"But how," Rod went on, "did Big Tom know we'd be needing horses?"
She frowned at him a moment, then turned away. " 'Twas at my urging, lord. 'Twas but a thought, and could do little harm. I had a seeming they might be needed."
"A seeming," Rod echoed. Was she clairvoyant, too?
"Aye, lord, a seeming." She slowed suddenly. "Walk wary, lords." She stepped carefully over something lying in the passage.
Rod stopped and stared at it.
It was a miniature human skeleton, perhaps eighteen inches long; but the proportions were those of an adult, not a bably. It was green with mold.
He looked up at Gwendylon. "This has not been here so very long," he said. "What is it?"
"One of the Wee Folk, lord." Her mouth hardened. "There ha' been evil spells in this keep of late."
Rod looked up, surprised at the tone of her voice, ignoring Loguire's startled exclamation.
Her face was flint, set in a mold of bitterness. "Poor wee fellow," she murmured. "And we dare not stop to give him burial." She spun about and hurried on.
Rod stepped carefully over the tiny skeleton and followed.
"What manner of spell?" he asked as he caught up to her.
" Twas a sort of… singing… in the air, lord, though not for the ear, but the mind. If you or I tried to move against it, 'twould but stop us," like a wall. But it slew the Wee Folk."
Rod frowned. "A singing, you say?"
"Aye, lord. Yet not of the ear, as I told you."
A force field! But that was impossible. Ask any physicist, he'd tell you…
"How long ago?"
"It was cast five years agone, milord. It lasted no more than a month, for its master took no note of my stopping it, nor did he cast it again."
Rod stopped so fast Loguire stumbled into him. He stared at the gentle, very feminine form hurrying down the passage before him. Then he closed his mouth, swallowed, and followed.
A force field! And five years ago, that was when Durer had shown up…
Rod thought again of the dial on the supposed time machine. Then he stared at Gwen's long, red hair, swinging with her steps.
And she had stopped it? A machine out of the future, and she had stopped it?
He looked at his farm girl with new respect.
"Uh,Gwen, dear…"
"Aye, my lord?" She looked back at him, with a look of pleased surprise and a faint blush.
He frowned. What… ? Oh. He'd called her "Gwen." Also "dear."
"Aye, my lord, exorcised it. But the Wee Folk would not come here more, and I too thought it wise."
Yes, Rod mused, very wise. Durer & Co. would not have taken kindly to diminutive spies, and could probably have devised some very unpleasant preventatives. He fastened his eyes on Gwendylon's retreating back, watching her absently; she was just full of surprises, this one…
"We come near, lords!"
Rod jerked his head up and saw a point of dim light ahead. The ball of light in Gwen's hand flickered out.
A moment later, they stepped through the weath-ered, weed-grown mouth of the tunnel into the moonlit night. The river flowed by a few dozen yards away, bordered with willow and cypress. The breeze was chill after the dampness of the tunnel. Loguire shivered.
"Master!" came a soft, low cry, and Big Tom stepped out of the riverbank shadows, leading three horses.
Rod grabbed Gwendylon's hand and ran for the horses… and was brought up sharp by a most un-feminine jerk on his arm—fortunately, the good one.
"Nay, my lord," she said firmly. "First we must see to your arm."
"Which one," Rod grumped, swiveling his good shoulder; it had developed a sudden ache. "Look, we don't have time…"
"It will slow us in our ride soon or late," she said sternly. "Better to tend it now, when it will take but a moment."
Rod sighed and capitulated. He watched her run to the riverbank with a connoisseur's interest and wondered what the strange, pleasant feeling inside him was.
"She hath the right of it," growled Loguire, swinging Rod about to face him. "Clamp your teeth."
He unbuttoned Rod's doublet. Rod's nascent protest was cut off by a gasp of agony as Loguire snapped the doublet open, tearing the scab off in the process.
"Let it bleed freely a moment," Loguire growled, jerking the doublet off the injured shoulder.
Then Gwendylon came up with a handful of some sort of herb and a small wineskin—trust &ig Tom to have one on him, Rod thought—and perhaps five minutes later, Rod swung her onto Fess's saddle and leaped up behind her. He dug his heels into Fess's sides. Gwendylon started at the muted clang, and, as Fess sprang out into a gallop, she twisted about to frown, puzzled, at Rod.
"That's why I call him Old Ironsides," Rod explained. "Just relax and lean back against me. It's going to be a long ride."
"But, my lord, I have no need to—"
"There're only three horses, Gwen. Somebody has to ride double. Don't worry, Fess won't even notice the difference."
"But my lord, I—"
"Hush. My Lord Loguire!" he called back over his shoulder. "Lead us, my lord; you know this land best."
Loguire nodded mutely and spurred the big bay; it speeded a little, and passed Rod. Rod followed him, listening to the drum of hooves from Tom's mount behind him.
"Believe me, my lord, there is no need for—"
"Time enough to talk later," Rod growled. "We're leaving a trail as clear as Polaris. We've got to get far enough away fast enough so it won't matter if they follow us."
Gwendylon sighed. "Look behind you, my lord."
Rod turned, and saw a crowd of at least a hundred elves lined along their trail with miniature brooms, sweeping away every trace of their passing—even straightening the grass the horses' hooves had flattened.
Rod squeezed his eyes shut. "No. Oh, no. Why me, Lord? Why me?"
He turned back to Gwendylon. "Gwen, did you call out these… Gwen!"
The saddle was empty. She was gone.
"Gwen!" he shouted, and sawed back on the reins.
"Really, Rod," protested the murmur in his mas-toid, "I must ask that you attempt to control—"
"Gwendylon!" Rod yelled.
A cry like the mew of a seagull drifted down from the sky.
Rod looked up.
The osprey. The same one. He was willing to swear to it. Anyway, he was willing to swear.
The bird plummeted low and circled Rod's head, mewing urgently.
How the hell could she make a fish hawk sound so feminine?
The osprey shot away in front of him, skimming low over the ground after Loguire's horse.
Then it wheeled back, circled his head again, then lit out on the straightaway again.
"Yeah, yeah," Rod growled, "I get the message. I should quit holding up the party. Fess, follow that bird! Fess?Fess!"
The horse stood stiff-legged, head swinging between the fetlocks.
Oh, well, it had been a strain on Rod's neurology, too. He slapped at the reset button.
They rode the moon down, slowing to a trot after the first half-hour. Loguire was slumped in his saddle, almost too exhausted to stay on his horse, by the time the air freshened with dawn.
Rod, frankly, wasn't in much better shape. He reined in beside the Duke. "There're haystacks in that field over there, my lord. We must pause to rest. It will be dawn soon, and we dare not travel by day."
Loguire lifted his head, blinking. "Aye. Aye, most certain." He reined in his horse. Rod and Tom followed suit.
They broke through the hedge at the roadside and trotted for the nearest haystack. Rod dismounted and caught Loguire as he all but fell from his saddle. Big Tom unsaddled the horses and turned them out to the field with a slap on the rump as Rod half-led, half carried the old nobleman to the top of the haystack.
He lowered Loguire into the hay, stepped back, and murmured, "Fess."
"Yes, Rod."
"Get those nags far away from here, someplace where it's not too likely they'll be noticed, will you? And bring them back at sundown."
"I will, Rod."
Rod stood a moment, listening to the fading drum of hooves.