John Flanagan: The sorcerer of the North

"Why did you take the same name?" Will asked, and the healer gave a short scornful laugh.

"I didn't take it. People gave it to me," he said. "My name is Malcolm. After I disappeared, the locals put two and two together and got seven. They decided that Malcolm was merely a disguised form of Malkallam. From there it was easy to make the next step. I was the infamous sorcerer returned from the dead."

"I must say, I took advantage of the fact to protect myself. I set up the apparitions and tricks that you saw. If anyone did get up the nerve to come into Grimsdell, they quickly lost it when they saw my Night Warrior, or heard my voices."

"How do you do the voices?" Will asked. "They seemed to come from all around me when I heard them."

Malcolm smiled. "Yes. It's a rather good effect, isn't it? It's done with a series of hollow tubes set among the trees. You speak into one end and the voice is carried to the other. There's a large trumpet-shaped bell at the end that amplifies the sound. We usually place that in a hollow part of the tree to conceal it. Luka there provides the voice."

He indicated a man who was gathering kindling together at the far side of the clearing. His torso was massive but the legs that supported it were short and malformed so that he hobbled awkwardly when he walked. One shoulder was badly hunched and the features of his face were twisted sideways. The man had grown a bushy beard and long hair in an unsuccessful attempt to conceal the deformity.

"He has the most wonderful voice," Malcolm continued. "That barrel of a chest lets him produce a sound of tremendous force and timber. He can project words with great clarity and volume through the system. Mind you, he isn't used to people answering back. You caused him a considerable deal of fright when you started waving that big knife of yours the other night."

"He caused me a lot more, I can assure you," Will said, studying the misshapen man. "Tell me, where do these people come from? Luka and Trobar and the rest."

"I assume you thought I created them?" Malcolm said, a slightly bitter smile playing around his lips. Will shifted uncomfortably on the bench.

"Well… that thought did occur to me, as a matter of fact," he said.

Malcolm's face grew sad. "Yes. People occasionally see them and think the same thing. These are my deformed subjects. My creatures. My monsters… The truth is, they're rejects. Ordinary people who aren't wanted in their own villages because they don't look ordinary. They look different or sound different or move differently. Some are born that way, like Trobar and Luka. Others are burned or scalded or disfigured in accidents and people decide they just don't want them around."

"How do they come to you?" Will asked. The healer shrugged.

"I go looking for them. Trobar was the first. I found him by accident when he was eight years old. That's eighteen years ago now. He'd been driven out of his village because he had grown so big. They drove him into the forest to die. He tried to take his dog with him. It was his only friend in the world. It didn't care that he was ugly and deformed. It loved him because he loved it. Dogs are like that. They're very nonjudgmental."

"What happened to the dog?" Will asked. He thought he knew the answer.

"It tried to defend him, of course, and one of the villagers killed it. Trobar carried it into the forest and they finally gave up the chase He was nursing its body and crying when I found him. We buried the dog together and I brought him back here. Then, over the years more and more of these people joined us. We'd see them driven out of their villages and we'd collect them and bring them here. Sometimes, they needed the sort of treatment that I could give them with herbs and potions. At other times, they needed a different kind of healing."

"Which you also give them?" Will asked, and Malcolm nodded.

"I try. Often it's enough for them to know they belong somewhere. That there are other people who don't judge them by the way they look. Mind you, it takes time. It's a lot easier to heal an injured body than a damaged soul."

Will shook his head as he considered the story. "So for nearly twenty years, you've been looking after people like, this, and you're still regarded as a black magician?"

Malcolm shrugged. "Partly my fault, I suppose. I created the illusion to keep people out. But in the past year, somebody else seems to have realized he could turn the Malkallam fable to his own advantage."

"Keren?"

"It would appear so. The question is, what does he hope to achieve from it all?"

"As soon as I find out," Will said grimly, "I'll be sure to let you know."

Alyss froze in her chair for a second as Buttle's gaze passed over her. What on earth was he doing here? How did he get here? Had he recognized her? The questions raced through her mind and it took all her role-playing skill to maintain the outer facade of the air-headed Lady Gwendolyn.

"They got away, blast them!" Buttle said roughly. Noticing Alyss, he grunted in what passed for an apology for interrupting. Then he turned back to Keren, although a slight frown creased his forehead. There was something familiar about the girl. Then he dismissed the thought.

"They said you were here with her." He gestured with a thumb toward Alyss.

"Lady Gwendolyn," Keren corrected him. "The lady is a guest in this castle, the fiance of Lord Farrell of Gort."

There was an underlying warning tone in his voice. Don't say too much in front of her. Alyss sensed it. She assumed a vacuous smile and held out one languid hand to Buttle, palm down.

"I don't believe we've met, sir," she said. Buttle stared at the hand, then shrugged. He grunted again. It seemed to be his favorite method of communication, Alyss thought.

"Lady Gwendolyn, this is John Buttle, one of my new retainers" Keren said, smoothing over Buttle's coarse behavior.

Buttle shrugged and scratched under his armpit. Alyss withdrew her hand.

"So, Mr. Buttle, you were pursuing the traitors? How brave of you!" She fluttered her eyelashes at him.

Buttle frowned for a moment. "Traitors?" he said and hesitated. He glanced uncertainly at Keren. "They weren't tr-"

"I've just been telling Lady Gwendolyn," Keren interrupted quickly, "how Lord Orman and the jongleur were planning to hand the castle over to the Scotti."

Buttle's frown deepened. He paused for a moment, then, just a little too late, comprehension dawned on his face.

"Eh? Oh… yeah. Yeah, that's right. Traitors sure enough. Lucky we got onto 'em in time, I say. Why, if we hadn't, they were all set to make…"

"Yes, yes, I'm sure Lady Gwendolyn doesn't want hear all the sordid details," Keren said quickly. He had little faith in Buttle's ability to improvise a story without making a hash of it. Best to keep it all simple. Once again, Alyss noticed the hasty intervention and guessed the reason for it. She felt a vast sense of relief that she hadn't taken Keren into her confidence. Apparently, a lot of things about Macindaw Castle were not as they seemed.

"Oh dear, Mr. Buttle, you seem to be injured!" she said now. "You're in danger of dripping blood on the rug here!"

Buttle glanced down at the blood seeping through the rough bandage on his thigh. He cursed, reaching to tighten the binding, swore again as the increased pressure sent a shaft of pain through the wound.

Alyss was breathing a little easier now. After all, she realized, it had been weeks since he saw her and then she had worn her hair down. Today, it was caught up in a tight swirl around her head, and surmounted by a high, pointed hat with a veil attached. It was the latest fashion, Alyss knew, although personally, she found it absurd. But she had been taught the value of a different hairstyle when it came to disguise. In addition, her clothes were vastly different as well. She was wearing a rather ornate gown, festooned with adornments and light lacy attachments, with ridiculously wide, trailing sleeves and pinned with jewelry wherever a space could be found. As a Courier, she had worn a simple white dress.