Fess watched him warily.
Father Al leaped into a run, straight at the great black horse. He leaped high, grasping the front and back of the saddle, and swung his legs up in a side vault.
Fess danced around in a half-circle.
Father Al hit the ground running—and found himself heading straight for Puck. The elf burst into a guffaw.
Father Al halted and turned around, glowering at Fess. “A most unusual horse, good Puck.”
“What wouldst thou expect, of the High Warlock’s mount?”
“Apparently somewhat less than he doth expect of me.” Father Al hitched up his rope belt. “But I know better now.” He set himself, watching Fess with narrowed eyes; then he raced straight at the horse, and veered to the left at the last second. Fess danced to the left, too, but Father Al was already zagging to the right. Fess reversed engines with amazing speed, getting his midsection solidly in front of the priest—and Father Al ducked under his belly.
Fess sat down.
Puck roared with laughter.
Father Al came reeling out of the fray, staggering like a drunk. “I think… a change of tactics… might be in order.”
“So I think, too.” Puck grinned, arms akimbo. “Therefore, try sweet reason, priest.”
Father Al frowned down at him, remembering Puck’s legendary fondness for helping mortals make fools of themselves. Then he shrugged and turned back to Fess. “Why not? The situation’s so ridiculous, why should a little more matter?” He stepped up to the beast. “Now, look thou, Fess—thy master’s sore endangered. It may be that I may aid him.”
Fess shook his head.
Father Al stared. If he didn’t know better, he would’ve thought the horse had understood him.
Then he frowned—just a coincidence, no doubt. “We had a letter. It was writ a thousand years agone, by a man long dead, who foretold us that, in this time and place, one Rod Gallowglass would wake to greater power of magic than mortals ever knew.”
The horse moved to the side, tossing its head as though it was beckoning.
Father Al stared. Then he squeezed his eyes shut, gave his head a quick shake; but when he looked again, the horse was still beckoning. He shrugged, and followed, ignoring Puck’s chortle.
Fess was standing by a patch of bare dirt, scratching at it with a hoof. Father Al watched the hoof, then felt a shiver run through him as he saw what the horse had drawn. There in the dirt, in neat block letters, lay the word “WHO?”
Father Al looked up at the horse, facts adding themselves up in his head. “The High Warlock’s horse—and you came with him, from off-planet, didn’t you?”
The horse stared at him. Why? Oh. He’d said, “off-planet.” Which marked him. “Yes, I’m from off-planet, too—from the Vatican, on Terra. And you…” Suddenly, the priest shot a punch at the horse’s chest.
It went “bongggggg.”
Father Al went, “Yowtch!” and nursed bruised knuckles.
Puck went into hysterics, rolling on the ground.
Father Al nodded. “Very convincing artificial horsehide, over a metal body. And you’ve a computer for a brain, haven’t you?” He stared at the horse.
Slowly, Fess nodded.
“Well.” Father Al stood straight, fists on his hips. “Nice to know the background, isn’t it? Now let me give you the full story.”
He did, in modern English. Fess’s head snapped up at the name of Angus McAran; apparently he’d had some contact with the head time-spider before. Encouraged, Father Al kept the synopsis going through his meeting with Yorick, at mention of whose name, Fess gave a loud snort. Well, that had sort of been Father Al’s reaction, too.
“So if McAran’s right,” Father Al wound up, “something’s going to happen to Rod Gallowglass, wherever he’s gone, that’s going to waken some great Power that’s been lying dormant in him all along. Whatever the nature of that power, it might tempt him toward evil—without his even realizing it. After all, some things that seem right at the moment—such as revenge—can really lead one, bit by bit, into spiritual corruption, and great evil.”
The horse tossed its head, and began to scratch with its hoof. Father Al watched, holding his breath, and saw the words appear: POWER CORRUPTS. He felt relief tremble through him; he was getting through! “Yes, exactly. So you see, it might be to his advantage to have a clergyman handy. But more than a clergyman—I’m also an anthropologist, and my life’s study has been magic.”
Fess’s head came up sharply.
Father Al nodded. “Yes. I suppose you might call me a theoretical magician; I can’t work a single spell myself, but I know quite a bit about how a man with magical Power might do so. There’s a good chance I might be able to help him figure out how to use his new Power to bring himself and his family back here!”
But Fess lowered his head and scratched in the dirt again: AND A GREATER CHANCE THAT YOU, TOO, WOULD BE LOST.
Father Al thrust out his chin. “That is my concern. I know the risk, and I take it willingly. It’s worth it, if I can help this poor fellow and his family—and possibly avert a spiritual catastrophe. Have you considered the possible heresies that might arise, if a man should suddenly seem to have real magical powers?”
The horse’s eyes seemed to lose focus for a few seconds, and Father Al was impressed; not many computers would have any theology on storage in their memory banks. Then Fess’s eyes came back into focus again, and Father Al said quickly, “So I have some vested interest in trying to help your master, you see. Properly instructed, he could be a mighty asset to the Church on this planet. But left to himself, he might fall into the temptations that power brings, find a way to return here from wherever he’s gone, and become the leader of a heresy that could rock the Terran Sphere. We dare not leave him there.”
The horse lowered his head again, scratching with his hoof: HIS SAFE RETURN IS ALL.
Father Al frowned, puzzling it out, wishing the robot had been equipped with speech. Then he nodded, understanding. “I see. It makes no difference to you if he comes back a heretic or a saint, as long as he comes back. But don’t you see, with my knowledge of the workings of magic to aid him, his chances of returning are increased? Much increased, if you’ll pardon my boasting.”
The synthetic eyes stared intently into Father Al’s, for a few minutes that seemed to stretch out into aeons. Then, finally, the great horse nodded, and turned away, beckoning.
“I scarce can credit it!” Puck cried. “Thou hast persuaded him!”
Father Al breathed a huge sigh of relief. “I scarcely can believe it, either. It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever made any headway with a computer.” He sent up a quick, silent prayer of thanks to St. Vidicon, and followed Fess.
The black horse stopped, and looked back expectantly. Father Al trotted to catch up, and came to a halt to see a line of stones laid in the grass—the threshold of a Gate to—where?
The great black horse stood to the side, waiting.
Father Al looked up at him, took a deep breath, and squared his shoulders. “Wish me luck, then. You may be the last rational being I see for a long, long time.” And, without giving himself a chance to think about it, he stepped forward. Nothing happened, so he took another step—and another, and another…
… and suddenly realized that the trees had silver trunks.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Gwen stopped suddenly. “Hist!”
“Sure,” Rod said agreeably. “Why not?”
“Oh, be still! I catch a trace of something I like not!”
“Pursuit?” Rod turned serious.
Gwen shook her head, frowning. “ ‘Tis Duke Foidin, and in converse; yet I have only a sense of that which he doth speak with, and it’s somewhat threatening.” She looked down at her children. “Dost thou sense aught more?”