“Quite sure,” Gregory answered, “because our Boobrie is a singular bird.”
Geoffrey looked up, frowning. Then his eyes glazed as he gazed off toward the lake, his mind seeking thoughts like the Boobrie’s. At last he nodded. “True enough. There are none others for miles about, at least.”
“This part of the kingdom seems suddenly filled with monsters that have never appeared before,” Alain said thoughtfully. “I suppose they must have now and again, though, or there would not be tales about them.”
“Or is it because there are tales that they have come to be?” Geoffrey countered. He turned to Gregory. “Did you not say that this was just such a monster as haunted your dreams?”
“Not a dream exactly,” Gregory explained, “but one among many in a scene that burst into Allouette’s mind while she meditated. I shared it to leach some of the horror from it.”
“And gained it yourself?” Geoffrey’s voice held a new sort of respect for his little brother. “So you saw what she dreamed.”
“This was the least of them,” Gregory assured him. “Still, I could find it in me to wonder how it came from my dreams to this lake.”
“Perchance through someone else’s dream,” Alain suggested.
“Wherefore would two dream the same nightmare?” Geoffrey asked.
They were all silent, looking at one another, knowing the thought they shared.
“It was no accident, was it?” Alain asked. “Someone planted those vile illusions in your minds.”
“And if in ours, in how many other people’s nightmares?” Geoffrey asked.
“Three, or a dozen, or a score.” Gregory shrugged. “It matters not, as long as one of them was an esper who knew not his own strength.”
“Then when he described the horrible bird to a listener, somewhere in the forest bits of witch-moss flowed together and took on the shape he saw in his mind’s eye.” Geoffrey nodded. “It is likely enough—but who placed that vision in so many minds?”
“It was someone beyond the mist,” Alain said. “More than that, we cannot know.”
Geoffrey shrugged. “We have been given a name; why not use it? Call that pusher of dreams ‘Zonploka.’”
“It is as good a name as any, until we find the thing the word truly names.” Alain nodded.
But Gregory frowned. “It is inexact and an invitation to error. What if, when we do find this Zonploka, it turns out not to be the dream-weaver—or perhaps not even human at all?”
Geoffrey tossed his head in exasperation. “If we discover the referent, we may need to seek a new term—or we may not; we may find that Zonploka is a man or woman, and the dream-caster indeed.”
“And if it is not?”
“Why borrow trouble?” Alain asked. “Until we know better, let us assume it is Zonploka who sends these nightmares amongst us.”
“The dream nightmares, or the ones that draw blood?” Geoffrey countered.
“Yes,” Alain said. “Both, for if he sends the dreams knowing an esper shall speak of them, then he deliberately sends the monsters that grow from the words.”
“Then I hope we find it so,” Gregory sighed, “and do not seek so hard for a man who may not exist, that we look right past the true source of the trouble.”
“We must keep open minds,” Alain agreed, “and watch for every possible menace—must we not, soldier and knight?”
“We must be vigilant and wary, of course,” Geoffrey agreed, “but if we do meet a man or woman named Zonploka, I for one shall shield my mind most shrewdly. Where now shall we seek him?”
“Where indeed?” Alain shrugged. “One direction is as good as another, and the road lies before us. Let us ride!”
The trees grew smaller and farther apart as the road wound upward. By midafternoon, the women began to hear a rushing sound in the distance. Allouette drew in her horse with a frown. “It is like to the noise of a flock of birds preparing to fly south.”
“Strange.” Quicksilver smiled. “I always thought such a flock sounded like a babbling brook.”
“Brook or bird,” Cordelia said, “let us chase the sound and see.”
They left the path, angling eastward across the slope of the land toward the sound. It grew louder as they rode until they crossed a meadow and found themselves by a river—but one in full spate and choked with rapids. The water laughed and scolded, nagged and cried as it rushed around the boulders and fell over ledges. The women sat their horses, drinking in the sight and the sound, letting the spray on their faces refresh them.
“It is glorious, is it not?” asked Cordelia.
“It is indeed,” said Allouette, but she turned with a frown and demanded, “Who is he?”
Cordelia and Quicksilver turned to follow her gaze and saw a man in a fur tunic sitting on a rock watching the water strike the boulders and roil on down the channel. There was something melancholy about him, something immensely sad as he sat watching the river. He wore the usual peasant’s tunic and hose, but ones made of fur. His grizzled hair was cut evenly around his head.
“What is there about that fellow that makes me feel such sadness?” Allouette wondered.
The man looked up at the sound of her voice. He was middle-aged and round-faced, all his features seeming to droop—except his nose, which was too small, but the moustache beneath it more than made up for it. It was grizzled like his hair, very bushy, bristling out to hide his upper lip. His chin receded, scarcely visible. He was stocky and looked as though he should be slow in his movements.
“I see what you mean,” Cordelia said softly. “Merely the look of him makes me feel the need to comfort.”
The man’s eyes widened, registering the sight of three beautiful young women, and he rose from his rock with a sinuous speed, a lithe economy of movement, that seemed to belie his age and appearance. He came toward them, hands rising in a plea. “I pray you, beauteous maidens, do not pass by!”
CHAPTER 12
“I fear that we must,” Allouette said with gentle sympathy, “for we’ve young men waiting, and we must find them before they wander into trouble.”
“Young men! What do young men know?” The ugly man was right beside her horse somehow; he had moved far more quickly than she had expected. “Age betokens experience! It takes maturity for a man to know how to read a woman’s signs, to recognize her wants and needs and fulfill her wishes.”
“You had best not be speaking of the wishes I think you mean,” Quicksilver warned.
But the ugly fellow paid her no heed; all his attention was focused on Allouette. “Nay, maiden, stay awhile, and I shall show you such delights as never a young man could.”
“I am no maiden,” Allouette answered, beginning to be frightened but striving not to let it show—or to let it make her lash out. “I am no maiden, and my fiancé has already shown me all the delights I can stand.”
Cordelia felt a perverse pride in her brother.
“All the delights you can think of.” The ugly man’s hands rose in supplication. “Nay, tarry with me, and learn far more exquisite notions than youth can know!”
“I wish no greater pleasure than the embrace of my betrothed.” Allouette’s voice hardened. “Foul are you to urge me to betray him! Forfend and farewell!” She turned her horse away.
But the ugly man caught her bridle, beseeching, “Only a little while, only an hour, only half! If I cannot teach you far more of desire than ever you have known in even so little time as that, turn aside from me and leave me evermore!” He reached out to touch her hand.
Allouette recoiled, for his flesh was cold and moist. “Forfend, forgo! I shall indeed leave you, and that without a minute’s more converse!”