“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?”
Silently, they shook their heads. “ ‘Tis not altogether human, Mama,” Magnus contributed.
Out of the corner of his eye, Rod noticed Elidor trembling. He caught the boy’s shoulder. “Steady, there, lad. You’re with us, now.” He turned back to Gwen. “Of course, the wise thing to do would be to sneak on by.”
Gwen nodded.
Rod turned away. Silently, they picked their way between white trunks in a dazzle of moonlight reflected off silver leaves. After about ten minutes, Gwen hissed, “It doth grow stronger.”
Rod didn’t falter. “So they’re on our line of march. We’ll worry about avoiding them when we know where they are.”
Then, suddenly, they were out of the trees, at the top of a rise. Below them, in a natural bowl, rose a small hill. Light glowed around it, from glittering, moving figures.
“The faery knowe!” Elidor gasped.
“Hit the dirt!” Rod hissed. The whole family belly-flopped down in the grass. Rod reached up, and yanked Elidor down. “No insult intended, Majesty,” he whispered. “It’s simply a matter of safety.” He turned to Magnus. “You said the thought-pattern wasn’t quite human?”
Magnus nodded. “And therefore could I not comprehend it, Papa.”
“Well, you hit it right on the nose.” Rod frowned, straining his ears. “Hold it; I think we can just make out what they’re saying.”
Duke Foidin and his knights were easy to pick out by their dimness. They stood almost at the bottom of the bowl, off to Rod’s left. The being facing him was taller by a head, and fairly seemed to glow. It had to be the most handsome male that Rod had ever seen, the fluidity of its movement, as it shifted from foot to foot continually, indicating musculature and coordination beyond the human. And he was brilliant; he fairly seemed to glow. His extravagant costume had no color; it had only varying degrees of light. A silver coronet encircled his brow, tucking down behind pointed ears.
“The King of Faery?” Rod hissed to Elidor.
The boy shook his head. “ ‘Tis a coronet, not a crown. A duke, mayhap, an they have such.”
The faery duke’s arms chopped against each other. “Be done! All this we’ve hearkened to aforetime, and found small reason in. This is no cause for we of Faery to embroil ourselves in mortal war.”
“Yet think!” Duke Foidin protested, “the High Warlock doth champion the White Christ!”
“As have kings done these last two thousand years,” the faery replied.
Two thousand? It should’ve been more like eight hundred, from the medieval look of this land.
“The priests were threat to us at first,” the faery conceded, “yet so was Cold Iron, which came not overlong before them—and we endure. The priests have learned they cannot expunge us, nor we rid ourselves of them.”
Duke Foidin took a deep breath. “Then I offer price!”
The faery sneered. “What could a mortal offer that a faery would desire?”
“Mortal wizards,” Foidin said promptly, “two—a male and female?”
“Should we seek to breed them, then? Nay; we have some use for human captives, but wizards would be greater trouble than use, for they’d ever seek to learn our secrets.”
“Children.”
The faery stilled.
A stream of pure rage shot through Rod, almost seeming to come from someplace, someone, else, scaring him by its intensity. He’d heard the fairy tales about changelings, aged elves left in mortal cradles for the pretty babes the fairies had carried off. The tradition had it that fairies liked mortal slaves, and definitely preferred to raise them, themselves.