The elf nodded again. "I have never known a banshee to be wrong, save when one did haunt the battlements here at Runnymede, these fourteen years past."
"Yes, well, we know about that, don't we?" Rod said. The banshee in question had been a projection from a memory loop activated by remote control.
"Aye." The elf frowned. " 'Twas not even the banshee of the Plantagenet line."
"And their banshee had had plenty of opportunities, too. Well, maybe it was worn out. There've been a lot of deaths in this family."
" 'Tis the price one pays for births," the elf sighed.
"Yet the price ought not to be paid ere 'tis due," Brom rumbled, "and these cobblies which thou hast seen are no more real than a will o' the wisp."
The elf looked up in indignation. "I have known many will o' the wisps, Majesty, and they were quite gentle people, almost all."
Rod hoped he didn't meet the "almost."
"But the other monsters you heard about were fakes?"
"Those that elves did see," the elf qualified. "For the ones we only heard mortals talk of, we cannot answer."
"Yet they, too, were likely false," Brom rumbled. "When so many come so quickly, belike all are alike."
"And if they're false, people made them." Rod nodded. "I told you about the esper sentry Cordelia detected, didn't I?"
"And the boys confirmed? Aye, thou didst." Brom had a special interest in the Gallowglass children. "Thou didst say 'twas a sign that the Abbot—who calls himself Archbishop now—had cozened witchfolk into aiding him."
Generalizing from inadequate data, Fess's voice sighed through the implanted radio transmitter in Rod's ear. He ignored horse sense and told Brom, "I still think so, even though it does seem an unlikely alliance. After all, when there's a witch-hunt, you think of clergy as leading the mob."
"Yet 'tis rarely so," the other elf said. " 'Tis more often self-appointed hedge preachers who raise the hue and cry."
"Aye; yet a man who seeks power will ally with any," Brom answered. "How wouldst thou deal with them, Lord Warlock?"
"With their own kind, of course. No, not more monks— other witches."
Brom nodded. "Even as I thought. I shall advise Their Majesties to set the Royal Coven to warding, that they may discover when a monster doth appear, and hasten to banish it."
"Fact is, we've done that already. Except for the part about advising Their Majesties. I'll let you do that, and I'll get back out on the road, to see if I can find the ringleader and bring him in."
Brom looked up indignantly. "Thou wouldst go gallivanting about, escaping the burden of command!"
"Yes, but I can get away with it." Rod grinned. " 'Cause the only other person who'd stand a chance of finding an esper ringleader is Gwen, and you wouldn't want her roaming around the countryside alone, would you?"
Brom could only glare at him. Gwen was his daughter, though only he and Rod knew it, and he would rather have gone through fire than chance her coming to harm. "Thou dost take unfair advantage. Lord Warlock!"
"Yeah. Ain't it great? Besides, if I'm not available, maybe Tuan and Catharine will finally get the idea that Gwen can handle any crisis they can come up with, just as well as I can."
"Almost," Brom demurred. "I would not wish her to go into battle."
"In spite of the fact that she has, several times. I know, though, you'd rather risk me than her. All right for you, Brom O'Berin. See if I come to your next Wild Hunt!"
"It shall more likely come to thee," Brom growled, "though 'to' might not be the most precise word. Nay, get thee hence! Is not the road a fit place for a mountebank?"
"But he'd rather keep his mountie in the bank, if he could." Rod tightened the girth on Fess's saddle. "Sometimes I suspect the old elf of actually having developed affection for me."
"Merely good friendship," Fess assured him. "You have shared dangers and joys."
"You mean the children? Well, we do have him over to dinner whenever we can." Rod frowned at a thought. "Y'know, if the kids hadn't picked up that esper sentry, I might not have put five and five together, and come up with a handful of espers on the Archbishop's side."
"What else… I withdraw the question. In this land it could be almost anything."
Rod nodded. "Witch-moss constructs from old grannies who don't know they're projective telepaths; telling bedtime stories to projective grandchildren, for example—or a projective maiden having a nightmare that she casts into others' minds."
"Still, Rod, the coincidence of so many such phenomena in so short a period of time…"
"Concerted action is enemy action. Yeah." Rod scowled.
"And the scary part is that it's happening all over the land, in every dukedom, county, and parish. That was a long list the elves put together." He shook his head. "No, when so many espers are on the Abbot's side, somebody has to be leading them. This is a confederation we're fighting, not a bunch of individuals who were fired up by their parish priests."
"You are not the most skilled at detecting psionic nuances, Rod," Fess said delicately.
"I should bring along an expert, you mean?" Rod retorted. "I don't know anybody better, except…"
He froze on the thought. Fess maintained a tactful silence.
There were so many tacts that Rod got the point. "Oh, all right!" He threw down the reins and stumped out of the stable, calling, "Cordelia! Pack your saddlebag!"
"And this is their response!" Brother Alfonso slapped the parchment down on the desk. "Nay, they have not even the courtesy to send this news in a letter to thee! We must have a copy sent in secret from this royal clerk who is our deacon!"
"Thou hast the right of it." The new Archbishop glowered at the fire. "'Tis an egregious lack of protocol."
Neither of them thought of their own slip in failing to send the King and Queen word of the Abbot's self-promotion to Archbishop; they had only had the parish priests proclaim the news from the pulpit.
" 'Twill not do, milord!" Brother Alfonso snapped. "This statement that the Crown must reign, and the Church must rule in matters of faith and clergy only, saith naught!"
"Aye, naught that was not already said," the Archbishop said heavily. "He will not budge an inch."
"Nor shall we!" Brother Alfonso cried. "This is not a response—'tis a lack of response! What, my lord! Wilt thou be content with no effect?"
"I will not! The King must declare himself openly! We must find a way to induce him to do so!"
"Induce?" Brother Alfonso gasped, outraged. "Nay, milord! Thou must needs demand! Thou must not let him scorn thee thus!"
"Demand!" The Archbishop looked up, startled. "What dost thou speak of, Brother Alfonso? Tis not meet for a subject to 'demand' aught from his liege!" Then he heard the echo of his own words, and his eyes widened.
"'Subject,' forsooth!" Brother Alfonso spat. "An arch-bishop subject to a king? Nay, milord! Thou art of the First Estate, and he of the Second! Wilt thou tell me that we of the cloth claim that title to no effect?"
"Oh, nay, I will not, and well thou knowest it!" The Archbishop turned away, clasping his hands together so tightly that the knuckles turned white. "We are the First Estate because we are closest to God—most holy, and therefore most deserving of respect. Yet the noblemen. Brother Alfonso, are the Second Estate because they have the care of the bodies of all their brethren, even as we of the First Estate have the care of their souls."
"Yet the soul is of far greater import than the body," Brother Alfonso reminded, "and the First Estate is, therefore, more vital than the Second."
"And therefore should be guided by us, I know." The Archbishop leaned his chin on his knuckles, gazing into the fire.
"Aye, milord. Thou hast demanded only that condition which should ever have obtained. Should the King not acknowledge the sovereignty of Holy Mother the Church, doth he not set himself in opposition to the word of God?"