Since he intended it as a rhetorical question, he didn't really notice that the cyclops didn't answer.
Alisande neared the western border with an army at her back, and the peasant mothers ran home and hid their daughters, out of long habit. They had heard that the queen had already executed two men for rape, but soldiers will be soldiers.
The queen came to the border with an army at her back, yes,. but the only unit she really trusted was D'Art's. And Sauvignon's, of course—at least, she trusted his intentions and his fighting ability; the marquis had been jailed with his father, after racking up quite a score on the tournament circuit.
But how he would fare in battle—ah, that was another matter. Due to the consequences of his loyalty, he had been forced to sit out the last war, unable to rally to Alisande's banner.
He had rallied now, well enough, with the gleam of fervor in his eye, and a look of awed worship whenever he glanced at his queen. Alisande glanced back to her right; he was there, like a shield on her shoulder, eyes only for his sovereign.
But not for the woman Alisande.
Regrettable, in its way, for he was a handsome youth, only a few years older than Alisande—clean-favored, with a strong jaw and flashing blue eyes. She reflected, not for the first time, that a pedestal can be an uncomfortable location. Not to mention its being an exposed position.
With a shock, she realized the course of her thoughts and deflected them, thrusting them from her angrily. The man was another woman's husband, after all!
Besides, she herself was betrothed.
Yet he was the son of a duke...
If only her Matthew were as well born as Sauvignon! Her Matthew, who regarded her not with awe, but only admiration—admiration, and a healthy lust.
Again, she thrust the thought from her; it was apt to weaken her with the womanly emotions it raised. She lifted her eyes unto the hills and beheld the borderland, with its lofty spires and rocky crags. A dragon drifted between the peaks, no doubt eyeing them with suspicion. She smiled and raised a hand in greeting, remembering Matthew's dragon friend Stegoman, who had aided them so strongly in battle, and en route to it. Was there nothing that did not remind her of Matthew?
The dragon tipped its wings, rocking from side to side, and wheeled away, back into the mountains. "We are espied, Majesty," Sauvignon said in his clear, rich tenor.
It sent thrills up her spine, as Matthew's voice once had. But she kept her face impassive and returned, "Espied by friends, my Lord Marquis—for any who fight for their freedom must needs be enemies of Ibile, and Ibile's enemies are our friends."
"May they, then, seek out word of the enemy for us?" His tone was hopeful.
"They may," Alisande answered. "But look you, milord, these are not our minions to command, but allies to be asked."
"Brave and valiant allies," the young man murmured.
Alisande hoped he was right.
CHAPTER 13
The Burning Stake
Friends are friends, so the atmosphere couldn't stay chilly forever. On the other hand, it didn't have to become warm and cozy, either. The conversation gleamed with a veneer of great politeness throughout the meal. Matt could understand—it after all, he was the one who had made the crass, unbelievably basic mistake that had endangered them all. So, under the circumstances, he was more than glad to volunteer for the first watch. He was even gladder when his friends had rolled up in their blankets and left him to his vigil. The coals glowed on their blanket-wrapped forms, and the sound of deep, even breathing filled the air, punctuated by the occasional snore from Fadecourt.
Peace began to fill Matt's soul, or at least calmness; he felt his spirit filling with the elation of the star-filled canopy above him. The stillness of the night was soothing, only the sounds of nature about him, proceeding with their even rhythm. Even the shadowed, looming wall of the forest, bulking dark against the sky, seemed only the vandalism of a petulant child.
Narlh, however, was a little more suspicious of that tranquility, and its effects on Matt—especially as he saw the wizard's gaze drift to the wand lying beside him. When Matt picked it up and started gazing at it, the dracogriff decided it was time for action. He cleared his throat and growled, "You sure you want to take the first watch?"
Fadecourt looked up at the sound of the dracogriff's voice, instantly alert. Even Yverne lifted her head—under the circumstances, she wasn't sleeping too soundly, either.
"Yeah, sure I'm sure." Matt waved Narlh away without looking; his eyes were on the three-foot stick across his knees.
Narlh gave him a doubtful glance, but curled back up on his side of the fire. Yverne and Fadecourt, however, were not quite so sanguine. She looked up from her pine-bough bed to exchange a glance with him where he lay on the grass.
"Does he know the wielding of a wand?" Yverne asked. "For surely, if he does not, he could bring down disaster on all our heads."
"He is a wizard of experience," Fadecourt answered, "yet I share your misgivings." He turned to Matt and called out, "Ho, Lord Matthew! Dost'a know aught of magic wands?"
"Something," Matt answered, his eyes still on the stick. "Where I come from, magicians wave them around as part of the spell." He didn't mention that the magicians in question were illusionists, or that the wands were only there to call the audience's attention away from what the magician was really doing. "And I've read stories in which the magicians made `mystic passes' with them—I assume that meant gestures that somehow reinforced the spell."
Fadecourt and Yverne exchanged a glance that said their misgivings had been confirmed. " 'Tis not that, Lord Matthew," the lady said, turning back to him. " 'Tis simply that, when the wizard casts a spell at someone, he points the wand at that person, and the spell is made far stronger."
Matt stared, his eyes losing focus, as he tried to remember what he'd seen during the magic fight. "That's right—the sorcerer didn't gesture with the wand. He just held it straight up until the last few syllables of the spell, then snapped it down as if he were a fisherman casting."
"Nay." Yverne frowned. " 'Tis a wand, not a net."
"I meant an angler, not a commercial fish-harvester." Matt looked up, frowning. "You sure there's no chance this thing is dedicated to evil?"
Fadecourt spread his hands. "You are the wizard, not we. Yet surely, if it were, you would feel its malice in your hands."
Matt nodded slowly. "That's true, and I don't really feel anything in it, except maybe a residue of nastiness. But I should be able to clear that out with a magical cleansing spell."
"Take it away from us when you do, I pray you," Fadecourt said hastily.
"Don't worry, I'm not about to do anything with it until I have a fairly good idea of how it works." Matt shook his head.
"But I don't see how it could make a spell stronger. I mean, once I conjured up a horde of insects, and they came from all four quarters of the sky. How could I have pointed the wand at them when they came from everywhere?"
Yverne was staring. "You truly summoned a plague of locusts?"
"Bugs, anyway." Matt squirmed, uncomfortable with the awe in her eyes. "Another time, I had to alter the weather a little, summon up a storm—and, of course, I had to control it. How could a wand help with that? I mean, a storm covers the whole sky, so a wand..."
"I have no idea," she said, shaken. "I have told you all that I can—yet me thinks 'twas no need, if you are so puissant a wizard as that. By your leave, I'll retire." And she beat a hasty retreat back to her brush pile.
Fadecourt stayed long enough to shake his head. "And I had dared to counsel you! Your pardon, Lord Wizard."
"Oh, no, I appreciate your help! I mean, it's not as though I had spent a lifetime studying magic, you know. I had to pick it up quickly, and I'm sure there are still a lot of holes in my knowledge."