Free Sorcerer's Son by Phyllis Eisenstein Page A

knee.
    “Your Majesty,” he said, “I have a need for air, for the free moonlight and the open road. I would go out tonight, perhaps for a day or two; I have certain matters to think on.”
    “I had not expected you to leave us for a fortnight yet,” said the king. “What makes you change your mind so suddenly?”
    “Majesty, if you command me to speak of it, I would but it is a personal matter.”
    Delivev smiled. It was a wise man, she thought, that kept the evidence of magic, or of the tricks of his own mind, to himself.
    The king waved a hand. “No, I would not press you. Go, if you wish, but I pray you, do not stay away so long this time as last.”
    The troubadour bowed low. “I shall not, Majesty.”
    Wrapped in a billowing cloak, lute slung over his shoulder, he crossed the drawbridge and bade the sleepy sentries goodnight. The north road was deserted, the travelers that used it during the day bedded down, perhaps even dreaming of the next day’s journey already. The troubadour did not see, as he walked, the webs that hung in the trees on either side of the road, nor did he know of the spiders that hid in the folds of his cloak, but before the castle had slipped full out of sight, he became aware of other spiders and other webs. Where the road curved, a curtain of gossamer strands enveloped him—a net, light as air, strung from one tree to another, across the road. It clung to his flesh and clothing a moment, and then he brushed it away. Another moment passed before he resumed his stride, and in that moment, something stepped into his path.
    By moonlight, it had the form of a war horse, standing still, blocking the road with its great body. It dipped its head toward him. It bore no saddle, only fringed reins hanging loose. He moved closer slowly.
    “I am Lorien the troubadour,” he said softly. “Is it you that I seek on the north road?”
    The creature dipped its head again and closed the distance between them with one stride of its long legs. Now he could see that though it had a horse’s shape, it was made of vines so tightly interlaced that they formed a solid mass; the reins were plaited leaves. Hesitantly, he touched the creature’s neck with one hand, and the tendrils that immediately curled about his fingers made him jerk back as if he had thrust his arm into a fire.
    “What power has sent this thing to me?” he asked loudly.
    In answer, the creature knelt before him and bent its head to the ground at his feet.
    “I am not afraid of you,” he said, and he climbed onto its back. Tendrils clasped his hips and thighs, his knees, his ankles, held them close to the creature’s body as it rose to its feet. He laid a hand on its neck, then pulled his fingers free of the clinging tendrils; his legs came free as well, with a sharp tug, but as soon as they touched the creature’s sides again, they were claimed. He sat stiff at first, but when nothing further happened, he slumped and kicked impatiently with one foot. “Well?” he said. “Will you take me somewhere or not?”
    The creature tossed its head and, turning, began to move northward along the moonlit road. It had a smooth and sinuous gait, not like a real horse at all, and it rustled as it went, like wind soughing through a hedge. It sped like the wind as well, as fast as a real horse could gallop, untiring through the night, its rider secured without benefit of saddle. The moon set, and first light dimmed the stars. Just after dawn the creature slowed, left the path to slide among the trees until it found a sunny, dew-decked glen, where it sank to the earth and fell apart, and he was left kneeling astride a pile of vines. He stood awkwardly and looked around, yawning and rubbing at his eyes with both hands. After a brief circuit of the open space, in which he saw no sign of human habitation, he eased his lute to the grass and himself after it, wrapping his body in his cloak as in a blanket. His eyelids sagged, though he had only a stone for a pillow, and then they