"Only a tidy, well-kept room, Fess. Dusty now, though. I really should secure these shutters." He closed them, making sure the latch fell back into place as he did.
"There is another open window toward the back of the hut, Rod."
"Oh, so now I get to peek into the parents' bedroom, do I?" Nonetheless, Rod picked his way carefully around to the side of the house. There the going was easier, for the tenant hadn't planted flowers. Rod went back to the single flapping shutter, caught it as it swung toward his head, pushed it wider open, and stepped in front of it to look in.
The hag grinned at him, showing only two yellowed fangs left between leathery lips. Her hair was long, tangled, coarse, and would have been white if it had been clean. The same could be said for her dress. Her face was lined with a hundred wrinkles, and her eyes glittered with malice.
Rod recoiled, trying not to show his revulsion. "Oh! Sorry. Didn't know anyone was home."
"I am not," said the hag. "This is not my home—or at least, no more than any house."
Rod stepped closer, feeling considerably less guilty. "I hope you're not taking anything that belongs to the people who live there!"
"Only their peace of mind," the old woman said. "Only the harmony and sense of safety that used to fill this house."
Rod felt a thrill of fear—could this really be only an old woman? In the land of Gramarye, malignant spirits could take actual form—the spirits of malignity within ordinary people. He managed to ignore the fright, though, and the revulsion that came from the woman's neglect of herself, and asked, "Now, how did you do that?"
"That horse is old." The hag pointed at Fess. "See where his coat is wearing thin? Surely you can't depend on him to carry you much farther!"
Rod swallowed a smile. "Older than you think, beldame—but apt to stay in good condition longer than I will."
"Yes, your body will start to fail you in a year or two, won't it?" she said with venom, then to Fess, "Why do you obey a master who ignores your welfare, beast? Know you not that he will ride you till you founder one of these days?"
Fess turned to give the woman a bland look, but inside Rod's head, his voice said, "I believe, Rod, that she spread these sorts of lies throughout the village."
"Aren't you a little transparent?" Rod asked the hag. "How could anyone believe such obvious lies?"
The woman's eyes sparked with anger. "Not lies, old fool, but saying large and loud the sort of things people wish to keep hidden—especially from themselves."
"Lies with a kernel of truth in each," Rod interpreted—and insight struck. "But you didn't tell them to the people themselves, did you? You told the husband his wife's faults and told her his. How many times did they scoff at you? So you made the lie even bigger when you told it to them again. How many times did you have to tell the same lie in different words before they began to believe you?"
"How many times have you shied away from your true nature?" the old woman snapped. "How many times have you overlooked your lord's highnosed ways and his heavy-handed treatment? The forests should be open to everyone! The deer are the property of the peasants, not the Crown!"
"Oho!" Rod lifted his head, leaning away from the gust of foul breath and fouler words. "So you didn't stop with setting husband against wife and sister against brother, did you? You tried to set them all against the Crown!" Then he frowned. "Or was that what you really meant to do all along?"
"The Count of Leachmere still forces each woman to his bed before she marries!" the hag raged. "The Earl of Tarnhelm flogs any peasant who dares go into the wood! Duke Bourbon turns his peasants out of their cottages when they're too old to work!"
"Only when they can't do the housekeeping any longer," Rod said. "Then he moves them into one of the one-bedroom cottages he's had built for his old folk, where he has people to look after them and take care of them."
"And despoil them of what little wealth they've managed to scrape together!"
"It doesn't cost them a penny." Rod gave her a sour smile. "He figures he comes out ahead because their children can do their work without worrying about their parents. And the cottages may be small, but they're clean and well-appointed; I've seen them."
"Oh, aye, while you were away from your wife! How many young women did you importune, knave? As many as the king, when he makes a progress without his wife?"
"And that's what you're really after, isn't it?" Rod gave her a shrewd look. 'To turn the lords against the Crown and the people against their lords? But first you have to build up their discontent at home!"
"All folk have truths they wish to ignore!" the old woman shouted. "You more than any!"
Rod knew very well what his failings were—everything that had made Gwen unhappy, and that he had tried to change. Her memory made greater his anger at this woman who had made it her business to disrupt homes and break up a village. "What failings are you trying to hide, beldame?" he asked quietly. "What flaws of character have you managed to overlook by telling everyone else about theirs?"
"I am the Truth that lives at the bottom of every village well!"
"No you're not," Rod snapped, "because that Truth is naked, and you would no more dare look upon your own body than you'd look into your own heart! Who are you really—one of Morrigan's ravens who has taken on human form?"
The woman flinched but retorted, "Morrigan shall come for you, and that right quickly! She shall fan the peasants' rage and send them to burn and flay all you lords!"
"How does she know you're a lord, Rod?" Fess's voice asked. "You dress like a soldier on a journey."
Rod nodded. "Didn't realize you'd recognized me."
"Any would recognize a lord who tyrannizes his peasants! But you shall know oppression in your own turn, lordling! How long have you made excuses for the arrogance and tyranny of your queen?"
"Never," Rod said. "I've fought for her, but her public image is her own worry. You know that, though, don't you? Well, if you're a raven in human form, you'll be attracted to bright and shiny things." He slipped a coin from his belt-pouch and flipped it.
The woman stared, following the silver's flashing with hungry eyes. She made a grab for it but missed.
"You really are a raven," Rod said softly, "feeding on the carrion of decaying marriages and drinking the anguish you have caused. But shape-changers on Gramarye are made of witch-moss and can themselves be melted down like wax in the sun." He stared at her, picturing her form blurring, features smoothing into a shapeless lump that melted into a puddle.
The woman shrieked and clutched her head, crumpling to the ground and rolling in agony.
Rod stared, horrified, and the image disappeared from his mind. The woman went limp, gasping for breath.
"You're real," Rod said softly, "a real woman who for some insane reason has decided to take out her unhappiness on the people around her—but my thoughts wouldn't have hurt you if you weren't a telepath yourself." He leaned over the windowsill to wrap his hand in the back of her tunic and haul her to her feet.
The woman flailed her fists at him, but her reach wasn't long enough; he stepped back, pulling her out of the window. "Let go!" she shrieked. "Blast you for a villain and bully, let go!"
"Oh, I will," Rod said, "when I've seen you safely inside the nearest dungeon."
The woman howled and writhed, trying to break free. 'Tyrant! Ogre! Dire wolf! Have you no shred of mercy left in your heart?"
"Plenty," Rod said, "but not for a projective telepath who uses her gifts to cause other people misery. I think this village is on Count Moscowitz's estate. His dungeon should hold you long enough for one of the Royal Witches to come and collect you."
The woman shrieked, doubling over as he tried to drag her to Fess. Then she uncoiled, and something shiny flashed as she slashed at Rod. Pain burned through his arm, loosening his grip just enough for her to twist free. She shot off down the village street far faster than a woman her age should have been able to, black cloak billowing about her.