"My thanks."

Rod looked up.

The hair swept the shoulders, and he wore a jawline beard and close-clipped moustache-but it was Rod's face behind all the hair. "I give thee greatest thanks, for the lives of my babe, and my King."

Then Lord Kern's face darkened, and he bellowed, "What dost thou here, what dost thou here? Seekest thou mine end? Get thee hence! Get thee gone!"

And the scene exploded into a riot of color.

Swarming colors, sliding into one another and back out, wavering and flowing all about him. Rod couldn't see anything else; he was floating in a polychrome void; but he could feel the pressure of Magnus's hand within his, and Father Al's arm. And he felt yearnings and longings in different directions, like unseen hands trying to pull him five ways at once; but one was stronger than the others, and pulled him harder. He moved toward it; it was the direction Magnus's hand was pulling in, anyway. Gregory, he realised-baby Gregory, calling Mama home. And Papa, too, of course- but who's really important to an infant, anyway?

Then the colors began to thicken, blending into one another, then separating out again-brown stripes, and multi-hued ones, that coalesced into wooden beams and draperies; white, that bristled into stucco...

There was a floor under him. He let go of Magnus and Father Al and shoved

against it, levering himself up, feeling dizzy-and gazed around the big room in his own home. Near the fireplace stood a cradle, with Brom O'Berin bulking over it, scarcely larger than it was, staring.

Gwen scrambled up with a glad cry, and ran to catch up the baby.

Brom bellowed in joy and flung his arms around her.

"Uncle Brom!" the children shouted, and piled onto both of them.

"Fess?" Rod muttered, not quite believing it.

"Rod!" The voice cracked in his ear; he winced. "Is it feedback in my circuits?

Rod! Are you real?"

"I'll have to admit to it," Rod muttered. "Never knew I'd be so glad to hear your tinny voice. You can shut down the transmitter, now."

"Oh,.Papa!" Cordelia scampered up to him, disappointed. "Just one more time?"

"No! Definitely not!... At least, not today." He turned to see Father Al picking himself up off the floor. "If you don't mind, Father, I definitely prefer technology."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.

Not that they made a practice of it, you understand-but this was one occasion when the Gallowgla.s.s family just had to have a horse for dinner.

Not that Fess ate as he stood at the end of the table-though he did stick his nose in a feedbag, to keep up appearances. After the mad flurry of greetings and rejoicings, Gwen had quickly parceled out victuals, and the whole family had sat down to their first meal in a day. Cordelia and Geoff had been packed off to bed (protesting), and the adults (and a bleary-eyed Magnus) sat down to tell Brom (and Fess) their adventures.

"The varlet!" Brom cried, when they were done. "Thou hadst oped his road to victory, slain his chief enemy, and succored his son-and what is his thanks? To bid thee get hence!"

"Oh, it's not as bad as all that," Father Al explained. "In fact, he probably was very grateful-but not so grateful as to be willing to die."

"To die?" Brom scowled at him. "What is thy meaning, shave-pate?"

"He thought Rod was his fetch."

Brom stared.

Then he slapped the table and threw back his head, roaring laughter. "Nay, o' course, then, o' course! What recourse had he, save spells of banishment?"

Rod looked from him to Father Al, then to Gwen; but she shook her head, as lost as he was. "Somebody wanna let us in on the joke?" Rod said mildly.

"A 'fetch,' " Father Al explained, "is your exact double, and seeing it usually means you'll die in the near future. It's also called a co-walker, or in German, a doppelganger."

"Oh." Slowly, Rod grinned. "And in this case, the superst.i.tion would've proved true?"

"Well, we'll never know now. But it could be that, with both of you in the same place, that universe might've cancelled both of you."

" Wasn't room enough in that universe for both of us, huh? Not the original and the a.n.a.log?"

"Perhaps. At any rate, Lord Kern took no chances. He p.r.o.nounced the traditional phrases for banishing a fetch- and it worked."

"Banished me right back to my own universe." Rod lifted his winegla.s.s. "For which, I thank him."

"Exactly," Father Al agreed. "No harm or ingrat.i.tude intended, I'm sure."

"Yes, nothing personal. So he gets to keep his universe-but do I get to keep his powers?"

"An interesting point." Father Al pursed his lips. "I'm sure he retains them-but the experience of using his powers certainly should've eliminated any blocks you'd unconsciously set up, freeing you to use whatever powers you do have- and we'd already established that you had something of your own before you went to that universe."

"Such as the power to manipulate the 'magic field?' " / Father Al nodded. "You may still have that. And from what you've told me of Gramarye, the population here should be providing a very powerful magic field."

"Then he is a warlock?" Gwen demanded.

Rod shrugged. "No way to say until I try, dear-and if you don't mind, I'd rather not, just now."

"Of course," Father Al reminded him, "you could always draw on the power of one of your a.n.a.logs..."Rod shuddered. "I'd really rather not. Besides, their powers couldn't work, in this universe."

Father Al got a faraway look in his eyes. "Well, in theory..."

"Uh, some other time," Rod said nervously. "Wait till it scabs over, will you, Father? Somehow, I don't think any of us are going to be the same after this."

He heard Gwen murmur, "Aye. I fear 'twill mark Gregory for life."

"Yes," Rod agreed somberly. "Going through this at less than one year of age,

the effect could be ma.s.sive. I just wish we could know what that effect will be."

He turned to her, meeting her gaze with a smile that he hoped was rea.s.suring.

But she was staring, shocked. "My lord..."

Suddenly, it was very silent. Brom frowned, perplexed.

Father Al coughed delicately.

Rod scowled, looking from one to another. "Would someone please tell me what

this is all about!""Papa," Magnus said, round-eyed, "she did not speak."Now Rod stared.Fess cleared his oscillator. "Ah, Rod-I hate to trouble you at a time like this...""Oh, no problem!" Rod jumped at the shred of relative sanity. "Trouble? Yes, yes! Tell me!""We do have the matter of the conflict between the Abbot and the Crown...""Oh, yes! Been meaning to get to that. Thanks for your bulletins, by the way-v/ edid receive them. I'll tell you how sometime, when you'll have an hour or so to recover. Your last dispatch said four Southern lords had answered the Abbot's call to arms, and three Northern barons had risen to the King's banner..."

"Precisely. Tuan marched his armies toward the monastery of St. Vidicon; the Abbot, hearing of his approach, rode out to meet him with four armies at his back. As of sunset, they were camped in sight of one another, and the King and the Abbot were exchanging dispatches."

"I'm a little too cynical to think they'll have reached a compromise." Rod glowered at the floor. "In fact, I'd bet that the final words of defiance arrived by special messenger before they bedded down for the night." He glanced out the window at the sun. "Think we can still get there before the first charge, Fess?"

"We can but try, Rod."

"Then let's get going." Rod headed toward the door, calling back to Gwen, "Sorry, dear-the boss just called."

Gwen jolted out of her stupor. "Oh, aye! I shall hold dinner for thee!"

"I hope we'll be done by then." In fact, if they weren't, they'd probably be in the middle of a battle. He bolted out the door, not a moment too soon, with the great black horse on his heels. Clear of the doorway, he swung aboard, and kicked his heels into Fess's sides.

Something jolted behind him. He looked back to see Father Al riding Fess's rump. "From what little I heard in that one-sided conversation, I thought I had better come along."

Rod shrugged. "Suit yourself, Father-but hold on tight; this ride's going to make a broomstick look cozy!"

Fess galloped over the meadow, extruding jet engines from his flanks, leaped into the air, and roared away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.

"There they are." Rod pointed downward.

Ahead and below, the trees gave way to a plain. In its center, two long lines of armored knights faced each other, two hundred yards apart. As Rod watched, the two lines seemed to lean forward, then began to move. The horses broke into a trot, then a canter...

"Hold on! They can't start, now that we're almost there! Buzz 'em, Fess! And make all the noise you can!"

The great black horse stooped like a falcon, and the engines' roar suddenly increased by half. Father Al gasped and held on for dear life.

The black horse shot down the alley between the two lines of charging knights, five feet above the plain, jets racketting. Horses screamed, rearing back and throwing their riders. Other knights reined in their mounts with oaths of dread. Behind them, the soldiers roared with panic and turned about, trying to scramble over each other to get away from the roaring spirit.

Fess climbed up, circling. Rod looked back over his shoulder with a nod of satisfaction. "That oughta do it. It'll take 'em a while to straighten out that mess." He felt a certain smug pleasure at the thought that, near the Abbot and near each baron, there must be a futurian agent who was gnashing his teeth in frustrated rage at the appearance of the High Warlock.

"We can't do much good up here," Father Al bellowed in his ear.

"Oh, I'd say we haven't done too badly so far," Rod yelled back. "But you're right; the rest of it's gotta be done on foot. Mechanization can only go just so far... Bring us in, Fess."

The great black horse circled around, slowing, its engines lowering in pitch, then dove along the same path as its first run. Hooves jolted on the ground; shock absorbers built into his legs took up the impact. He landed at a full gallop, slowing to a canter, then a trot as he came up to the center of the line, and King Tuan.

Tuan snapped up his visor, staring in disbelief. Then a huge smile spread over his face, and he spurred his mount forward to grasp Rod by the shoulders. "Lord Gallowgla.s.s! Praise Heaven thou dost live! But how comes this? We had heard that thou wert witched away!"

Rod grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. Then he winced; armor is hard. Something jolted behind him, and he whirled around, to see Father Al running across the plain toward the opposing line-and the Abbot! For a moment, anger shot through Rod. What was this-treachery? Then his anger turned into chagrin. Of course, he couldn't blame the man for adhering to the side he was sworn to.

"Who was that monk?" Tuan demanded. "And how wast thou ensnared in sorcery, with thy wife and baims? Where hast thou been? How comest thou back? Nay, tell me who ensorcelled thee, who doth command those wretches in my dungeons, and I will turn these knights and men upon him!"

Rod grinned and held up a hand. "One question at a time, Your Majesty, I beg you! But I'm very gratified by your welcome."

"Thou dost not know how sorely we have needed thee. But what of the Lady Gwendylon and thy little ones?"

"Returned with me, and all well. As to the rest of it... Well, it's quite a story, and I think it'd be a little easier to understand if I told it to you straight through, from beginning to end. Let's let it wait a while, shall we?"

"It seems we must," Tuan said reluctantly, "for there is this boiling coil to consider. Thou hast stopped the beginning of this battle, High Warlock-but I think that thou canst not prevent its end."

"It's worth a try, though, isn't it? Reconciliation is always possible."

"An thou sayest it, I will try." Tuan shook his head. "But there have been harsh words spoke, Lord Warlock, and I fear it hath gone beyond all hope of healing."

"You're probably right-but I'd like a chance to prove it to myself." Rod turned about. "Let's call for a parley."

But they would have to wait. Across the field, Father Al stood beside the Abbot's horse, and the Abbot stared down at a parchment in his hand. Even across the distance, their voices carried.

"The Pope?" the Abbot cried, in shock and dismay. "Nay, but surely he is legend!"

"Thou knowest he is not," Father Al replied, politely but firmly. "Thou dost know how long the line of Peter did persevere, and know within thee that some few centuries' time would not obliterate it."

The Abbot lowered the parchment with a shaking hand. "And yet I think it cannot be. What prove have I that this is real, or that the Seal is genuine?"

"Thou hast seen it in thy books, Lord Abbot. Dost thou truly doubt its authenticity?"

They locked gazes for a moment; then the Abbot's face clouded with doubt. "Nay, not truly so. Yet for five long centuries, the Vatican hath forgot our presence here. How is't that, now, only now, do they deign to notice us, and then only to command?"

"This was a grievous omission," Father Al admitted. "Yet, did the founder of this branch of our Order seek to notify the Vatican of his intentions, or his presence here? And canst thou truly say that thou, or any of thy predecessors, have attempted to renew the contact? And tell me not that thou couldst not have done so; I have met thy monks."