"By your leave, I'd liefer not."
"Wherefore?" The hermit demanded.
"A man lives ill, if he doth know his end."
"I'll second that," Rod said quickly. "But you might tell us of the future of this land."
"Aye!" Beaubras agreed, "what shall pass for our court of Granclarte, goodman? And for the Four Kingdoms that have their union here?"
The hermit stared at him. Then, slowly, he knelt, and splayed his palms against the bare earthen floor. Gazing off into space, he began to mutter. The others fell so quiet that the flames seemed louder than his words. Finally, they became comprehensible.
"… will rise 'gainst Alban. She shall not go, Yet shall find woe, And lovers' plight Shall bring a blight Upon the land And palace grand! The Courts of Light Shall break in fright And portions flee Until a sea Of darkness shall The lands enthrall!"
He thundered the last couplet, then knelt rigid a minute longer, eyes glazed. Finally, he began to loosen, till he sat in the dirt, holding his head in his hands.
"Magnificent!" Beaubras said. "Thou dost conjure a vision that doth make my brain to reel!"
"Do I so?" The hermit looked up. "I cannot tell."
"Why, how is this?" The knight questioned.
"When the Power doth seize me, good sir, it doth speak through my mouth—yet I have no remembrance of what I've said."
" 'Tis not so strange," Modwis rumbled. "I've heard of such aforetimes."
The knight frowned. "Then thou canst not tell us its meaning."
The hermit shook his head. "Was it so senseless, then?"
"Thy words were verse," Lady Bountiful explained, "and grand were they, and awe-bringing. Yet we know not that of which they spoke."
Rod did, of course—he knew the whole story of Granclarte, including its ending. But it wouldn't have been polite to mention it to the people involved.
" 'Twas a tale of doom, though," Beaubras said quietly. "That much of the sense of it, I caught—yet the doom of whom, or how it came, I could not tell."
The hermit nodded, mouth twisting. " 'Tis ever thus." He shrugged. "I cannot say, then, what shall come. Yet I may tell thee this." He looked up, glaring with sudden energy. "An there be doom for Granclarte, it shall come from the foul sorcerer who doth dwell in the castle to the east!"
"We know of him," Modwis said quietly. "He is evil, aye!"
"Evil! He is the source of every evil that may come to Granclarte! Even his apprentice hath left him, and his apprentice is evil enough, I wot! His castle is haunted, and the evil spirits therein have seeped their vile influence into his soul!"
"Thou knowest much of him, then?" the knight asked.
"More than I wish," the hermit said darkly. "If there is a doom on Granclarte, I can tell thee he shall bring it—yet how or when, I cannot say."
" Tis better thus," Modwis said, by way of comfort.
"Mayhap." But the hermit didn't sound convinced.
He climbed to his feet, slowly and painfully, and sighed. "Ah, me! But the evening's fled, and wise folk should be in their beds. I have some comfort that I've set by, to aid me in my rest.'' He took an earthenware bottle and a horn from a dark corner. "Wilt thou drink?"
No one answered immediately, but he didn't seem to notice. He pulled the cork and poured. A rich amber fluid streamed into the cup, catching the firelight with ruby glints. He held it out to Beaubras. " 'Tis most excellent."
The knight took it—reluctantly, Rod thought, but courtesy must be paid. He sipped, then looked up, surprised. " 'Tis mead, and I misdoubt me an I've ever had a better drop!"
"A taste." Lady Bountiful took the cup and drank a substantial draft, then passed the horn to Modwis. The dwarf drank, too, then nodded and passed it on to Rod, who wet his lips with it only enough to assure himself that it was indeed mead, then passed it back to the hermit. "Quite good."
"I thank thee." His eyes were glittering again. He drained the horn as he turned away—but Rod, watching closely, was quite certain he'd poured the mead out onto the floor under cover of putting both horn and bottle back in their nook.
He turned back with a look of regret. "I've but the one chamber, gentles; we must all sleep herein. Yet the lady and knight shall have the hearth."
"Nay, we could not deprive thee," the knight objected. "Thy chamber's warm enough!"
The hermit protested, and the upshot was Lady Bountiful sleeping next to the fire on a pallet of old straw, wrapped in Beaubras's cloak. Modwis helped Sir Beaubras remove his armor, and the knight scrupulously piled it between himself and the lady, then lay down in his gambe-son. Modwis bunked down above their heads, and the hermit hunkered down on his pallet in the corner. Rod lay beside Beaubras on his own pile of straw, wondering how he was going to get the fleas out of his cape and listening to the rain on the roof. "Fess?" he muttered.
Yes, Rod?
"If I sound as though I'm sleeping, wake me up with a buzz, will you?"
You need your rest, Rod.
"I need my breath more. I don't trust this old geezer, Fess. If you could see the look in his eyes, you wouldn't, either. Besides, he didn't drink the mead he fed us."
Very well, Rod. The robot put the resigned tone into it. / will assure your wakefulness.
"I appreciate that." Rod lapsed into silence and lay still, very still, listening for the slightest movement from the hermit's couch.
It came after about an hour—an hour of fighting heavy eyelids; it was hard to stay awake when he was taking even, slow breaths, to simulate the sound of sleep—but Rod managed it. At last, his vigilance was rewarded by some heavy rustling in the corner. The old hermit appeared again, crawling out with a breathless giggle, a long rusty blade in his paw.
Rod rolled over with a mutter, still feigning sleep.
The hermit froze.
Rod snored.
The hermit smiled and crept forward again, lifting the knife.
But the fake roll-over had served for Rod to gather himself. He braced against the earth, ready to spring.
The hermit crouched beside Beaubras and raised the dagger high.
Rod sprang.
The dagger flashed down, burying itself in Beaubras's chest with a sickeningly soft, wet sound.
A split second later, Rod's shoulder slammed into the old murderer even as Beaubras cried out and Lady Bountiful sat bolt upright. She took one look and screamed, then screamed again and again.
Modwis was beside her in an instant.
Rod was battling for his life. The old hermit lashed out with the dagger, howling in terror, and Rod barely managed to lean aside from the thrust, then rolled back in, catching the old man's shoulder and pushing hard. He slammed over onto his front with a wail.
Lady Bountiful managed to slacken her scream to low moans, with Modwis's help.
Rod pulled his own dagger and yanked the hermit over onto his back again, blade ready for the death blow.
It wasn't necessary. The old man's own knife stuck out of his belly just below the sternum. His lips moved, almost soundlessly, with his dying words: "Brume… mine old pupil… he shall avenge…" Then he shuddered, his throat rattled, and his eyes glazed as his whole body went limp.
The thrill of victory coursed through Rod's veins, even as something inside him sickened at the sight.
Brume, this geezer's pupil? This was the sorcerer Saltique?
Beaubras groaned.
Rod whipped back to him. "Your murderer is dead, Sir Knight."
"It… matters not…"
"But I was too slow! I didn't think the old lecher could move that fast!"
"The lady… is well…"
Lady Bountiful moaned.
"Oh, yes. That was why he killed you, of course, and would have killed Modwis and me—but not her. Not until later." Rod's face contorted. "I should have struck sooner!"