Rod met Gwen’s gaze. “That makes sense; whatever kind of magic these elves use, it’s probably not psionic. What kind of place is this, anyway?”
“One, I think, where magic truly reigns. Thou didst heal thy son with a spoken chant, didst thou not?”
“Well, yes—but the words just focused the power that did the healing.”
Gwen’s eyes widened. “Hast thou such power?”
“Well, it was in me at the time.” Rod frowned. “That ‘spirit’ that I told you of. Or maybe it was me… Well, it doesn’t matter.” He looked back down at Magnus. “Just how well are you, son?”
“I do feel stiff—but strong as ever.” Before they could stop him, Magnus rolled to his knees and stood. He took a few tentative steps, then nodded. “I do feel wearied, Papa—but I am well.”
Rod let out a huge, shaky sigh of relief. “Well, whatever magic it was that did it, I’m all in favor of it!”
“Yet what was it, indeed?” Gwen wondered. “Or…whose?”
“I’m not so sure I want to know the answer to that,” Rod said slowly. “Come on, let’s get moving. As soon as Duke Foidin gets back to his castle, we’re going to have an army on our heels.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Not only had the trees changed—so had the time of day. It had been morning when Father Al stepped past Fess, over the line of stones; now it was night, with rays of moonlight sifting down through the tinsel leaves. He caught his breath at the beauty of the woodland glade. Yes. There could be magic here.
Then he remembered his mission, and looked about him to see if he could find evidence of the Gallowglasses. The mold of the forest floor was thoroughly churned up; a number of people had been walking about, surely. Bending closer, he was able to distinguish the prints of small feet and large ones; the Gallowglasses and their children, surely. He straightened up and looked about him; immediately he saw two tracks going away from him: a small one and a broad one. He weighed the evidence and decided the small track was a preliminary foray, while the broad one would be the whole family moving together. It was an easy enough trail to follow—last year’s fallen, moldering leaves were scuffed up; twigs were broken; and small plants had been trodden down. He wasn’t too far behind them, then—certainly no more than 24 hours. And if he hurried… He set off, following the moonlit trail.
He’d gone about twenty paces before he happened to glance up and see a blaze on a treetrunk.
He halted, grinning with delight. How considerate of them, to leave him so clear a way to follow! Not that they’d meant it for that purpose, of course—how could they have known someone would come after them? No doubt they’d wanted to make sure they could find their way back to the point they’d come from; presumably, it was the only place where this world was linked to their own.
World?
He looked about him, and silently revised that opinion. Silver trees had never grown on Terra, nor on any planet he’d ever heard of. Scarcely conclusive proof, that, but still… The chilling thought crept in that he might not even be in his own universe and, for the first time, it occurred to him that he should perhaps be concerned about getting back home.
Curiously, he wasn’t. If God wanted him to return to Gramarye, or Terra, no doubt He would make the means available. And if He didn’t, well, Father Al had long ago decided to do whatever work God sent him, wherever it should be. Dying on the planet of his birth mattered little, compared with doing God’s will.
So he turned ahead and sauntered away between the forest trees, following the trail of blazes, and whistling—and not just out of good spirits.
He came out onto the bank of a stream, and looked to either side, to see which had trees with—What the blazes! Nothing! Not a single trunk was marked!
Of course—they would be returning back along the river bank; they’d know which direction they’d gone in. The stream itself was enough of a trail. They only needed to know at which tree to turn back into the wood.
Here was a knotty problem. Which way had they gone? Left, or right? Upstream, or down?
“Well met by moonlight, handsome stranger.”
She rose up out of the water, dark hair shimmering over her shoulders to cloak her breasts—and that was all that did. Her eyes were large, and slanted; her nose was small, but her mouth was wide, with full, red lips, and her skin was very pale. “How fortunate am I,” she purred, “that hath found a gentleman to company me.” She waded toward him, up out of the water. As she rose, watercress draped itself about her hips in a token tribute of modesty. Father Al managed to wrench his gaze back to her face, feeling the responses in his body that reminded him that priests are human, too. He swallowed thickly, turned his lips inward to wet them, and muttered. “Greetings, Lady of the Waters.”
“No lady I,” she murmured, “but a wanton, eager to do the bidding of a mortal man.” She twined her arms about his neck and pressed up against him.
It ran counter to every demand his body screamed, but Father Al pulled her arms loose, gently but firmly, and pressed her hands together in front of his chest, forcing her body away from his. She stared at him in surprise. “How now! Do not deny that thou dost want me!”
“I do,” Father Al admitted, “but ‘twould be wrongful.” He glanced down at her fingers, and noticed the tiny, vestigial webs between them. ,
“Wrongful, because thou art a mortal, and I a nymph?” She laughed, revealing small, perfect, very white teeth. “Come, now! It hath been often done, and always to the man’s delight!”
Delight, yes—but Father Al remembered some old tales, of how a water-maid’s seduction had led to death—or, failing that, to a steadily-worsening despair that had surely torn apart the mortal lover’s soul. He clung to the memory to give him strength, and explained, “It must not be—and the fact that I am human and you are not has little enough to do with it; for see you, lass, if thou dost give out favors of thy body where thou art lusted for, but are not loved, thou dost break thine own integrity.”
“Integrity?” She smiled, amused. “ ‘Tis a word for mortals, not for faery folk.”
“Not so,” Father Al said sternly, “for the word means ‘wholeness,’ the wholeness of thy soul.”
She laughed, a dazzling cascade of sound. “Surely thou dost jest! The faery folk have no immortal souls!”
“Personalities, then.” Father Al was miffed at himself for having forgotten. “Identity. The sum and total of thyself, that which makes thee different, unique, special—not quite like any other water-nymph that ever was.”
She lost her smile. “I think thou dost not jest.”
“Indeed, I do not. Thy identity, lass, thy true self, hidden away and known only to thyself, is what thou really art. ‘Tis founded on those few principles that thou dost truly and most deeply believe in—those beliefs which, when manners and graces and fashions of behaving are all stripped away, do still remain, at the bottom and foundation of thy self.”
“Why, then,” she smiled, “I am a wanton; for in my deepest self, my chiefest principle is pleasure sexual.” And she tried to twine her arms about his neck again.
Well, Father Al had heard that one before, and not just from aquatic women, either. He held her hands firmly, and held her gaze, looking deeply into her eyes. “ ‘Tis an excuse, I trow, and will not serve. Some male hath wronged thee deeply, when thou wast young and tender. Thou didst open thy heart to him, letting him taste thy secret self, and didst therefore open, too, thy body, for it seemed fully natural that the one should follow the other.”
She stared at him, shocked, then suddenly twisted, trying to yank herself free. “I’ll not hear thee more!”