“Lundres, Seredin, and Ventreles—I believe those are the colonists’ names for the stars. I’m afraid I don’t know the catalog numbers.”

“I’d have to look them up, myself,” the bishop said, with a thin smile. “There are colonies on the third and fourth planets of Lundres, one on the fourth planet of Seredin, and one on the second planet of Ventreles.”

“But they haven’t begun to branch out to the moons and asteroids yet?”

“No, the planets are enough for us, for the time being. After all, Father, we scarcely total a million souls.”

“So little as that? My, my. I trust that doesn’t indicate a disaster?”

“Scarcely.” The bishop tried to repress a smile. “But when you begin with a colony of a few thousand, Father, it does take a while to build up a sizable population, even with sperm and ova banks to keep the genetics stable.”

“Yes, of course. I hope you’ll pardon my ignorance, Your Grace—I’ve never been so far from Terra before. And distance is the factor—with so few people spread over so many light-years, it must be an Herculean task to stay in touch with them.”

“It is difficult,” the bishop admitted, “especially with so few vocations. But we do have hyperadio now, and of course we’ve had a dozen pinnaces with FTL drives all along.”

“Of course.” But Father Al’s eyes suddenly gleamed.

The bishop shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “About this trouble you mentioned, Father—on which colony is it?”

“A Lost Colony, Your Grace, about two-thirds of the way between Seredin and Ventreles, and thirteen light-years away.”

The Bishop relaxed again. “Well, that is out of my diocese. What colony is this?”

“Its people call it ‘Gramarye,’ Your Grace.”

“Troubling.” The bishop frowned. “The word refers to sorcery, does it not?”

“Well, magic, certainly, and it does have occult connotations. The term’s also used to refer to a book of magical spells.”

“I can see why the Vatican would be concerned. But how is it I’ve never heard of this Lost Colony, Father?”

“Why, they wished to stay lost,” Father Al said, lips puckering in a smile. “As far as I’ve been able to make out, they deliberately set about cutting themselves off from the rest of humanity.”

“An ominous symptom.” The bishop’s frown deepened. “All manner of heresies could break out in such a situation. And they’ve been there for several centuries?”

Father Al nodded. “The colony was founded just before the Interstellar Dominion Electorates fell to the Proletarian Eclectic State of Terra’s coup.”

“At least they were founded under a democratic interstellar federation. I take it they saw the totalitarian rule of PEST coming, and went off to try to keep democracy alive?”

“Not really; they established a monarchy.”

“Why, I wonder?” The bishop rubbed his chin. “How did the Vatican learn of them?”

Father Al heard the indignant echo under the words; what business did he, an outsider, have coming in here, telling the bishop there was a nearby trouble spot he hadn’t known about? “You might say the information was leaked to us, by an agency associated with the interstellar government.” Which was true; but the Decentralized Democratic Tribunal didn’t know about the association.

“I see.” The bishop’s face cleared. “It’s good to know there are still some concerned citizens. Was your source Catholic?”

“I believe his name’s Irish, but that’s all I know.”

“That’s indication enough.” The bishop sat back in his chair. “I assume he gave you the coordinates. How will you get there?”

“Well, ah…”

The bishop’s eyes widened. “No, Father. All my boats are fully scheduled, for the next three months. If we were to transport you, one of the colonies would have to miss its consignment of missalettes.”

“I think the clergy could manage to find the correct readings, Your Grace. Besides, don’t you keep at least one of your craft on standby, in case of breakdowns?”

“Yes, but what if there were a breakdown? Good heavens, Father, two of our colonies can’t even produce their own altar wine yet!”

“But surely…”

“Father!” The bishop’s eyebrows drew down in a scowl. “I hate to be so blunt, but—the answer is an unequivocal ‘No!’ ”

Father Al sighed. “I was afraid you’d say that—but I was hoping to avoid having to do this.” He drew a long white envelope from the inside pocket of his cassock. “Pardon this archaic form of communications, Your Grace—but we weren’t sure what level of technology we’d encounter on Gramarye. I assure you, it’s just as personal as a message cube.” He handed the envelope to the bishop.

Frowning, the bishop slid out the letter and unfolded it. He read with a scowl. “Aid the bearer of this letter, Father Aloysius Uwell, in any way he may request. In all matters pertaining to the planet ‘Gramarye,’ he speaks with my voice.” He blanched as he saw the signature. “Pope John the XXIV!”

“And his seal,” Father Al said apologetically. “So you see, Your Grace, I really must have transportation to Gramarye.”

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

They cut a particularly big blaze on a huge old willow overhanging the shore, then set off to the left, along the lakeside, heading north. After a half-hour’s walk, they came out of the silver wood into an emerald-green meadow.

“Oh, look!” Cordelia gasped, pointing. “The prettiest cow in the world!”

Rod looked, and swallowed, hard. The “cow,” even if it didn’t have any horns, was definitely the biggest, toughest, meanest-looking old bull he’d ever seen. “No, Cordelia, I don’t think that’s…”

“Cordelia!” Gwen gasped, and Rod whirled, just as a miniature witch on a branch of a broomstick shot past his nose.

“Too late!” Gwen clenched her fists in frustration. “Oh, you dare not take your eyes from them for a second! Milord, she is dangered!”

“I know,” Rod ground out, keeping his voice low, “but we don’t dare charge out there, or we might spook it… No, put down that branch! I’ve got to stalk it…No you don’t, young man!” He made a frantic grab for Magnus’s collar, and yanked him back. “I said I’ll stalk it! One child in danger is enough, thank you! Gwen, hold onto ‘em!” And he stepped out into the meadow, drawing his sword.

Geoffrey began to cry, but the sobs cut off quickly—Gwen’s hand over his mouth, no doubt. She was right; they didn’t dare make a sound. Rod moved very slowly, though every cell of his body screamed at him to hurry.

Especially since Cordelia was coming in for a landing! Not right under the bull’s nose, thank Heaven—but only a few feet away! She plumped right down on the grass, though—at least she had the sense not to go running up to it.

“Here, Bossy!” He could hear her voice clearly, over a hundred feet of meadow grass—that might as well have been a thousand miles! “Sweet moo-cow, come here!”

And the bull was turning its head towards her!

And now the rest of its body! It was moving! It was ambling towards her! Rod braced himself for a frantic mad dash…

And it nuzzled her outstretched hand.

Rod stood rigid, unable to believe it. But it was real—it liked her! It was gentle! It was nibbling grass from her hand! A father itself, no doubt—and sure enough of its own masculinity not to be insulted by her mistake as to its gender. Thank Heaven!

Not that he was about to stop trying to get to her—but carefully, now, very carefully; it was being gentle, let’s not upset the cattle car! And move around to come at it from the side—if it charged him, Rod didn’t want Cordelia in the way.

But there was no need to worry about that—she was going to be on top of the situation. Because the bull was folding its legs, and lying down beside her, in pure invitation! And she was climbing on! He choked back her name, and the impulse to shout it; don’t spook the bull!