nature,

  Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time

  Into this breathing world scarce half made up,

  And that so lamely and unfashionable

  That dogs bark at me as I limp by them—

  Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,

  Have no delight to pass away the time,

  Unless to spy my shadow in the sun,

  And descant on mine own deformity,

  And therefore—since I cannot prove a lover,

  I am determined to prove a villain,

  And hate the idle pleasures of these days!"

  The final chord rang, and died. The Gallowglasses sat, stunned.
  Finally, Rod cleared his throat and said, "Yes. I guess that's good."

  " 'Tis wondrous!" Cordelia breathed.

  "No music is good or bad in itself," the bass voice said. "It is what
people make of it."

   "Each music hath its purpose," one of the clams admonished. "Each
form of music hath its verse."

  "The words, though," Rod protested. "Some of the songs I've been
hearing have words that are downright poisonous!"

   But Fess's quiet voice said, There have always been those who have
turned music to evil purposes. Shall I speak of ancient hymns to
bloodthirsty gods? Or of the twisted paeans sung by medieval witches?

  "Or of the sirens' songs." Rod nodded. "Yes, I take your point."

  Magnus asked the clams, "Whose words are these that thou didst sing?
For surely I have not heard them from the stones."

   "Nay," said the tenor clam. "They are an older poet's, I think—but we
sing them of the witch who doth sow these music-rocks broadcast."

  "A witch behind the music-rocks?" Rod tensed. "Who is she? Where?"

  "Here on the West Coast, though to the north. She doth name herself
Ubu Mare."

    "Ubu Mare, eh?" Rod locked glances with Gwen. "Now we have a name,
at least."

  Gwen shook her head. "I have not heard it before, my lord."

  "We'll hear it again," Rod promised. "Come on, kids— time to go
hunting."

   "Oh, not yet, Papa!" Cordelia protested, and Magnus agreed, "Aye. Let
us hear one more song, at least."

  "It will not be so long, husband." Gwen touched his hand. "And our
poor minds do need rest, surely."
   "Well… okay." Rod wasn't very hard to convince; he wasn't exactly
looking forward to another trip into pandemonium.

   But the clams were already singing again, a ballad about a lighthouse
keeper, lively and quick. The children began to nod their heads—and
Gregory, belly-down with his chin in his hands, watching the clams, began
to tap his toes against air.

  "Music hath charms," Gwen murmured, "and they are the most
charmed of all."

  A scream tore the fabric of the song, and men began to shout.

  The Gallowglasses looked up, startled.

   Out of the trees came two of the strangest animals they had ever
seen—four feet tall and four feet thick, like fur-covered globes, with thick,
stumpy legs and shaggy dappled coats. Tiny eyes glittered toward the top
of each ball, just above a long, tapering nose. They waddled toward the
water, and the clams gave a burbling scream of fear.

   "Have no care—we shall ward thee," Geoffrey said quickly. "What doth
affright thee so?"

  "Those beasts!" cried a clam. "Hast thou never seen them?"

  "Never. What's there to fear in such foolish animals?"

  "Their noses!" cried a clam. "They will suck us up, they will tear us from
our bed!"

  "Not whiles we are here to guard thee," Cordelia assured them. "What
manner of beast are these?"

  "They are clamdiggers!"

   The peasant men caught up clubs and attacked the things with blows
and shouts, but the globular animals scarcely seemed to notice. They
reached the water and splashed in.

  "Zap 'em, kids!" Rod cried.

  Magnus and Geoffrey launched into the air and swooped toward the
beasts, drawing their swords. They stabbed at the clamdiggers, trying to
turn them, but the beasts scarcely seemed to notice, the moreso because
Cordelia was pelting them with sticks and pebbles from the bank. But
Geoffrey lost his temper and dive-bombed, stabbing hard, and a long thin
nose swept around in a blur, to swat him out of the air. He splashed down,
and the beast lumbered toward him. Gwen screamed, shooting over the
water like a rocket,

   whirling about to swat the reaching nose with her broom. The nose
recoiled.

   Rod leaped onto Fess's back. "Charge!"

   But on the bank by the clams, Gregory glared, narrowing his eyes.

  Soft implosions sucked air inward toward the center of the pond, and
where the clamdiggers had splashed, two rectangular objects floated,
bobbing in the ripples. They had no eyes or noses, only straps and buckles.

   Rod stared. "Do my eyes deceive me, or did my son change those
clamdiggers into…"

  "A pair of trunks," Fess finished. "That is exactly what he has done,
Rod. You have seen it clearly."

   Geoffrey shot back over the water to clap his brother on the shoulder
with a dripping hand. "Most marvelously done, little brother! How
chanced thou to hit 'pon so excellent a scheme!"

  Gregory blushed with pleasure. "Why, such ungainly beasts as they
could only be things of witch-moss, look you—so I thought at them, to
change their shape to something harmless."

   "A thousand thanks," said a shaky clam-voice.

   "Aye," said three more, and a fourth, "If there is aught that we may ever
do for thee, thou hast but to ask it."

   "Why," said Gregory, at a loss, "I can only ask that thou dost keep this
fen free for all that is best in music, as a sanctuary for all of good heart."

   "And tender ear," Rod muttered.
   "Why, that shall we do!" the clams assured him. "And we shall ever sing
thy praises!"

  Gregory reddened again. "Spare my blushes, I pray thee! Sing only
hearty songs of excellence, as thou wast wont to do!"

   "As thou shalt have," a baritone clam said. "Yet I doubt not we'll sing of
they who defend the weak, also."

  "Why," said Gregory, "I can only therefore praise thee."

   "Then let's go look for someone who's picking on the weak." Rod took
his son firmly by the hand and turned him away. "What do you say,
Gwen?"

  "Aye, my husband." Gwen glanced at the sky. "We must make five more
miles ere nightfall. Magnus, Cordelia! Geoffrey! Come!" They turned away,
walking back along the sand-spit.

  "I had liefer stay, Papa," Geoffrey volunteered.

  "Stay! Are you kidding? When there might be a battle on our trail?"

  "Art thou sure? There hath been naught but skirmishes thus far."

  "All right, so you're on a diet." Rod halted and looked around. "I think
we're a little shorthanded here."

  "Magnus! Cordelia!" Gwen cried. "Come—and now!"

   "Eh? Oh! Certes, Mama!" Cordelia shot toward her like a broomstick
juggernaut. "Their music is so entrancing."

  "Thy pardon, Mama." Magnus sighed as he came up. "They are
wondrous minstrels."

   "Farewell, good clams," Cordelia called back, and the song broke off for
a burbling chorus of goodbyes. Then the Gallowglasses strode away, while
behind them a voice cried, "Come, another roundelay!" and the singing
began again.


                   Chapter Twenty-One
    They left the fen refreshed, but they were instantly immersed in
pandemonium again. They followed the blimp from a distance, and by late
afternoon they were dazed and reeling as they topped a ridge and saw a
village below them, tranquil under the evening sun, with peasants coming
in from the fields, hoes over their shoulders. Wreaths of smoke rose from
the central holes in the thatches of the cottages. Wives came out to chat
with one another for a few minutes, then returned to their homes.
Adolescent girls shooed children and chickens. On the village green, young
men kicked an inflated bladder around.

   Magnus looked, then looked again. "Why, their young folk abide with
them!"

   "Yes, and they're doing something besides listening to the music." Rod
smiled. "There's a certain amount of promise in this. Let's go find out how
they're doing it."

   They went down into the town, finding the large hut with the bunch of
greenery hanging from a pole.

   "Pretty dried-out bush," Rod said, with critical appraisal. "Old ale,
then."

  "Thou hast told me old ale is better, betimes," Magnus reminded him.
"Come, Papa—at the least, 'twill be another's cooking tonight."

  "Hast thou aught to complain of?" Gwen demanded as they walked in.

  "Naught, yet thou hast," Cordelia reminded her. "Wilt thou truly regret
not preparing a meal o'er a campfire?"

  "Well, I shall suffer it," Gwen allowed.

   They sat at a table. The landlord looked up, then looked again in
surprise. "Good e'en, gentlemen and ladies!"

   "Just travelling through," Rod assured him. "I could stand a flagon of
ale, landlord. Is there a supper?"

  "Aye, milord—Timon, ho!"

  A lanky teen-ager came in from the back room, saw the Gallowglasses,
and smiled in welcome. Then he saw Cordelia, and the welcome deepened.
She smiled back, coming a little more alive somehow, and Magnus cleared
his throat. "Good e'en, goodman!"

  "And to thee." Timon wrenched his eyes away from Cordelia, amused,
and turned to the landlord. "What need, Dad?"

  "Ale, my lad, and quickly, for these good folks!"

  "Only the two," Gwen qualified. "As to the rest, hast thou clear water?"

  "Aye, most surely. That too, lad."

  "As thou wilt, Dad." Timon turned away and ducked back through the
doorway.

  "Ho! 'Dad,' is it?" Magnus grinned. "What meaning hath that?"

  "Oh, it's just another intimate form of 'Father'—the one I expected my
own children to use, in fact. But you four preferred 'Papa.'"

   "I shall no longer, then! Oh, nay, I would not disappoint thee so! Aye,
'Dad' it shall be henceforth! Oh, ho!" And Magnus couldn't quite hold his
laughter in.

  Rod frowned, turning to Gwen. "What's the joke?"

  "I ken not," she replied, "save that 'tis a term they've not heard before."

  The other three had picked up Magnus's mood, and were grinning now.

   Timon came back in with a tray. He set a tankard in front of each of
them, saying, "I regret there's naught but stew this night, milord, milady.
We had no notion of thy coming."

   "I have no doubt thy stew will suit," Gwen assured him. "Bread, too, an
thou wilt."

  "Oh, of a certainty!"

   Magnus grimaced, overdoing it a little, and said, "How dost thou
withstand the noise all about?"
  "Noise?" Timon looked up, frowning, head cocked to the side, listening.
"Oh, the music of the rocks, dost thou mean? Aye, 'tis still there, is't not?"

  Cordelia stared. "How canst thou have missed it?"

  Timon shrugged. "A month agone we were ever in the meadows,
dancing to fair strains; yet somehow, of late, we have taken less and less
notice of it."

  "Timon!"

   "Aye, Dad!" He flashed a grin back at the Gallow-glasses. "I've a notion
thy stew is ready." He strode off toward the inner doorway.

  "So that is the fashion of it," Magnus said thoughtfully.

  "How can they cease to notice the music?" Cordelia wondered.

   Geoffrey shrugged. "Mayhap through over-familiarity. We treasure
least what we have known too long. Yet I find that hard to credit, when 'tis
so loud."

   At any level, Fess's voice said inside their head, it can be ignored,
when people are saturated with it. Some scholars claim that the mind
protects itself by becoming numb when it is overloaded, and blocks out
the irritation.

  Magnus scowled. "How now! 'Tis pleasant sound, not irritation!"

  Too much of anything can be an irritant.

  "Each of us," Gwen said diplomatically, "hath gorged too much on
sweetmeats."

   Magnus flushed, not liking the reminder of his childhood, and Gregory
looked guilty.

   An excellent example, Fess agreed, and when you have eaten too much
of any food, no matter how tasty, the mere aroma of it sickens you. In
the same fashion, these people's minds have erected blockades of
numbness.

  Geoffrey gained a sudden wary look. "Yet blockades can be breached,
Fess."

   "Oh, be not so silly," Cordelia scoffed. "We speak of music, not of
castles. How can one breach a wall of surfeit?"

  Why, said Fess, by a change in the music, one that catches attention.

  Gregory asked, "What manner of change is that?"

  A howl sounded from outside.

  They stared at one another, startled. Then they jumped up, turning
away to the door.

  They went out, looking toward the sound—for the howl had died, but
was replaced by a rough, rhythmic scraping, and chanting in time to it:

  "Whips and chains! Blows that rain! Bloody stains! Lash insane!"

  The children stood stock-still, and Gregory asked, "Can this be music?"

  You may need to redefine your terms, Fess suggested.

  "Assuredly," said Gwen, "it cannot be verse."

   "I don't know," Rod said, "though I did think it was as bad as it could
get."

  It has meter and rhyme, Fess pointed out. It must be so classified.

  "But its source!" Magnus protested. "Are there rocks now that chant?"

    With a prickle of uneasiness, Rod noticed that the young folk of the
village were looking out of windows and doorways.

   Down the street they came, clad in roughly tanned leather garments
that left their backs bare—young men and young women in their teens,
moving in time to the beat, stepping three times and, on the fourth beat,
slashing at each other's backs with whips.

   "Flagellants," Rod whispered, horrified. "But why? There's no plague
here."
  "'Tis not repentance," Gwen said, her tone hardening. "Hearken to their
words, husband."

  Rod heard, but could scarcely tell whether the sounds came from the
young people, or from the rocks they wore tied around their necks:

   "Hunger, lust! All that must Be rendered keen By the sheen Of
whiplash law! Backs made raw Feel more deep! Naught can keep Music's
strain As stings of pain! Ecstasy, Abide with me In agony!"

   "Nay!" Cordelia's voice trembled. "Assuredly the voice doth not tell
them that pain is pleasure!"

  "It doth," Gwen said, mouth a thin, grim line, "and I assure thee,
daughter, 'tis the foulest lie that e'er I heard!"

  "But how can the music say it, an it is false?" Magnus asked,
bewildered.

  "Because," Rod said, "these rocks were made by somebody, and that
somebody can put lies in them if he wants to."

  Quite probable, Fess agreed. At the very least, I question their
programming.

   Somebody jostled them; Rod staggered back, with a cry of anger, then
stepped forward, hand going to his sword— but slammed back against the
inn again, as the innkeeper bumped past him, calling, "Nay, lad! Timon,
no! Come back!"

   But tall Timon, eyes unfocused, had torn off his tunic and caught up a
broom. He tailed onto the end of the line, shuffling along and slashing
with the broom straws at the back in front of him. A young girl jumped in
behind him, instantly adopting the three-step shuffle, untying her sash
and striking at Timon's back with it. Another lad stepped in behind her,
tearing away the back of her dress and lashing at her with a rope's end.

  Cordelia turned away, stumbling back into the inn, eyes squeezed shut.

   "Magnus, no!" Gwen screamed, for her eldest, glassy-eyed, was moving
forward toward the line of flagellants, stepping into place, fumbling at the
buckle of his sword-belt…
  Rod reached out and clamped pincer-fingers into his son's shoulder.

  Magnus winced and twisted from his grasp with a yell of pain. His
hands left the buckle and leaped to the sword.

   Rod yanked him out of the line. Still angry, the youth drew out his
blade…

   Rod caught his son's wrist and forced it down. It surged back up—Rod
was amazed at how strong his son had grown—but Geoffrey reached up,
catching his brother's elbow, thumb probing. Magnus sagged, eyes
bulging, with a high, thin whine of agony. His face came down to a level
with Geoffrey's, and his younger brother snapped, "Shall I admire thee
now? Art thou the toy of women, then, that thou mayest be enslaved by
song?"

  Magnus's face reddened with anger again. "Be still, sprout!"

   Rod sagged with relief—it was brother talking to brother, not a teen
entranced.

  Then Magnus looked up, his glance darting around. "What…
wherefore…"

  "The music had entrapped thee, son," Gwen said gently.

   "Aye." Geoffrey's lip curled with contempt. "And wilt thou let it hold
these others enslaved?"

   'Nay!" Magnus roared, covering his embarrassment. He whirled,
sheathing his sword but drawing his dagger, and leaped after the line of
youths, running up to the first who had a stone hung round his neck,
slipping the dagger in, cutting the thong, and hurling the stone away. The
youth snapped upright and turned on him with an angry roar, lashing out
with his whip.

   But Magnus was already on down the line to the next, slashing and
snatching, working his way quickly toward the front, hurling the glinting
stones far away.

  Geoffrey leaped to join him, but Rod caught his shoulder. "You don't
have the height for this one."
  "Daughter!" Gwen called, and Cordelia hurried out from the inn.
"Hurl," Gwen commanded, and turned to glare at Magnus.

  Cordelia looked, startled, saw what Magnus was doing, and narrowed
her gaze to the rock flying from his hand. It lurched and flew farther,
much farther, out over the village and into the nearby stream.

  In a few minutes, the rocks were all gone, and the young people
converged on Magnus with angry shouting.

    Gwen gave Rod a stony look. Rod nodded and stepped forward. "Fess,
fifteen thousand Hertz."

  "Certainly, Rod."

   A sharp, piercing tone slid over the village. Gwen and the children
clapped their hands over their ears, for the sound seemed to stab right
through their heads. It only lasted five seconds, then cut off—but the
flagellants were down, rolling on the ground in agony, hands over their
ears, howling. Magnus alone still stood, staggering, bringing his hands
away. He looked up at his father, dazed.

   Rod stepped up beside him, and turned to look at the peasant youths all
about him. Gradually, the youths began to realize that someone out of
their league was looking down on them. They quieted; faces settled into
truculent expressions.

  "How are your backs?" Rod said quietly.

  They stared at him, taken aback by the question. Then they looked at
one another, saw the stripes and blood, and the wailing began.

   Half an hour later, Magnus was just finishing gulping down a tankard
of ale. Timon set another in front of him. "Drink,. I pray. Tis the least
thanks I can make, sin that thou hast saved my back and brain."

   Magnus lowered the tankard with a gasp and reached for the new one,
but Gwen laid a hand over his. "Give it time to work," she said gently.
"Too much, and thou wilt be the toy of this music that doth surround
thee."

  Magnus shuddered and pulled his hand back.
  "Stew," Rod said to Timon.

  "I could not eat!" Magnus protested.

  "Let him smell it," Rod assured Timon. "He'll find his appetite."

  "Thou hast saved them, Magnus," Gregory said, his eyes huge.

  "Aye," said Magnus, "but only by Dad and Geoffrey saving me!"

  "At least," said Rod, "you had your question answered."

  Gregory looked up. "What question was that?"

   "Why," said Rod, "you wanted to know what kind of music it would
take to break through the mind's defense of numbness."

  Magnus lifted his head. "Aye, even so! Yet what was the manner of it?"

   "Sheer ugliness, I guess," Rod said. "Every time people become used to
one sort of music, the crafter breaks through to them by coming up with
something that's even more distorted. It shocks them into paying
attention again." He shrugged. "Just a guess, though."

  But Gregory's eyes had filled with tears. "I did not mean…"

   "Peace, brother." Cordelia wrapped an arm around him. "These poor
folk were entrapped days before thou didst think to ask."

  "Aye," said Gwen. " 'Twas not thy doing."

   But Geoffrey's eyes narrowed. "Papa, where a wall is breached, there is
a captain who commanded a siege engine."

   "Yes," Rod agreed. "A musical change like that does seem rather
deliberate, doesn't it?"

  "Good Timon!" Magnus rose and turned to the tall youth by the inner
door. "Whence could that train of youths have come?"

   The lad looked surprised, then nodded. "I will ask." He stepped through
the door and was gone.
  "Shall we spend the night here, Papa?" Gregory asked.

   Rod turned to Gwen; she nodded. He turned back. "Yes, son—but I
think we'll camp by that stream out there. I'd like to make sure no one
goes fishing tonight."


                  Chapter Twenty-Two
   The next afternoon, they finally found out where the blimp was leading
them—they, and the half-mile or so of dancers who were following behind
them. They found out, because they came into a zone where heavy metal
rocks glistened all about them, drowning out the sounds of the blimp.
They looked about with astonishment, and Rod put his mouth near
Gwen's ear. "Is this its home country or something?"

  The dancers thought it was great. They leaped and whirled out into the
meadow on both sides of the roadway, .gamboling and dancing to their
hearts' delight. Considering how thickly the ground was strewn with
music-rocks, it was amazing they didn't break their legs.

   "Look!" Geoffrey's voice was just barely audible above the racket. Rod
turned, and saw him pointing skyward. He looked up, to see that the
blimp had become translucent; the sunlight was shining through it. As he
watched, it became even more faint, until it shimmered, and was gone.

  The family were dumbfounded.

  Then Gregory's voice said, in wonder, Was it illusion, then?

   They seized on his idea, using telepathy because the music was too
loud.

  I had thought it was made of witch-moss, at least, Magnus answered.

  Seems it was just a mental construct, purely illusory. Rod frowned.
Bait to lead youth here—but what for?

  Whither journey we now? Cordelia wondered.

   Aye, Gwen asserted. The music is so widespread that we can no longer
use the rocks' direction as a guide.
  No vector, Rod added.

   But Fess's voice interposed smoothly: If the blimp was a projection,
surely it had a projector.

  Certes! Geoffrey agreed with enthusiasm. Let us find the blimp's
maker! He should know whence came these rocks!

  But how shall we find him? Magnus demanded.

  Gregory pointed. See! The young folk do tend toward the west!

  Sure enough, though they weren't single-file anymore, the groups of
dancers were more or less all moving toward the west.

  Then whoever wanted to bring them here, may still be leading them.
Rod nodded. But the blimp was no longer of use, because once its music
was drowned out by the rocks, nobody paid any attention to it anymore.

  Then let us pay heed to its maker, Gwen suggested. Follow, family!

  They trailed off after the dancers.

  The witch wasn't hard to find, once they caught up with the head of the
mob. She wasn't hard to find, because she was the only person in sight
who was clearly middle-aged. She was also one of the very few who was fat.

   She must have caught some mental trace of the Gallow-glasses, because
she looked up at their approach, and her mouth opened in an unheard
scream. She pointed at them, and a searing flower of heat bloomed in
their minds. But it withered just as quickly under Gwen's projection of a
wintry blast. Instead, a huge barbarian suddenly confronted them, clad in
leather and metal armbands, long hair tied in knots, earrings flashing,
spear stabbing.

   Illusion! Gwen's label was quick, and she and Cordelia fixed their eyes
on the image, which thinned and faded even as it strode toward them. But
another leaped up in its place, a woman with long, straight black hair,
clad in short, tight-fitting leathers, unfurling a bullwhip. The boys stared,
fascinated by the combination of pulchritude and punishment, but Rod
knew the compound from experience. The flame of his anger lashed out
and blasted the image to instant ashes—but rain drizzled onto them, and a
manic vampire sprouted up like a plant, blood-red lips gaping wide to
show his fangs, mop of hair flapping like a set of banners. His garments fit
so tightly they seemed to be painted on.

   Geoffrey's surge of disgust rippled through everyone. He was revolted
by the notion that such a thing should wear a male form. Under the
mental stress produced by him and his brothers the illusion shredded, and
blew away in tatters.

  The witch gave up and grabbed for her broomstick.

   Cordelia was faster, swooping around to cut in front of the woman. She
hesitated, just long enough for the boys to catch her robe. They yanked
down hard, and the woman fell; then they yanked up, and her robe tore,
but she landed gently. A boiling cauldron of anger and fear bubbled out of
her, directed at them—but it subsided, stilled, and was gone as Gwen's
calming, slowing tide of thoughts rocked her into sleep. The others paid
avid attention to her thoughts, and Rod inserted the formless question,
only a mental current, that asked (but not in words) where the
music-rocks came from. All they gained from her, though, as she slipped
into unconsciousness, was the phrase, "… the man who is nowhere…"

   Cordelia looked down in exasperation at the sleeping form. How is
this? What can she mean?

  How can there be a man who is nowhere? Geoffrey demanded.

  A man, at least. Gwen's thought was cool water on their inflamed
emotions. Seek among this throng, for only the moiety of them came
when we did.

  The Gallowglasses looked out on a vast, churning mob of young folk.

  How many are there here, Mama? Gregory's thought was dazed.

   Some thousands, at least, she answered, and Fess thought-corrected,
Five thousand three hundred seventy-one, Gregory.

   Somebody must know where this witch-moss-crafting man is! Rod
insisted. Eavesdrop on their minds, folks—but stay together.

  Bravely, they tried. For half an hour, they probed and listened. Finally,
Gregory dropped cross-legged on the grass, and Gwen called off the
session with a curt finishing thought.

  No one knows, Magnus mused, benumbed.

  I did at least catch some shady picture of a man bearing stones,
Gregory thought wearily.

  I too, Cordelia answered, but none had the least notion as to where he
dwelled.

  Only that he doth exist, Gwen agreed. How can this be, husband?

  It's really your field, Rod said slowly, but to me, it smacks of
post-hypnotic suggestion.

   Gwen looked up at him, amazed. Why, thou hast it! Such few as these
as have known of him, have had the memory stolen from their minds!

   Magnus frowned. Aye… 'twould not be so hard to do—only to
strengthen the resistance of a handful of synapses…

  Simplicity itself. Anger tinged Gwen's thought. They seek to keep this
man's existence a secret, then.

  But why? Cordelia wondered.

   Angry peasants. Rod's thoughts weren't exactly halcyon, either. All
right, family—how do you find someone whom no one remembers?

   They were silent, puzzling it out. Fess waited, and when no one spoke,
he explained, Memory is holistic. The

  conscious recollection would be relatively easy to erase, yes, but it
would be duplicated throughout the cerebrum.

  Gregory looked up sharply. Fascinating—yet how shall we apply it?

  'Tis not so hard as all that. Gwen stood, resolution in every line of her
body. Fetch me one who hath some hazy memory of this man who is
nowhere, lads.

  Half an hour later, they left the peasant youth sleeping with his head on
a tussock, and walked off toward a distant hill and the stream at its foot.

  We have not hurt him, have we, Mama? Cordelia thought anxiously.

  Not a whit, Gwen assured her. When he doth wake, he will find that he
hath slept better than ever he hath aforetime. Come, children. We hunt.

  There was a desert there, on the other side of the stream. Animal skulls
and low scrub decorated barren sand, and clouds of alkali blew over them.

  Cordelia shuddered. How could aught live there, Mama?

  How canst thou believe thine eyes, after all the illusions we have seen?
Geoffrey retorted. Fear not, sister—never have I seen a wasteland
bordering a stream before.

    Cordelia's head snapped up at his remark, but Gwen didn't give her
time to start feeling chagrined. She threw her broomstick out, staring at
it. In midair, its form changed, stretched—and it landed as a six-foot-wide
set of planks, held together by cross-boards.

   Cross over the bridge, Gwen bade her family, and see what we may
discover.

  Two by two, they followed their mother and father into the forbidding
waste.


                 Chapter Twenty-Three
   They ran into the first signs as soon as they crossed the bridge that
arched over the stream. It was almost as though they had entered a
picture-book land, with graceful willow trees bordering the stream and
silver birches spaced widely apart to let in the sun. Finches sang in cherry
trees, and the broad expanse of grass was cropped into a lawn.

  "Why, how charming!" Cordelia exclaimed.

   "Sure is." Rod looked around. "Somebody's putting an awful lot of work
into it, too."

  "This music is not so loud," Gregory pointed out.
   It wasn't, now that Rod thought about it. He hadn't noticed it
immediately, because the rock music was still there—but it was muted. He
frowned. "Odd—there look to be more rocks than ever."

   "One every yard, it doth seem," Gwen agreed. "Yet their music's less
painful."

  Magnus picked up a rock, staring at it in surprise. " 'Tis only stone, not
metal!"

  "Aye," said Geoffrey, "and its strains stir my blood, but do not
overwhelm it."

   "Stir your blood? Here, let me see!" Rod came over and took the rock.
"Just as I suspected—it's a march."

  "A rock march?" Gregory asked, wide-eyed.

  It was a march—but with the characteristic heavy beat underneath it.

  "Here is one whose strains are slowed, and pretty!" Cordelia called.

  Gwen came over to her and nodded. " Tis quite melodious. "

   "This one doth make sounds, but no music," Magnus called. He had
picked up another rock. Rod followed him, and heard birdsong, then a
wind swelling under it, the birdsong fading as the wind-song merged into
a rolling gong, then faded into the sound of rushing water with high, clear
tones above it. Yet, underneath it all thrummed a strong, unyielding beat.

  Rod took a deep breath. "No, son. That's music— Nature's music,
maybe, but it's organized into something more."

  Gregory regarded a large pebble in his hand. "This lacks a beat."

   Sure enough, it did—and its melody dipped and soared, but the tones
were pure and reverberating. Somehow, nonetheless, it was like the music
of all the other rocks they'd heard, even without a bass or drum line.

  Fess said, "Rod—someone is experimenting."

  Rod stilled, feeling apprehension boost his awareness. "You know
something, Old Iron? That makes too much sense."
  "Papa," Geoffrey called, "yon lies a cottage."

  "Let me see," Cordelia commanded, dashing over to him. "Oh! 'Tis
enchanting!"

  "That's what I'm afraid of." Rod hurried over to look.

  Gwen reached the children just ahead of him. "It is, husband—most
wondrously made."

   It was a small house with a thatched roof, such as any peasant might
live in—but where the peasant's cottage would have been plastered with
mud, this one was sided with clapboard, painted cherry-red. The windows
were curtained, and flowers grew all around.

  "Husband," said Gwen, "yon lives a crafter of amazing talent."

   "Yes," Rod said, "and one who delights in making things. But it can't be
the one we're looking for, Gwen— this one has a sense of beauty."

  "If we would know, we must ask," she said with determination, and set
out toward the door.

   "Hey! Wait up!" Rod leaped after her, and they went up the neat,
flagstoned path between borders of hedge-roses. Rod didn't realize it, but
the children trailed after them.

  They came to the door. "Now what do we do?" Rod demanded.
"Knock?"

  "An thou sayest?" Gwen rapped on the door.

   "Hey! I didn't mean…" Rod subsided, mulling it over. "Why not, come
to think of it?"

  "We do not know he is an enemy," Geoffrey pointed out.

  Rod turned. "What're you four doing here? I thought I told you…"

  But Magnus was shaking his head, and Rod realized, belatedly, that he
hadn't said anything.

  Then the door opened, and he whirled about.
   His first impression was of supreme, unvarnished happiness. Then he
took a closer look, and decided it was only benign good humor. Whatever
it was, it was contained in a plump peasant of medium height who was
dressed in completely ordinary tunic and hose—completely ordinary,
except that his tunic was turquoise and his hose were yellow with red
cross-garters. His belt was red, too, and his face was circular and smiling,
with a fringe of black hair around a bald top.

   "Company!" he cried. "Oh, do come in, come in!" And he pattered away,
calling, "A moment, whiles I set the kettle to boiling and fetch some
cakes!"

  "Cakes?" Gregory was all ears.

   "Remember thy manners." Gwen marched in, never at a loss. Rod let
the younger contingent pass, then brought up the rear.

   The room was a delight, with a circular rug, an intricately carved chair
near the window, and a table with three straight chairs near a brick stove.
Rod eyed it warily; it looked almost Russian. He found himself braced for
the house to lurch; if it rose up on three chicken legs, he was tossing the
kids out the nearest window.

   "Let me aid," Gwen said, all sweetness and light, and fixed the little pot
with an unwavering gaze. It began to bubble; then steam poured out the
top.

  The plump man stared. "Why, how is this?" He turned to Gwen,
smiling. "Gramercy, lady! 'Tis so much quicker thus!"

   "I delight in aiding." But Gwen seemed a little discomfited that he had
taken it so easily.

   He turned back, pouring the hot water into earthenware mugs. "Thou
art a witch, then? Nay, of a certainty thou art; none else could do thus! I
have another witch who doth visit me from time to time."

  "Do you indeed?" Suddenly, he had Rod's total attention.

   "Oh, aye!" The man started bringing mugs to the table. "I fear there are
no chairs for the young ones; much though I delight in company, I've
rarely more than two who come together."
   "They're used to it," Rod assured him. "You were saying, about this
other witch?"

   "Two, though to be sure, one's a warlock. I am, too—did I tell thee that?
Oh, 'tis so good to have other witchfolk to natter with! I am hight Ari, Ari
the Crafter, as my neighbors do call me. Aye, neighbors, though they'd not
have me live in their town. Still, 'tis enough for me to live near a stream,
and with birds and small furry creatures for friends, oh yes, it is enough.
Wilt thou have honey with thy brew?"

  A delicious fragrance rose from the mug. "Uh, no thanks," Rod
declined. "Gwen?"

   "Nay, though I think the children might." Gwen was off-balance, too,
disconcerted by the man's friendliness.

  "Nay, certes," he chuckled, handing a honey-pot down to Cordelia.
"Was there ever a youngling had no taste for honey?"

  "I," said Magnus.

   "Well, so, but thou'rt a young man now, art thou not? No longer a child,
no. Ah, I do wish I could offer chairs to thee and thy sister! I must make
some." He went to the window, lips pursed. "Aye, there is a patch of
witch-moss large enough. I think…"

  "I would not trouble thee," Magnus said quickly.

  "Oh, 'tis no trouble." Ari frowned for a moment.

  Rod took the opportunity to lean close to Gwen. "Can this really be the
man who made those metallic rocks we've been hearing?"

  "Who else could it be?" she responded. "He hath the skill. Yet how are
we to set him to talking of it?"

   "There! 'Twill be along shortly." Ari stepped over to open the door, then
bustled back to the stove. "Now, the cakes. Ah, they're warmed!" He set a
platter of biscuits in front of Rod and Gwen, then handed another down to
Gregory, with a chuckle of delight.

  "Did you make everything in this room?" Rod asked, trying not to stare.
   "Each and every. Do taste of my cakes, goodman!"

   "Uh, no thanks. Things of witch-moss don't agree with me."

   Magnus spluttered into his tea.

   "Oh, the cakes are not of witch-moss, no! My neighbors do bring me
flour and eggs and such from time to time, yes, in thanks for my crafting
small things for them, aye!"

   "I don't doubt it," Rod said.

    He turned at a knocking sound, just in time to see the door swing open
a little farther as a brand new chair came walking into the room.

   "Oh, come, come!" Ari clucked his tongue. "Knowest thou not better
than to leave a door ajar?"

  Rod could have sworn the chair blushed. At any rate, it turned around
and knocked the door shut with a leg.

   "'Tis such a trial to teach them not to slam it." Ari sighed. "Nay, little
chair, find one who needs service." He nodded at Magnus, and the chair
scuttled over to the eldest.

  Magnus edged away. "Oh, I could never take a chair when a lady hath
need of a seat!"

   The chair turned toward Cordelia.

  "Nay, brother, I'll yield it to thee," she said quickly. "I am quite settled
now."

   "Magnus," Gwen said, with a tone of dire warning.

  The eldest sighed, rose from the floor, and sat in the chair. It settled
contentedly under his weight.

   "It will stay still now," Ari assured them.

   "Desirable," Rod admitted. "And now you have one more, in case your
witch-friends bring company."
  "Aye, though I doubt that they will. There have never come more than
two of them, though Ubu Mare hath not come this half-year and more."

  Rod could feel his whole family tensing. "Ubu Mare?"

   "Aye. She…"Ari bit his lip, then glanced about him as though to make
sure no one was listening, and leaned closer to Rod and Gwen with a
conspiratorial whisper. "She is ever polite and well-spoken, mind, but the
poor woman is burdened with a hideous countenance."

  "Is that so?" Rod eyed Gwen.

  "The poor woman, indeed," she murmured.

   "Aye," Ari sighed. "She must be the ugliest witch in the whole of the
land. Yet she is civil, and did give me gold for things I made! Couldst thou
credit it? Gold!"

   "Somehow, I don't doubt it." Rod had a nasty suspicion of where the
witch was getting the money. "You built the house, too?"

   "Nay, for I've no skill as a carpenter. The goodmen from the village did
that for me; they were happy to, when I gave them gold for it."

  "I should think they would have been," Gwen said. "And dost thou pay
one to clip thy lawn?"

   "Only a lad from the village, who doth bring his sheep. 'Tis no great
sum, and I can craft aught else I need, or trade for it. I scarce know what
to do with all the gold they give me."

  "In truth?" Magnus asked, disbelieving.

   "Aye." Ari threw up his hands. "I could think of naught else—so I give
each month's gold piece to the folk of the village, that they may buy food
for the needy, and clothing."

  "Dost thou indeed!" Gregory was incredulous, too, and Geoffrey was
shaking his head slowly, in wonder.

  "Oh, aye! And all this from the generosity of Ubu Mare! Is it not
wondrous?"
  "Amazing," Rod said, feeling a chill envelop his back.

   "It is, in truth! Yet she hath not come these six months, no, but doth
send Yaga and Axon in her place. I've no doubt 'tis still her gold they
bring, for they, too, buy of me rocks that make music."

   "Oh." The tension was winding tighter. "You crafted those wonderful
stones that made the enchanting sounds we heard in your front yard?"

   "Aye, they are mine!" Ari beamed. "These are my latest, look you. I
essay new musics each time; I delight in inventing new forms." He
frowned. "Yet not of the sort Ubu Mare doth wish me to make, no. 'Tis
hideous stuff with a scratching and wailing to it, and words that make no
sense. And they do not even rhyme!"

   "Horrible," Rod agreed. "I think we've heard a few like that. Where did
they come up with the sound?"

  Ari shrugged. "Belike whence I found mine—in my heart."

  "What manner of heart must they have!" Cordelia exclaimed.

   Ari turned to her, saddened. "Lass, lass! Is it for us to judge our
neighbors? Nay, nay! If their taste and fashion differ from mine, who am I
to say theirs is wrong and mine is right?"

  "The one who actually makes the rocks," Rod said.

   Ari looked up, astonished. "Assuredly that doth not give me the right to
judge!"

  "It doth," Gwen said, "and it doth give thee also the duty."

  "Duty?" Ari stared at her, totally at a loss.

   "Responsibility," Rod explained. "You do have to bear in mind what
they want to do with the things you've made."

  "Why, these music-rocks are but entertainment!"

   "I'm beginning to develop a definite suspicion that nothing can be 'just
entertainment,' " Rod said. "You must consider, Goodman Ari, what
effects your wonderful inventions can have."
  "But what effects could music have?" Ari asked, pole-axed.

  Rod took a deep breath. "We've seen young people walk away from their
parents, and from their chores, to do nothing but listen to the rocks'
music."

  "Aye," said Gregory, "and to float down the river with thy rocks, to do
naught but eat lotus and lie dreaming."

   "Folk of our age are ever mired in confusion, though we hide it,"
Cordelia said gently. "We have seen folk in whom that confusion has been
steadily worsened by the words that accompany this music."

  "But how can that be!"

  Then, one by one, they told him of the things they had seen as they
came across the country from Runnymede. He was shocked to hear of the
wakened dead, but he was horrified to hear of the flagellants. Finally,
when they were done, he sat, gray-faced and whispering, "No more. What
horrid things have I wrought? Nay, never again must I make
music-rocks!"

   "Nay, thou must needs make more," Gwen said, with that tone of
motherly sternness that evoked total attention from any listener. "What
thou hast broke, thou must needs mend."

  "But how can I mend music?"

  "Why, with harmony!" Gregory offered.

  "Aye!" Magnus's eyes lighted. "Take the words of greatest beauty thou
dost know, and set them to the clearest melodies thou canst make!"

  But Ari shook his head. "How can sweet music heal a ruptured soul?"

   "How can it not?" Cordelia countered, and Gwen laid her hand on Ari's.
"If dissonance hath sickened their hearts, may not harmony cure them?"

  Ari's eyes lost focus. "It may be…"

  "But it must not!"

  They whirled. Two forms stood black against the twilight that filled the
doorway, and the shorter, a woman, cried, "Who are you, who would twist
our Ari against our bidding?"

   Gwen stood, and only Rod could see the mantle of rage building about
her. "Why, who art thou who dost seek to claim this good and gentle man
as thy slave?"

  "We are Yaga and Axon," the hag shrilled, "and we have bought him!"

  Rod noticed Magnus sidling around behind the taller intruder, pushing
Gregory behind him, and Geoffrey slipping around on the far side.

  "Oh, nay!" Ari cried, shocked. "Thou hast bought my music, aye, but
never myself!"

   "Thyself, body and soul!" The old woman stumped forward into the
light, eyes filled with malevolence. "Thou art ours, Ari, bought and paid
for! Who is this that doth seek to rend thee from us!"

  "I am Gwendolyn Gallowglass," Gwen said, in glacial tones, "and I have
come to consign thee to the doom thou hast made for others!"

  Before she even finished the sentence, Yaga's form erupted into flame.

   The children glared, and Axon, the tall warlock, was immersed in a
globe of inwardly stabbing light. He screamed, then slumped unconscious
as one of the spears found his spinal cord.

  But Yaga only cackled with glee as the flames drew in, swallowed up by
her person. "Fools! Dost thou not know 'tis this, even this, I have sought all
my life? To be as wrapped in throes of anguish as I am filled with them?
Nay, have at thee!"

   Gwen screamed and twisted as something flamed inside of her. Yaga
crowed with delight and turned on Rod. A current seethed through him,
jolting him with pain, immobilizing him with spasms.

  But Yaga howled, hands clutching at her head, and spun to face
Magnus's unrelenting glare. She stumbled toward him, screaming, "Stop!
Make it stop!"

  Magnus twisted, and his lip trembled; but he clung more tightly to
Gregory's hand, and his gaze held steady.

   Cordelia's eyes narrowed and, quite calmly, she walked over to the
witch and touched her temple. Yaga froze, and the pain inside Rod and
Gwen was gone, as though their daughter had turned a switch. They
staggered, clutching at one another, striving to rally their senses to
attack…

   But Ari came up to Yaga, his hands twisting and molding something,
then held it up to her forehead.

  It was a rock.

  The witch's eyes lost focus; her face unclenched, looking startled.

  Then she slumped.

  Geoffrey reached up and caught her, lowering her to lie beside the
warlock he had been guarding.

  "Are they dead?" Ari asked anxiously.

  "Nay," Geoffrey assured him, "though they ought to be."

  "Oh, nay! For if thou hast the right of it, I have cured them!"

  Geoffrey could only stare at him as though he were mad.

  "Thank Heaven you kids were on the ball!" Rod staggered up to them.

  "We would not have been," Magnus returned, "hadst though not drawn
her anger first, to show us the manner of her attack."

   "Believe me, I wasn't trying." Rod shook his head. "Where did she ever
get that kind of power?"

   "From a hundred and more of her kind." Gwen was kneeling by the
unconscious witch, fingers against the base of her skull. "I read it in her
memories…" She shuddered. "Faugh! What a twisted mass of vileness is
there! Yet in it I see that she and many others have been gathered into a
coven by this Ubu Mare."

  "For what purpose?" Ari asked, white-faced.
   Gwen shook her head. "To yield up their power to her in some fashion,
and to bear hers, vastly magnified by all of theirs united—but it doth make
of Yaga only a tool, an extension of that vile witch."

  "And in that," Rod guessed, "she was content—as long as she could be
part of something bigger than herself?"

   Gwen nodded. "Yet now, by a wonder, the twisting and turnings within
her that made her easy prey to this Ubu Mare, all that bitter confusion
and hatred, is straightened to the beginnings of harmony!" She looked up
at Ari. "How didst thou achieve it?"

   The crafter relaxed, and his smile returned. "Why, even as thou didst
say, good folk—I crafted a rock that would make music with all the
lightheartedness, harmony, and order that is in me."

   And he was, of course, an unusually tranquil, optimistic person. Rod
looked up at Magnus. "But what did you do, that stopped her in her
tracks?"

   "Much the same," Magnus answered. "I had seen her swallow the
flames of Mother's anger, so I sought to fill her with peace and goodwill. I
enwrapped it in those strains of Bach that Fess hath taught us, and
projected it into her mind."

  "Yet surely she struck back at thee!"

  "Aye, most horribly," Gregory said, and shuddered, squeezing his eyes
shut.

   "And thou wast my shield." Magnus turned to hug his little brother
against his hip. "I am sorry, Gregory—but I could not unravel her
hideousness and think Bach at her, both at once."

   "I was glad to aid," Gregory said, pale-faced, "and I sought to loosen the
knot of anger and bitterness as quickly as she sought to tie it within
thee—but oh, brother! May I never have to again!"

  "Amen to that," said Cordelia, "but that must needs be why she could
not repel my hand."

  "And what didst thou?" Gwen looked up, worried.
   "I thought of May mornings, and my delight in the dawn and the songs
of the birds. Naught more—but blended toward music, as Papa did say of
the rocks without this house."

  "So." Ari was filled with wonder. "She succumbed to my music, only
because thine had prepared her for it!" He turned to Gwen, uncertain.
"Cannot my music, then, heal ripped souls?"

   Gwen pulled herself together and managed a smile, rising to her feet.
"It can, oh! Assuredly, it can! Yet as thou hast seen, good crafter, it will
take not one melody, but many—and not one hearing, but an hundred."

   Ari stared at her.

   Then he turned away, with decision. "I must set to crafting them! An
hundred, a thousand! I will make them and spread them throughout the
length and breadth of this land, though I have to walk it myself!"

   "In that, at least, I think thou wilt have aid." Gwen turned to her
children. As one, they nodded.

    A few minutes later, as they walked away from Ari's house into the
gathering dusk, they could hear, rising from the cottage behind them,
strains of melody that told of sheer delight in the beauty of the world—but
all underscored by a beat, a repetitive rhythm that, no matter how light,
could only be termed characteristic of rock music.


                   Chapter Twenty-Four
   They hadn't gone very far the next morning before the music began to
be physically painful. It wasn't just the volume of the sound—it was the
total cacophony of a dozen different tunes and beats all going at once.
They were all oddly similar, but contrasted just enough to set Rod's teeth
on edge. He remembered what the young folk near the rocks' meadow had
said, that the sounds had to be so loud that they could feel them in their
bodies, and wondered once again how impoverished their souls must be, if
the only way they could have any feeling was through the impact of sound
waves.

  Gregory walked with his hands over his ears, looking miserable. Gwen
and Geoffrey stumbled along, determined to be brave and stoic about it,
but even Magnus was beginning to look a little dazzled, and Cordelia was
glassy-eyed and twitching three ways at once. As for Rod, he had a
humdinger of a headache building, which he could swear was working its
way up to a migraine.

   Finally, Gwen had had enough. Rod saw her halt, standing firm with
resolution; he saw her hands clap together, he saw her mouth move; but
he didn't hear the clap, or a single word. He frowned, shaking his head,
and pointed toward his ear. Gwen sighed, and her words echoed inside all
their heads: We cannot abide this. We must halt and find some way to
block out these sounds.

   The children stopped and gathered round her. Mayhap as the peasants
did, Gregory suggested.

  Well thought, Gwen approved. Find wax.

   It didn't take long to find, or much doing to get—the bees were limp on
the floor of the hive, stunned by the sonic booms. The boys did think it
odd that the markings grew in the shape of a G on their abdomens, but
dismissed the oddity and brought the wax to their mother—and found
their sister busy stitching together strips of bark into a little pot. They
knew better than to ask why.

   Gwen took the wax and molded it in her hands, staring at it intently the
while. For his part, Rod was astonished at her fortitude, as
always—softening the wax by telekinesis took concentration, and being
able to concentrate in the midst of this racket took incredible strength of
mind.

   As Gwen finished each pair of covers, she handed them to the child
whom they fit. Rod took a spare blanket from his saddlebag, tore it into
strips, and helped tie the makeshift bandages over the earcovers. Each
relaxed visibly as he or she tied the knot. Then Rod set his own into place,
and the worst of the racket dimmed amazingly—except for the thumping
and growling of the bass notes. He turned to explain this to Gwen, but she
was wearing her own earcovers now, and was busily at work, stirring
herbs into the bark pot Cordelia had made. Steam rose from it; she had
heated the water without fire, by speeding up molecular motion. She
finished, lifted the pot to her lips, swallowed, then handed it to Cordelia,
who sipped and passed it on. When it came round to Rod, he drained
what was left—and found that the thumping rhythms dwindled to a
bearable level. He turned to Gwen, amazed. How'd you do that?

  I brewed a potion, she thought simply. Our minds can shut out aught
we do not wish to heed; I have only aided and directed them.

   A perceptual screen, Rod realized—and more a matter of persuasion
than of medicine. The potion had done what they wanted it to do; he
suspected sugar pills would have done just as well, provided it had been
Gwen who had made them.

   Whatever the method, the goal was accomplished— Gwen had brewed
an excellent rumble phyltre.

  He faced her and moved his mouth slowly as he said, "Of course, now
we can't talk to each other without mind-reading."

   But surprisingly, he could hear her answer. Her voice sounded muffled,
but it was there. "It would seem we can, my lord. What magic is this, that
the music is muted but our voices are not?"

   "Your speaking voices are in the middle of the range of pitches human
ears can hear," Fess explained. "The waxen covers seem to block out the
higher frequencies, while the potion dampens the lower ones."

  "So they're filters, more than silencers?"

  "Yes, Rod. They screen out the noise and preserve the information."

   "I guess we can manage with that. Thank you, wonderful woman." Rod
offered his arm. "Shall we promenade?"

   They strode off into the worst that music could do. The good part was
that Rod's headache began to fade. The bad part was that Cordelia and
Magnus were tapping their toes again.

   Then they followed the road around a curve and saw the priest sitting
by the roadside.

   Instantly, Rod distrusted him—he wasn't wearing ear-muffs. He also
wasn't wearing the habit of the Order of St. Vidicon, and they were the
only legitimate Order in Gramarye. No, this man was wearing a robe of
plain black broadcloth, and his tonsure was definitely the work of an
amateur. Needed a shave, too. The man was obviously self-ordained—one
of the new crop of hedge-priests he and Tuan had been worrying about
lately.

  But the priest was, at least on the surface, all affability.

   He looked up with a smile of welcome. "Godspeed, goodfolk! Whither
art thou bound?"

   "North," Rod said, forcing a smile. "We're trying to find out where this
plague of noise is coming from."

  "So small a thing as that?" The priest said, surprised. "Why, I myself
have been to its center and back again!"

    Rod was astonished—and while he was trying to figure it out, his
daughter, with the full friendliness of innocence, was pleading, "Lead us to
it, then! For we shall be forever on the road, without thy guidance!"

   Rod caught his breath for a blistering tirade, but Gwen's fingers
touched his lips, and he just barely managed to bite it down. Probably
wouldn't have been heard, anyway. "If thou wilt, holy man," Gwen said.
"We would cry thy mercy."

   They needed somebody's mercy, that was for sure—but the priest was
nodding with a happy smile. "Come, then, come! Be assured, there's
naught to fear!" And he turned away, striding north with the aid of his
staff.

   They followed, with Rod thinking at Gwen, You know I don't trust him,
of course.

  Neither do I, she answered, but I'd sooner be at his back than have
him at mine. Yet we are proof against ambush whiles our senses are not
dazed by this pandemonium.

   Full vigilance, Fess. Rod directed the message by thought, knowing the
robot would have his audio gain turned down again. Why don't you trust
him, Gwen?

   For that he wears no covers to his ears, yet seems to scarcely notice
all this clamor, she answered. Thy reason?
  Just the look of him—and the fact that he hasn't told us his name.

   Rod set himself to the journey, feeling a bit more confident—but
scrutinizing every outcrop of rock and every smallest shrub on the road
ahead.

  "I am Reverend Iago," the black-robed priest said over his shoulder.

   "I am Rod." He hurried to catch up with Iago, wondering why he didn't
prefix his name with the more usual "father" or "brother." He decided the
man was just a little stuffy and asked, "Anything we should be careful
about when we get there?"

  Iago shrugged. "We must cope when we must. It is confusing, I will
own, yet I find little enough danger in it."

    Rod noted the qualifications; his adrenaline started flowing. "How far
is it?"

   "Yon it begins." Iago pointed to a lofty castle towering above the forest
trees.

  "Strange—I hadn't noticed that before," Rod said.

   The turrets seemed to soften around the edges, then to melt, flowing
together into a mountain.

  The children gasped, and Gwen demanded, "What witchery is this?"

   "Further," Iago urged. "There is more to see." He went forward another
few steps, then looked back, frowning. "Do not delay—oh, come! You must
hasten to see! See such wonders as thou never hast aforetime!"

   Rod glanced at Gwen, but her face had hardened, and she nodded
slowly. "Okay," Rod said, "we're coming."

  The children followed, subdued, Magnus's glance flicking from his
mother to his father and back, then on to the priest.

   Above them, the mountain seemed to melt, like a dish of ice cream left
in the sun—revealing a glittering diamond tower at its core.

  Iago pushed through a stand of tall grass. The Gallow-glasses followed
him—and came out into a broad plain. They stopped, and gasped.

    The plain was filled with impossible forms, all in pastel colors. Behind
them, the sky was all glowing mist, wreathing and curling in continually
shifting shapes. The forms themselves weren't all that stable, either—here
a giant clock stood in the form of a zero with nine hands, each a number,
all revolving at different rates with two turning backward; there a giant
beetle crawled before a towering obelisk that had an opaque, multicolored
cloud churning about its top. Nearer and to their right, two knights
jousted, never touching one another but forever wheeling and charging
again. Here the plain suddenly bulged, the mound growing and swelling
until it had become a hill, with skids sliding down it; then its northern
face began to slump. Down its side a wheel rolled by itself, but as it rolled,
it elongated into a cam, flipping along with an eccentric motion; then even
the cam slowly changed, warping and squeezing into a long, slender track,
then melting on down to disappear into the floor of the plain. But the line
of it rose up again in an undulating form, until a hydra writhed where the
wheel had melted—but the flailing arms grew heads, and the heads grew
bodies and tails, and six snakes crawled away from the place where the
hydra had been. As they crawled, though, they changed, one becoming a
tapir, another a salamander, a third a raven, and so on.

  In fact, all the forms on the plain were constantly in flux, the knights
becoming dragons, the clock turning into a windmill, the cloud flowing
down over the obelisk and forming a giant beehive. Behind and above all
towered the diamond tower, though its surface was hardening and dulling
now, beginning to show the mortar lines of masonry.

  Over it, and under it and through it, ran the heavy, pulsing beat of the
metal stones, snarling and whining back and forth across the plain,
audible even through their filters.

  Rod clutched at his wife. "Gwen! I'm hallucinating again!"

   "Thou art not," she said, clinging to him just as tightly. "I see them
too."

   "And I," said Magnus, staring, and the other children chorused their
agreement.

  "Tell me," Rod demanded of Iago, "are any of these things real?"
  Iago shrugged. "What is reality?"

  "Oh, not again!" Geoffrey groaned. "Wilt thou answer him, Fess?"

  Iago looked up, startled.

  He cannot hear me, Fess reminded them.

  "Reality is not a matter of opinion," Gregory informed the priest.

   Rod and Gwen stared at-their youngest, taken aback. Rod turned to
give Fess a narrow glare. But Iago only grinned, and his smile wasn't
entirely pleasant. "Then thou shouldst not fear to walk among these
dreams."

   "Nay, not so," Geoffrey contradicted, "for though these things may not
be what they seem, they may nonetheless be summat fearsome."

   "These things shall not harm you," Iago insisted, "but if you seek to find
the center of all this music, you must needs come within." He turned
away, walked a few paces, then looked back, as though to ask them
whether or not they were coming.

   Magnus gazed out over the plain, frowning, but the younger children
looked up at Rod and Gwen, who looked at each other; then Gwen said,
reluctantly, "We are proof against it."

  "So far," Rod agreed. "Fess, what do you see?"

   Only a plain, Rod, with rocky outcrops here and there, and
occasionally a grove.

   "You're our touchstone, then. Okay, family, it's psionic—which means
we can probably counter everything it can throw. Just remember, kids,
that anything you're seeing isn't really there. Stay alert to your mother,
and do whatever she does."

  "Gramercy for thy confidence," Gwen said sourly. "How wilt thou
guard?"

   "As you do, of course—and with this." Rod drew his sword. "Just in
case."
  Steel slickered as Magnus and Geoffrey drew.

  "Psi first, boys," Rod cautioned. "Don't start fencing unless I say to—I
have a hunch our enemies here aren't going to be soldiers. Fess, tell us if
you see anything armed."

  Of course. Rod.

  "After Iago, then. Let's go."

  They stepped out onto the plain, and waded into the morass of illusion.
                                    ***

   When they were in the center of the plain, surrounded by strange,
transforming shapes, Rod suddenly stopped. "Wait!"

  Iago turned back, still smiling but with glittering eyes. "Aye?"

  "That—big thing!" Rod pointed. "It was a castle when we first saw it,
and then it was a mountain, then a diamond tower, which turned to
masonry—but now it's something huge and amorphous."

   Iago turned to look. Sure enough, the masonry tower had melted into a
sort of bulging obelisk that tapered at the top into a hyperbola. It was a
melange of shifting colors, streaked through with melting bands of various
hues, reminding Rod of a silken moire.

  "It doth seem like to a giant chrysalis," Gregory said.

  "If that is the chrysalis, brother, Heaven defend me from the butterfly!"

  "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.

  The elder monk paused in the act of closing the locket. "Art thou the
High Warlock, then?"

  "I am Rod Gallowglass," Rod acknowledged, "and this is my wife, the
Lady Gwendolyn."

  "Lady Gallowglass!" The elder monk inclined his head. "I am Father
Thelonius, and this is Brother Dorian."

  The younger monk also bowed.

   Gwen returned the gesture, saying, "And these are my
children—Magnus, Cordelia, Geoffrey, and Gregory."

   "We wondered how four young ones had stayed safe within this vortex
of corruption," the younger monk said, "yet if they came under thy
protection, we are answered."

   Gwen smiled, but said, " Tis more that we are their parents, I think,
than that we are magical."

   But Father Thelonius disagreed. "Would it were so—yet many are the
young folk we have seen led astray by just such as this Judas priest,
whether their folk were by them or no. They are canny malefactors who do
seek to use these music-rocks for their own purposes, look you, and that
purpose is to fill their lust for power, and drain the vitalities of a
generation. They are cynical, and have learned the worst of human
impulses, then have used that knowledge to mislead and warp. Most
parents lack such knowledge; they cannot hope to oppose ones who devote
their whole attention to beguiling youth."

  Magnus and Cordelia shared a horrified glance.

  "Yet how knew you this false priest for what he was?" Geoffrey asked.

  "Because he did not preach the word of Christ, and His Eucharist,"
Brother Dorian explained.

   Geoffrey eyed them with suspicion. "Yet how may we know that thou
art true monks? For surely, having been misled by one friar, I hesitate to
trust another!"

   "I profess the Christ, and His miracles," Father Thelonius answered,
"but most especially His miracle of giving us Himself, in the forms of
bread and wine. Will that satisfy thee?"

  "No, not quite, I'm afraid," Rod said. "You'll pardon me, good monks,
but I find I share some of my son's skepticism, at the moment."

  "Then test us as thou wilt," said Brother Dorian.

  Cloistered members of the Order of St. Vidicon, said Fess's voice inside
Rod's head, are taught at least the rudiments of modern science.

   Rod nodded. "I believe your profession of faith, Father— but can you
tell me the Laws of Thermodynamics?"

   Brother Dorian stared, but Father Thelonius smiled and said, "Primus,
that the amount of energy within a closed system is a constant."

   "Which is to say," said Brother Dorian, "that human folk cannot create
or destroy energy, only change it from one form to another—as thy rock
hath done."

   Father Thelonius beamed with approval, then went on. "Secundus, that
in any flow of energy, entropy will ever increase."

   "We must ever strive to maintain harmony and order," Brother Dorian
said softly, "but the universe will someday end—and Christ will come
again."

  Scientifically, they are accurate, Fess's voice said, though I question
their theological inferences.

  "We're satisfied," Rod said. "You're real. Sorry about the testing,
Reverends."

  "Nay, do not be," Father Thelonius said.

   And Brother Dorian murmured, "Would the young folk so test those to
whose words they hearken. We should always question authority before we
accept it."

   "But we should listen to the answer," Father Thelonius amended, "and
sieve its worth."

   Gregory was puzzled. "Please tell, Father, how thou didst govern the
action of Papa's jewel."

  "Aye," Magnus chimed in, "for he could not."

  Rod gave him a gimlet glance, but Gregory pressed, "Didst thou have
but to say, 'Begone'?"

   "In a manner, yes—but the saying of that word did focus my will, giving
an imperative to the forces molded by the jewel. I am a projective myself,
though not greatly endowed; if I were, I'd need but the impulse-thought,
and would not have to speak the word aloud. Still, I've strength enough to
direct the operation of this crystal."

  "Why could not the Judas priest have taken its direction from thee?"

   "Because he held it not. We have found that whosoever doth touch the
jewel doth direct its action."

  "Anyone?" Gregory exclaimed, saucer-eyed.

  "Anyone who doth know the manner of using it, aye."

   "Then where is thy squadron of knights, to protect thee?" Geoffrey
cried. "Where is thine army of guardians? For surely, if that Rock did fall
into the hands of one who wished to exploit others for his own use, he
could wreak great havoc!"

  "Aye, we know," Father Thelonius said, his face grim. "Yet there was no
time to send for guardsmen, for our Abbot did heed the words of his
thought-sentinels, who did say that there was a hideous force building on
this West Coast, seeking to capture and twist the power of the music-rocks
to enslave the folk."

   Rod found it interesting that the new Abbot had monks mentally
scanning the island for trouble. That could be a blessing—or a curse. "So
there was no time to send to the King for aid?"

  "Aye; he could only send out teams of us to counsel and advise, and
myself—with Brother Dorian to watch o'er me—to find the evil soul that
doth seek to misdirect the power of music, then to wield the Warlock Rock
against him."

  "Yet if thou wert taken…" Geoffrey protested.

  "None other could wield the Rock, for they know not the manner of it,"
Father Thelonius assured him.

  "Yet if they chanced to discover it… !"

   "They won't." Rod clasped his son's shoulder. "Because as of now,
they've got the best guardians they could ask for, haven't they?"

   Geoffrey turned to him, startled, then drew himself up, eyes alight.
"Aye, sir!" He turned back to the two monks. "Thou shalt not take a step
that we shall not shadow!"

  Father Thelonius inclined his head gravely, to hide his smile. "We shall
walk in thy debt."

   "Nay, for thou hast banished that false priest that might have swayed
us." Geoffrey's glance lit on Magnus and Cordelia.

   "What mistrust is this?" Magnus demanded, and Cordelia said hotly,
"We were tempted, aye—yet now our eyes are cleared, and we will no
longer be misled!"

  "Yes." Rod smiled. "As long as you keep your ear mufflers on."

  "Then let us go forward in company." Father Thelonius held out a hand,
and Geoffrey fell into step beside him.
   So they strode onward into the world of illusion, a family led by a boy
and a middle-aged monk. The melting forms rose and fell about
them—but, strangely, seemed to part and make way for the two monks.

   As they went, Rod stepped up beside Father Thelonius and murmured,
"A word with you apart, Reverend, if you would."

  The holy man looked up with a smile—and without surprise. "Surely."
He turned to Brother Dorian and murmured a few words, then turned
back to Rod. "At your disposal, Lord Warlock."

   "I hope not—I wasn't planning to be disposed of, yet." Rod lengthened
his stride, to put a little space between himself and the rest of the family.

  "But I had heard you were a man of excellent disposition," Father
Thelonius protested.

   Rod winced. "Whoever told you that, don't believe him—but I am
predisposed in favor of your Order."

   "I rejoice to hear it," the monk said softly. "But what did you wish to
discuss, Lord Warlock?"

   "Just wanted to know how things are on Terra."

  The monk took it without batting an eyelash. "They are well at the
moment, Lord Warlock. Are there so few Blacks on Gramarye that you
could tell me for a foreigner at one glance?"

  "Right on the first guess, Father. There's the occasional folk tale, from
which I gather that the chromosomes link up now and then—but I've never
met anyone who wasn't Caucasian, here."

   That startled the monk. "Really! Well, that explains your children's
reaction on seeing me. I would have thought the original colonists would
have included a few people of my race."

  "They probably did—but after five hundred years of intermarriage, I
would expect their genes to be so thoroughly dispersed among the
population that they wouldn't show much. May I ask why Father Al didn't
come himself?"
   "Because there was no cause for concern."

   "No cause … !"

   "None that we knew of at the time." The monk raised a hand, palm out.
"It was simply good luck that I happened to arrive at a time when I could
be of use. Father Aloysius Uwell sends his regards, of course, but didn't
know there was any particular reason for him to come himself."

  "Well, I'm glad to hear he's well, at least," Rod sighed. "So he didn't
have a hunch about things going wrong here on Gramarye?"

  "Not in this case. I am not here in response to any emergency,
Commander Gallowglass…"

    It had been long years since anyone had called Rod by his military title.
It felt odd, somehow—strangely ill-fitting.

   "… nor to any concern of the Vatican's. I am only here out of scholarly
interest."

  Rod couldn't dispute anyone else's right to visit the planet—after all, it
wasn't his personal property. Nonetheless, he said, "I would have
appreciated your checking in with me, Father—just as a matter of
courtesy, if nothing else. I do have some concern about who's visiting and
who isn't."

   "I understand, Lord Warlock—and my apologies for not having
contacted you immediately. I had intended to, but had scarcely
acclimatized myself before the Abbot asked me to attend to this little
problem that has come up."

  "Scarcely 'little'—it's one of the larger threats I've seen. I hope that
means you'll be able to take care of it easily?"

  "Sadly, no—I am an excellent scholar, but not terribly able as an
engineer."

   Rod had heard the same thing before, from men who had moved
mountains with little help—or asteroids, at least, which could be classified
as flying mountains. "How are you on R&D?"
    "Research and development? Oh, I'm quite able—as long as I have a
laboratory assistant." He nodded toward Brother Dorian. "This young
fellow seems very competent. He's Gramarye-born, by the way."

  "That's reassuring. Should I interpret this to mean that the Abbot gave
you a local guide, but expects you to solve the problem?"

   "Oh, no! Brother Dorian is much more than a guide. He is quite
talented, and very skilled for so young a man."

   Rod noticed who was left solving the problem, though. "Skilled in what
area?"

   "As a musician. And a projective."

    "Oh." Rod left his lips in the form of the letter. He glanced at the
younger monk, chatting amiably with Gregory and Cordelia. "Isn't music a
little—odd, for an engineer?"

  "Not entirely, when you consider that he is continually trying to learn
more about the interrelationships between psionic powers and music."

   Insight exploded in Rod's mind. "Perfect combination, in light of the
current crisis. But everybody thought what he was doing was pure
research, without any practical application?"

   "Oh, it was—until now."

   "Yes, of course." Rod nodded. "As soon as you find some use for it, you
stop calling it pure research. Might I infer, Father, that his interest is in
some way allied to your own?"

   "Quite accurately." The black man smiled. "I trained as an electrical
engineer and managed to make a living designing musical intruments. But
the more heavily involved I became, the more I realized that the computer
programs involved might bear some resemblance to the musician's mental
processes—and the more deeply I delved into that, the more I became
convinced that musical talent had some kinship to psionic talent. Then, of
course, I began speculating on the nature of talent—which led me to my
vocation, and the Order."

   "Of course." Actually, Rod didn't really see any link between talent and
religion, but he wasn't about to open that topic just then. "So your
research led you to Gramarye."

  "To the only pool of operant espers in known space, yes—and I seem to
have arrived at the ideal time for my researches."

   "Ideal for us, too. When this is all over, I'll have to introduce you to Ari
the Crafter—but only if you promise not to try to lock him up in a
laboratory."

   "The man who made these musical rocks? Excellent! But in the
meantime, I think we have to deal with people whose talents may be
exceptional, but are devoted to using mtfsic rather than making it."

   "You mean they want to make a living from music, but don't want to go
to the trouble of learning how to play?"

    "I see you're familiar with the syndrome. Yes, the idea seems to be that
if you have the talent, you don't need to learn anything—it will all come
naturally, without any effort. It doesn't, of course—and in their
disappointment, the young hopefuls become cynics, seeking to exploit
those who have taken the time and trouble to learn how to play."

   "And you think we're facing such a person?"

   "It is possible. Certainly the young woman—excuse me, she might not
be young, might she?—the woman, this Ubu Mare I've heard of, seeks to
use music to gain power and status, not for the sheer exhilaration of it."

  "She's getting something out of it, that's for certain—and doesn't mind
who gets hurt in the process."

   "Ever the way of them." Father Thelonius sighed, shaking his head. "We
have known them for a long time, Lord Warlock—the vampires who batten
on people's souls, who drain the joys and hopes of youth as Dracula
drained the heart's blood, leaving only dessicated carcasses behind. We
have fought them, they who seek to grow rich from works that should be
freegiven, since Philip the Deacon turned the people of Samaria away
from the sorcerer. We have protected the weak and gullible from these
wolves for three millenia and more, and we will protect them now."

   "Then we'd better hurry," Rod told him, "because the wolves are
coming in packs these days."

  "Haven't they always?" Father Thelonius flashed him a smile. "Be of
good cheer, Lord Warlock—vampires thrive by night, but we bring the
sun."


                   Chapter Twenty-Five
   Brother Dorian said, "It cannot be much farther now, for I do sense
such a morass of psi power about me that I feel as though I wade."

  "Morass of psi?" Rod looked up in surprise. "I thought it was the
music!"

   "Mayhap 'tis psi power reflected through the music-rocks," Gregory
suggested.

   Rod stared at him. "A field of psi power that's active even though it's
separated from the crafter who began it? I never heard of such a thing!"

   "That will not prevent it from being invented, Papa," Cordelia pointed
out.

  "No, apparently not," Rod said, feeling numb.

  "What are these music-rocks, if not just such an invention, husband?"
Gwen said gently.

   "Yes," Rod acknowledged. "It does make sense, doesn't it? Sorry to be
the slow one in the family."

   "Thou art not." Gwen squeezed his arm. "None of us could have seen it,
plain though it was, had it not been for these good friars."

  "And for thy bauble, Papa," Gregory piped up.

   "Why, yes," Rod said, feeling stunned, "that was kind of the main clue,
wasn't it?" Then he snapped out of his mental fog. "No, it wasn't! That's
technology, not magic!"

  Gwen only raised her eyebrows.
  "I know, I know," Rod conceded. "Don't say it."

  "Father," Cordelia said to Thelonius, "if the Judas priest sought to
mislead us—where was't he sought to mislead us to?"

  "Aye," added Magnus, "and wherefore?"

  Father Thelonius shook his head. "I can but conjecture, children."

  "Then do," Gregory urged.

   The monk sighed. "I fear he meant to lead thee into bondage, to enslave
thee to the sorcerer who hath gained dominion over this fall of rock."

  "For what purpose?" Cordelia asked.

   "I cannot tell," Father Thelonius said, with a dark frown. "Mayhap to be
a sacrifice to his fell purpose."

  "What is a sacrifice?" Gregory asked.

  "Never mind, little brother," Magnus put in quickly. "In any event, 'tis
but conjecture."

  "It is," Father Thelonius agreed. "I cannot tell to what purpose he would
have warped thee—nor do I wish to."

  "Nor," said Magnus, "do we."

   "Rod," Fess said, "whatever that amorphous shape before us may be, it
bodes ill. Perhaps you should leave the younger children behind under my
care."

  "Good idea," Rod said, but Geoffrey whirled. "Nay! Assuredly thou shalt
not bid me bide when the fighting hath at last begun!"

   Father Thelonius looked up in mild surprise. "Truly, good folk, there is
no great danger yet."

  "Let us at least discern what perils lurk, ere we dispose our forces,"
Brother Dorian urged.

  Geoffrey looked up, amazed. "Thou speakest well, for a monk!"
  "And thou," Brother Dorian returned, "dost speak well, for an aspiring
warrior. Shall we not go see, then?"

   "No." Gwen spoke with decision, unlimbering her broom. "Prithee,
friars, let us go no farther till I have seen what I may, from above."

  The monks exchanged a quick glance, but Rod said, "Let's try it her
way, if you don't mind, Father. She's almost never wrong."

   Gwen halted in the act of leaping on her broomstick, staring at him.
"Almost?"

   "Well," Rod said, "there was that time you tried putting saffron in
the…"

   "It matters naught," she said quickly. "Be ready, husband!" Her
broomstick shot up into the air.

  The two friars started, then watched after her, wide-eyed.

   "I take it you've never seen a witch ride a broomstick before?" Rod
inquired gently.

  "Nay," Brother Dorian answered. "We dwell in a monastery, seest thou,
and 'tis a female's talent…"

  "What did she bid thee be ready for?" Father Thelonius asked.

   "Just in case she runs into trouble—which we both doubt. But just in
case."

  "She had no need to say it," Magnus protested.

  "No, but it made us both feel better."

  "Papa," said Cordelia, "in what did she put the saffron?"

   Rod took a deep breath, thinking fast, but he was saved, because
suddenly Gwen's broomstick shot upward, then back and to the side, as
though some huge hand had slapped her away—and, for a moment, she
was falling.

  Rod didn't even remember taking off; all he knew was that he was
halfway to her, and she was halfway to the ground, when the broomstick
pulled out of its tumble and came swooping back toward him.

   I am well, Gwen assured him, even before she came into earshot. Yet
there is danger there that will take greater preparation than we have
made.

  Rod went limp with relief, which is not entirely safe in midair. He
hovered till she was alongside, then flew next to her. "What did you see?"
But Gwen was nosing her broomstick up for a landing, and he had to jump
down beside her.

   "Most amazing!" Brother Dorian was shaking his head in admiration.
"Few of our monks can fly so well, and none so quickly!"

  "Oh, Mama!" Cordelia flung her arms around her mother and squeezed.
"We feared for thee!"

  And her boys were around her, too, with shaky grins and sweaty brows.

  She embraced Cordelia, allowing herself a little smile. "Peace, sweet
chuck. 'Twill take more than a wall unseen to best me."

  "An invisible wall?" Brother Dorian looked up sharply.

   Gwen nodded. "I had just come close enough to begin to see what stood
at the base of the tower, when I jolted into a barrier that gave, then hurled
me back. But in that time, I had seen a mass of people, and a dais with
flaring torches."

  "That hath an ominous sound." Father Thelonius scowled. "Canst say
more clearly?"

  "Nay," Gwen said, "for I had but glimpsed it ere I fell."

  "We must see more," the priest said, rubbing his chin, "but how?"

  I have a surveillance device, Rod, Fess advised silently.

  "Come to think of it, you do." Rod turned to the robot, eyes lighting.

   "Be not concerned—he is well," Gwen assured the two monks. " 'Tis only
that his horse can talk to him when none others can hear."
   Now it was her they were looking at as though she were crazy. Then
they smiled apologetically and turned away, taking it on faith.

   The metal egg popped out of Fess's saddle again. Rod saw the monks'
faces, and smiled. "The horse is a robot, Reverends."

   Their heads lifted; they smiled. They did, at least, know the basics of
technology.

    So they weren't too surprised when the sphere drifted up into the air,
then winged away toward the giant cocoon. "It will seek out what sight
lieth there?" Father Thelonius asked.

  "Yes," Rod said, "and show it to us on a built-in screen."

   "So many of us shall see little on so small a screen," Geoffrey said
plaintively.

  "Well, let me see." Rod frowned.

  I can monitor the video in progress, Rod, Fess contributed.

   "Yeah." Rod's face lit up. "And we can all monitor Fess. He's telepathic
with the family, Reverends. If you can read our minds, you can see it, too."

  Brother Dorian smiled and closed his eyes, concentrating.

   "My talent is weak," Father Thelonius lamented, "yet we are so close
that mayhap I shall see summat." He closed his eyes, too.

  Rod kept his open, just in case, so that the image relayed through Fess
was superimposed dimly over his surroundings, like a vacation
remembered during a conversation.

   The viewpoint was high, looking down on the plain as the spy-eye
skimmed toward the cocoon. Then Rod saw the mob at the tower's base,
and the slab flanked by flares of fire. The image grew larger; the spy-eye
was swooping lower. Whatever barrier had stopped Gwen had no power
over Cold Iron, or even an aluminum alloy. The image became larger,
clearer…

   And Rod saw an altar flanked by huge, oily torches, all set down in a
pit, a sort of amphitheater, jammed full of people who seemed to have
absolutely nothing in common except dirt and disorder. They wore all
manner of clothing, in a range of colors that was guaranteed only to
clash—but they achieved consensus in voice and motion. They chanted
and swayed in time to a dimly heard beat, overlaid with snarling tones.
Before the altar, facing them, stood a woman in a robe that was all flashes
of metallic light against dark cloth, moving in some arcane ritual involving
a huge knife and a staff—but her movements were abrupt, random, almost
palsied.

   The giant cocoon that overshadowed them all drew Rod's attention, as
it must have drawn the attention of anyone looking upon the scene—for it
was, very clearly, a vast stationary whirlwind. What could have held it in
place, what could have enclosed it to prevent it doing damage, Rod could
scarcely imagine—perhaps some new and immensely powerful form of psi.
Even its noise was muted and distant, as though shut away—a constant
roar that was only a background for the grating music of the ceremony
before it.

   The picture abruptly filled with flames. The children cried out, pressing
their hands over their eyes and turning away. Gwen's head snapped up as
she and Rod broke their connection with Fess instantly. They were all
silent for a moment, staring at one another.

  Then Father Thelonius said, " 'Tis well we did watch through thy robot,
whiles we could."

    "Yes," Rod said, feeling numb. "Not much question about it, is there?
The sorceress saw we were watching, and blew that spy-eye to bits."
Almost involuntarily, he reached out and caught Gwen's hand. She
returned the pressure, knowing his panic at the notion that it could have
been she who was so destroyed, reassuring him that she was still there,
still alive and vibrant.

  We can make another surveillance device, Rod.

   "Glad to hear it. Uh, I don't suppose there's any chance you recorded
that episode, is there?"

  Of course I did, Rod—that is standard operating procedure. Do you
wish to review it?

  "Yes, it's recorded," Rod informed the monks. "Anyone want to see it
again?"

  "Aye." There was a sudden grim intensity about Father Thelonius. "An
we can, I must study that sight, Lord Warlock."

  "And its sounds," Brother Dorian added, scowling.

  They closed their eyes, concentrating on the link with Rod's mind.

  He saw it again, the flight over the plain, the crowd in the
amphitheater, the torches…

  "There is a cross inverted betwixt the flames," Father Thelonius said.

  The children looked up, shocked.

  In the image, the sorceress before the altar suddenly threw off her robe
and danced naked.

  She didn't have the body for it.

  Then the flames came, and instantly, the scene disappeared.

   "The sound is wrong." Brother Dorian's eyebrows drew down. "Canst
review it backwards?"

  "Backwards?" Rod asked in surprise. "Well, I guess…"

   Surely, Fess said, and the picture disappeared. Then, a moment later,
came the sound of the chanting—and Rod broke out of the playback,
looking up, startled. "Latin!"

  "Aye." Brother Dorian had turned grim. "Latin, chanted backwards."

   "Inversion, reversion, perversion…" Father Thelonius' face twisted with
disgust. "They seek to enact the Black Sabbath."

  "Trying to worship the devil?"

   Gwen was horrified, and the younger children, shaken by the thought,
crowded closer to her almost without realizing it. Magnus stepped a little
nearer to Rod.
   "That is what they attempt," Father Thelonius said. "All they achieve is
the sacrificing of what little power of psi they have to the hag."

  "But what can have led them to this?" Cordelia protested.

  Father Thelonius' eyes met Rod's and Gwen's.

   Magnus saw the look, and knew its meaning. "Thou canst not mean
'twas the music!"

   Father Thelonius nodded heavily. "I do so mean. This woman before the
altar—'tis she who hath beguiled the crafter into twisting the music of his
rocks, who hath gathered and dispersed them, to win herself followers and
gain some measure of worldly power."

   "And she gains it," Rod asked, "by combining the minimal talents of
ordinary people?"

   "Aye, and- strengthens them by the basest of their emotions—which,
though less powerful than love or compassion, are more easily evoked."

   "And that tower of wind behind her," said Gwen, "is the repository of
their powers."

  "Gathered and compressed, aye, and churning the air into a
maelstrom."

  "But what can hold it bound?" Gregory asked.

  "She doth hold the churning winds within the envelope of her own
mind's force—for she, at least, is an esper of genuine power."

   "A psi-made tornado," Rod breathed, "held in a cell of pure force—a
cysted twister."

   But Gwen shook her head. "It cannot be her mind unaided. If she were
so powerful a witch, I'd ha' heard of her ere now."

  "There could be aids," Rod said slowly, thinking of high-tech devices.

  "But what hath led her to so foul an end?" Cordelia exclaimed.

  Father Thelonius shook his head. "I can but conjecture."
   "So can I," Magnus said darkly. "This much we know— that she is the
ugliest witch in the land."

   Cordelia glared at him, incensed, but before she could argue, Rod
asked, "Now that she has managed to gather some power, what does she
intend to do with it?"

  "To gather more, of course. That is ever the way of power," Brother
Dorian said, and Father Thelonius nodded.

   Rod caught at Fess's saddle for support, staggered by a sudden vision of
witch-moss rocks imbued with hate, greed, and lust, flying out from this
plain of delusion, sped onward with all the power of the chained minds of
the mob, gaining more and more converts to the worst of human
nature—and the worst of the new fanatics finding their way back here, to
contribute their own hatred and self-contempt to the swelling power of the
emotional sink. "It could be the end of all that's good in Gramarye," he
whispered.

   He was aware of a strong hand on his arm and opened his eyes to see
his wife's face, taut with concern. He forced a weak smile, managed to
stand away from Fess, and turned to the monks.

  Father Thelonius met him with a steady, grave gaze, nodding slowly.
"Therefore can we not allow this obscenity to continue."

  "But how can we stop it?"

   "We have powers of our own." Father Thelonius touched the amulet.
"Yet even without this jewel, there is great virtue in the yearning for right.
We shall focus that—the aching for goodness and order, for love and
compassion, gentleness and understanding, that is locked away in the
hearts of us all. We shall focus and condense it, and pit it against that
hideous chaos."

  "Well said." Rod frowned. "Now, how about the engineering?"

  Brother Dorian smiled and drew a long leather case out of his robe.

  The children stepped forward, curiosity swelling.

  Brother Dorian untied the case, and drew out…
  An artifact of advanced technology.

  Rod's eyes widened. "You made that?"

   Brother Dorian shook his head, and Father Thelonius said softly, "We
do remember the arts that the rest of humankind do own, mind—yet in
this case, 'twas sent us from Terra."

  It was a keyboard, with a full set of built-in visual synthesizers and
subsonic modulators.

  "You really know how to use that?" Rod asked skeptically, but Brother
Dorian answered with a very serene smile. He extended the legs of the
keyboard and set it up for playing.

  "What is it?" Magnus asked.

  "Listen," Brother Dorian said, "and watch."

   His fingers moved over the keys, and a lilting melody arose. It wasn't
nearly as loud as the rock music around them, but somehow it compelled
attention, making the snarling and whining seem to recede into the
background.

  The children were transfixed.

   A mist of glowing mauve formed in the air above Brother Dorian. Then,
moving in synchronization with the music, it thickened, swirling, and
churned itself into the form of a drooping flower bud. As the music built,
the flower quickened, blooming and opening, lifting its face to the sun. It
faded as the music swept down to a hush—and now, where the melody had
been, a series of squeaks and chirps began. The children knelt hushed,
recognizing the sounds of small woodland animals and birds—but what
were they doing here on a plain?

  Then they appeared, off to the side of the keyboard— foxes, badgers,
mice, pheasants, hedgehogs—gathered in a semicircle, staring spellbound.

  "What do they see?" Gwen whispered.

   It was almost as though the music shaped itself to answer, swirling and
settling into physical form—the figure of a small man with blue skin, clad
only in a fur loincloth, a wreath of flowers in his hair and a flute at his lips.
They could hear his piping, clear and flowing, and as he played, a small
dancing shape appeared between him and the small furry creatures, a tiny
elfin being, whose pirouettes whirled it so fast that it became a spot of
light.

   Then it dimmed as the music faded—and the small man and his
creatures faded with it, disappearing, gone. The music took on a
bittersweet, nostalgic quality, that both regretted and promised
renewal—and ended.

  The children were silent for a few breaths, and it seemed that even the
music-rocks held their peace.

   Then Rod realized the twanging and bonging was still going on around
them, and the children released their breaths in a concerted sigh.
"Wondrous!" Cordelia said, and Geoffrey added, "Thou art a magician!"

   "Aye, certes," said Magnus, his eyes on the monk, "for thou art of the
cloister of St. Vidicon, not of a parish. Thou art a wizard, art thou not?"

   "Only in this," Brother Dorian demurred, "only in my music."

   "Yet that is his magic," said Father Thelonius, "not the instrument
alone."

  "Yes, there is psi power in that, isn't there?" Rod mused. "You're a
genius, Brother Dorian."

  "Not I," the monk protested, though he flushed with pleasure. "Not I,
but he who composed this piece."

   "I could almost believe that such magic as this could counter the power
of that fell maelstrom," Gwen said.

  "It can! I assure thee, it can!" Brother Dorian said, his eyes bright. "Yet
not alone."

   "No, not alone," Father Thelonius agreed, "but with other instruments
to aid it, and the power of a sacred ceremony to counter the vicious
impulses drawn by the sorceress's profane ritual, we may hope to build a
strength of psi power that will stand against it."
  "Not just us eight," Rod protested.

   "Aye, not we alone," Father Thelonius agreed, "for there are
twelve-score monks in the monastery who shall sing and play, and shall
link their upwelling of hope and serenity to ours."

  "Why, how shall this be?" asked Gregory.

  "It is the talent of our choirmaster, little one—the blending of musics,
and the sharing of their power with those who have need of it, no matter
how far removed—for he is a man for distances."

  "A tele-man?" Rod asked. "And you'll be linked to him?"

   "Aye, and he to all of us. We must have a meeting of minds, seest thou,
a concert indeed."

  "But how shall we aid?" Cordelia wondered.

   Brother Dorian smiled and came around the keyboard, taking small
instruments from hiding places within his robe. "Why, thou shalt play
with me, as the spirt moves thee. Youngest one, a pipe for thee." He gave
Gregory a wooden flute. "And a harp for the lass."

  Cordelia took the wooden frame, gazing at it, caressing it. "But I have
not the time to learn to play!"

   "Thou hast but to sweep the strings, for they are tuned in harmony. A
tambour for the warrior-lad." Brother Dorian handed Geoffrey a sort of
shallow drum, a tambourine without the bangles, and a stick with a head
on each end. "Strike the skin in time to the lowest notes I shall sound. And
thou, O eldest son, shalt have an heir's portion." He held out a flat slab as
long as his forearm and as wide, with four inset plates for the right hand
and and six pressure-pads for the left. Magnus took it, frowning, and
pressed one plate. A chord sounded, seeming to come from the air before
his face. He almost dropped the instrument. "But how shall I know when
to press which?"

  "Thou shalt feel the impulse from me, for I have just such plates and
pads upon my board."

  "Yet wherefore should we play," Cordelia asked, "if we know not how?"
   "Because," said Brother Dorian, "there is great power for good in the
innocence of youth."

   Father Thelonius nodded. "That is why such innocence is so great a
threat to those who wreak evil—and why they are so eager to corrupt it."

  Rod gave the monk a measuring gaze. "You seem to have this awfully
well planned out, Father."

   "Aye." Father Thelonius looked up with a smile from where he was
gathering brushwood. " 'Tis for this we were sent, Lord Warlock—to keep
the domain of vengeful music from increasing, and to push it back if we
may."

   Rod watched him silently for a minute. Then he said, "No wonder you
found us."

  "Aye." Brother Dorian smiled. "No wonder at all."

  Rod was tempted to ask why Father Thelonius was gathering sticks, but
decided he didn't want to know.

   Brother Dorian turned back to the junior Gallowglasses. "Thou must
attune thy selves to me, young ones, so that we may make sound
together—and that blending of musics will increase the linking of our
minds."

  "Then we must be linked with thee, too," Gwen stated.

   "Thou must indeed." Father Thelonius locked gazes with them—and,
suddenly, the atmosphere was grim. "Thou must needs be at one with all
of us—thy children, ourselves, and the monks in the monastery."

  Rod was almost afraid to ask: "And how shall we make music?"

  "Thou shalt not."

  They stared at him in silence for a long moment. Then Gwen asked,
"What shall we do?"

  "Thou shalt fly sped by melody," said Father Thelonius, "for someone
must bear the Warlock's Rock into that unholy place, to turn the witch's
power back upon herself."
  They were very quiet, the children stock-still, chilled with dread.

  Rod wasn't exactly feeling warmed himself, but he swallowed and
nodded. "Okay, Father. Give it to me. Someone has to stop her."

  "Nay," Gwen snapped. "Whither thou goest, I will go. 'Twas into my
keeping thou didst give the jewel, husband." And she stepped forward,
bowing her head.

    Father Thelonius nodded, slipping the chain over his head and holding
it out.

  "No!" Rod protested. "One of us at risk is enough!"

   "Yet life would never be enough for me without thee," Gwen returned.
"I beg thee, Father."

  He slipped the chain over her head.

   Gwen straightened, then turned to her eldest. She rested a hand lightly
on his shoulder. "If we should miscarry, do thou care for thy sister and
brothers."

  Eyes huge, Magnus nodded.

  "And thou." Gwen gave the other three her sternest look. "Do thou heed
and obey him."

  Wide-eyed, they nodded slowly.

  "Take care of them, Fess," Rod said softly.

  "I will at need, Rod—yet I hope that need shall not come."

   "Yes." Rod smiled, and broke the spell. "What's a mere coven, against a
cloister-ful of psionic monks and a family of espers? Even if they are
reinforced by the more depraved emotions of an eighth of the souls of
Gramarye." He turned to Father Thelonius. "What ceremony is this you'll
be performing to the music, Father?"

  The monk turned back from draping a linen cover over a table
improvised out of stones and scrub. "It will be the Mass of Light."
                    Chapter Twenty-Six
    It was the Missa Lubba, actually, blending the traditional meolodies of
the Latin Mass with African rhythms, and coupling the highest
aspirations of both cultures. The Kyrie rang in Rod's head as he strode
beside his wife into the domain of a warped witch. The landscape about
him seemed dim and remote; all his attention was on channelling his psi
powers now. He was forgetting himself, becoming aware only of his
anxiety for his wife, and the power filling him; he didn't really notice that
Fess was following them. Nightmare shapes grew, collapsed, and flowed on
every side, for they went on foot to escape detection, detouring around
newly risen forms of distorted dancing bodies, hideous faces with leering
grins, and monstrous forms that comprised parts of three or four animals;
but the illusions were only that, and seemed unaware of their passage.
Their nature finally became clear to Rod, with the impact of insight—they
were the nightmares of the souls before him, warped and twisted by their
own depravity, images of foulness called up out of the depths of the
subconcious by the perversion of an art form that had begun as a
vivacious celebration of youth and life, but had been twisted to the
titillation of the jaded and vicious, corrupted into a medium for the
evoking of cruelty and degradation.

   Then they were through, quite suddenly, on the lip of the amphitheater.
Only a hundred feet away, the naked witch cavorted in an obscene and
insulting dance, beating time for the chanting that focused the sickened
hungers of a thousand souls, drawing tenfold psychic energy from the raw
emotions of bemused and baffled young.

  They paused on the brink to clasp hands; then they plunged into the
mass of people, driving straight toward the witch.

  Fess followed, immune to illusion and relentless in purpose.

   Rod's ears were filled with the Gloria; only dimly, in the distance, could
he hear the roaring and thumping of the metallic music. As if by
coincidence, the people before them shifted aside, or turned away with the
force of the wind, so that they seemed to move in a spreading path, a
furrow through the human mass. But neighbors looked up, rouged and
whitened faces stared, arms in patchwork sleeves raised up pointing
fingers. Suddenly they were surrounded by tunics that glittered but were
quartered with dun, by hands lifting cutlasses and sabres and scythes and
spindles. Pitchforks and rusty swords speared at them; rouged and
chapped lips stretched over rotted teeth in howling glee.

   But Rod and Gwen couldn't hear them, for a choir filled their world
with harmony, and the blades rebounded inches away from them,
whiplashes slashed but did not touch them, and the ragtag horde rolled
back from them like a bow wave as they plowed through the sorceress's
motley crew on wings of unseen song.

   The witch saw them, though, and had time to ready herself, reaching
behind her to draw on the power of the storm, gathering in and drawing
up the strength of sickened souls, then lashing out an arm, a taloned
finger pointing at them. They could almost see the bolt of thought that
rocked them, made their heads ring. For a moment, Rod could see only a
wash of red, hear only a roaring. He shook his head, cried out, strove to
hear again the sound of song, then looked up to see the sorceress's minions
pulling themselves up off the rocky floor, dazed by crashing blows from
steel hooves—and a steel horse, legs stiff, head swinging, beset by too
many enemies, too many sights and sounds, seized by unconsciousness.

   Then Rod saw Gwen go down, too, and his anger erupted. He dropped
to one knee, cradling his wife in his arms, and all the rage that he had ever
felt, all the buried angers, leaped up and shot out from him in white-hot
fury.

   The sorceress staggered back and would have fallen—but his mental
blow slammed her against the side of her immense reservoir of vice. She
straightened slowly, seeming to swell up larger than human, eyes widening
into moons, filling with corrupted power, becoming a channel for her own
creation.

   Then she released all her hatred toward him, all her sickened fury for
the world that had disdained her, aimed at the High Warlock.

  But Gwen had pulled herself up, supported by Rod's chest and shoulder,
and held up the amulet as a barrier between themselves and the witch.

   The sorceress's eyes bulged; her skin seemed to go taut as the hatred
she'd released rebounded on her. There was no bolt of energy, no
explosion, no flare of all-consuming fire—only a sudden slackness as she
slumped and went limp, her eyes rolling up.

  A wave of nausea swept Rod as he felt her memories fleet through him
and past him; then she was gone, and only an empty hulk fell off from the
giant cocoon behind her.

   Dimly, Rod could hear the snarling music halt as, all around them, a
despairing moan rose up to a wail. Then it slackened and died—but eyes
kindled with glee, crooked teeth gleamed in gloating grins, and the
grinding music rose up again, to decorate the whirlwind's roar.

   "She set up a feedback circuit!" Rod shouted. "She started something
she couldn't control—she could only be a conduit for it! It was burning her
out—but it became self-sustaining, it's still going!"

   With a howl, the sorceress's minions fell on them.

   But a choir of voices lifted in exultation within Rod and Gwen; incense
seemed to wreathe them, and Gwen spread her hands in an open fan.
Inches away, the human jetsam jarred to a halt, then shrank back with
howls of fright.

  Gwen didn't notice; she was concentrating on the huge cocoon, her eyes
narrowed. "Husband, 'tis no power of mind that doth hold that force of
minds chained."

   Rod's eyes were fixed on his wife.

  Then, cradling her in his arm, he rose to his feet, lifting her, and
moved, step by step, toward the altar.

   "What dost thou?" Gwen cried.

   "If it isn't psi, it's tech," he answered, "and if it's built, the builders put
in controls."

   Gwen stared; then her eyes lost focus as her mind sought out electron
paths. "The altar," she said. "There is a reactor buried in it, and a valve to
hold it."

   The miasma of evil surrounding the altar was enough to make Rod
dizzy—and nauseous; he wondered what deeds had been done there. He
clung to Gwen, who wasn't in much better shape—but together they held
each other up as they rounded the huge stone block.
   The coven saw and moaned with sick horror, but were too weakened to
do much. A few clambered toward them, but far too slowly.

   Rod and Gwen tottered in the shadow of the huge cocoon; its roaring
drowned out the sound of the choir. That was scary enough, but the true
fear was in realizing what might happen when the force that chained the
whirlwind was released. If this is it, my only, Rod thought, know that I
love you.

  It almost melted her. And I thee, my love—-forever!

  Then Gwen's hand found the patch, and pressed.

   Then universe erupted in an explosion that surpassed their ability to
hear. Roaring filled the world, roaring and a tumbling whirl of light that
sent them spinning off into the void, still clinging tightly to one another in
overwhelming, all-consuming fear.

   Then the world steadied and clarified—above them. Rod realized they
were out of whatever had happened, were out but still flying away, up. He
longed for the earth with sudden, frantic hope of survival, then with a
surge of fear for his children. The world rocked about them, sideslipped,
and swung beneath them. They looked down, and found that same world
rushing up at them.

   A world devoid of an amphitheater now—only a huge, ragged hole in
the rock. The plain about it was blasted raw for half a mile in every
direction, but a handful of ants well beyond that had to be his children
and the two monks. Then Rod could feel it through Gwen, the frantic fear
and hope borne on the tranquility of the chant, and knew his children
were alive and safe.

  Finally, he could look for the psi storm.

  We fall, Gwen reminded him, panic controlled now.

   Somewhere, she'd lost her broomstick. Rod thought about the earth,
and their descent slowed and stopped. They hovered a thousand feet above
the ground, watching the whirlwind move around and about in a widening
spiral.

  "It could do some damage that way," Rod called into Gwen's ear. "Let's
give it a little push, shall we?"

   She nodded, and he knew again the sweetness of her mind joined with
his, as they stared at the churning cloud, freed from its chrysalis now.
Slowly, it began to move out of its circle, farther and farther, in a
lengthening arc.

   "Lift," she called, and the storm ascended, high enough to roar over the
distant hills that stood between the plain and the coast.

   Beyond glittered the sea.

   Concentrating all their energy, they pushed and kept pushing and,
slowly, the maelstrom moved away, over the shore, over the waves, until it
was only a smudge on the horizon—a smudge that spread, and widened,
and dissipated.

   "The trade winds," Rod called. "The winds that follow the current from
the mainland. They tore it apart, shredded it."

   Gwen nodded. "And the evil powers with it. They are tattered, and have
lost their strength."

   "We won," Rod said, marvelling. "The good guys."

   Then he remembered where they were. "Can I collapse now?"

  She looked up at him with a weary smile. "Not quite yet, prithee. Set
me first upon the earth."


                   Chapter Twenty-Seven
   They came back to find Brother Dorian still at his keyboard, and the
children, caught up in his music, still with their instruments. Rod paused
to watch, astonished—the sound of the pipe and tambour, the sweeps of
the harp and the doubled pure-tone chords, all fitted perfectly with
Brother Dorian's melody, punctuating and underscoring it as though they,
too, were parts of his instrument.

   All about them, angels danced.

   At least, if angels could really be seen, they might have looked like
this—no wings or long white robes, but abstract glowing forms, fluxing
and shifting in time to the music. The pillars of a cathedral soared up
around them, pillars that seemed real even though Rod could see through
them, supporting a dome inlaid with abstract designs that somehow
blended tranquility with excitement.

  Around them wreathed the aroma of incense.

   Father Thelonius finished veiling the chalice and looked up to give
them a taut smile. He started toward them, but Rod could see his strain
and held up a palm. The monk stopped, nodding his thanks, then stilled as
his eyes lost focus.

  Rod glanced at Gwen; she nodded, and the two of them opened their
minds to the conceit Brother Dorian led.

    It was glorious—a heavenly choir singing to the tones of massed strings,
with trumpets now and again gliding high above. The tones of the
children's instruments were there, though subtle, and nowhere nearly as
vivid as their delight. Rod sensed a hundred souls or more, all welcoming,
all exalted with the beauty of the music and the glory of their praising; the
beneficence of their purpose was still there, but less important than the
wonder of the experience itself.

   Gwen's mind blended with his own, and they saw together why the
choir still sang, felt the waves of dissonance and the clashing chaos of
interference arising from the turmoil of despairing, angered minds all
across Gramarye—from youth led into confusion by the sorceress, seduced
into the nightmare disorientation that made them malleable and would
have brought them eventually to her coven, to swell her power.

   But the harmonies of the choir of linked minds rolled out over the land
now, welling from the monastery in the southeast and this small fountain
in the northwest, to soothe and calm and reassure, lifting souls from
despair and giving them the inspiration of a fundamental certainty that
there was some sort of sense to existence somewhere, that harmony and
hope still existed, though the troubled young might not yet perceive
them—but could eventually find them, and the peace and, perhaps, even
the happiness they sought.

  Finally, Rod could feel exhaustion dimming Brother Dorian's music,
could feel the choir weakening—but they had lasted long enough. The
worst of the standing waves of confusion and chaos spreading outward
from the psychic storm had decayed; physical entropy had subsumed
emotional entropy. The energy input was gone, and the nightmares it had
generated had begun to die.

   Slowly, Brother Dorian began to soften his tones. The glowing forms
around him dimmed, then faded. Finally, his chords were silenced, and
only a single melodic line held sway. One by one, the Gallowglasses laid
down their instruments as the single tune resolved the whole symphony,
was met with a final chord, and was done. Brother Dorian stood, face
uplifted, exhausted but exalted, immobile.

  " 'Twas miraculous," Cordelia said softly.

   "A miracle of thine own making, then." Brother Dorian's voice seemed
to come from far away.

   "Nay, Brother," Father Thelonius demurred. "Miracles come from God
alone—we can but hope that they flow through us."

   Still, Brother Dorian's voice was not of this world. "There are more
miracles than we realize, then, for they are all about us, and need not be
great and mighty. Grace comes to all who are open to it; miracles hap in
places far removed from fame. Tis only the few that catch the eye of
mighty folk that do astound us all."

  "Thy work this day hath astounded me," Geoffrey said, and that was
enough to make Rod marvel.

  "I believe more strongly in Heaven, for having been a part of this
upwelling of souls," Cordelia said. "Can we never be of it again?"

   "Mayhap thou canst." Finally, Brother Dorian's gaze met theirs, and he
came back to the present. "You have but to learn to make music
yourselves, and play it together—and, now and again, when all is true and
right, this feeling may come upon you. Not in such intensity, no, for such
as this is rare, that so many souls be conjoined—but enough, enough."

  "Then I will anticipate it," Magnus murmured.

  Gwen turned to Father Thelonius. "What form of Mass was this, that
had every form of sense involved, and made so many folk a channel for the
common greatness?"

   "Each one of us was a medium for the goodness in the hearts of all
others," Father Thelonius answered, "and for a while, we were able to put
aside our jealousies and spites, our shadows' hungers and desires. For
some brief time, we learned again that what is good in us is of greater
moment than what is fell."

  That wasn't much of an answer, Rod decided, but it was enough.

  "Yet what of thee?" Father Thelonius' tone sharpened with anxiety.
"How didst thou fare, who took the brunt of peril upon thee?"

   The children looked up, suddenly aware again of the potential for
horror. "Oh, Mama!" Cordelia fled to embrace Gwen, and the boys
crowded round.

   "Nay, child, I am well." Gwen caressed Cordelia's hair. " 'Twas
harrowing, I will own, but 'tis done, and though thy father and I had some
pain in the doing of it, we emerge unscathed."

  "What pain?" Magnus cried, but Gwen said, "Hush. 'Twas of the
passing moment, and is gone."

   "Forgive me, then, when thou art so wearied." Father Thelonius wasn't
looking too spruce himself. "But I must know, if I can—didst thou discover
aught more of the way in which this blasphemy came to be? I must
forestall its recurrence, if I can."

   Rod shuddered at the thought. "I'm afraid we had a good summary of
that, Father."

  Gwen nodded, gaze fixed on Thelonius' eyes. "As the sorceress died, her
memories sped through our minds. We know more of her than we wish."

  "Say, then—what manner of thing was she?"

   "Only another peasant with a modicum of talent of the mind," Gwen
explained. "Partly for this, and partly for her misshapen features, she was
scorned and shunned by her fellows, till their contempt did fester within
her soul and yield conviction that she was far better than any, though her
qualities were hidden. Yet she was certain that they would one day burst
forth to bring her power and glory—and scope for revenge."

   Father Thelonius nodded sadly. " 'Tis an old tale and a sad one, told out
aye many times. Its only cures are grace and faith, and devotion to charity.
Yet lacking these, she was fertile ground for those who sought to make a
tool of her."

   Rod nodded. "You have it. That was no psionic construct that held that
tornado in check—it was a force field, set up by electronic devices and
maintained by the power of a nuclear reactor."

   "Ah." Father Thelonius lifted his head. "It was an agent from off-planet,
then, who played her tempter."

   "He was indeed," Gwen said, "though she knew it not. He came to her
in the guise of a devil, pleading for her sympathy and offering her the
satisfaction of her lust. If she would worship him, he said, he would give
her power— power to destroy. He gave her a mission—to reduce the land
of Gramarye to anarchy. And he showed her the way to it—told her of the
peasant who did make the witch-moss stones, and how to entice him to
make rocks that would bend to her will the common folk who have no
witch-talent of their own. Then did he show her how, once bent, she could
bring them to her, could use music to entice them into blending what little
mind-power they had with her own talent, thus shaping a stronger power
to bend more folk and bring them in. Thus did she gather a 'coven' of
deluded mortals who, like herself, did think themselves great because, in
their hidden hearts, they believed themselves diminished. She promised
them the power of the devil who had appeared to her, and aided them in
deluding themselves to believe they had witch-powers."

  "But they truly had no talent of any kind?" Father Thelonius asked.

   "None, save perhaps the great-heartedness that might have been, had
they not killed it aborning with their own poisoned pain. Some among
these she sent out to the crafter, to pay him and tell him what new forms
of music she wished to have come from his next rocks. Others she sent out
to spread those first rocks broadcast, and bring in more folk like them."

  "That's why the music took such an unpleasant turn," Rod explained.

  "Aye," Father Thelonius agreed, "there was something of a poisoned
mind underlying it. But what of the strange beings that did seem to
accompany this music as it spread?"

   Rod shook his head. "No one person's doing. But the music itself did
start to suggest strange things. My own guess is that they came into
existence the way the elves did—from the vivid imaginations of people who
didn't know they were projectives. Only this time, instead of old folk-tales
suggesting forms for witch-moss constructs, it was music."

   Father Thelonius nodded. "And did this agent in a devil's guise give her
the thought of worship of him?"

   "There are men who would enjoy such a thing," Rod admitted. Magnus
glanced sharply at him.

   "Even so," Gwen agreed. " 'Twas he who built her the altar that hid her
devices of power, he who told her how to make of it a reservoir of minds'
energies. Yet not being psionic, he could not tell her the manner of using
that resource; she discovered that herself, and this opened a channel she
could not close, directly from the reservoir to her mind."

  "And it destroyed her mind?" the monk asked.

   Gwen nodded. "As her music gathered in more and more deluded folk
to yield what little power they could, and channel the far greater amount
that came from others stirred by her grating sounds, the power from the
reservoir overwhelmed her brain. She began to lose control; the
dismind-ing noises she herself had made beat most strongly on the brain
that had engendered them, making her to think of sounds more strongly
bent. These did she make to sound in the minds of those about her, and
her agents took the memory of those sounds to the crafter, to make rocks
that would emit such noise."

   "And the reservoir would distort the new sound into a grosser sound,
and the agents would take that out to the crafter," Rod added. "So the
whole cycle would begin again, swelling the reservoir from the power of
the people it absorbed, with no one directing it."

  "A regenerative cycle," Father Thelonius said, "a vicious circle."

  "A feedback loop by any other name," Rod agreed. "The more it fed
back, the more it warped the brain that had begun it—and the more
power that the coven brought in, the more it seared its single path
through her neurons, numbing what intellect she had."

    "The power she used burned her out," Gwen agreed. "She may have
harnessed the whirlwind, but she had little mind left with which to direct
it."

  Rod nodded. "She turned the whole assemblage— herself, her
adherents, and the reservoir—into a runaway engine, out of control."

  "But thus they sought to be," Gwen protested. "They sought to lose
control, all—even, toward the end, the sorceress herself!"

   Father Thelonius shook his head. " 'Tis the instinct in the social animal,
to yield itself up and become a part of something greater than itself."

  "That is the impulse that should start us on the road to Heaven,"
Brother Dorian murmured.

   "But can be used to turn us onto the path to Hell." Father Thelonius
scowled. "Thus can we be misled—oh, so easily misled! And the younger
we are, the more easily 'tis done."

  The junior Gallowglasses exchanged glances.

  Then they turned, as one, to Brother Dorian.

  He was packing up his keyboard.

  "What!" Cordelia protested. "Wilt thou leave us lorn?"

   The monk paused in the act of slipping his keyboard away under his
robe. "Nay, I think not," he said with a smile. "I shall return to the
monastery, aye—but I think there shall be some new songs in the land ere
long."