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Disappointments had to be accepted, and lived with. And for that matter, he
had no time to waste grieving over a lost dream not with the chore of
establishing peace and relative tranquility among a hundred and sixty-two
planets on his hands, plus a dinner date with Pat Neff.
Mirni stuffed the report in a bottom drawer and got to work.
The Other Way Around
For a score of days the chronicler Raedulf had sought the magician, trailing
him on uncertain information obtained from sulky peasants, importuning
mendicants and cautious bandits encountered along the way.
The going was often difficult. The magician followed the weedy Roman roads
only when they seemed to suit his odd fancy. Nor did he confine his course to
the wandering byways and riding paths.
It was as if, thought Raedulf, the magician were impatient with the routes of
ordinary men, pushing his way instead through whatever bog and bramble stood
between him and his destination.
Why, then, was the course he took so far from straight?
Raedulf was minded of some mighty knight bereft of his senses by too many
blows on the head in too many jousts, mounting his charger and clattering
hither and yon while convinced he was riding straight into the face of the
foe.
"Yea, I encountered an ancient such as you detail," said a young friar met on
the old road along the River
Kennet. "We talked somewhat, but I fear he will find meager favor in the eyes
of our Redeemer. There was no charity in the man."
Raedulf took the hint and dropped two coppers in the young man's hand. "Did he
say whither he
journeyed?"
"No, gracious sir, nor whence he came. He was hard of speech and arm, and I
did not deem it prudent to question him closely. He seemed of a sullen humor."
Raedulf nodded. All reports indicated the magician was indeed a man of temper.
"Did he say ought to you of his errand?"
"Nothing. He tested my knowledge on various matters, sneering at my replies,
then whirled and strode away. He muttered foully at what he called my
ignorance of the Old Stones."
"I know little of the Old Stones, myself," said Raedulf, "except that they
stand somewhere in this region of Briton."
"They form a round figure, and are ten leagues south and west from here. That
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was all I could respond to the ancient's test."
Raedulf grew alert. "He wished to know where the Old Stones stand, then?"
"Why . . . I think not. Seemingly he knew, and was but trying my knowledge."
The friar hesitated with puckered face. "Think you the ancient scamp made a
pretense of trying me, to hide his own ignorance?"
Raedulf replied, "The ancient scamp seems capable of that or of most
anything."
The friar uttered an unchristian oath. "I am shamed to have been awed! A
fraud!"
"It is perhaps well you were," said Raedulf. "This ancient may travel like a
bull both crazed and lost, but like the bull he has horns with which to gore."
After proper farewells, Raedulf turned his mare and rode westward along the
road, watchful for a good way trending more to the south. By and by he found a
side road that proved well-frequented, with a fair scattering of villages and
farm stockades along the way.
Through the afternoon he rode at a comfortable pace, having no need for hurry
if the magician were indeed making for the Old Stones. The magician traveled
afoot and would easily be outpaced to the destination by Raedulf's mare.
The chronicler found a comfortable inn for the night, and there obtained
clearer information on the location of the Old Stones and how they might best
be reached. He was also warned that the Stones were in outlaw-infested
country, to which he nodded solemnly, thinking of how many times he had
received similar warnings during this quest, and of how he had yet to meet a
brigand who cared to challenge a man who was mounted and wearing a sword.
If he rode in fear of any man, Raedulf mused, that man might best be the very
one he was seeking.
Late the following afternoon he reached the Old Stones. They rose above the
thick brush of the deserted heath like some primitive colonnade. Raedulf
stared at them in wonder. Here was surely a thing that should be better
chronicled. Who had raised these great stone slabs on end along a circling
line, and had spanned many of their tops with massive lintels?
Certainly they were not the work of the Romans. They had not the style of
Roman structures. And they
appeared far too old.
Allowing his mare to stroll along what paths she could find through the brush,
Raedulf explored the place at length, but found nothing enlightening. Here and
there were ashes of campfires, some quite fresh, left by outlaws or outcasts
or whoever, but nothing to indicate what the Stones might have once been.
And no sign of the magician. The old man would not reach the place until the
morrow, he guessed.
With that thought, he turned his mount back the way he had come, toward the
stockade of a peasant-squire he had passed half a league to the north.
He met the magician on the way.
Raedulf had never seen him before, but descriptions made his identity certain.
He was a huge man, a head taller than even King Lort, with a heavy beard of
gray and frowning brown eyes. Strapped to his shoulders was a backpack of
peculiar design.
The magician halted in the middle of the path, and Raedulf stopped his mare.
"Hail, thou of renowned wisdom!" he called out.
The magician's right hand stole out of sight under his cloak. "Who the hell
are you?" he growled. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] - zanotowane.pl
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