35
THE OLD MAN TOOK A faltering step forward. He bowed, holding his back as he righted himself again, and said in an ancient, croaking voice that sounded to Fioral as though it was filled with the echoes of time, “My wife is a seer, my lord. On the night of the full moon—tomorrow night—she will be able to tell you exactly where the lady is.”
“This old hag, a seer? If that is true, then why must she wait for a full moon?”
The old man shrugged, and it looked painful, that shrug. “I know not the answer to that, good lord, but it is true. Nothing happens if there isn’t a full moon. Then I will press my hands against her head. While I’m squeezing her head, the full moon must be shining down on her head, and she sees clearly.”
“Aye, it is the way,” the old woman said, stepping up, “of the Witches of Byrne. When the old man dies, then my powers will die also because it must be his hands to press against my head. No others will do. It is our bond and it works well. Will you protect us, my lord?”
The sore on Fioral’s neck pulsed hot.
Lord Vellan walked into the great hall at that moment and started when he saw the doddering old man and woman. Fioral called out, “The old hag claims to be a seer, my lord. She claims she can tell me where your precious Merryn is at this moment.”
“She can, can she? Hmmm.” Lord Vellan walked up to the pair and looked them up and down.
“Ah, I see. She has the witch’s eye. I can see it now that I look at her closely. Is my granddaughter all right, old witch?”
“Aye, she is, for the moment, my lord. So is Sir Bishop of Lythe, who is with her. I will show the young master here where she is so that he may fetch her and kill the bounder who has her.”
Vellan took a step back, a shaft of fear knifing through him. “How do you know his name, old woman? What is this? Where do you come from?”
Suddenly the old woman stiffened, stared hard at Fioral. “You are ill,” she said. “What is wrong with you?”
Fioral touched his fingers to the bandage on the back of his neck. “You can see this, can you? For one so ancient, your eyes work remarkably well. It is nothing, just a small sore that annoys me.”
“It’s not nothing, my lord,” she said, and somehow she knew that it truly was bad. “It’s snaking into you, making your innards rot, that’s
what it’s doing.”
“What is this? Come, old woman, can you heal the sore?”
The old woman’s eyelids fluttered, closed. She threw her head back and said in a loud, too deep voice that sounded from one end of the great hall to the other and made everyone shudder with fear, “There is evil in that sore, and it is eating its way through you. It seems to me that the sore is retribution. What have you done to deserve this?”
Fioral didn’t like this at all. “Damn you, answer me. Are you a healer, old woman?”
“Nay, my husband here is the healer. I see the evil in you; he can remove it.”
Fioral was on his feet in an instant. “Old man, come here.”
The old man shuffled to Fioral and stood right in front of him. He was looking at the strip of white wool tied around Fioral’s neck. “My wife must know what evil you have done before I can help you.”
Fioral gnawed on his lower lip, said nothing.
Lord Vellan strode forward, stood right in the old man’s face. “This young thief has come into Penwyth like four others before him, demanding to wed my granddaughter, demanding to lay his boot upon our necks. Is that evil enough, old man? Will that sore on his neck kill him? It should, for he is worth nothing at all. I beg you, don’t heal him. He isn’t worthy.”
Fioral, enraged, jerked his stiletto out of his tunic sleeve, ready to spear the sharp point through Lord Vellan’s heart.
The old witch shouted, “You kill him and that sore will spread until your whole head spouts pus!”
Fioral stopped. He was breathing hard. “What is this? The sore isn’t from the damned Penwyth curse. I had it before we came. It has merely gotten a bit worse.” He clapped his hand to his neck, and yelled. It was so hot he could not even press his palm against the wool bandage. Oh, God, what was wrong? “Heal me, old man. Heal me now or I will kill both you and your miserable wife.”
“All right,” he said, and stepped directly in front of him. He moved Fioral’s hand away from the bandage, then lightly touched his fingertips to it. The old man closed his eyes, said a few words, then bowed his head for two minutes, eyes still shut, his lips moving. There wasn’t a single sound in the great hall. All were staring at the old man, staring at his hand on Fioral’s neck.
“It is done,” he said as he raised his head. His fingers still touched the white wool. “If the evil you have committed is repented, if you commit no more evil acts, then the sore will disappear. Do you repent your past evil, my lord?”
“Oh, aye, I do.”
“And any future evil? Will you cease what you are doing here at Penwyth and take your leave?”