It was one of those nights that seem to last forever. As soon as Rod realized that, he developed suspicions. "Fess, how long has it been since I left the family?"
"Approximately three hours, Rod."
"Is that all?" Rod was appalled to realize how much had happened in so short a time. "Is something wrong with my time sense?"
"Perhaps," the robot said slowly, "since you have experienced a multiplicity of events during that period."
"Well how long has it been since I found Granny Ban with her arm stuck in that tree?"
"Was that her difficulty? From the sound, I thought perhaps she had been ensnared by a troop of bandits."
"Not that I saw." Rod frowned. "Or should I say, 'That's not what / saw.' Anyway, how long?"
"Two hours and forty-three minutes have elapsed, Rod."
"You're kidding! That was two hours, if it was a minute!"
"It was more than a minute, Rod, but considerably less than two hours. It is nearly midnight."
"I could have sworn it was the wee hours, not the hours of wee folk. Y'know, I should be feeling sleepy by now."
"Perhaps you will be when the adrenaline ebbs."
" 'If,' not 'when.' What's that light up ahead?"
Fess expanded his video image. "I see no light but the moon's reflection, Rod."
"Not another hallucination! Well, I suppose I might as well get it over with." Rod dismounted. "Stay close, okay? And don't let me hurt anybody."
"I will endeavor to prevent damage, Rod—but I believe there is no cause for concern. I see absolutely nothing."
"Wish I could say that." Rod turned away, gathering his cloak about him, but he still shivered as he plowed his way through the snow toward the glow ahead.
In the distance, the bells of the Runnymede cathedral chimed midnight.
Rod stopped on the edge of a little clearing. In its middle, a campfire burned—a tiny campfire, its flames guttering. A man knelt before it, his back to Rod, wearing a cowled cloak. Rod wondered what a monk was doing out at this time of night, then remembered that foresters' cloaks looked very much like monks' robes—especially when you couldn't make out colors. Whoever he was, he was racked with shivers as he groped in the snow. At last, he brought up a small branch, knocked the snow off it, and threw it on the fire.
There had been enough light for Rod to see the boniness of the hand. There was no doubt that the man was old, quite old. Rod felt a surge of sympathy and stepped out into the clearing, kicking up the snow, bending to pick up fallen branches and sticks. "Here, Grandfather!" He stepped past the old man and knelt by the fire, holding one of the smaller sticks in the flame till it caught, then laying it carefully on the coals and setting a small branch over it. "We'll have it burning merrily in no time."
"It is good of you," the old man whispered, sitting back on a fallen tree.
"Glad to help. Glad of the warmth, too." Rod put a three-inch branch over the others, then turned to the oldster. "There you go, Grandfather."
He froze, staring.
"Thank you, Grandson." From under the hood, the old eyes glinted with amusement. "But then, you always were a generous, warmhearted boy. I am glad to see you have grown into so fine a man."
"Grandfather," Rod whispered again. "My real grandfather. "
And it was—Count Rory d'Armand, in the flesh. Or seemingly.
"You can't be real." But Rod stretched out a hand anyway. "You died twenty-six years ago."
Count Rory winced. "Hardly generous of you, my boy."
"Oh, I'm sorry, Grandfather! But how did you get here? I mean, Gramarye is light-years and light-years away from this solar system!"
"Why, I came with you, Rodney." The old eyes glowed into his. "In your genes—for surely, as long as you live, so does part of me. And in your heart and mind, too, I would like to think!"
"Oh, be sure of that! If the foundation of my personality is Mother and Father, you're the foundation of the foundation!"
"The sub-basement, eh?" Rory smiled, amused. "And all that I have thought and dreamed, Rodney—what of that?"
"I can't say 'all,' " Rod said honestly, "but a large part of it—yes. I think your ideals are within me, too—for they're embedded in the stories you told me, and those stories will always be with me."
"Ah. My stories, yes." The Count nodded, turning his gaze to the fire. "And if you live within my stories, then Rodney, you certainly can have no question as to how I came to be here."
"What?" Rod frowned. "I think I missed something."
"Why, I am Rory, Lord Chronicler." The old man lifted his gaze to Rod's again. "For surely we are in the realm of Granclarte."
Rod stared at him.
"Yes, surely," he said softly. "Why didn't I realize ^hat?"
"Because you had not thought of it," the Lord Chronicler said, smiling. "Yet did I not tell you the tales of this magic kingdom would ever be your shield and your refuge?"
"Why, so they have been, in metaphor," Rod said slowly, "but I never thought they could be so, in actuality."
Rory tossed his head impatiently. "There is a sickness of the soul upon you, my boy, a darkness of the spirit. Where else could you shelter from that night, except in the Courts of Great Light?"
"Yes." Slowly, Rod sat down beside the old man, on the log. "God bless you, Grandfather, for giving my soul a shield against its own lances."
"Be not so sure they are its own, my boy, for you have many enemies, with many weapons. Yet do be sure that, in the realm of Granclarte, you shall find a magic guardian to shield you from any of them."
"I'll remember that," Rod said fervently. "But Grandfather, I've gone mad on Gramarye. How can I be in the realm of Granclarte?"
"Because you inherited it from me, Rodney, inherited it within your soul, just as your body inherited my genes. The events and ideals within its Chronicles are part of the sub-structure of your personality, of the way you see the universe around you. It is yours now—I bequeath it to you."
"I'm not worthy…"
"On the contrary, you are eminently worthy; you have proved yourself so. Even as the Four Kings strove to avoid war, so have you—and even as they strove mightily when war could no longer be avoided, so have you."
Rod was quiet; he couldn't deny his accomplishments, but was too modest to speak of them. Granclarte, after all, had been founded as a neutral meeting place by four kings who sought to spare their subjects the devastation of war; they had reigned all from the same palace over their adjoining realms. How could he compare himself to any one of them? "The Four Kings were enlightened, Grandfather, and all inspired with the same idea at the same moment—to have a common court, and thereby bring knowledge, wisdom, and peace. I have had no such moment of enlightenment in my life."
"Perhaps you had, but did not recognize it. Perhaps you are having it now. Or perhaps this is the beginning of the greatest period of your life."
"Now, when I'm forty-seven? That's too late for the glory of youth, too early for the wisdom of age."
"Yet it is also the time when wisdom and energy most thoroughly blend—just as the pinnacle of the Courts of Granclarte came in its middle years, when the knight Beaubras set forth in quest, and returned with the Rainbow Crystal. Its light suffused the nobility and, aye, all the folk of the court, with harmony and generosity."
"And its effect spread out from them through all the Four Kingdoms, yielding a Golden Age of peace, prosperity, and happiness. But Granclarte endured only through the generation of the Four Kings, Grandfather. In the time of their sons, the sorcerer Obscura stole away the Rainbow Crystal."
"Yes, in vengeance for King Alban's refusal."
Rod nodded. "The King refused to grant Obscura the hand of his daughter Lucina, the most beautiful damsel of the court—for he knew Prince Dardinel loved her, and that she loved him."