On the way back to the airlock, Father Al finally let himself feel the dread at what might happen if the isomorpher couldn’t be fixed. They’d be stranded light-years away from any inhabitable planet, with only a month’s supply of food and water. The air cycler would keep working for several years and, with strict rationing, the food might last an extra month; but no matter how you looked at it, even if they accelerated the ship to nearly the speed of light, by the time it came near enough to civilization for its beacon to summon aid, it would be carrying only two mummies.

Dread clutched at Father Al’s belly; fear soured his throat. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes. Thy will, Father, not mine. If it suits Thy purpose that I die in this place, then let it be as Thou wilt have it.

Serenity filled him; the fear ebbed away. Smiling, he ducked into the airlock.

They loosened their helmets and webbed themselves into their couches. Brother Chard fed power into the engines, then engaged the isomorpher and fired it up.

The stars disappeared in a swirl of colors.

Father Al heaved out a huge sigh. “Praise Heaven!” And I thank you, St. Vidicon, for interceding with Him for me.

Brother Chard just sat staring at the viewscreen. “I don’t believe it. I see it, but I don’t believe it.”

“Faith, good Brother,” Father Al chided gently. “With faith, all things are possible.” He took out his breviary and began reading his Office.

The Duke’s Hall was huge, panelled in a grayish wood with silver highlights, and adorned with old weapons, bent and battered shields in a variety of coats-of-arms, and the skins of animals with the heads still on—not the most appetizing decoration in the world, Rod reflected, as he looked up into the eyes of a twelve-point stag while he chewed a mouthful of venison.

He noticed that Magnus was chewing his food very carefully, and wondered why. Have to ask him about that, later. Still, it seemed like a good idea. Seemed like a good idea to be careful about everything, with Duke Foidin for a host. In accordance with which thought, he made sure that he served himself only from platters that at least two other courtiers were eating from. He noticed Gwen was doing the same, and pointedly hadn’t sipped her wine.

The Duke noticed, too. “Do you not find my vintage sweet, Lord Gallowglass?”

Rod swallowed and smiled. “Religious rule, Duke. We never touch intoxicating spirits.” We have too many for friends.

That drew startled looks from the whole table. A low mutter of gossip started up.

“Be ye paynim, then?” the Duke inquired, a little too carelessly.

“ ‘Paynim?’…Oh, Moslems! No, not at all. Are you?”

“Sir!” The Duke drew himself up, affronted, and all the courtiers stared, aghast. “What mockery is this? Are we not in Christendom?”

Okay, so they were. At least Rod knew what the local religion was. “No offense, Milord. But as you know, we’re far-travellers; I honestly did not know that you’re of the same religion as ourselves.”

Foidin relaxed. “Ah, then, ye do be Christian folk. Yet how’s this? I’ve never heard of a Christian would refuse wine.”

Rod smiled. “ ‘Other lands, other rules,’ m’lord. At least, in our land, the Church allows wine at Mass. I’ve heard of some Christians who won’t even go that far.”

“Strange, most truly strange,” Foidin murmured. “Are many of your folk warlocks, like yourself?”

Careful, boy. “Not too many. It requires the Gift, the talent, and a great deal of study and training.”

“Ah.” The Duke nodded. “Even as it doth here. I’ truth, there be not four warlocks of any power in this land—and one of them’s a vile recreant, who seeks to steal the person of the King, and usurp my regency!”

“No!” Now was the time to keep him talking—but Foidin wasn’t the type to give any information away. What was he trying to pull?

Elidor nerved himself up. “Nay, Uncle! Lord Kern…”

“Hush; be still, Majesty.” Foidin patted Elidor’s hand with a paternal touch and gave him a steely glance. “Thou’st had time a-plenty to speak with these good folk; do now allow your old Uncle a modicum of conversation.”

Elidor met that steely gaze, and subsided.

“Well, I can’t say I’m terribly surprised.” Rod turned back to his food. “Wherever there’s wizardry, there’ll always be warlocks who misuse their power.”

“Aye, and so he doth!” Foidin fairly jumped on it. “Indeed, his villainy surpasseth all imagining; he would seek to lay the whole of the land under the rule of magic!”

The table was noticeably silent. Elidor was reddening like a volcano, about to erupt.

Gwen caught his eyes and moved her hand, just a little, in a calming gesture. He stared at her, surprised; then he glanced up at his uncle, and back to his food.

“Indeed,” Gwen cooed, “Tir Chlis is fortunate to have so goodly a man as thyself, to defend it from such a knave.”

Nice try, Rod thought, but he was sure the Duke knew about flattery.

He did; he battened on it. He fairly expanded. “Why, gently said, sweet lady—and true, quite true! Aye, the greater part of this land now dwells in peace and prosperity, under in… His Majesty’s beneficent rule.”

“Mmf!” A courtier across the table suddenly pressed a napkin to his mouth; bit his tongue, probably.

The Duke noticed, and frowned.

“Then thou must presently free the unhappy remainder,” Gwen said quickly.

“Ah, but ‘tis not easily done, fair lady.” The Duke waved a forefinger sadly. “Knowest thou that vasty range of mountains, in the northeast?”

“Nay; we came by magic.” Gwen smiled sweetly. “We know only the meadow where thou didst find us, and the stretch of riverbank that curls on northward to the spot where we appeared.”

Northward? Rod could’ve sworn they’d hiked northward—which meant their entry-point lay southward!

“So newly-come as that!” The Duke was too surprised. Who was pumping whom, here? “Yet let me assure thee, the mountains lie there, in the northeast, blocking off a poor eighth-part of this land; and ‘tis there Lord Kern hath fled, to try to build a robber-force to steal the King away. I cannot go against him through those mountains, for he’s blocked the only pass that’s large enough for armies, with foul sorcery.”

“Yet he is thereby blocked himself!” Gwen crowed, delighted.

The Duke looked surprised, but he hid it quickly. “Ye-e-e-s, there is that, sweet lady—for if he lifts his sorcery, my armies would be upon him in a moment!”

The courtier across the table was having trouble swallowing again.

“Yet there is coastline near him,” the Duke went on, “and he hath attempted to land a force within our safe domain.”

“Thou hast repulsed him, then?”

“I have.” The Duke preened a little. “My ships are of the best, most especially when I command ‘em.”

The courtier grabbed for his wine-cup.

“Thus have matters stood for three long years.” The Duke spread his hands. “He cannot come out, nor can I go in, to free those miserable wretches who live beneath his yoke. Yet time will ripen my good designs, and rot his fell ones; my armies daily increase, as do my ships; and, when the time hath come, I’ll strike at him by sea and grind him to the dust! Then will this land be whole again, to deliver up to Elidor when he doth come of age.”

The boy-King looked frightened at that last remark. Gwen caught his eyes briefly, then looked back at the Duke. “Simply planned, but nobly, Milord. And thou art wise to bide thy time; disaster visits he who strikes before the iron’s hot!”

“Well said, well said.” The Duke sat back, nodding, pleased. “Thou art most rare of ladies. I am not accustomed to such intelligence in one so beautiful.”