“In the hills in the interior of the island?” Mama frowned, nodding. “Perhaps so. And you fear they could see this wave of synthodruids as an opportunity to revive their true religion?”
“It does sound like a great opportunity,” Matt said, “and their last. Let the sorcerer take over Bretanglia, then come riding in and steal his conquest away from him—because if the people are worshiping the old gods and following the druids, of course they’ll drop the synthos and turn to the real druids.”
Sergeant Brock stared, amazed.
“The sorcerer would not give up so easily,” Papa objected.
“Perhaps, but the contest would be worth the chance,” the abbess admitted. “Still, that would give them all the more reason to protect Brion in enchanted sleep—so that they could present a true heir to enforce their claim.”
“Brion would not let himself be used so,” Sir Orizhan objected. “He might fight for the True Faith, but not for the power-lust of the old.”
“With a kingdom to gain, and a true version of the old faith to drive out a cynical imitation?” Papa challenged.
“Not even then!”
“It matters not,” the abbess told them. “A rumor of Brion will have as much force to raise resistance as Brion himself. Lord Wizard, you must go to Erin and seek his body. If you find there is no truth in the rumor, we must find some other way to fight these charlatans.”
“And if I find out the prince really is still alive, preserved by magic?”
“Then you must wake him,” the abbess said with iron resolution. She turned to Mama and Papa. “But there is some slight chance that he might be in Glastonbury. You must go there, and make sure of that rumor.”
Sir Orizhan stood up, tightening his sword belt. “Then let us go quickly, before the hunters return.”
“Who shall protect the convent, then?” Mama objected.
“By your leave, my lady, if we are gone, I do not think the hunters’ hounds will lead them here.”
“Then it isn’t going to be safe for you!” Matt objected.
“Do not fear, my son.” Mama smiled at him with a look that bordered on the bloodthirsty. “Now that we know the nature of our enemies, I mink your father’s magic and my own knack of binding enemies’ spells against them will serve to send them packing.”
“If you say so,” Matt said with trepidation. Then he turned to the abbess. “I could at least ask my companions to stay, in case you need to fight off the hunters.”
Sir Orizhan and Sergeant Brock glared at him.
“Men, and men of war, in a convent for more than one night?” the abbess protested. “Surely not!”
Matt turned to Dolan with an idea dawning. “Then let me leave you one poor beggar. I think he might be more of a help than you think.”
Dolan stared up at him in bewilderment.
“A beggar will be no threat to my daughters,” the abbess said slowly. “Surely we shall care for him until the land is peaceful enough for him to go his way in safety, Lord Wizard—but I cannot see what use he may be against men of war.”
“Oh, he has a hidden strength,” Matt assured her, “relatively speaking.”
The road led away from the convent, across the plain to a forest, where the road forked. Parents and son exchanged quick embraces at the crossroads. Mama held him at arm’s length, frowning. “You know I am not happy about letting you sally off without the two of us to strengthen you.”
“Don’t worry, Ma,” Matt said, “I won’t wreck the car.”
She stared at him a moment, then smiled and gave him a mock slap. “Saucy boy! All right, I am silly to worry about a grown man who has survived so many battles. But see you do not let them wreck you!” Then she stretched up to give him another peck on the cheek, and turned her horse away.
Papa lingered to clasp him on the shoulder, looking directly into his eyes. “Adios—go with God, my son.”
“I always try,” Matt assured him. “May God be with you, too, Papa.”
He set off walking beside Sir Orizhan’s horse, but glanced back a few feet farther on, of course, and saw them looking, too. Both waved; then a turn of each path cut them off from sight.
Matt stopped, and Sir Orizhan reined in—they had insisted Mama and Papa take two of the horses, and that Sir Orizhan ride the third. Sergeant Brock stopped, too.
“I was wondering whether or not you were going to tell them,” said Sir Orizhan.
“No need for them to know what might upset them,” Matt assured him, then raised his voice. “Okay, Buckeye! You can come out now!”
The bauchan stepped forth from the roadside trees, grinning. “So, wizard! It seems you have a true family after all!”
“So I do,” Matt admitted, “but you’re only supposed to haunt my descendants, aren’t you?”
The bauchan lost his smile in consternation. “I have never known a family where I began by haunting the son,” he admitted.
“It’s no time for innovation, with the country so stirred up,” Matt advised, “and my adopted son is back at that convent. By the way, should I scold you or thank you?”
“Why, either one,” said the bauchan, “or both, as it pleases you.”
“Shouting might do me more good,” Matt told him, “and I ought to scold anyone who helped those hunters stay on my trail—but I have to thank someone who scared them away for me. Why’d you do it, anyway?”
The bauchan grinned. “It was great run.”
“Wonderful,” Matt muttered. “I’m fighting for my life and trying to save the kingdom, and he thinks it’s fun to bushwhack me.”
“Ah, but also to save you!” The bauchan held up a forefinger.
“I’m beginning to understand why your last family died of nervous prostration,” Matt grumbled. “Well, I guess it’s ‘thank you’ this time.”
“This time,” the bauchan agreed.
Matt thought of threatening, then thought better. Instead he frowned. “Why didn’t you pull out all the stops on your magic when I sicced those bedbugs on you the first time?”
“They were mere fly-bites,” the bauchan said with a deprecating gesture, “no real threat.”
Matt wondered if he were better off being a pussycat “Well, we’re off to Ireland. Guess you’ll have to leave my son Dolan back there.”
The bauchan’s face was a study in consternation. “You’re flitting?”
“I’m not a butterfly,” Matt said, “but if that’s what you call leaving a place, then yes, we’re flitting. But we’ve been flitting the whole time you’ve known us.”
“Well, aye, but not across water—and saltwater at that!”
Hope sprang in Matt’s breast. “Don’t be glum, chum— we’ve got a good fifty miles to the seashore.”
“I should storm and rant and rave at you with every step!”
“Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye.” Matt was getting giddy with the thought of being rid of the bauchan.
Buckeye narrowed his eyes to glints. “Nay, neither a rant nor a rave—I’ll find a way to plague your every step!”
But he didn’t. Late that night, toward the end of his watch, Matt heard a distant sound that he first thought was thunder, then realized was the shouting of men and screaming of horses. He found that very interesting, especially since it was coming from the direction of the convent. He decided it was none of his business, waited with interest until it had died away, then woke Sergeant Brock for his watch and went to sleep. His last vagrant thought was a hope that Dolan would have sense enough to stay inside the convent’s walls.
Two uneventful days later, as they were pitching camp for the night in a small clearing, screaming broke out in the woods nearby, mixed with gloating laughter.
“He’s back!” Matt leaped to his feet, feeling his heart sink. “I thought we were rid of that bauchan!”