“Aye…” Gwen’s gaze seemed to turn inward; she sat alone, hands in her lap, mind reaching out to enfold her baby’s.

Father Al coughed politely. “Ah, may I inquire—who is ‘Brom O’Berin?’ ”

“The King of the Elves,” Rod said absently, then quickly, “Uh, that’s semi-classified information! Do you still honor the Seal of the Confessional, Father?”

“We do, though we don’t use that term any more.” Father Al smiled, amused. “And what you’ve just let slip is protected by it. Would it reassure you if I called you, ‘my son?’ ”

“No, that’s not necessary.” Rod smiled, warming even more to the priest. “Brom’s also the Royal Privy Counselor, you see—so there is a need for secrecy.”

“Hm.” Father Al frowned. “Then should your children hear it?”

“The kids?” Rod glanced at the grassy bank; the children lay tumbled on it, asleep. “It has been a long day, hasn’t it? No, I don’t think they heard, Father.”

“So I see.” Father Al smiled fondly.

Rod cocked his head to one side, watching him. “Little sentimental, aren’t you? I mean, considering they’re supposed to be little warlocks and a little witch.”

Father Al stared at him, startled. “Come now, sir! These children’s souls are perfectly normal, from all that I can see! There’s nothing supernatural about psionic powers!”

“Sure about that?” Rod eyed him sideways. “Well, it’s your field, not mine. Uh—you are a specialist, aren’t you?”

Father Al nodded. “A cultural anthropologist, really, but I specialize in the study of magic.”

“Why?”

Father Al blinked. “How’s that again?”

“Why would the Church of Rome be interested in magic?”

The priest grinned broadly. “Why, to prove it doesn’t exist, for one thing—and that takes some meticulous work on occasion, believe me; there’ve been some extremely clever hoaxes. And, of course, the rare actual esper can very easily be mistaken for a sorcerer. Beyond that—well, the whole concept of magic has a strange domination over men’s souls, in many cultures; and the soul is our concern.”

“Meaning that if any real magic ever does show up, you want to know how to fight it.”

“If it’s demonic, yes. For example, exorcism has a long history. But the Church didn’t really begin to become interested in magic until the 25th Century, when provable espers began to become visible. They weren’t Satanists, nor possessed by evil spirits; that didn’t take long to establish. On the other hand, they weren’t saints either—that was even more obvious. Good people, most of them, but no better than the average, such as myself.”

“So,” Rod said, “you had to decide there was a ‘magic’ force that had nothing to do with the supernatural.”

Father Uwell nodded. “Then we were off the hook, for the time being. But some of the Cathodeans began to wonder how the Church should react if it ever ran into some sort of real magic that was neither witchcraft nor miracle.”

Rod frowned. “Just what’d you have in mind? I mean, if esper powers don’t fit that description, what does?”

“Oh, you know—fairy-tale magic. Waving your hands in the air, and chanting an incantation, and making something happen by a ritual process, not by the power of your mind.”

“Saying ‘Abracadabra’ and waving a magic wand, huh? All right, I’ll bite—how should the Church react?”

Father Uwell shrugged. “How should I know? We’ve only been discussing it for five hundred years.”

Rod eyed him sideways. “I should think that’d be time enough to arrive at a few tentative conclusions.”

“Oh yes, hundreds of them! That’s the problem, you see—we have a notion about how we should respond if we ever do encounter a case of real magic—but so far, we haven’t.”

“O-o-oh.” Rod nodded. “No one to test your theories on, huh?”

“Exactly so. Of course, we’ve looked for a real magician; we’ve investigated hundreds of cases. But most of them proved to be espers who didn’t know what they were; and there were a few cases of demonic possession, of course. The rest were hoaxes. So if we ever do find a real ‘wizard,’ we think we’ll know how to react, but…”

“How?”

Father Uwell shrugged. “The way we should’ve reacted to the introduction of science, and eventually did—that it’s something neither good nor evil, but does raise a deal of questions we have to try to answer.”

Rod tilted his head back, lips forming the syllable quite a while before he said it. “Oh. So if a real wizard should happen to come waltzing along, you want to be there from the very beginning, so you can figure out what questions he’s raising.”

“And bat them to the theologians, to find answers for.” Father Uwell nodded. “And there is the danger that a neophyte wizard might start meddling with the supernatural, without realizing what he’s doing. If that did happen, someone should be there to steer him back into safe territory.”

“And if he doesn’t steer?”

“Persuade him, of course.”

“And if he doesn’t stop?”

Father Uwell shrugged. “Batten down the hatches and get braced for the worst—and try to figure out how he does what he does, so that if he lets loose some really evil power, we can counter it.”

Rod stood very still.

Then he nodded, slowly. “So. It does behoove the Church to study magic.”

“And we have. We’ve worked out a great deal, theoretically—but who’s to say if any of it’s really valid?”

Rod shook his head. “Not me, Father. Sorry, but if you’re looking for a wizard, you haven’t found him… I’ve never worked a trick in my life, that didn’t have a gadget behind it. I did bump into McAran once, coming through a time machine—but I wasn’t a wizard then, either. And he knew it!”

The priest thrust his head forward. “A time machine. He could’ve used it to take a look at your personal future.”

Rod stood stock-still for a moment.

Then he shook his head vigorously. “No. Oh, no. No. There’s no way I could turn into a wizard—is there?”

“Well, there is the question of your suddenly becoming telepathically invisible—but that’s more a matter of psi phenomena than of magic. Still, it indicates you may have some powers you don’t know about. Has something improbable ever happened, when you wanted it to happen, for no visible reason?”

Rod frowned, shaking his head. “Never, Father. Can’t think of a single.”

“Mine husband,” Gwen reminded, “the bells…”

Rod looked up, startled. Then he turned back to the priest, slowly. “That’s right. Just a little while ago, I wanted church bells to ring, very badly—wished it with all my might, actually—I was trying to break through to Gwen, hoping she’d read my mind and start ringing them telekinetically.”

“And they rang,” Gwen said softly, eyes wide, “though I did not do it.”

“Nor the kids either,” Rod said grimly. “You don’t suppose…?”

“Oh, I do—but it’s only a supposition. One incident isn’t quite enough to construct a theory. Excuse me—you did say your wife is telekinetic?”

“Among other things.” Rod nodded. “And our little girl, too. The boys teleport. That’s the usual sex-linked breakdown on Gramarye, for espers. But Magnus is telekinetic, too, which breaks the rules—and he’s got some powers we’re not sure about at all.”

“It runs in the family, then.”

“Runs? It never even slows down to a trot!”

“Yes, I see.” Father Uwell frowned. “I’d heard about this all, of course, but… Doesn’t it strike you as strange that your children should breed true, in esper powers, when only one of their parents is an esper?”

Rod stared. Gwen’s eyes lit.

“I’d assumed it was a dominant trait,” Rod said slowly.

“Which it well might be, of course. But how do you explain your son’s additional powers?”

“I don’t.” Rod threw up his hands. “I’ve been trying for eight years and I still can’t. How’s ‘mutation’ sound to you?”

“About the same way ‘coincidence’ does—possible, but also improbable, and therefore suspect.”