Christopher Stasheff - Wizard in Rhyme 06 - Haunted Wizard

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Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

CHAPTER 1

The moon rose high over the low hill at the edge of the plain, and over the cluster of rocks at its foot.

Within that rough ring half a dozen men in white robes stood chanting, hoods covering their heads,

gilded sickles at their belts, chanting a petition to a forgotten god.

"Why have you turned away from us, O Toutatis?" the leader called, and the others answered, "Because

our fathers' fathers turned away from you."

"Remember us, Toutatis!" the leader cried, and the others chanted, "Toutatis, remember."

"Our ancestors built great stone rings in which to worship you, Toutatis, but we must hide in these

circles you have given us by the mountains."

"We must hide in the mountains," the watchers chorused.

"For we who remember you are few, and weak thereby, Toutatis!"

"We are few and weak," the watchers agreed.

"We pray you, give us strength, Toutatis, that we may increase!"

"That we may increase!"

"That we may regain our dominion, and worship you openly in the great stone rings!" the leader cried.

"In the great stone rings," the watchers echoed.

"We shall serve you as well as we may, Toutatis!"

"As well as we may," the followers echoed.

"We shall give you our richest gift, Toutatis!"

"Our richest gift" Eyes glistened; one or two of the men moistened their lips and swallowed thickly.

"A virgin!" the leader cried. "A fine girl, not yet eighteen, preserved from man's touch for you!"

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Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

"And because her father's an ogre," one of the men muttered.

"Be still!" his neighbor hissed.

"Do you suppose this is really how the old druids did it?"

"Of course it is! Niobhyte has read all the old books of runes they left! Now be silent, before he hears

you!"

"Bring forth the virgin!" Niobhyte the leader commanded.

"The virgin comes," cried a voice from beyond the rocks.

"The virgin comes," the other men chorused. All eyes turned toward the source of the voice.

A high-pitched drum began to beat, and three figures came into the rock circle, all in white cowled

robes, but the one in the center wore a much finer cloth. The man to the left kept a firm hold on the arm

of the central figure; the man to the right beat slowly on a small, flat drum. The central figure seemed to

be wading through an invisible stream, stumbling now and again, but steadied by the hand on the arm.

As the drum tapped out a solemn measure, the three came to the low, flat rock in front of Niobhyte and

stopped a little to one side, facing both him and the small congregation.

"Unveil the sacrifice!" Niobhyte commanded.

The guard stepped behind the central figure and drew the hood back, revealing a heart-shaped face with

huge eyes, retrousse nose, and full lips. A wealth of blond hair tumbled out.

The watchers caught their breath at her beauty. They had all seen her before, of course, seen and

yearned, but by moonlight she seemed even more lovely than ever, with an almost supernatural quality.

Now, though, her eyes were dim, unfocused, and she wore a bemused, faintly puzzled expression.

"See how Toutatis enhances the beauty of she who goes to him!" Niobhyte intoned. "Unveil her, unveil

her!"

Slowly, the guard drew the robe down to reveal smooth shoulders, so pale in the moonlight, then further

to expose a wealth of swelling curves and expanses of pale skin, on down to small, bare, dainty feet.

The men caught their breath; the youngest groaned. His mates silenced him with furious hisses. He

wondered how Niobhyte had seduced her into slipping out of her father's house—with promises of a

handsome prince awaiting her, or of wealth and power? No matter—once out, he had given her drugged

wine, and his henchmen had borne her away to this ring.

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Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

"Lay her down on her nuptial bed," Niobhyte intoned.

The girl stumbled as they turned her about, then blinked, confused, as they laid her down. Several of the

men moaned, looking at the moon-glowing body stretched out on the stone table. The girl looked about

her, puzzled; then the drug-haze cleared for a second and alarm filled her face, but Niobhyte stepped

forward to touch her forehead with a forefinger, venting a phrase none of the men could understand, and

her eyes dulled again, her body relaxed.

"Toutatis, we send you this gift!" Niobhyte swung the knife high.

The youngest watcher cried out and leaped to protect the woman. His companions, ready for it, caught

and held him.

But they couldn't catch the peasants who leaped down from the tops of the rocks, howling in anger.

More of them came pelting between boulders and into the circle, and a huge, brawny, grizzle-haired man

caught Niobhyte's wrist and twisted. The knife fell and Niobhyte cried out in pain— but the cry changed

to a staccato chant as his left hand came up, and light exploded from his palm.

The peasants shouted in pain, covering their eyes. The older man threw himself across his daughter,

blinded and in panic. He heard the leader shout a command, but didn't dare rise to try to catch the

scoundrel, blind as he was.

Then the green afterimage circle that filled his vision faded, and he could see the rock circle again—with

peasants looking about in astonishment. Some began to mutter in fear.

But the father's fear was all for his daughter. Looking down, he saw with relief that she was alive and

untouched, though still dull-eyed. He caught up the white robe to cover her and lifted her in his arms.

"She is saved! I thank you all, neighbors, for helping me, for my daughter is unharmed, and only

frightened!"

"By what magic did they all disappear?" one of the neighbors quavered.

"You know that mushroom that flares so brightly when you dry it and throw it into the fire? That's all he

needed, in the dark like this, and he and his men ran away while we were blinded. Come on, let's take

this poor child home!" The father headed out of the circle, cradling his daughter in his arms, and the

others followed, but with many fearful glances back over their shoulders. Mushroom or not, they feared

magic, and considering what the white-robed murderer had been trying to do, they feared it was magic

of the worst kind.

In a grove of young firs higher up on the mountain, the youngest acolyte stumbled in and collapsed on

the floor, panting. The others scarcely noticed; they were too busy trembling and wiping away sweat.

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Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

One older acolyte did pay attention, though, and helped the lad up. "It's all right, now. They won't think

to look for us here, if we're quiet"

"We will not always have to be silent!"

The worshipers all looked up in surprise. Their chief sat, hood pulled forward over his face, but a stray

moonbeam showed burning eyes and bristling beard.

"Our day will come," he told them. "Our cries and prayers shall waken the old gods, and they shall come

roaring into the sky against this meek milksop who let mere mortals hang him on a cross!"

The acolytes gasped at the blasphemy and huddled in on themselves. Some of them glanced at the sky as

though expecting lightning to strike them dead even for hearing such words.

"Oh, a brave gaggle of Celts are you!" the leader said, with curled lip. "How staunchly you worship

Toutatis, when you recoil in horror at the slightest word against the Lord of the priests' book! Do you not

wish Toutatis to rise again, and all the old gods of the druids with him? To rise, and raise you to power

and wealth? The finest garments shall be yours, the squires' houses, the most beautiful maidens!"

Avarice and lust overcame fear. Several of the acolytes licked their lips, trying to pluck up courage, but

two or three took fire, crying, "Aye, we wish it!" with burning eyes.

"Then put aside your fears of these clodhopping peasants!" The "druid" overlooked the fact that all of

his followers were plowmen themselves. "Put aside fear, and let your spirits rise in hope! Our day will

come! The old gods will waken! We will win the protection of a prince! He is swayed by my promises

of power and glory, already half won to our cause! He shall come to the throne, and we shall rise to

dominion with him!"

The men stared; the "druid" had mentioned the princely patron before, but never so clearly. It had to be

the heir to the throne, it had to be Prince Gaheris!

"We shall have the protection of a prince," the leader promised, his eyes glowing. "We shall have the

protection of a king! Then shall we worship in the open with king's soldiers to guard us from these

ignorant peasants, then shall we gather in the old stone rings to enact our sacrifices openly and for all to

see—and without interruption!"

He stood, arms upraised, eyes searching the sky, and his followers rose with him, caught up in his

excitement, in the visions of beautiful naked virgins that his words conjured. They held their arms up,

eyes lifted to the cold, cloud-covered moon, and chanted with their leader, though softly, begging,

"Toutatis, come!"

A month later Queen Alisande sat at table, not in the Great Hall, but in a smaller chamber, richly

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Stasheff, Christopher – Wizard in Rhyme 6 – Haunted Wizard

furnished, walls hung with bright new tapestries, carpets covering the stone floor, table and chairs of oak

polished to glowing. Her husband and royal wizard, Lord Matthew Mantrell, had recommended such a

chamber as an aid to negotiation at state dinners—and also a place for the family to gather by

themselves. She sat with him and his parents—and with some very unwelcome guests from the

neighboring kingdom to the north. The latter had virtually invited themselves, by the stratagem of

inviting her when they knew she would be tied up with the bishops' council, convened because of the

heresy that had cropped up in the south. Since Alisande was too busy to go to them, she'd had to invite

them to come to her—for they were the King and Queen of Bretanglia, with their poisonous brood of

three wrangling sons, and Rosamund, fiancée to Gaheris, the heir apparent.

Of course, in their quarreling and backbiting, the boys were only demonstrating that blood runs true, and

it was shaping up to be one of the most unpleasant state dinners Alisande had ever experienced. In this

universe there was no English Channel, but Matt was beginning to wish it existed, and that their

unwelcome guests were safely on the other side of it.

Maybe they did, too. "It was a rough ride," Queen Petronille told Alisande. She was a tall, stately

woman, still beautiful in middle age. Her auburn hair showed no trace of gray, though that was probably

due more to dye than to youth. She wore a gown of maroon brocade with long, bell-shaped sleeves, and

a golden tiara set with diamonds. "The old imperial highway from Dunlimon was smooth enough,

though here and there a paving-stone is tilted. Still, our armies keep it free of weeds and trees. But from

Laiscal southward it is so overgrown as to be scarcely a trackway."

Laiscal was the first major town on Alisande's side of the border—but she let the sally pass with a

gracious smile. "How trying for you! Perhaps a palanquin would have been more comfortable than

riding."

Petronille eyed her narrowly, trying to decide whether that had been a dig at her age. "Perhaps, my dear

—though I have found that the bearers jounce one about in a palanquin even more than does a proud

stallion."

Typical of the woman, Matt thought—emphasizing that she was so fine a rider that she didn't need a

palfrey or even a spirited mare, but could handle a stallion of fettle and mettle. There was also the little

matter of calling a reigning monarch "my dear" instead of "Your Majesty"—a very obvious breach of

protocol.

Alisande took it in stride, though. Smiling sweetly, she said, "Still, a saddle makes one ache so, when

one is in it all day. At least, mine does, whenever I must ride on campaign or progress. Do you not find

it so, Your Grace?"

Matt tried to hide a smile. His gentle wife had administered a very mild rebuke for Petronille's breach of

manners— and had reminded her that she might be a queen in Bretanglia, but was only Duchess of

Pykta here in Merovence, and Alisande's vassal to boot. Further, Alisande, riding on military campaigns

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whenever her country was threatened, was a sovereign, not merely the consort of one. Of course, she had

also reminded Petronille of her own abilities as a rider.

Petronille only smiled sweetly. "Of course, my dear. How very boring for you." Then, unable to counter

her role as a king's consort, she turned to score on Alisande's consort "Do you not find it tedious to

accompany your wife on such processions, Lord Wizard?"

"Why, no," Matt said, smiling. "I enjoy travel. Of course, I do wish more of it could be peaceful, but I'll

take what I can find."

"As did your royal wife, no doubt," Petronille said, with a poisonous smile. She turned to Mart's parents.

"You were not born of the nobility, were you, lord and lady?"

"Not in Merovence, no," Papa said, which was strictly true, but left the impression that he had been a

nobleman in his homeland.

Before Petronille could pin him down, Mama said "Of course, one must abdicate all aristocratic titles

when one decides to devote oneself to scholarship, Your Majesty"

Papa nodded, picking up on her lead. "When one commits one's life to being a professor, 'Doctor' should

be title enough."

Matt smiled, once again elated to see how well they worked together.

"Indeed," Petronille said archly. "And what title would you have claimed in your homeland, if you had

not chosen to leave the wider world for the cloisters of the university?"

Mama shrugged, careful of her phrasing. "I would not have chosen to be a countess, Majesty, but with

that I should have been content."

Again, strictly true, but creating one hell of a false impression. Matt caught his breath in admiration of

his mother's skill with words. No wonder she had turned out to be a top-ranked wizard once she arrived

in a universe in which magic worked by poetry.

"Ah yes, you are of Ibile, are you not?" Petronille wouldn't give up. "What province would you have

held there?"

Papa smiled. "My father was of Ibile, yes, and his city was Castile—but I grew up in my mother's land,

far to the west."

King Drustan frowned. He was tall, well into middle age, but still broad-shouldered, and the bulk that

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had come on him in his fifties was only slightly flab. His hair was chestnut streaked with gray, and he

wore it to his shoulders. His beard was grizzled, full and square-cut, his nose long and straight, his lips

full and sensuous, his gray eyes bright and alert for any opening. "I have heard the rumors. Can there

truly be a great land so far over the sea?"

"There is," Papa told him, "and my wife and I are both its natives."

"And what would have been your province, my lady, if you had not wed the doctor?" Petronille asked

Mama sweetly.

Give it a rest, Matt thought, exasperated.

But Petronille wasn't about to change topics until she'd pinned Mama and Papa down to admitting they

weren't of the nobility.

"Havana, if Castro had not stolen it from us," Mama said, allowing the old bitterness to show.

"A robber baron, then?" Petronille gave her a smile that oozed sympathy. "How fortunate for you that

you met the good doctor!"

"Then you have come to Merovence to seek asylum?" Drustan asked.

Matt bit back the urge to say that an asylum was where Drustan and Petronille belonged.

"Why, no," Papa said. "We are here because of our son.”

"Indeed!" Drustan said, with genuine surprise. "I had heard that you were of great assistance in purging

Ibile of the Moors, but I thought you had returned to your homeland for that purpose."

"No, my lord, we did not know that the Moors were invading Ibile until after we had arrived," Papa said

truthfully. "Even then, I only went along on campaign to be with my son."

"I am amazed to hear of a parent so dedicated," Gaheris said, with an acid glare at Drustan. He was lean

and weasel-faced, with his father's long nose but a receding chin, and scarcely any lips at all. His eyes

were small and constantly shifting.

The king glared back. "I, too, am amazed, for it is usually I who must insist that my sons accompany me

when we march to war!"

Petronille rounded on him. "You should not force them, Drustan. Brion, yes, he has a fondness for

battle, but Gaheris and John find it repugnant."

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"Not John!" Drustan beamed at his youngest, sitting at Mart's right hand at the foot of the table. "He

rejoices in the weight of his armor and the lance in his hand, do you not, boy?"

If Gaheris looked like a weasel, John looked like a pig. He wasn't terribly fat, only a little plump, but his

nose was short and tilted sharply up, his eyes were small and close set, his forehead low under black hair

worn, like his father's, at shoulder length. His only attractive feature was his beard, glossy black and

silky, which had the double advantage of hiding his cheeks and chin. His doublet was already stained,

though they were only on the second course.

He forced a smile in response to his father's question. "You have taught me well, Father."

Resentment flared in Gaheris' and Brion's eyes.

Before they could speak, the nobleman beside Gaheris exclaimed, "Ah, would I could have taken part in

those battles!"

Matt looked up at him in surprise; he spoke with the accent of southern Merovence. He was lean but

muscular, perhaps in his thirties, and handsome in an angular way, with dark hair cut short.

"You would, Orizhan," Gaheris said sourly. "You're almost as bad as Brion in that."

"Yes, Sir Orizhan is a true knight," Brion snapped. Like Orizhan, he wore his brown hair short, but was

even more muscular—in fact, built like a carnival strong man. He wore a dark brown doublet with green

facings, and his face was both handsome and regal, his nose as straight as his father's but not as long, his

hazel eyes large and long lashed, his face clean shaven, showing high cheekbones and a strong, cleft

chin.

Gaheris and John bristled at the implication that neither of them was truly worthy of knighthood.

Alisande stepped in to defuse the situation. "But one would expect Sir Orizhan to yearn for battle, when

his homeland is so close to peril."

"Indeed, Majesty!" Sir Orizhan said fervently. "That our province of Toulenge was spared the Moors’

rule, I thank God!"

"Then go to a church," Gaheris snapped, "and spare us your piety!"

Again Alisande stepped in. "I hope time does not hang too heavily on your hands, Sir Orizhan, for your

ward must be quite safe in Their Majesties' keeping."

"I keep Rosamund close indeed," said Petronille, with a glare at her husband, a glare which he returned.

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Rosamund kept her gaze fixed on her trencher. She seemed cowed and apprehensive, a mousy little

thing whose blond hair had lost its luster and whose eyes had dulled, but Matt; thought she might have

proved quite a beauty if she'd had some spirit. She said not a word, and considering the company, Matt

could sympathize. He just had to endure them for the evening, though—she had to live with them every

day!

Sir Orizhan pulled attention away from her before she could be forced to talk. "King Drustan has been

kind enough to find employment for me, Your Majesty, so that the time does not hang too heavily on my

hands."

"You'd be better employed minding your own business," Gaheris snarled.

"Instead, he minds yours," Brion shot back.

King Drustan gave a shout of laughter. "Aye, Sir Orizhan minds all your businesses, my young

bawcocks, and I daresay you embroil yourselves in far less trouble because of it."

"It isn't always pleasant to have an old man dogging our footsteps, Papa," John said, pouting.

Matt stared at Orizhan again. The man couldn't have been over thirty-five.

"Unpleasant and pointless," Gaheris snapped "Nothing can prevent Brion from picking a fight."

"Nothing except the code of chivalry!" Brion returned. "A true knight never strikes the first blow, except

in defense of the weak or innocent."

"The innocent?" Gaheris gave him a nasty smile. "What would you know about innocence?"

"Or weakness?" John asked, still pouting.

"Brion wears a mail shirt throughout the day," Petronille said quickly, "the more to strengthen his body."

"Indeed," Mama said, all enthusiasm. "I have heard him acclaimed as one of the finest knights in Europe

—and he so young."

"Yes, it is a pleasure to see one's children excel." Petronille tilted her chin a little higher, preening. "You

have only the one, have you not, Lady Mantrell?"

"God has granted me no more," Mama sighed, "but I thank Him that the one He did send me is so good a

man."

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Drustan frowned. "Oddly phrased, though I am sure the Lord Wizard is goodly. Are you not more

concerned with the strength of his arm than with his saintliness?"

"No, Your Majesty," Mama snapped, eyes flashing. She caught herself and forced a smile. "Moral

strength is the greatest, and that of the mind is second."

"You speak as a priest would," Gaheris said in disgust.

"I should hope so, for I am a devout Christian!" Mama turned on the prince. "Are you not, Your

Highness?"

"Well, of coarse," Gaheris answered, nettled. "Isn't everybody?"

"But some more than others." Brion gave him a dark look.

"Yes, and some never relent in their holier-than-thou attitudes!" Gaheris snapped.

"Nobody ever asks if I go to church," John whined.

"With respect, Your Highness, I don't think they're talking about going to church," Matt told him.

Alisande tried desperately to move the conversation back toward a safer topic. "Surely the strength of

the body means something, Lady Mantrell!"

"There speaks the warrior!" Drustan said heartily, and Petronille gave him a glare.

"Of course a strong body means much, Your Majesty," Mama said, smiling, "and Matthew has always

been healthy— but he has gained so much since he came here! I think your climate is good for him."

Alisande smiled, with a trace of a blush—she understood that Mama spoke of the emotional climate as

well as the weather.

"But you are a knight also, Lord Wizard," Brion frowned. "Surely you have learned the arts of warfare!”

Rosamund hadn't said a word so far, but now she shot at Brion, "Is there nothing for you but swords and

maces?"

Brion reddened a little but said, "There is also the lute."

"Yes, the most perfect knights are poets as well as swordsmen," Matt interposed smoothly. "I've learned

the arts of war since I came to Merovence, Your Highness—but I do agree that chivalry means

cultivating the sensibilities as well as the body. Still, I count myself an indifferent poet. I acknowledge

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