Finally, the actuality of the emergency struck home to Simon. He leaned forward and said, earnestly, “I have not known thee overlong, Rod Gallowglass, and that only in thy guise as old Owen. Yet from what I’ve seen of thee, thou art… well, aye, thou art surly. And taciturn. Yet art thou good-hearted withal. Aye, thou hast ever the good of thy fellows at heart, at nearly every moment.” He frowned. “I’ve heard it said of thee, that thou hast a wry humor, and dost commonly speak with wit. Yet I’ve not seen much of that in old Owen, save some bites of sarcasm—which are as often turned against himself, as against any other.”

“Good.” Rod nodded. “Very good.” He could feel the anger lessening, feel himself calming. But underneath it, there was still fury, goading him to action, any action. Lord Kern. “Tell me…” Rod muttered, and swallowed. “Tell me something about myself, that doesn’t apply to Kern—for most of what you’ve said might be true of him, too. I don’t know; I scarcely met the man. It might, though. Tell me something about me, that’s definitely mine alone, that couldn’t be his!”

“Why…” Simon floundered, “there is thy garb. Would he go about as a peasant?”

“Possible. Try again.”

“There is thy horse…”

“Yes!” Rod pounced on it. “Tell me about him!”

“ ‘Tis a great black beast,” Simon said slowly, “and most excellent in his lines. Indeed, ‘twas the one great flaw in thy guise; for any could see that he was truly a knight’s destrier, not a common cart horse.” He frowned, gazing off into space. “And now I mind me, thou dost call him ‘Fess.’ ”

“Fess.” Rod smiled. “Yes. I could never forget Fess, no matter what. And Lord Kern couldn’t possibly have one like him. He’s been with me as long as I’ve been alive—no, longer. He’s served my family for generations, did you know that?”

“Assuredly, I did not.” Simon watched him, wide-eyed.

“He’s not what he seems, you know.”

“Aye, certes, he’s not!”

“No, not just that way.” Rod frowned. “He’s, uh, magical. But not your kind of magic—mine. He’s not really a horse of any kind. He could be anything.”

“A pooka,” Simon murmured, unable to tear his gaze away.

“No, not that way! He’s cold iron, underneath that horsehair—well, an alloy really. Plus, he’s got a mind that’s really a thing apart.” Rod remembered how easily he could take the basketball-sized sphere that held Fess’s computer-brain out of the horse-body and plug it into his starship, to astrogate and pilot. “I mean, his brain’s really a thing apart. But he’s always calm—well, almost always. And supremely logical. And always has good advice for me.” The core of anger was shrinking; it had almost disappeared, and Rod could feel the last tendrils of rage withdrawing into it. If Lord Kern really had reached across the void between the universes in response to Rod’s anger, he had lost his grip. And if it was really just his own bloodlust driving him toward violence, it was under control again now. Rod’s mouth quirked into a sardonic smile. “Thank you, Milord. I appreciate your assistance, and will call upon it frequently, when there is need. But for now, I am myself again, and must trace this foul sorcerer in the ways which I deem best, in this world in which horses may be of metal, with machines for brains.”

Simon cocked his head, trying to hear, but not quite catching Rod’s words.

Rod felt Kern’s presence—or the bulk of his own anger, whichever it was—ebb. Whether “Kern” was real, or just a projection of his subconscious, it was now as thoroughly gone as it could be. He heaved a sigh, and turned to Simon. “Thank you. You pulled me out of it.”

“Gladly,” Simon said, “though I misdoubt me an I comprehend.”

“It’s really very simple. You see, there’s another High Warlock, in another kingdom, far, far away—extremely far away; there isn’t even a way to measure it. It’s in another universe, if you can believe that.”

“Believe it, aye. Understanding it’s another matter.”

“Just try and drink it in,” Rod advised. “We won’t have an examination in this course. Now, this other High Warlock is my analog. That means that he corresponds to me in every detail; what he does in his universe, what I do in mine. I visited his country for a while, and had occasion to borrow his powers; he channelled them through me, of course. But now it seems that was habit-forming; he keeps trying to reach across to this universe, and take up residence in my body.”

Simon paled. “Surely he cannot!”

Rod shrugged. “Maybe not. Maybe it’s just my own lust for violence, the temptation to commit mayhem, and I’m labeling it ‘Lord Kern’ to try to separate the actions I believe to be wrong, from my conscience.” He glowered off into space. “That doesn’t really work, of course. The responsibility’s mine, no matter what illusion I create as an excuse. Even if I say Lord Kern did it, it’ll really be me who committed the deed. It’ll still be me, even if I try to disguise it.” He turned to Simon with a bleak smile. “But I seem to be able to lie to myself very convincingly. I’m thoroughly capable of persuading myself that I’m somebody else, when I want to.”

“So.” Simon frowned. “I have convinced thee that thou art thyself again?”

Rod nodded. “More importantly, you’ve shown me that I can restore myself to my real personality, instead of the make-believe one, welding my thoughts and my actions back into a whole again. It’s a matter of remembering who I am. Fess was the key; Fess was the final thing that did it. Because, you see…” He quirked a smile. “…Fess couldn’t exist in Lord Kern’s universe.”

Simon frowned. “I do not understand why not; yet will I accept thine assurance.” Then his eyes sparked, and widened. “Yet mayhap I do comprehend. Thine horse doth stand for thee, doth he not? For if he could not be, in this Lord Kern’s land, then neither couldst thou!”

“Not without being imported, no.” Then Rod stiffened, turning aside from Simon, feeling as though an electric current were passing through him. “Yes… he does stand for me in a lot of ways, doesn’t he?” The computer mind in the horsehair body was rather symbolic of technological Rod in Gramarye’s medieval culture…

But of himself…?

“I think ‘tis so,” Simon was saying. “And even as thine horse is the key to returning thee to control of thine actions, so thine anger is the key to summoning this ‘Lord Kern’ which, thou dost say, thou hast created, to take responsibility for thine own fell deeds, that thou mayest give thyself the lie that ‘tis no fault of thine own.”

Rod stood still for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Yes. And it is a lie.” He dropped down, to sit on his heels. Simon sat by him. “Ever since I came back from Lord Kern’s universe, I’ve been flying into rages—and it’s scary, very scary.”

“So.” Simon’s eyes glinted. “Thou hast been afraid to draw on thine own powers, for fear of summoning him.”

Rod stared at him for a while. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Yes, that would make sense, wouldn’t it? Association. Using magic for the first time, resulted in Lord Kern’s being a house guest within my skull; so using them again, should bring him back. A certain illogical sort of reason to it, isn’t there?”

“It doth sound so, when thou dost say it.”

“Yes—but stating it also makes me able to see that it doesn’t make sense.” Rod grinned. “I have to draw on my powers, though. There have been times when they came in almighty handy. Just now, for example—Alfar had his dagger at my throat, so I had nothing to lose.” He shuddered. “And ‘Lord Kern’ almost took over completely, this time.”

“Aye.” Simon smiled. “Thou didst fear, didst thou not? To use thy powers, for fear of summoning ‘Lord Kern.’ ”

Rod nodded, chagrined. “Even if he’s just an illusion I made up. Yeah. I’d still be afraid of it.”

“Yet thou dost wish to use these powers.” Simon raised a forefinger. “Whether they be Lord Kern’s, or but thine own magics, that thine anger doth conjure up, thou dost fear to use them, lest thou shouldst yield to temptation, and let thine hands do what thou dost abhor.”