Matt just stared, gaping.
There was a long hiss behind him—Narlh, with eyes glittering.
Somewhere out in the darkness, there was a faint crash.
The cyclops turned back to them with a shrug. "That's the way of it."
"Very impressive," Matt murmured, eyes glazed.
A little too impressive, in fact—not the kind of display calculated to win you a welcome to a stranger's fireside. From the sound of him, the cyclops must have been able to realize that; did he really think he was so engaging that Matt would chum up to him when he'd just proved he could probably tie Matt's guardian dracogriff in knots?
Or did he think Matt needed his strength badly enough to strike an alliance?
He just might have been right on that one.
"But that's all." The cyclops sat down again. "I can knock down any army, if need be. Of course, I'd rather not hurt the poor chaps, but I can if I have to. Or knock a hole in a castle wall, for that matter. But if they send the most junior of apprentice sorcerers after me, I'm lost."
"And," Matt said slowly, "you've taken the notion that I can counter a sorcerer."
"Quite. You do have something of a reputation in wizardry."
"But I could be lying—you don't know that I'm really the Lord Wizard." Matt frowned. "What gave you the idea I might really know something about magic?"
"Partly the fact that you're riding a dracogriff, a beast so scarce that any sorcerer would quite willingly kill for its blood—kill not just it, but anyone nearby."
Matt heard the long hiss behind him again, and a rustle of wings. "This makes you want to get near it?"
The cyclops shrugged. "I'm not afraid to, if that's what you mean."
Because he knew there was a wizard along? Or because he was too stupid to be scared?
Matt had a notion Fadecourt was anything but stupid. "Anything else that might make you think I'm a wizard?"
"Well, apart from the fact that you're sitting inside a magical guarding circle on a hillside in a country devoted to sorcery—no, not really."
"Just a few little simple facts." Matt nodded.
He straightened up and cleared his throat. "Ever do any painting?"
"Eh?" The cyclops stared, startled. "Why, yes, actually—quite a bit. What made you think so?"
"Just a wild guess. What instruments do you play?"
"The double flute and bassoon." The cyclops frowned. "How could you know that?"
"Just going by your general ambiance. What's your favorite book?"
"I would have to say The Odyssey," Fadecourt said slowly, "though I know it would be more politic to refer to the lays of Hardishane, in this part of the world."
Matt tried not to show his surprise. "Where did you find a translation?"
"Oh, I couldn't, of course. I had to learn Greek in order to read it."
That, Matt noted silently, was more than he had done. "How about the Necronomicon?"
"Never heard of it." The cyclops frowned. "Is it good?"
"Sheer madness—evil, too, I hear. Never read it myself, of course. Have you heard about the Cabala?"
The cyclops shook his head. "Not my cup of mead. Only interested in tales and histories, I blush to say." He wasn't reddening noticeably, but then, Matt was only seeing him by firelight.
"Histories? Say, I've always wondered—when was Hardishane crowned?"
"In the year of our Lord 862, and he died in 925, rich in virtue and still mighty in arms. While he lived, he drove the forces of Evil back from all these lands of the middle realm, and they basked in the light of goodness and order."
"Even Ibile?"
"Even here," Fadecourt confirmed. "Before his coming, the land was held by a people made brutish by sorcery—but he, and the good emperors of his line, held the land so clearly in the light of goodness that, within two generations, the folk of Ibile were courteous, peaceful, and cultured."
"While Hardishane's heirs ruled over the Empire." Matt frowned. "But the last Emperor fell, and the kings came again."
"Quite so—in 1084."
Matt looked up in surprise. "They held Europe united that long?" In his own universe, Charlemagne's empire hadn't really lasted more than a generation after his death, though it had continued in name down to the eighteenth century.
"They did, but Lornhane, the last reigning Emperor, was foolish and weak."
Matt noticed the qualifier. "The last reigning emperor?"
"Indeed. Tradition has it that Hardishane's line endures, and that his descendants still wander Europe, awaiting the time when the Empire must be reestablished, or all the lands fall to evil and sorcery."
Matt nodded slowly—he had heard the legend. In fact, he had met the current heir. He traveled under the name of Sir Guy Losobal, and he was spectacularly reluctant to seek dominion. "So Lornhane did not die childless."
"No, but his heir was carried away to be reared in secrecy—which was well, for he doubtless would have been haled down and slain when his father died—for Lornhane's last years were made miserable by the chaos that reigned within his empire. However, he did have the wisdom to appoint kings to Ibile, Merovence, Allustria, and all the Northern Lands and Isles, to quench the feuding of the barons and establish some echo of Hardishane's order within their domains, by the time Lornhane died."
"And that line of kings endures in Merovence," Matt said slowly.
"Yes, though the forces of Evil nearly toppled them. I understand the queen's return to her throne was largely your own doing."
Matt waved away the flattery. "That's a bit of an exaggeration. I just did what I had to do. Not given much choice, in fact."
"Enough to have betrayed her and devoted yourself to Evil, had you wished." Fadecourt's eye glittered. "A worker of magic always has that opportunity, ever-present before him."
"Yes." Matt's voice hardened. "It's a constant temptation—and it must be constantly resisted."
"Of course," the cyclops said quietly, but Matt had the eerie feeling that he had just passed some sort of test.
He shifted uneasily. "How long did the line of kings endure in Ibile?"
"Oh, the line endures to this day, though none know where the rightful heir may be," Fadecourt answered, "and I assure you that the strongest sorcerers have exerted their greatest efforts to find him."
Matt lifted his head. "That must be some spell that's guarding him!"
"It must indeed. For myself, I fancy it was the doing of Saint Moncaire—that he crafted the spell to protect all of Hardishane's descendants, no matter how tenuous their relationship."
"But if he's hiding, he's not ruling." Matt frowned.
"Quite so. The reigning king was betrayed and slain some two hundred years ago, and a foul usurper seized the crown."
"And his grandson rules now?"
Fadecourt shook his head. "Such orderly succession is not the way of sorcery. The usurper Yzrprz was in his own turn assassinated, and the throne seized by the more-evil sorcerer Dredplen. His reign was long, though filled with terror—yet he died at the hands of a sorcerer more foul than he: the tyrant Gordogrosso, whose descendant reigns in the city of Orlequedrille still."
Matt winced. "Do me a favor, okay? Don't say the king's name aloud—it might attract his attention."
Fadecourt shrugged. "He cares naught—I am too insignificant."
"I might not be, though."
Fadecourt stiffened. "Quite true! My apologies, Wizard. Yet be assured, he knows not that I am with you."
"Yet," Matt said.
"Aye." The cyclops seemed unnerved. "Even the land may report your presence to him! Daily, his corruption widens, and may some day include even plants and rocks."