“Good… good morning, good friar.” She seemed shy, almost fearful, but resolved. “May… may I be of aid to thee?”

“Why… I do stand in need of direction,” Father Al answered. “But… forgive me, maiden, for I have been apart from this world almost since birth, and never before have I seen a maid ride a broomstick. I have heard of it, certes, but never have seen it.”

The girl gave a sudden, delighted peal of laughter, and relaxed visibly. “Why, ‘tis nothing, good friar, a mere nothing! Eh, they do keep ye close in cloisters, do they not?”

“Close indeed. Tell me, maiden—how did you learn the trick of that?”

“Learn?” The girl’s smile stretched into a delighted grin. “Why, ‘twas little enough to learn, good friar—I but stare at a thing, and wish it to move, and it doth!”

Telekinesis, Father Al thought giddily, and she treats it as a commonplace. “Hast thou always had this… talent?”

“Aye, as long as I can remember.” A shadow darkened her face. “And before, too, I think; for the good folk who reared me told me that they found me cast away in a field, at a year’s age. I cannot but think that the mother who bore me was afrighted by seeing childish playthings move about her babe, seemingly of their own accord, and therefore cast me out naked into the fields, to live or die as I saw fit.”

Inborn, Father Al noted, even as his heart was saddened by her history. Prejudice and persecution—was this the lot of these poor, Talented people? And if it was, what had it done to their souls? “Ill done, Ill done!” He shook his head, scowling. “What Christian woman could do such a thing?”

“Why, any,” the girl said, with a sad smile. “Indeed, I cannot blame her; belike she thought I was possessed by a demon.”

Father Al shook his head in exasperation. “So little do these poor country people know of their Faith!”

“Oh, there have been dark tales,” the girl said somberly, “and some truth to them, I know. There do be those harsh souls possessed of witch-power who have taken to worshipping Satan, Father—I have met one myself, and was fortunate to escape with mine life! Yet they are few, and seldom band together.”

“Pray Heaven ‘twill never be otherwise!” And Father Al noted that most of these ‘witches’ were not Satanists, which pretty well assured that their Talent was psionic. “Thine own charity shows the goodness of thine own sort, maiden—thy charity in seeking to aid a poor, benighted traveller; for I’d wager thou knew I had lost mine way.”

“Why, indeed,” the girl said, “for I heard it in thy thoughts.”

“Indeed, indeed.” Father Al nodded. “I had heard of it, yet ‘tis hard to credit when one doth first encounter it.” In fact, his brain whirled; a born telepath, able to read thoughts clearly, not just to receive fuzzy impressions! And that without training! “Are there many like thee, maiden?”

“Nay, not so many—scarce a thousand.”

“Ah.” Father Al smiled sadly. “Yet I doubt me not that Holy Matrimony and God shall swell thy numbers.” And up till now, there had only been two real telepaths in the whole Terran Sphere!

“May I aid thee in thy journey, Father? Whither art thou bound?”

“To find the High Warlock, maiden.”

The girl giggled. “Why, his home is half the way across the kingdom, good friar! ‘Twill take thee a week or more of journeying!”

Father Al sagged. “Oh, no… uh, nay! ‘Tis a matter of some import, and I mind me there is need for haste!”

The girl hesitated, then said shyly, “If ‘tis truly so, good friar, I could carry thee thither upon my broom…”

“Couldst thou indeed! Now bless thee, maiden, for a true, good Christian!”

She fairly seemed to glow. “Oh, ‘tis naught; I could carry two of thee with little effort. Yet I must needs caution thee, good friar, ‘tis like to disconcert thee summat…”

“I care not!” Father Al ran around behind her and leaped astride the stick. “What matter comfort, when a soul’s welfare is at stake? Nay, then, let’s be gone!”

In fact, he scarcely noticed when the broomstick left the ground.

Opening a lock was women’s work; it took telekinesis. The boys could make the lock disappear, but they couldn’t open it.

“Let Cordelia attempt it. She must be trained, must she not?” Gwen ushered her daughter over to the door and set her in front of the lock. “Remember, sweeting, to ease the bolt gently; assuredly the Duke hath posted guards on us, and they must not hear the turn.”

“Uh, just a sec.” Rod held up a hand. “We don’t know they’ve locked us in.”

Gwen sighed, reached out, and tugged at the handle. The door didn’t budge. She nodded. “Gently, now, my daughter.”

Rod took up a position just behind the door. Cordelia frowned at the lock, concentrating. Rod could just barely hear a minuscule grating as the lock turned, and the bolt slid back. Then Gwen stared, and the door shot open silently.

Rod leaped out, caught the left-hand guard from behind with a forearm across the throat, and whacked his dagger-hilt on the man’s skull. He released his hold and whirled, wondering why the other guard wasn’t already over him…

And saw the man down and out, with Geoff crawling out from between the guard’s ankles; Magnus standing over the man’s head, sheathing his dagger; and Gwen beaming fondly as she watched.

Rod gawked.

Then he shook his head, coming out of it. “How’d you keep him quiet?”

“By holding the breath in his lungs,” Magnus explained. “Can I fetch Elidor now, Papa?”

Rod rubbed his chin. “Well, I don’t know. You could teleport him away from whatever room he’s in—but are you sure you could make him appear right here?”

Magnus frowned. “Fairly certain…”

“ ‘Fairly’ isn’t good enough, son. You might materialize him inside a wall, or in between universes, for that matter.” Why did that thought hollow his stomach? “No, I think we’d better do this the old-fashioned way. Which way is he?”

“Thither!” Magnus pointed toward the left, and upward.

“Well, I think we’ll try the stairs. Let’s go.”

“Ah, by your leave, Papa.” Gwen caught his sleeve. “If thou shouldst meet some guardsman, or even one lone courtier, ‘tis bound to cause some noise.”

Rod turned back. “You have a better idea?”

“Haply, I have.” Gwen turned to Cordelia. “Do thou lead us, child, skipping and singing. Be mindful, thou’rt seeking the garderobe, and have lost thy way.”

Cordelia nodded eagerly, and set off.

“Thus,” Gwen explained, “he who doth encounter her will make no outcry; ‘twill be a quiet chat.”

“Even quieter, after we catch up with him.” Rod gazed after his daughter, fidgeting. “Can’t we get moving, dear? I don’t like letting her go out alone.”

“Hold, till she hath turned the corner.” Gwen kept her hand on his forearm, watching Cordelia. The little girl reached the end of the hall and turned right, skipping and warbling. “Now! The hall is clear before her; let us go.”

They went quickly, trying to match unseen Cordelia’s speed, wading through the darkness between torches. Near the end of the hall, Gwen stopped, with a gentle tug at Rod’s arm. The boys stopped, too, at a thought-cue from their mother. “She hath encountered a guardsman,” Gwen breathed. “Softly, now!”

Rod strained his ears, and caught the conversation:

“Whither goest, child?”

“To the garderobe, sir! Canst tell me where it is?”

“A ways, sweet lass, a ways! There was one near thy chambers.”

Oh. So all the guards knew where they were quartered. Very interesting.

“Was there, sir? None told us!”

“He curses in his mind, and she has turned him!” Gwen hissed. “Go!”

Rod padded around the corner on soft leather soles. Three torchlight-pools away, Cordelia stood facing him, hopping from foot to foot with her hands clasped behind her back. The guardsman stood, a hulking shadow, between the child and Rod, his back to Papa. Rod slipped his dagger out of its sheath and leaped forward.