The Warlock Unlocked wisoh-4

by Christopher Stasheff

  “Doing what, Papa?”

  “Oh, I dunno… go play tag with a wolf, or something. Uh, cancel that,” he added quickly, as he saw Magnus’s eyes light up. “No sense in cruelty to animals. Go cut a couple of willow wands and drill him on fencing—he’s a little slow on the riposte.”

  “As thou dost wish, Papa.” Magnus turned away, crestfallen. “Come, Geoffrey.”

  “And stay where I can see you!”

  Magnus gave a martyr’s sigh. “We will.”

  “Would you really have worried more about the wolf than about them?” Father Al asked, sitting beside Rod.

  “Not completely,” Rod admitted, “but I’ve seen Magnus drive a wolf to distraction. He disappears just before the wolf gets him, and reappears behind it. Then the wolf turns around to charge him again, and he disappears in the nick of time, bobbing up behind it again. When I caught him, he had it chasing its own tail.”

  Father Al shook his head in wonder. “I think I begin to understand why you adjusted to a world of magic so easily.”

  “Kids do keep your mind limber,” Rod admitted.

  “Limber enough to understand why technology never went beyond the hammer and anvil here?”

  “Oh, there’s not much question there. Why do you need to develop fertilizers when the average parish priest can do the same thing with a blessing?”

  Father Al nodded. “I’ll have to worm the wording of the prayers out of him, to see whether it’s the prayer that does it, or the charm.”

  “So you can know which Power is working?”

  Father Al nodded. “Increasing crop yields isn’t exactly what we mean by ‘small miracles happening everywhere.’ ”

  “Like medical technology? It sounds as though he can cure arthritis, though he doesn’t know it by that name. Our own doctors can’t do much better. I’d imagine the same kind of thing’s happening in all areas of technology.”

  Father Al nodded again. “Smiths producing case-hardened alloys by singing to the metal as they pound it; carriages riding smoothly, cushioned by spells instead of steel leaves, perhaps even spell-propelled; ships communicating with shore by crystal balls… Yes, why bother inventing anything?”

  “But,” said Rod, “magicians being rare, the average man couldn’t afford battle-spells; so martial power remained an aristocratic monopoly. Which meant…”

  “That the political system remained essentially feudal.” Father Al’s smile grew hard. “Though, with wizards providing kings with efficient communications, and even intelligence abilities, there’s a chance centralized governments may have evolved.”

  “But never terribly absolute,” Rod noted. “The barons could get wizards, too. So they’d think of themselves as ‘Christendom’ as much as separate countries.”

  “Not much nationalism,” Father Al agreed. “But how would the New World have been colonized?”

  Rod shrugged. “No problem; Columbus came over shortly after the Wars of the Roses, and the Vikings set up a colony before him. With wizardry to help them, they shouldn’t’ve had as much trouble with the ‘skralings.’ ”

  “The Amerinds, yes. I notice that most of these people are nowhere nearly as pale as Northern Europeans of the period.”

  “Probably hybrids. And with their shamans’ magic added in, you’d have quite an assemblage of magic. But that indicates a big emphasis on trade, which means mercantilism. How come there’s no rise of the middle class?”

  “There probably was, to a point. But the kings and barons would’ve entrusted fund-raising to their wizard-advisers, who, being probably of common birth, could participate in trade for them. No, I’d guess the ‘merchant princes’ were princes. And trade not being their means to rise, they wouldn’t push its development as hard.”

  Rod spread his hands. “But—fifteen hundred years! Could a society really last that long, without changing?”

  “Well, there was ancient Egypt—and the Chinese Empire. Dynasties changed, and styles; technology even improved a little, from time to time—but the society remained the same. And, come to think of it, India, before the Mongols… You know, Europe may have been the exception, not the rule, with its changing society.”

  Rod shook his head in wonder. “All because they started being able to make magic work! What do you think was the dividing point—the alchemists?”

  “ ‘Dividing point?’ Oh, you mean when this universe split off from ours. It didn’t have to, you know—both universes could have started at the same time, and evolved independently.”

  “Could have,” Rod admitted, “but there’re just too many resemblances between this universe and ours. The language is even close enough to Gramarye’s so that I didn’t have any problem understanding.”

  “Hmf. A good point.” Father Al frowned. “Who knows? Perhaps both theories are true. It may be that the model for multiple universes isn’t just one branching tree, with universes splitting off from one another at major historical events, but a forest—several root universes, each one branching at decision-points.”

  “Maybe—but this one looks to have branched off from ours.”

  “Or ours from it—we’re not necessarily the center of Creation, you know.” Father Al grinned wickedly.

  “A point,” Rod admitted. “So what was it—the alchemists?”

  “Perhaps. There was much talk of wizardry before that, of course—but the alchemists were the first ones to approach the topic rationally. And the astrologers, of course.”

  Rod nodded. “So some alchemist-astrologer, probably totally forgotten in our own universe, happened to have the Power, and figured out some rules for its use. He probably wouldn’t have let anyone else in on the secret—but once he proved it could be done, others would figure out how. When would this have happened—Fourteenth Century?”

  Father Al nodded. “Sounds about right—I haven’t seen any gunpowder here. That would be the latest point it could’ve happened, at least.”

  “And styles have continued to change, and they’ve kept pieces of all of them—but the social set-up hasn’t.” Rod nodded. “Makes sense. A little on the sick side, but sense. Where did the elves come from?”

  Father Al shrugged. “ ‘Summoned’ from another universe, or extremely thorough illusions made by a wizard, and kept ‘alive’ by the popular imagination. But they may have been there all along, and were only chased out of our universe by the combination of Cold Iron and Christianity, which gradually eroded the people’s belief in them. There’s some evidence for that last one—the Grand Duchess told us that the faery folk are tied to their own particular piece of countryside. That would seem to indicate that they grew out of the land itself, or rather, out of its life-forms. We aren’t the only beings that set up minute electromagnetic fields around themselves.”

  Rod nodded slowly. “Ye-e-e-s. And in our universe, it would have been the 19th Century that finally undid that completely, as it laid Europe under a grid of railroad tracks, and sent telegraph wires all over the countryside, disrupting local field-forces.”

  “Well, there were still tales told in the 20th Century—its early years, at least. But radio and television would have finished the job—those, and concrete. They are basically nature sprites, after all.”

  The door swung open behind them. “We dine, gentlemen.”

  “Well, enough of the fate of this world.” Rod slapped his knees and stood up. “Let’s get to the important stuff, Father.”

  The boys cheered and beat them to the door.

  They waked to the ringing of the noon bell. The old priest had returned, and the boys scampered out to find lunch. The old man was amazed at the table they set for him. “Cold hare, wild strawberries, grouse eggs, and trout simmering—thy children are most excellent hunters, Milord!”

  “Why?” Rod asked around a mouthful. “Game getting scarce?”

  “Aye, for some years. There were folk here who lived by trade through the mountains; and, when it ceased, they had need to scour the countrysid
e for victuals. Many have wandered away, but there are still so many that our few farms can scarce feed them all.”

  “Well, if it moves and is edible, my boys’ll find it. What stopped the trade, Father—Duke Foidin’s garrisons?”

  “That, and the Redcap who lives in the Tower. Not even a peddler can make his way past it, now.”

  “Oh.” Rod glanced at Father Al. “What does he do to them?”

  “And what manner of sprite is he?” Father Al chipped in.

  The old priest shuddered. “He doth take the form of an aged man, squat and powerful, with long snaggled teeth, fiery eyes, long grizzled hair, and talons for nails. He doth wear iron boots and beareth a pikestaff. As to what he doth to travellers, he hath no joy so great as the re-dying of his cap in human blood.”

  “Oh.” Suddenly, cold roast hare didn’t taste quite so good. “Can’t anyone do anything to stop him?”

  The old priest gave a short laugh. “What wouldst thou have? Armies cannot stand against him! ‘Tis said that reading him Scripture, or making him look upon a cross, will rout him—but how canst thou force him to listen or look?”

  “Good question.” Rod turned to Father Al. “Any ideas?”

  “One.” The priest nodded. “If religious symbols will repel him when he perceives them, a stronger symbol should banish him by its touch.”

  The old priest chuckled. “Certes, Father—but where wilt thou find the man to chance the doing of it?”

  “Papa will,” Geoff piped.

  The old priest chuckled again, till his eyes met Rod’s, and the chuckle died. Then he paled. “Nay, thou wilt not attempt it!” He looked from Rod to Father Al, then to Gwen, and sat very still. Then he scrambled up, turning toward the door.

  “Father,” Father Al said quietly, “I shall require thine altar stone.”

  The old priest stopped.

  Then he turned about, trembling. “Thou mayest not! The Mass must be said on the bones of the saints, embedded within the altar stone! How shall I say Mass without it?”

  “We shall return it this evening.”

  “Wilt thou?” The old man strode back, pointing to Father Al with a trembling forefinger. “Wilt thou come back at all? Redcap can stand against armies; how wilt two of thee best him?”

  “Three,” Gwen said quietly. “I have some powers of mine own, Father.”

  “In fact, it’s a family affair,” Rod corroborated. “You’d be surprised at what my kids can do, without getting in range.”

  The old priest darted glances from one to another, as though they were mad. “Give over, I beg thee! And these poor wee bairns—do not subject them to such hazard!”

  “We couldn’t leave them behind if we wanted to,” Rod said grimly.

  “We will triumph, Father,” Gwen said gently. “We have but lately set the Crodh Mara to defeat the Each Uisge, and have, together, put a faery lord’s court to flight.”

  “Yet the faery lords are not Redcap! They do not delight in murder and bloodshed! No! Do not go! But if thou must, thou shalt go without mine altar stone!”

  Father Al sighed and pulled an oiled parchment out of his robe. Rod saw fold lines on it, and guessed it had been in an envelope before Father Al got to Gramarye. The Terran monk said, “I had hoped to avoid this, but… look upon this writ, Father.”

  The old man stared at him, frightened. Then, reluctantly, he took the parchment and unrolled it. He read it, gasped, and grew paler the more he read. At last he rolled it back up with trembling hands and lifted his head, eyes glazed. “It…it cannot be! He… he is in Rome, halfway ‘cross the world! Rarely doth he speak to those of us in this far land, and then only to Archbishops! How doth it chance… Aiiieee!” He dropped the parchment, clasping his head in his hands. “What have I done? What sin lies on my soul, that he should write to me?”

  “No sin, Father, surely!” Father Al cried in distress, clasping the old man’s arm. “In truth, I doubt he doth know that thou dost live! He doth address this Writ to any who should read it, should I choose to show it them, having need of their aid!”

  “Aye, oh! Aye.” The old man lifted a haggard face. “Yet what mischance doth befall, that I should be the one from whom thou dost require aid? Why doth this chance befall to me? Nay, surely have I failed in my duty to my God and to my flock!”

  “Thy humility doth thee credit,” Father Al said gently, but with the firmness of irony underlying it. “But thy common sense doth not. This lot doth fall to thee only because thy flock doth live near to the Tower of Gonkroma, whither I and my friends must go to challenge Redcap.”

  Slowly, the old man’s eyes focused on Father Al. He nodded, and his face began to firm up. “Aye. ‘Tis even as thou dost say.” He straightened his shoulders and rose. “Well, then, if it must be so, it must—and I do not doubt it; I cannot read his hand, yet I’ve seen the picture of his Seal in books.”

  “And now thou dost see the impression of the Seal itself. Wilt thou render up thine altar stone, good Father?”

  “Aye, that will I. If His Holiness would wish it, then thou shalt have it. Come; I will lift it for thee.”

  They came out of the chapel a few minutes later, Father Al holding the stone wrapped securely under his arm.

  “That wasn’t quite honest, was it?” Rod asked.

  Father Al looked up, startled. “Why not? The letter’s genuine, I assure you! That is the impression of the real Papal Seal, and the signature of the real Pope!”

  “Yes, but not his pope.”

  Father Al frowned. “What do you mean? John XXIV is Pope… Oh.”

  “Yes.” Rod nodded. “In our universe.”

  “But he is not, in this universe?”

  “How could he be?”

  “Why not?” Father Al turned a beaming smile on him. “This Earth is very much like the Terra of our universe; the constellations are the same; the language is the same as that of Renaissance England. Why might there not be people who are the same in both universes, too?”

  “You don’t seriously believe that, do you?”

  Father Al shrugged. “I’m willing to consider it. But it doesn’t really matter greatly. We Catholics believe that the Pope speaks for God, when he speaks as Pope, not just as himself—ex cathedra, we call it.”

  Rod stopped dead still, ramrod-straight, eyes closed. He counted to ten, then said carefully, “Father—doesn’t that strike you as a little medieval?”

  “Have you looked around you lately?”

  “Cheap rejoinder, Father.” Rod fixed him with a gimlet eye. “Our universe isn’t medieval—but your belief is.”

  “Not really,” Father Al said earnestly. “Spiritual beliefs really can’t be proven or disproven by physics or chemistry, any more than theology can deduce the formula for a polymer. It comes down to faith, after all—and we believe that Christ gave Peter the power to speak for Him, when He told that first Bishop of Rome, ‘I give to you the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven. What you bind on Earth, it shall be bound in Heaven; what you loose on Earth, it shall be loosed in Heaven.’ We also believe that Peter’s ‘keys’ descended to his successors, down to the present Pope.”

  “Very interesting, but I don’t see…” Rod broke off, staring. “Oh, no! You don’t mean…”

  “Why not?” Father Al smiled. “Did you think there would be a different God for each universe? I can’t prove it with physical evidence, but I believe in a God who existed before anything else did, and who created everything—one God who began all the universes. I’ve noticed that the people here are Christians—Roman Catholics, in fact. So, if it’s the same God for both universes, and the Pope speaks for Him, says what God wants said, surely the Pope in this universe will give the same answer to any given question as the Pope in our universe would.”

  “So your Writ from your Pope says what the Pope in this universe wants that old priest in there to do.” Rod gave Father Al a sidelong look. “Doesn’t that sound just a teeny bit lame to you, Father?”

 
; “Of course,” said Father Al, with a disarming smile. “Because, when my Pope wrote this letter, he wasn’t speaking ex cathedra; so he was speaking as John the XXIV, not as Pope. Nonetheless, I’ve no doubt the Christians here hold basically the same beliefs as Christians in our home universe; so I don’t doubt the Pope here would want me to have this altar stone.” He frowned, gazing at the sky.

  “Pretty problem, though, isn’t it?” Then his face cleared. “Well, I’ll tell the Jesuits about it, when we get back. Shall we get down to business?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Gwen brought her broomstick hovering over the ledge, a hundred yards from the Tower, and brought it slowly to ground. Rod and Father Al dismounted, just as Magnus and Geoff popped into sight beside them.

  “What’re you two doing here?” Rod demanded. “I want you up on top of that crag!”

  “Aw, Papa! Do we have to?”

  “Yes, you do! I want you watching from a safe distance, ready to teleport me out of there if it looks like he’s really apt to kill me! And where’s Elidor?”

  Magnus’s eyes widened; then guilt rose in them. “Uh—we left him atop the crag.”

  “Uh-huh!” Rod nodded grimly. “So what’s to stop a spriggan from hopping in and snatching him again, huh? Now, you two get back there—fast!”

  “Yes, Pap…” They disappeared before they finished the syllable.

  “And that goes for you, too.” Rod glowered at the witchling who hovered before him on a makeshift hearth-broom. “Stay out of the fight, Cordelia! But help your Mama, and be ready to drop a few rocks on the meany!”

  “Oh, all right, Papa!” Cordelia huffed, and wheeled her broomstick up and away toward the top of the mountain.

  “You, too, dear.” Rod caught Gwen’s hand. “Out.”

  “I will. ”Tears stood in her eyes. “Take care of thyself.”

  “I will,” Rod promised. “You take care of me, too, huh?” And he gathered her in.

  Father Al turned away to study the local geology for a few minutes.