“Well, I do know that Bayard is somewhere here in the swamp . . .”
“Much better,” he interrupted, “Much more . . . positive and optimistic.” His voice had returned to a calm and honeyed instrument. Slowly the scorpions were gathering once again on the throne.
“You have such little trust in me, Galen. Did you think I would leave you so . . . ill-provided? Have you already forgotten the good turn I did you in the moat house library? No, Galen. What I need is someone to lead Sir Bayard to this very spot.”
One of the satyrs stepped back through the palisade, as easily as if he were walking out of a fog. Paying him no mind, the Scorpion continued.
“For you see, I know where Bayard is.” A globe of light began to glow green in his hand. “And the light that led you to me will lead you to him, will lead the both of you back to this cabin, this encampment.”
“And no harm will come to Bayard?” I asked, puzzled.
“My hand shall not shed blood in this undertaking. My word is always kept, through centuries of fire and flood and wrack. Unlike the word of others.”
“That sounds pretty binding, sir. Given that assurance, I would be glad, by force or by farce, to bring Sir Bayard of Vingaard into your august presence, so that you might draw from him the information you need in whatever way you choose to draw. However, I should like to earn my freedom in the bargain, and a safe escort back to my father’s house. After all, Sir Bayard may not want to trouble himself with my company if my treachery is suspected.”
There was a long pause. The Scorpion deliberated, I awaited his decision, the pack mare tugged less urgently at the reins, and the satyrs did nothing much at all except walk in and out of the fortifications through the palisades.
“I shall allow you that chance,” the Scorpion said finally. “I shall guide you back to your companions, and you, in turn, shall guide them to me. I shall allow you that chance, but I shall be oh so watchful. I shall be a hawk, a nest of owls to your passing, little Weasel, for I am not sure whether your eagerness to betray your comrades is a lie or is the truth.”
At that time, neither was I.
Chapter Eight
That is how, by following we deathly glow of phosfire away from the clearing, I rode the mare back to Bayard’s camp, where the master, the brother, and the means of transportation sat (or in Agion’s case, stood) around a campfire, drinking roka.
Well, they welcomed me back with nothing short of joy—better than I expected or deserved. Bayard and Brithelm were on their feet immediately, Brithelm with his arms spread wide preparing a brotherly enfolding, Bayard more reserved, as befitting his station, but scarcely concealing his delight and relief. Agion was literally prancing like a colt, back and forth between Valorous and the pack mare.
And I would lead these innocents wherever the Scorpion commanded.
I had never liked this hidden arrangement with the hidden enemy. It had begun to bother me that my surveillances were part of a mysterious plan that might well end in outrage to some folk who didn’t deserve it. But call it what you would, it was their skins or mine. Put bluntly and in those terms, it was easy to restrain those higher feelings.
Brithelm was all embraces and questions as he led me to the fireside and set a steaming mug of roka in my hands. I sniffed reluctantly at first, smelled the roka nuts and the cinnamon, then tasted it. To my relief, the roka was of someone’s brewing other than my spiritual brother’s.
I sat back, felt the warm sedative of the drink course through me, and thought of the end of an old fable: And so they took the adder into their midst, and fed and sheltered it, nursing it back to health. Gave it roka to drink, no doubt. The world is not a kind place.
As I drank, I replied to the array of questions arising from my knightly protector.
“But I don’t know where I have been, except through this swamp and in and out of a quagmire or two.
“And I don’t know what I saw for sure, aside from the fact that it was pretty confusing.
“I was passing this way and noticed the light. If I hadn’t seen the light, I probably never would have found you.”
None of the answers were lies. At least not directly.
“No matter how you returned to us, Galen, I thank the gods for that return!” Brithelm exclaimed, embracing me yet again. Agion gamboled about and nodded vigorously in agreement.
Only Bayard stood back from the merrymaking, to the side of the brotherly chat, watching me closely—perhaps even a little distrustfully, though perhaps the distrust I saw in his face arose from my sense of my own misdeeds, from my fear of discovery. I was, after all, the Scorpion’s agent in this matter, and a little bit of a skunk in the bargain, if you stopped to think about it.
Bayard spoke tersely.
“I can’t imagine your being lost, Galen, without marking carefully some of the things you noticed, if only in passing. If you hadn’t gathered, I’m fairly tired of your appearances at times of calm and departures at times of need. I suppose you were ‘on surveillance’ again somewhere safe in the marsh country.”
Bayard then crouched by the fire, warming his hands against the cold that was once more unseasonable.
“I know, sir, that I deserve that bit of mean-spirited viciousness from you, even if it is uncharacteristic of a Solamnic Knight. I know that I have been hiding when I should have been . . . participating more enthusiastically. But it so happens that by accident I did recover your armor, for which I would prefer a little acknowledgement.”
Bayard looked into the fire and nodded reluctantly.
“And what is more, Sir Bayard, in the midst of this path-finding and retrieval, I managed to put in some genuine scouting, of which you should hasten to hear.”
I told him about the encampment at the center of the swamp—the circle of campfires, the house on stilts, the occasional goats in the midst of the place. Of course I left out the Scorpion—not to mention Alfric—shaping my story quickly and naturally, drawing on the instincts I had developed in the moat house. Whatever suspicions Bayard might have, though, were not shared by the others in our party. Agion continued to gambol, Brithelm to rejoice and to talk.
“Goats and houses and fires aside, little brother, what a relief it is to know you are safe, before I retreat into hermitage, before I return to my place of meditation. I suppose I could never have gone back with a light heart had I not known your fate.”
“Brithelm?”
“Yes, little brother?”
But what could I say?
“Do watch yourself as you retreat into hermitage. The swamp has changed from your early days of wildlife communion.”
“Watch myself? Why, Galen, nothing in this swamp poses any real danger. Even the satyrs are not satyrs.”
I glanced quickly at Bayard, who shrugged.
“Well,” I responded, “it has been my experience that quicksand and crocodiles, not to mention satyrs, can bruise the faithful and the gallant as quick as the rest of us.”
“That’s just it, Galen,” Bayard offered from his corner of the fire, never removing his gaze from me as he spoke. “Brithelm doesn’t believe in the satyrs. Says they don’t exist.”
“Wait a minute. Don’t exist?” I was not about to give away what I knew. “Well, you’ve seen them, haven’t you?”
Bayard nodded.
“And you, Agion?”
The centaur stepped back into the firelight, said, “Yes, Galen. Indeed I have. But that is not the point.”
“Not the point?”
The big centaur leaned forward to warm his hands by the fire. A puzzled look spread across his vacant face.