The Malevolent Tree

Sleight of Foot

Tavish chose the great hall to cast his mock exorcism—just like he had his misfortunate attempt to identify the murder weapon. That was the best way to keep the questionable ceremony private from Jock's loved ones.

After the servants carted away the remains of the midday meal—and after the uninvited had left and the doors had been locked—Tavish retrieved the burdensome basket from his wizard's lair. He carried it to the spot where the blood-stained mats had been cut away from the cold granite floor. He took three paces to the center—his best estimate of the spot where Jock had fallen. A single ray of sun shone through a corner window—all the better for the dramatic effect he intended to create.

Tavish's audience was small—just the hosts and the guests—but he needed to impress each one. The non-magical words he'd recite and the non-magical gestures he'd make needed to convince them this show was the difference between an untroubled night and a vengeful ghost trailing Osgar for the rest of his misbegotten life. That they'd agreed to sit at a distance would help the illusion. Thank goodness, he'd convinced the prince to send Nan Doonie outside. Otherwise, the busybody pixie would be spying and calling out everything he did.

Tavish coughed. "Your highnesses, my lord and lady... let us begin."

The basket was surprisingly light. Tavish held it aloft as if presenting it to the sun. Knowing what was in the basket, he couldn't bring himself to recite nonsense words. Instead, he whispered fragments of the prayers said at the most recent funeral he'd attended—his sister's. "Oh, God, whose mercies cannot be numbered... Accept... Accept thy servant Jock... Grant him entrance... entrance into the land of light and joy... into the fellowship of thy saints... now and forever, for ever and a day... always..." When he realized his prayer was lapsing into the lyrics of his sister's favorite song, he murmured "Amen" and added his own halting apology.

Prince Osgar leaned forward. "What did you say? I can't hear you."

Tavish narrowed his eyes. "Be glad. These spells are too powerful to foist upon the minds of the uninitiated."

Osgar pressed back in his chair, but the Princess raised one eyebrow.

Tavish moistened his lips. The line between intimidating the prince and exposing his foolishness to the princess was thin. Time to get this show moving.

Respectfully, he set the basket in the middle of the sunbeam. Gritting his teeth, he pulled back the lid. He steeled himself not to flinch at renewing his acquaintance with the battered face. In the few hours since dawn, putrefaction had advanced. Larva squirmed where crows had pecked away the eyes.

Taking a deep breath, he shouted, "I call forth the demon that possesses Jock the Reaper!" He flung his hands into the air like an overly dramatic orchestra conductor. "Come out! Now!"

He nudged the basket with his toe.

"The head!" Osgar cried out. "It moved!"

Seriously? Tavish took advantage of the moment to glance down, jerk backwards, then let his eyes trail an imaginary demon floating up before him. He slapped its cheek then recoiled when it slapped him. Hurray for the mime class he'd taken so many years ago! Abruptly, he ducked then pretended to watch the invisible it swirl through the air, up to the window and into the sunbeam. Rather late, he wondered whether he should have pretended to send it to hell, but now was not the time for a do-over.

He released his breath in a long, noisy sigh, staggered a step, then collapsed on the nearest bench. "It's gone. You're safe."

Osgar jumped from his chair and ran toward him. Before Tavish could protect himself, the prince grabbed his forearms and yanked him to his feet. "You're a great wizard. Tonight, I will rest easy."