"Do I have to?" Rod was noticing how wonderfully the fragrance of her hair went with the scent of the surf.
"Oh, canst thou never pay heed to aught else when I am by?" she said, with exasperation (but not much). "See! The' waves do hurl the rock back at us!"
Rod followed the pointing of her finger and saw the new rock come sailing back, shooting by over their heads. They heard its whining thumping as it hurtled past.
"The sea will not have it!" Gwen exclaimed.
"Sure won't." Rod pointed to a yard-wide swath of thumping, twanging stones at the edge of the water, shifting like sand with each surge and ebb of the waves. "Thank Heaven." He had a sudden vision of the sea filling up with layer upon layer of stones, each vibrating with its own rasping beat. Then he realized that the same phenomenon was happening on land. "Gwen—is there any end to how many music-rocks can be produced?"
She shrugged. "As much as there is a limit to the witch-moss of which they are made, my lord."
"And there's no shortage of that—new patches crop up after every rain. It spreads like a fungus—which it is." Rod struggled to his feet. "Come on. We've got to find out where those rocks come from and put a stop to their making, or they'll bury the whole land."
"Husband, beware!" Gwen cried. "The waves…"
Rod leaped back as a new wave towered above him. "My Lord! Where did that one come from?"
The new wave hammered down on the heavy metal rocks and, for a moment, their music was drowned in its roar. Then, as the wave receded, the music made itself heard again.
Gwen came up behind Rod, touching his arm. "Husband mine… the music…"
"Yes," Rod said. "It has changed again."
"But can we call that a change?" Gwen murmured.
It was a good question. The music had the repetitive melodic line and metrical beat they had first heard, near Runny mede.
"Well, it's a change," Rod said, "but it seems as though that wave has washed everything new out of them. It's the same music as it was at first."
"No, wait." Gwen frowned. "I think…"
Rod waited, watching her closely.
Finally, Gwen shook her head. "What e'er it was, 'twas so slight that I could not distinguish it. For all that I can tell, 'tis as it first was."
"And so we end where we began." Rod caught her hand and turned away. "Come on—if the music can go back to its beginning, so can we."
"To the place where the music began?"
"Yes. Every time a rock split, we followed the northern pebble—and this is where it ends. Time to swing south. If this is the end, the beginning must be down there."
"There is sense to that." Gwen fell in beside him, but found a huge swell of peace and joy in her heart. To be walking with him, by the sea, was enough; she found she didn't really care whether or not they found what they were looking for.
"This rock music has a strange effect on me," Rod muttered.
"I am glad," Gwen murmured.
"How's that again?"
"Naught."
"Oh. Right." Rod's stride became more purposeful. "Yes. We do have to find the source of this rock music, you know."
"Oh, aye."
"That's right. The stones already around are all well enough, but we've got to choke off the source, before Gramarye is totally buried under rock."
"Yes," Gwen agreed, "we must."
And they went off south, hand in hand, with the sea and the sunset on their right, and a land of music on their left.
Far to the south, Magnus came wide awake. He frowned, looking about the clearing where they had camped for the night. The embers of the fire showed him the blanket-wrapped forms of his brothers and sister, and the bare outline of Fess, black against night, brooding over the scene.
What had wakened him?
"I heard him, too, Magnus," the great black horse assured him. "It is no dream."
But Magnus didn't even remember a dream of someone talking. Before he could ask, "What?" it came again, inside his head. Magnus. His father's voice.
Aye, Papa, he answered, watching his siblings.
We're on the way back now, Rod said. Where are you?
Some ways south and west of Runnymede, Papa, Magnus replied, and looked up at Fess with a question.
Ninety-eight miles southwest of Runnymede, Rod, Fess advised.
Right. We're about fifty miles northwest of you, Rod said. Should meet you in two days, but it could be tomorrow about noon. Should we rush?
Magnus looked at Fess again, then said, There is no need.
Good. See you tomorrow, then.
Papa, wait!
Yes, my son?
What hast thou found?
Some things that are very interesting, but nothing that seems to provide much information, Rod reported. Tell you all about it over dinner two nights from now.
Aye, Papa. Safe journey to you.
Godspeed. And he was gone.
Magnus lay down again, feeling rather disconcerted. But after all, at seventeen, he couldn't very well admit that he had felt reassured by even the mental presence of his father—now, could he? No, of course not. Not even to himself. Instead, he rolled up in his blankets and recited a koan. He fell asleep listening for the sound of one hand clapping.
Chapter Sixteen
The next evening, Gregory piped up, "I am hungry."
"Let it not trouble thee," Geoffrey advised. "It is but illusion."
"Illusion or not, you had best answer it with real food." Fess came to a halt, turning back to face them. "Or would you rather have an illusory dinner?"
"True substance, by choice." Geoffrey pressed a hand over his stomach. "Now that I bethink me of it, my little brother speaketh aright."
" 'Tis only past sunset, Geoffrey."
The boy shrugged. "I care not. I can be a-hungered at any hour."
"Yet thou didst dine but four hours agone."
"Aye, 'tis gone indeed." Geoffrey frowned around him. "There is sign of game hereabouts. Mayhap we should hunt down our dinner now."
"What," Magnus scoffed, "lose time for naught but an empty belly? Nay, where is thy soldier's fortitude?"
"It hath fled with the last of my dried beef," Geoffrey answered. "Naetheless, thou hast the right of it, brother—I must endure."
But Gregory' pointed to a column of smoke that stood against the sky. "Yon are folk. Mayhap they will have some victuals to sell."
They followed the path through the trees, till it opened out into a meadow. "Go warily, children," Fess cautioned. "Let us be sure they are friendly."
"As thou wilt." Cordelia sighed, and stepped through the last screen of leaves.
"It is certainly no village," Geoffrey said.
All over the meadow, young men and women were sitting up and shaking their heads, as though waking. They yawned, stretched, and put something in their mouths. A few were straggling down to a stream to drink and splash water on their faces; others were returning, far more sprightly than when they had left. Two others added sticks to a small tongue of flame, their movements quick, but so energetic that they sometimes nearly buried it.
"They are so gaunt!" Magnus said, unbelieving.
And they were—not emaciated, but devoid of any ounce of fat, pared down to stringy muscle. Their cheeks were hollow, their eyes too bright.
"The poor folk!" Geoffrey turned away, drawing a sling from a pouch at his waist. "Come, brothers! Let us find them meat!"