Into The Thinking Kingdoms

"Please . . ." The fisherman's head fell forward and his eyes squeezed tight shut. "Please don't do that—Lord."

"Good. Very good." Reaching over, the warlock ran a mail-enclosed forefinger along the young boy's cheek. The little lad was quivering now, manfully not crying but obviously wanting to, shivering at the touch of the cold metal. "That wasn't so difficult, was it? I'm leaving you now. Remember this encounter with pride. It's not every day that Hymneth the Possessed stoops to converse with one of his people. And be sure to respect my departure appropriately." The silky voice darkened ever so slightly. "You don't want me to come back and talk to you again."

Straightening to his full, commanding height, he returned to the chariot and stepped aboard. "Let's go, Peregriff. For some reason the ocean doesn't hold its usual cheer for me this morning."

"It's the woman, Lord. The Visioness. She preys on your thoughts. But her misgivings will pass."

"I know. But it's hard to be patient."

Peregriff ventured an old soldier's smile. "The time spent in extended contemplation will make the eventual resolution all the more agreeable, Lord."

"Yes. Yes, that's true." The sorcerer put a hand on the older man's arm. "You always know the right thing to say to comfort me, Peregriff."

The white-maned head dipped deferentially. "I try, Lord."

"Back to the fortress! We'll have a good meal, and deal with the turgid matters of state. Let's away from the stench of this place, and these people."

"Yes, Lord." Peregriff rattled the reins and the magnificent mounts responded, turning the chariot neatly in the limited space available. As it turned, Hymneth glanced in the direction of the breakwater's edge. The people there were standing, poles set aside, hats in hand and heads bowed reverentially. The head of one particular man was set especially low, as was that of his son. Both were trembling slightly. Seeing this, Hymneth let his gaze linger on them for longer than was necessary, even though he knew it was petty of him to find enjoyment in such trivial exercises of power.

Then Peregriff chucked the reins forcefully, shouted a command, and the chariot leaped forward, racing down the breakwater back toward the harbor, the city, and the stern cliffs of the Curridgians. Food awaited, and drink, and contemplation of the as yet unattained comeliness of his special guest.

Something darted out in front of the chariot, scrambling frantically to avoid the pounding, approaching hooves of the scarlet stallions. A black cat, skittering across the chariot's path.

"Look out," the necromancer yelled, "don't hit it!"

Even though it brought them dangerously close to the edge of the breakwater, Peregriff obediently and expertly utilized the reins to angle the galloping chargers slightly to the right. Spared, the unprepossessing cat vanished into the rocks. Looking back sharply, Hymneth tried to locate it, but could not.

Having guided the striding stallions back to the middle of the breakwater, his chief attendant was looking at him uncertainly. "Lord, it was only a mangy stray cat. No loss if it were killed."

"No—no loss." Hymneth found himself frowning. What had that singular moment been about? For just an instant, something had burrowed into and infected his state of mind, causing him to act in a manner not only unbecoming but atypical. Whom had he been panicked for—the cat, or himself? It was very peculiar.

Two inexplicable incidents in little more than as many minutes. First the fisherman, then the cat. It was turning out to be an idiosyncratic morning. One that, for reasons unknown and despite Peregriff's best efforts to cheer him, saw him finally reach the fortress still unsettled in mind and more ill at ease than he had been in years.

© 1999 by Alan Dean Foster
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