Christopher Stasheff: Warlock and Son

"So go." Rod spread a hand toward the forest. "Nobody says you have to stay. The whole country's open to you." Magnus stared at him, dismayed and hurt. Instantly, Rod regretted the sharpness of his tongue, realizing he'd pushed it too far-but before he could think of anything that might cancel what he'd said, Magnus snapped, "Well enough, then, an thou wilt! If thou wouldst not bide at home, wherefore ought I? Nay, thou hast loosed me, thou hast unfettered me!" Then he recovered himself long enough to give Rod a mocking bow. "I depart, obedient to my sire! And I wish thee joy of thy leisure!" He turned and strode away into the forest, leading his horse.

Anger whipped Rod, but so did dread and guilt. Frantically, he reminded himself that his son was a boy no longer, but a man grown, and fully capable of dealing with any menace that might greet him.

Or so he thought. Rod bit back the stormy words that came unbidden to his lips, and turned to set his foot in the stirrup. He mounted, muttering, "Pushed that a little too hard, didn't I?"

"Not if you were deliberately trying to send him away, Rod."

Did the robot's tones imply censure, or was Rod only imagining it? "No, I just wanted to make him feel free to do as he wanted. I didn't mean to make it be real."

"Then it was only an error in judgement." The robot's tone was neutral.

Rod frowned at the horse's head. "All right, mentor-if you think I flunked the exam, say so."

Fess hesitated just long enough to let Rod know how close he had come to the point, then said, "Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that you should have spoken only as your emotions dictated, Rod."

Rod shook his head. "You know a parent can't do that, Fess, or the race would have died out from rebellions and outrage long since. We have to do what's right for our kids, not just what we want to do." He shrugged. "Maybe I just don't have the right instincts."

"Or perhaps you should have been more honest."

"Yes, perhaps I should have." Rod sighed. "But the fat's in the flames now, and I'd better go hunting for a fire extinguisher. Follow him, Fess-but at a distance. We can't let him know."

"He is old enough to care for himself," Fess protested. "You spoke rashly and foolishly, yes, but you must not let your guilt push you into intruding upon him."

"I won't intrude-but I want to be close enough to come if he calls."

"There is no need. . ."

"Oh, yes there is-because the father may not be the son's responsibility, you see, but the son is the father's."

"I have never understood that attitude, Rod-but your father evinced it, and his father before him."

"Grandpa." Rod's determination hardened at the memory. "Yes, Magnus still is my responsibility-he always will be."

"But why, Rod?"

"Because I brought him into the world," Rod explained. "If I hadn't, he wouldn't be in any danger at all-and he certainly wouldn't be so unhappy." He shook his head. "My son, my duty-and if anything happened to him, I'd go berserk."

"He is his own man, Rod, or is trying to be. You must let him go."

"I know." Rod nodded. "So don't follow very closely, all right? Just in his general direction. After all, I wasn't going any place in particular, was I? And his direction is as good as any."

"Do not overtake him, though," Fess advised.

Rod shook his head. "Wouldn't think of it-and if I do, it'll be a total coincidence. Right, Fess?"

"Right, of course." Fess sighed. "As you will, Rod." And he moved off into the night.

Magnus rode into the deepening gloom, seething with anger, hurt and bewildered. His father didn't want him? Well, he didn't want his father! For a moment, he was sorely tempted to go back, to go home-after all, Dad had given him leave.

Not that he needed it. He was a man grown, and should have been living by himself now, not still at home. Most of the young men of his age were already married, with their own homesteads and their own children. Only the romantic failures, the old bachelors whom no one wanted, still lived at home with their parents.

At twenty-one, to be an old bachelor!

And, of course, in a medieval society, there was no alternative, no third choice-except the army, or the monastery. You lived at home with your parents until you married. Or went for a soldier. Or to the cloister. FOr a moment, Magnus wondered how many young men married simply to escape their parents' houses and become masters of their own homes....

Though some of them were anything but masters. Magnus had seen quite a few who had escaped their parents' authority only to find they had become henpecked husbands, or if not actually subject to their wives, at least forever contending with a nagging termagant. More than a few, from what Magnus had seen. He shuddered at the thought of such a life with no escape in sight, then shuddered again at what it must do to the children. Though most of the marriages he had seen seemed happy enough-the husbands didn't expect much, and the wives expected less, so neither was disappointed.

Was that the limit of his choices?

To be fair, he reflected, calming, he had never known the other young men of his generation very well-noblemen's children did not become intimate with commoners, and children who had no psionic talents seemed to avoid witchkinder in any case. The young espers, the ones who had answered the call to the Queen's Magic Corps twenty years before, had wed each other and had children, to the delight of his father and the Order of St. Vidicon, both having a vested interest in increasing the number of operant espersbut by the time the younger generation had generated offspring, Magnus had been ten. Even his little brother Gregory was a year or two older than the other young magic-folk. It had been a pretty lonely childhood, he supposed, though he and his siblings hadn't really noticed-they'd had each other's company, and that had usually been enough. Friends their own age had been a huge treat-Their Majesties' sons, Alain and Diarmid-but only a treat. They hadn't been a necessity. What contact he had had with other young men his age had been fleeting, and frequently hostile. He hadn't missed the company-till now.

A scream tore through the treetops. Magnus looked up, suddenly alert, blood pounding at the thought of danger-a fight would be an almost welcome diversion now. Then a gust flapped his cloak, and he realized it had just been a sudden blast of wind.

Looking down, he saw a man standing before him. Magnus started, shocked. Then he scowled, anger rushing. "Who art thou, who dost come so unmannerly in silence?"

It was a good question, he saw-for the man was like nothing he had ever encountered on Gramarye. He wore a top hat and a Victorian caped coat, trousers, and Wellington boots-but all very tattered. His staff was ornately carved, and he wore mutton-chop whiskers. They were tattered, too.

"What art thou?" Magnus demanded again, hand going to his sword.

"Thine evil genius, Magnus," said the apparition. Magnus's eyes narrowed. "How knowest thou my name?"

"Do not all in Gramarye know the name of the High Warlock's son?"

That stung-the implication that he could not be known for himself. Magnus shifted the subject. "I ha' ne'er seen garb like to thine. . . ."

"Thou hast," the stranger interrupted, "in thine history books."

"Save there." Magnus tossed his head in impatience, though dread lurked within him. What did this stranger know of his books? "Whence comest thou?"

"From the London of thy books," the stranger answered. "I am one who doth pick and sort among the rags and tags of other people's thoughts for that which might be of interest or value to me. That which I cannot take, I buy-and that which I tire of and find to be of no worth, I give to others. I have a present for thee."