“Mama only said not to listen to the Duke’s mind,” Magnus explained. “She said nothing of the other folk.”

Rod stilled.

Then he looked up at Gwen, fighting a grin.

“ ‘Tis true,” she said, through a small, tight smile. “In truth, it may have been a good idea.”

“There were some with nasty, twisted thoughts,” Magnus said eagerly, “but I knew that was why Mama did not wish us to ‘listen’ to the Duke, so I shunned those minds, and bade Cordelia and Geoffrey to do the same.”

“Thou’rt not to command,” Cordelia retorted, “Papa hath said so!… Yet in this case, I thought thou hadst the right of it.”

Rod and Gwen stared at each other for a moment; then they both burst out laughing.

“What, what?” Magnus stared from one to the other; then he picked it up from his mother’s mind. “Oh! Thou art that pleased with us!”

“Aye, my jo, and amazed at how well thou dost, without fully understanding what or why I bade thee,” Gwen hugged Geoff and Cordelia to her, and Rod caught Magnus against his hip. “So! Magic works here, eh?” It raised a nasty, prickling thought; but Rod kept it to himself.

“It seems it doth, or there is something that doth pass for it. The old King sent Lord Kern away, to fight some bandits in the northeast country; then the King died. But Duke Foidin’s estate’s nearby, and the Duke was the King’s first cousin—so, even though he was out of favor with the King, he and his army were able to seize young Elidor and, with him, the strings of government. His army was the largest, three-quarters of the royal force being with Lord Kern; so when he named himself as regent, none cared to challenge him.” Her voice sank. “It was not clear, but I think he had a hand in the old King’s death.”

The children sat silent, huge-eyed.

“It fits his style,” Rod said grimly. “What’s this nonsense about a spirit having closed the pass?”

“No nonsense, that—or, at least, the Duke doth in truth believe it. Yet the spirit was not summoned by Lord Kern; it’s been there many years. The High Warlock’s force went to the northwest by sea.”

“Hm.” Thoughts of Scylla and Charybdis flitted through Rod’s mind. “Be interesting to find out what this ‘spirit’ really is. But what keeps Lord Kern from filtering his troops through smaller passes?”

“The Duke’s own army, or a part of it. Once he’d seized Elidor, he fortified the mountains; so, when Lord Kern turned his army southward, he was already penned in. Moreover, the ships that landed him, the Duke burned in their harbor. He has at most ten ships in his full-vaunted ‘Navy’—but they suffice; Lord Kern has none.”

“Well, he’s probably built a few, by this time—but not enough. So he’s really penned in, huh?”

“He is; yet Duke Foidin lives in fear of him; it seems he is most powerful in magic.”

“But not powerful enough to take the spirit at the pass?”

Gwen shook her head. “And is too wise to try. Repute names that spirit most powerful.”

“Must be a natural hazard.” Rod had a fleeting vision of a high pass with tall, sheer cliffs on either side, heaped high with permanent snow. An army doesn’t move without a lot of noise; an avalanche… “Still, Duke Foidin no doubt lives in dread of Lord Kern’s finding a way to fly his whole army in. Does he really think we’d work for him?”

“He doubts it; though what had he to lose in trying? Yet he’s not overly assured by ‘our’ victory o’er the Each Uisge; he doth not trust good folk.”

“Wise, in view of his character.”

“Yet even if we’ll not labour for him, he doth want us.” Gwen’s face clouded. “For what purpose, I cannot say; ‘twas too deeply buried, and too dark.”

“Hm.” Rod frowned. “That’s strange; I was expecting something straightforward, like a bit of sadism. Still, with that man, I suppose nothing’d be straightforward. I’d almost think that’s true of this whole land.”

“What land is that, Rod?” Gwen’s voice was small.

Rod shrugged irritably. “Who knows? We don’t exactly have enough data to go on, yet. It looks like Gramarye—but if it is, we’ve got to be way far in the future—at least a thousand years, at a guess.”

“There would be more witches,” Gwen said softly.

Rod nodded. “Yes, there would. And where’d the Each Uisge come from, and the Crodh Mara? Same place as the Gramarye elves, werewolves, and ghosts, I suppose—but that would mean they’d have risen from latent telepaths thinking about them. And there weren’t any legends about them in Gramarye—were there?”

“I had never heard of them.”

“None had ever told us of them,” Magnus agreed.

“And the elves have told you darn near every folk-tale Gramarye holds. But a thousand years is time for a lot of new tales to crop up… Oh, come on! There’s no point in talking about it; we’re just guessing. Let’s wait until we have some hard information.”

“Such as, mine husband?”

“The year, for openers—but I don’t feel like asking anyone here; there’s no point letting them know just how much we don’t know, other than to excuse our lack of local knowledge. We don’t even know enough to know whose side we’re on.”

“Elidor’s,” Magnus said promptly.

“He is the rightful sovereign,” Gwen agreed.

“Fine—but who’s on his side? Lord Kern?”

Magnus nodded. “He slipped away from the Duke’s men, and was fleeing in hopes of reaching Lord Kern, for protection. This was in his mind whilst the Duke did whip him.”

Rod nodded. “If only he hadn’t stopped to play with the pretty horsey, hm?”

“He did not play, Papa! He knew he stood no chance without a mount!”

“Really?” Rod looked up. “Then he’s got more sense than I pegged him as having.”

Magnus nodded. “Thou hast told me I have ‘roots of wisdom,’ Papa; so hath he.”

“We must defend him,” Gwen said quietly.

“We cannot leave him to that Duke!” Cordelia said stoutly.

Rod sighed and capitulated. “All right, all right! We’ll take him with us!”

They cheered.

Ow! Cur… I mean, confound it!” Father Al fell back onto a grassy hummock, catching his poor bruised foot in both hands. It was the third time he’d stubbed it; Gramarye had uncommonly sharp rocks. They couldn’t poke holes through his boots, but they could, and did, mash the toes inside.

He sighed, and rested his ankle over the opposite thigh, massaging it. He’d been hiking for six hours, he guessed—the sky to the east was beginning to lighten with dawn. And all that time, he’d been wandering around, trying to navigate by the occasional glimpse of a star between the bushy trees, hoping he was heading away from the monastery, and not around in a circle back toward it. He had no idea where he was going, really—all that mattered right now was putting as much distance as possible between himself and his too-willing hosts before daybreak. They’d given him one of their brown, hooded robes, but it was torn by thorns in a dozen places; his face and hands were similarly scratched, and he could’ve sworn he’d heard snickering laughter following him through the underbrush from time to time. All in all, he’d had better nights.

He sighed, and pushed himself to his feet, wincing as the bruised left one hit the ground. Enough hiking; time to try to find a place to hole up for the day…

There was a flutter of cloth, and a thump. He whirled toward it, sudden fear clutching his throat.

She was a teenager, with fair skin and huge, luminous eyes, and lustrous brown hair that fell down to her waist from a mob-cap. A tightly-laced bodice joined a loose blouse to a full, brightly-colored skirt…

… And she sat astride a broomstick that hovered three feet off the ground.

Father Al gawked. Then he remembered his manners and gathered his composure. “Ah… good morning.”