He closed the door behind him, then spun and slammed his fist against the rough stone of the entry-way wall. The nerves in his fist screamed agony.
He turned back to the hall, forearm laced with pain—and there stood Brom O'Berin, face beet-red, trembling.
"Well, shall I kneel to thee? Art thou our next king?"
The anger in Rod's belly shot up, heading for Brom O'Berin. Rod clamped his jaws shut to hold it back. He glared at Brom, eyes narrowing. "I have better use for my time, Brom O'Berin, than to rob the royal cradle."
Brom stared at him, the blood and fury draining out of his face. " 'Tis true," he murmured, nodding. "By all the saints, I do believe 'tis true! For I can see in thy face that thou art filled with Furies, screaming madness at thy manhood!"
Rod squeezed his eyes shut. His jaw tightened till it felt as if a molar must break.
Something had to break. Something had to give, somewhere.
Somewhere, far away, he heard Brom O'Berin saying, "This one hath a message for thee, from the witches in the tower…"
Rod forced his eyes open, stared down at Brom.
Brom was looking down and to his left. Following his gaze Rod saw an elf sitting tailor-fashion by Brom's foot. Puck.
Rod straightened his shoulders. Smother the anger; vent it later. If the witches had sent word, it was probably vital.
"Well, spill it," he said. "What word from the witches?"
But Puck only shook his head and murmured, "Lord, what fools these mortals be!"
He skipped aside a split second before Rod's fist slammed into the wall where he'd been sitting.
Rod howled with pain, and spun. He saw Puck and lunged again.
But "Softly" said Puck, and a huge chartreuse-and-shock-pink filled the hall, a full-size, regulation, fire-breathing dragon, rearing back on its hind feet and bellowing flame at Rod.
Rod goggled. Then he grinned, baring his teeth in savage joy.
The dragon belched fire as it struck. Rod ducked under the flames and came up under the monster's head. His fingers closed on the scaly neck, thumbs probing for the carotid arteries.
The dragon flung its head up and snapped its neck like a whip. Rod held on grimly, held on and held on while the dragon battered him against the granite walls. His head slapped stone and he yelled with pain, stars and darkness before his eyes, but he tightened his grip.
The great neck bowed, and the huge talons of the hind feet raked at Rod's belly, splitting him from collarbone to thigh. Blood fountained out, and Rod felt himself reeling into blackness; but he held on, determined to take the dragon with him into death.
Yeah, death, he thought, amazed, and was outraged that he should die over a puny fit of anger, anger over a slip of a bitch of a girl.
Well, at least he'd have a mount in the land of the dead. As darkness sucked him down, he felt the great head drooping, bobbing lower and lower, following him down to death…
His feet felt solid ground and, for a miracle, his legs held him up. Light misted through the dark around him, misted and gathered and grew, and he saw the beast lying dead at his feet.
The darkness ebbed away from the dragon; light showed Rod granite walls and brocade hangings; and the castle hall swam about him, reeled, and steadied.
At his feet, the dragon's colors faded. Its outlines blurred and shimmered, and the beast was gone; there was only clean gray stone beneath Rod's feet.
He looked down at his chest and belly; his doublet was whole, not even wrinkled. Not a trace of blood, not a scratch on him.
He squeezed an elbow, expecting the pain of bruises; there was none.
His head was clear, without the ghost of even an ache.
Slowly, he raised his eyes to Puck.
The elf looked back, eyes wide and mournful. Amazingly, he wasn't smiling.
Rod covered his face with his hands, then looked up again. "Enchantment?"
Puck nodded.
Rod looked away. "Thanks."
"Thou hadst need of it," Puck answered.
Rod squared his shoulders and breathed deeply. "You had a message for me?"
Puck nodded again. "Thou art summoned to a meeting of the Coven."
Rod frowned, shaking his head. "But I'm not a member."
Brom O'Berin chuckled like a diesel turning over. "Nay, thou art of them, for thou art a warlock."
Rod opened his mouth to answer, thought better of it, and closed his jaws with a snap. He threw up his hands in resignation. "Okay, have it your own way. I'm a warlock. Just don't expect me to believe it."
"Well, thou wilt, at least, no longer deny it." Toby filled Rod's mug with the hot, mulled wine. "We ha' known thou wert a warlock even before we had set eyes on thee."
Rod sipped at the wine and looked about him. If he'd thought it was a party last night, his naivete had been showing. That had just been a kaffeeklatsch. This time the kids were really whooping it up.
He turned back to Toby, bellowing to hear his own voice. "Don't get me wrong; I don't mean to be a cold blanket, but what's the occasion? How come all the celebrating?"
"Why, our Queen lives!" yelled Toby. "And thou art hero of the night! Thou hast banished the banshee!"
"Hero…" Rod echoed, a wry smile twisting his face. He lifted his mug and took, a long, long draft.
Suddenly he swung the mug down, spluttering and coughing.
"What ails thee?" Toby asked, concerned. He pounded Rod on the back till the older man wheezed, gasping.
"Leave off," he said, holding up a hand, "I'm okay. I just thought of something, that's all?"
"What is thy thought?"
"That banshee ain't real."
Toby stared. "What dost thou say?"
Rod clamped a hand on the back of Toby's neck and pulled the boy's ear down to his own level.
"Look," he yelled, "the banshee only appears before someone dies, right?"
"Aye," said Toby, puzzled.
"Before someone dies," Rod repeated, "not every time someone's just in danger of death. And the Queen's still alive!"
Toby pulled back, staring at Rod.
Rod smiled, eyes dancing. "It's only supposed to show up when death's inevitable."
He turned, looked out over the great tower room.
The witches were dancing on the walls, the ceiling, occasionally the floor, and in mid-air, with a fine disregard for gravity. They were twisting through gyrations that would have given a snake triple lumbago.
Rod looked back at Toby, lifted an eyebrow. "Doesn't look much like a funeral."
Toby frowned; then his face split into a grin. "I think thou hast not seen a Gramarye wake," he yelled. "Still, thou art aright; we dance this night for Life, not Death."
Rod grinned savagely, took another pull from his mug, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "Now, if it's a fake, and it is, the next question is, who put it there?"
Toby's jaw dropped open. He stared.
"Get me Aldis," Rod shouted.
Toby closed his mouth, gulped, and nodded. He closed his eyes; a moment later, Aldis swooped down and brought her broomstick in for a two-point landing.
"What dost thou wish?" she panted. She was blushing, face lit with excitement and joy. The sight of her gave Rod a sudden pang of mourning for his own lost youth.
He leaned forward. "See if you can tune in on Durer, Loguire's chief councillor."
She nodded, closed her eyes. After a few moments she opened them again, staring at Rod in fear.
"They are much wroth," she reported, "that the Queen did not die. But they are more wroth in that they know not who put the banshee on the roof of the castle this night."
Rod nodded, lips pressed into a tight, thin line. He took a last draft from his mug and rose, turning away toward the stairwell.
Toby reached up, catching his sleeve. "Where dost thou go?"
"To the battlements," Rod called back, else would you look for a banshee?"
"Where?"
The night breeze cut chill through his clothes as he stepped out onto the battlements. The moon, over his shoulder, sent his shadow pacing before him.
The battlements stretched out before him like a great gap-toothed row of incisors.