He dismounted and let the reins fall (his horse, Sleek, was well trained and would not budge). He stepped closer. By rights, he should have drawn his sword. The buck lay defeated, in misery. A quick thrust, there, where the leg joined the torso, into the heart, would end its suffering. Mercy for the beast. And he could ride off to seek vengeance for the squires.
And yet.
With a twinge of relief that no one was around, Cador sank to one knee, crossing his hands on the pommel of his sword, as if making obeisance. He could not say why, could only look at that massive buck, its night-black eyes staring into his, and whisper, ‘Sorry.’ The word was wrenched from him. ‘I’m sorry.’ Other words babbled in his mind – declarations that he’d wished he’d known, how he wouldn’t have shot those arrows if he had – half-nonsense that he knew to be true but didn’t understand. He reached out a hand. ‘I wish I could heal you, but I fear …’
‘Try the water of the spring.’
Cador scrambled to his feet. The voice had come from above. He loosened his sword in its sheath, swivelling his head around. ‘Who said that?’
‘I did. But hurry. The spring.’
There came a rustling of leaves high in one of the oaks. A motion caught his eye, a shifting of branches, while no breeze stirred the other trees. Cador half-drew his sword, spurred by fear and embarrassment (for whoever was in the tree had surely seen him kneel before an animal).
And yet.
The rustling ceased and he heard only the laboured breathing of the buck. A whuff from Sleek. The splashing of water. Unthinking, he dropped his sword into its sheath and ran towards the sound of the spring.
A rivulet of sparkling water plummeted from a rock shelf to land in a pebbly pool. At most springs – at least those near well-travelled paths – a wooden mug or horn cup would hang, suspended from a nearby branch, but there was none such here. Cador took off his helm, filled it to the brim, and carried it to the buck. He knelt and held the helm to the animal, but the buck rolled its eyes back and feebly turned its head away. Puzzled, Cador pushed the helm closer, but the buck refused to drink. So Cador dipped his fingers into it and flicked the water onto the buck’s head, as priests did with holy water.
‘It’ll take more than that, boy,’ the voice said. ‘This isn’t a christening.’
Cador looked around him, hoping for more advice, but none was forthcoming. He was alone; the trees were silent all around him. So, though it seemed undignified, he poured the water over the buck. Waited. Refilled the helm. Poured it again.
Three times in all did he empty his helm over the buck. After the third drenching, the buck raised its head, straining its neck and scrabbling with its hooves. Cador backed away. The buck flailed, found purchase, and stood on quivering legs. It shook itself, as a hound wet from the rain might shake itself, and the arrows fell loose. Where they had been, no scars or wounds remained. The buck gazed levelly at Cador, who felt a liquid squeeze of fear at the accusation there. Compelled, Cador bowed, and the buck dipped its antlers before running into the woods.
Silence, then:
‘Well done! For a moment, I thought you’d try to pour it down his throat. He wouldn’t have liked that. Haw!’
Cador spun about. There, on a low branch of an oak, sat an old man, his legs straddling the limb. His beard, matted and grey, had as much mistletoe tangled in it as the oak tree did. With a leap that belied his age, he vaulted to the ground and strode towards Cador. He had icy blue eyes that sparkled with what might have been amusement; his beard twitched, either with a smile or because some forest creature had taken up habitation within.
He was stark naked.
‘Well done, well done.’
Cador tried not to gape. Now that his interlocutor was revealed to be nothing but a dirty, naked old man, he felt disappointed. ‘Why didn’t you give the buck the water?’ he asked, wrinkling his nose; the old man smelled like a half-rotted carcass.
‘What an astute question from one so handsome.’ The old man offered a mocking bow. ‘That buck wouldn’t have let me come near enough to wet him with a single drop. Haw! He’s old King Keredic of Elmet. And it’s me that cast the curse to turn him into a buck. Haw! Haw!’ He laughed like a crow at the knight’s surprise.
Cador pulled himself up to his full height, so that he could look down on the old man. ‘I don’t understand your nonsense.’
‘I put a curse on King Keredic. I turned him into a buck. Follow me so far?’ His words were slow and mocking. His pale blue eyes glittered and glimmered; they seemed to reflect a light beyond what sun slanted into the clearing. ‘I was, let us say, intimate with his queen. I taught her the ways of wyrd, of glamours, of magic. And then that evil witch used that knowledge against me. Now I’m cursed too – made to live like the beasts of the forest, running about naked, eating only herbage. One day a year the curse lifts and I am able to speak and dress and move normally. It’s to give me a chance to apologize to the queen. But I usually just get a good meal at an inn. Grass is disgusting.’ He scratched his crotch. ‘Come to think of it, that day must be nearing. Even though I’m naked as a fish, I can at least talk to you. Haw!’
Cador’s confusion had only grown. An old man. A wizard. Who’d cursed a king and been cursed himself. Forced to live in the woods. It all seemed familiar to him. He recalled a story told to him as a child. A memory tinged with magic and legend tugged at his mind and stopped his sneering tone along with an instinct for caution. If – if! – this naked old man was actually a wizard, then Cador ought to be overly polite with him. And even if he wasn’t a wizard … well, it is knightly to be kind to the elderly and the … disadvantaged. ‘Is there anything I can do to help you, Sir Wizard?’ he offered in a measured voice.
‘Aren’t you the gallant fool? No. None but a maiden can break the curse. Or the queen, I suppose, and she’s no maiden. Not many maidens come traipsing through the forest of Gwenelleth.’ He sighed. ‘Besides. You’ve helped me enough by bringing that bastard buck back to life. No fun if he escapes my curse by dying.’
And here Cador had intended to help the buck, to put it out of its misery. How had it all gone so strange and wrong? He scratched his nose, trying to recall legends he’d heard of a man in the woods. But all he could summon was a general sense that it was best not to cross paths with wizards and, if you were unfortunate enough to do so, to tread carefully. So he gave the man a nod, as one would offer to an equal, and said, ‘I am glad to have been of service to you.’
‘Haw! Now you’re sounding smarter. You’ve been of service, eh? So I owe you a favour. Well, I always pay my debts. How about twice the return? Twofold. Sound fair to you?’ The old man winked, and his eyes sparkled some more – glittered, even, as if they were silver, not blue.
Cador gave a slow nod, trying to puzzle out what the trick might be. Everyone knows how wishes work.
‘I’ll give you aid once when you request it. And once, I’ll give you aid when you do not. Do we have a deal?’ The old man quirked an eyebrow and Cador stared at him, seeming to see past the matted hair and the mud-streaked face for the first time, past all that to the blue of his eyes, sharp and clear as ice, with none of the fogginess and clouding that age often brings. He seemed to see himself reflected back in those eyes; himself, but more perfect. As young, as handsome, but more: beautiful, too. Strong and well shaped and … impossible. So much magic. Who could …