Then he remembered Yorick, and his claim to be a time-traveller. It could be, it could be…

He cleared his throat. “I think that I must see this place.”

“And follow them?” Puck shook his head with a sour smile. “I think that five lost are enough, good friar.”

Father Al hadn’t really thought that far ahead, but now that Puck mentioned it, he felt a creeping certainty. “Nay, I think that thou has said it,” he said slowly, “for where’er thy High Warlock has gone, it could be just such a journey that could wake in him the Power that he knows not of. And I must be there, to guide him in its use!”

“Art thou so schooled in witchcraft, priest?” Puck fairly oozed sarcasm.

“Not in witchcraft, but in the ways of various magics.” Father Al frowned. “For, look you, elf, ‘tis been my life’s study, to learn to know when a mortal is possessed of a demon and when he’s not; and to prove how things that seem to be the work of witchcraft, are done by other means. Yet in this study, I’ve of necessity learned much of every form of magic known to mortals. Never have I ever thought real magic could exist; yet that letter that I told thee of warned us that Rod Gallowglass would gain real magic power. Still do I think his strength will prove to be of origins natural, but rare; yet even so, he’ll need one to show him its true nature, and to lead him past the temptations toward evil that great power always brings.”

“I scarcely think Rod Gallowglass needs one to teach him goodness—an should he, I doubt me not his wife is equal to the task.” But doubt shadowed Puck’s eyes. “Yet I’ll bring thee to the place. Thence, ‘tis thy concern.”

The witch-girl stayed behind, to help with the baby if she could. Puck led Father Al down a woodland path—and the priest kept an eye on the direction of the sun, whenever it poked through the leaves, to make sure he was being led in a definite direction. Finally, they came out into a meadow. A hundred meters away, a pond riffled under a light breeze, bordered by a few trees. A huge black horse lifted its head, staring at them; then it came trotting from the pool.

“ ‘Tis the High Warlock’s charger, Fess,” Puck explained. “An thou dost wish to follow after his master, thou first must deal with him.” And, as the horse came up to them: “Hail, good Fess! I present to thee a goodly monk, whose interest in thy master doth to me seem honest. Tell him who thou art, good friar.”

Well! Father Al had heard that elves had an affinity for dumb animals—but this was going a bit far! Nonetheless, Puck seemed sincere, and Father Al hated to hurt his feelings… “I am Father Aloysius Uwell, of the Order of St. Vidicon of Cathode…” Was it his imagination, or did the horse prick up its ears at the mention of the good Saint’s name? Well, St. Vidicon had influence in a lot of odd places. “I am hither come to aid thy master, for I’ve been vouchsafed word that he might find himself in peril, whether he did know of it or not.”

The horse had a very intent look about him. Father Al must’ve been imagining it. He turned to Puck. “Canst thou show me where the High Warlock did vanish?”

“Yon,” Puck said, pointing and stepping around Fess toward the pond. “Indeed, we’ve marked the place.”

Father Al followed him.

The great black horse sidestepped, blocking their path.

“ ‘Tis as I feared,” Puck sighed. “He’ll let no one near the spot.”

Suddenly, Father Al was absolutely certain that he had to follow Rod Gallowglass. “Come now! Certes no horse, no matter how worthy, can prevent…” He dodged to the side, breaking into a run.

The horse reared up, pivoted about, and came down, its forefeet thudding to earth just in front of the priest.

Puck chuckled.

Father Al frowned. “Nay, good beast. Dost not know what’s in thy master’s interest?” He backed up, remembering his college gymnastics.

Fess watched him warily.

Father Al leaped into a run, straight at the great black horse. He leaped high, grasping the front and back of the saddle, and swung his legs up in a side vault.

Fess danced around in a half-circle.

Father Al hit the ground running—and found himself heading straight for Puck. The elf burst into a guffaw.

Father Al halted and turned around, glowering at Fess. “A most unusual horse, good Puck.”

“What wouldst thou expect, of the High Warlock’s mount?”

“Apparently somewhat less than he doth expect of me.” Father Al hitched up his rope belt. “But I know better now.” He set himself, watching Fess with narrowed eyes; then he raced straight at the horse, and veered to the left at the last second. Fess danced to the left, too, but Father Al was already zagging to the right. Fess reversed engines with amazing speed, getting his midsection solidly in front of the priest—and Father Al ducked under his belly.

Fess sat down.

Puck roared with laughter.

Father Al came reeling out of the fray, staggering like a drunk. “I think… a change of tactics… might be in order.”

“So I think, too.” Puck grinned, arms akimbo. “Therefore, try sweet reason, priest.”

Father Al frowned down at him, remembering Puck’s legendary fondness for helping mortals make fools of themselves. Then he shrugged and turned back to Fess. “Why not? The situation’s so ridiculous, why should a little more matter?” He stepped up to the beast. “Now, look thou, Fess—thy master’s sore endangered. It may be that I may aid him.”

Fess shook his head.

Father Al stared. If he didn’t know better, he would’ve thought the horse had understood him.

Then he frowned—just a coincidence, no doubt. “We had a letter. It was writ a thousand years agone, by a man long dead, who foretold us that, in this time and place, one Rod Gallowglass would wake to greater power of magic than mortals ever knew.”

The horse moved to the side, tossing its head as though it was beckoning.

Father Al stared. Then he squeezed his eyes shut, gave his head a quick shake; but when he looked again, the horse was still beckoning. He shrugged, and followed, ignoring Puck’s chortle.

Fess was standing by a patch of bare dirt, scratching at it with a hoof. Father Al watched the hoof, then felt a shiver run through him as he saw what the horse had drawn. There in the dirt, in neat block letters, lay the word “WHO?”

Father Al looked up at the horse, facts adding themselves up in his head. “The High Warlock’s horse—and you came with him, from off-planet, didn’t you?”

The horse stared at him. Why? Oh. He’d said, “off-planet.” Which marked him. “Yes, I’m from off-planet, too—from the Vatican, on Terra. And you…” Suddenly, the priest shot a punch at the horse’s chest.

It went “bongggggg.”

Father Al went, “Yowtch!” and nursed bruised knuckles.

Puck went into hysterics, rolling on the ground.

Father Al nodded. “Very convincing artificial horsehide, over a metal body. And you’ve a computer for a brain, haven’t you?” He stared at the horse.

Slowly, Fess nodded.

“Well.” Father Al stood straight, fists on his hips. “Nice to know the background, isn’t it? Now let me give you the full story.”

He did, in modern English. Fess’s head snapped up at the name of Angus McAran; apparently he’d had some contact with the head time-spider before. Encouraged, Father Al kept the synopsis going through his meeting with Yorick, at mention of whose name, Fess gave a loud snort. Well, that had sort of been Father Al’s reaction, too.

“So if McAran’s right,” Father Al wound up, “something’s going to happen to Rod Gallowglass, wherever he’s gone, that’s going to waken some great Power that’s been lying dormant in him all along. Whatever the nature of that power, it might tempt him toward evil—without his even realizing it. After all, some things that seem right at the moment—such as revenge—can really lead one, bit by bit, into spiritual corruption, and great evil.”