Rod nodded. "I can understand that—and although the present abbot's a good and understanding young man, his successor might not be. No, I can see your point."
"Yet I assure thee, we are nonetheless real for all that."
Rod shrugged. "That's what the other hallucinations thought, too."
"Aye, but did they know that thou didst see things that were not there?"
"I never told them," Rod admitted. "But I have told you—so why don't you vanish?"
"Because I am real, whether thou art here or no."
The last statement had an uncomfortably philosophical ring to it. Rod eyed Mother Paterna Testa warily.
"Yet now tell me," the good woman pressed, "why thou dost roam the wild wood, an thou dost know thou art ill in thy mind."
"Why, that's just the reason, don't you see? I start feeling my hallucinations are out to get me, so I fight back—and I might hurt someone real that way. Especially my wife and children." He struggled to sit up. "That reminds me—my boy. The young man with the horse. Where…"
The room lurched, and he found himself staring up at the ceiling with a chill wet cloth on his forehead again. "Thou must needs rest for some hours yet,'* Mother Paterna Testa assured him. "We shall bring thy son to thee presently—yet first I must speak more of thine illness."
Rod shrugged. "It's only chemical—at least, according to the ghost of an old friend I met along the way." He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, but Mother Paterna Testa nodded, unruffled. "What said this spectre?"
"Why, that the chestnut I ate was made of witch-moss, and my system didn't know how to handle it."
" 'Tis likely true," the nun agreed, "for look you, there are many who are witch-moss crafters unbeknownst, even to themselves—and the eldritch substance, when in their blood, doth shape itself to the forms that come from that part of our minds that doth dream. Thus do they see waking dreams, and cannot rule them."
That did pretty much agree with Big Tom's hypothesis. "So how do I get well, Mother?"
The nun reached under the table again and produced a little jar. She took a parchment cover off it and dipped her finger in, saying, "This is a fairy ointment, brought to us by the Wee Folk, for no better reason than that they did applaud our healing. They use it themselves, that they may see through the glamours they shape, and not thereby be entrapped." With a quick, deft movement, she touched Rod's eyes directly above the lower lid, so quickly that he was just pulling his head back as she was sitting up, the pot in her lap, smiling like the Mona Lisa. "Thou wilt now see all things as they truly are."
Rod suspected the cure was mostly psychological, if it did any good at all—why else the tale about the Little People?—but he was ready to try anything. "Thank you, Mother.''
"I am glad to do it," she said simply. "Wouldst thou now see thy son?"
"I would," Rod said emphatically.
The Mother Paterna Testa bent over to put the jar away and stood up, drawing out from underneath the table a pouch that she slipped over her shoulder. She turned away to the door, still with her gentle, enigmatic smile, and opened it.
The princess stood there, clad in pastel clouds, coronet glowing. "I greet thee, Mother. What of our patient?"
"He doth mend," the nun answered, and turned to Rod. "This is our most constant patron, gentleman—the Countess Bene."
"My pleasure, Countess." Rod struggled up on one elbow, but the countess crossed to him with a quick, lithe stride, saying, "Do not rise for courtesy, I prithee. Thou hast need of rest."
"So." Rod sank back. "You weren't a hallucination, either.''
The countess raised her eyebrows. "Thou didst think me a dream?"
"Yes, and the Mother, here. I've been seeing things, you understand. For example, I thought your convent was a castle of marble so pure that anyone looking into its walls would see himself as he truly is."
The countess raised her eyebrows. "A puissant charm would that be, and a blessing."
"Not completely," Rod assured her.
"Is any blessing unmixed?" But the countess didn't give him time to answer—she turned away toward the door. "I must be about my lord's affairs, yet let me first usher in one who did speak of thee. Young man, is this the father thou didst seek?"
Magnus stepped in through the door, tense as a lute string. When he saw Rod looking back at him, he almost sagged with relief. Then he was beside the bed, kneeling, holding his father's hand in his own. "Thy pardon, sir! I did seek to mount guard over thee, but some churl whose mind was hidden did come upon me unawares and smite me senseless!"
"No pardon needed, I assure you." Rod clapped the boy on the shoulder, and couldn't stop the grin. "So. You thought it was your turn to guard me, huh?"
Magnus flushed and lowered his eyes.
"Nice to know," Rod said gently. "Very nice to know. But then, I always have been glad to have you by my side."
Magnus looked up again, saw the unmistakable look of pride in his father's eyes, and smiled again.
"And thanks for taking care of Fess," Rod added. "I wasn't quite up to it."
"Nay." Magnus's face darkened with anxiety. "What struck thee, sir? The elf did speak of thy battling six, with no aid."
"He underrates himself," Rod grunted, "and he forgot about Fess." But he wondered—had Beaubras's deeds really been his own?
There was a knock at the door again.
Mother Paterna Testa opened it. A younger nun stood just outside. "Mother, there are men come before the wall, and they call for thy patient."
"I shall come."
"Me, too." Rod struggled up.
"Nay," Mother Paterna Testa commanded.
"I tell you, I can walk!" Rod felt the surge of adrenaline. "Give me a hand, son." Rod didn't wait; he grabbed Magnus's shoulder and hoisted himself up.
"Thou hast lost blood, good gentleman! Thou must needs rest!"
Rod exchanged a glance with Magnus, then turned back to Mother Paterna Testa. "Can you take a shock? Without thinking I'm some sort of monster, that is."
The nun frowned. "I am a healer; I can accustom myself. Of what dost thou speak?"
Rod let the outside world go hang, and paid attention to rejecting the floor. He drifted upward six inches.
Mother Paterna Testa's eyes widened. Slowly, she nodded. "Thou art a warlock, then."
"Sorry about that."
"Rejoice—'tis a gift from God." The nun turned away to the door. "As thou wilt have it, then. Come with us."
She followed the nun out, across the cloister to the chapel, went in, and climbed up into the steeple. The top chamber held a large bell. They went around it to look out a high, thin window.
Below them, in front of the convent gates, a half-dozen men-at-arms leaned on their spears. Actually, they looked like well-to-do bandits—each wearing different colors and garments, but none ragged. Before them, a tall man in a red robe paced impatiently. His head was bald, and he was in his prime, with a sword at his waist, but Rod would have known that face anywhere.
"Brume!" Rod cried.
"Thou dost know him, then?"
"You bet I do! He's the sorcerer who cast this whole madness on me!"
Magnus stared; then his eyes narrowed.
Mother Paterna Testa nodded. "And behind him?"
"I see a dozen mercenaries," Rod answered. "What else could I see?"
"An ogre and trolls," the nun answered. "These are they who set upon thee last night."
Rod's gaze whipped back to the men. Then he said, "Well. Nice to know I'm in touch with reality again." He didn't say whether or not it was a pleasant sensation.
Mother Paterna Testa smiled with satisfaction. "Thou didst lay about thee like a veritable demon, like two men or three. The ointment has cured thy sight, then."
"It certainly has. But how could a simple paste do so much?"