The peasant looked up, blinking. “I have not waked quite, I think. Were yon children flying?”

Rod glanced over at the kids, then back. “No, you’re still dreaming.”

“Art thou certain?”

“Of course I’m sure! I’m their father. Say, would you happen to know the date?”

The man blinked again. “Date?”

“Uh, the year will do.” Rod took a deep breath. “See, we’re from out of town, and we want to make sure we count the years the same way you do.”

“I see.” He didn’t. “Well… ‘tis the Year of Our Lord 3059… Art thou well?”

Rod realized he was staring. “Uh, just asleep on my feet. I hate it when the day starts so early.”

“Assuredly,” the man said, wondering, “how can it begin, but with sunrise?”

“A good point,” Rod admitted. “Well, thanks for the information. Have a good day!” He turned, and trotted back to Gwen and the kids. As he came up to them, he glanced back; the laborer was still staring at them. Rod grabbed Magnus’s shoulder. “Son, give that guy a quick cat-nap, will you? I want him to think he dreamed us.”

Rod surveyed the site from the hill-top, and nodded. “Good. Very good. Gwen, there’s your thicket…” he pointed to a stand of furze on the near side of the trail… “…and here’s my station, on the slope.”

“Where shall we be, Papa?” Magnus asked eagerly.

“Up here, with Father Uwell, for protection.”

“Their protection?” The priest smiled, amused. “Or mine?”

“Ours,” Rod answered, “Gwen’s and mine. And Elidor’s.”

“Mama,” Geoffrey piped up, “hungry.”

“Me too, come to think of it.” Rod’s stomach growled. He shrugged. “Okay, kids—go find breakfast.”

The children whooped and ran, tumbling down the hillside.

“What will they find?” Father Uwell asked.

Gwen shook her head, smiling. “Only Heaven may know, Father.”

“Care to ask?” Rod prompted.

Father Uwell shook his head, smiling. “I’m afraid my pipeline doesn’t go beyond the Vatican.”

“Yes—the place with the constellations.” Rod frowned.

“Have you absorbed it?” the priest said gently.

“Pretty much. You updated, Gwen?”

She nodded. “I was aware of Father Uwell’s thoughts.”

It didn’t faze him. Rod gave him points. “So, Father…”

“Please.” The priest held up a hand. “We’re apt to be together awhile. My friends call me ‘Al’ ”.

“Right. Well, Father Al, what do you make of it?”

The priest frowned for a second; then he shrugged and smiled. “We’re on Terra, but it’s not the Terra we know—and, by the constellations, it can’t be any other planet.”

“Alpha Centauri A?” Rod said, trying feebly.

The priest shook his head. “No, my friend. Four point three seven light years makes a noticeable difference in the constellations. Besides, I’ve been on its habitable planet, and it looks nothing like this—you might say the terraforming still hasn’t quite taken hold.”

“No, it hasn’t.” Rod had been there, too; it was nice, if you liked wide, empty spaces. “So it’s Terra, and there’s no way out of it.” He swallowed as he realized the double meaning.

Father Al caught it, too. “If humankind can make a way in, they can make a way out,” he said firmly, “but we’ll have to learn a new set of ground rules.”

“Yes,” Rod said grimly. “Let’s stop skirting around it and say it, Father—we’re in another universe.”

“Of course.” Father Al seemed mildly surprised. “You’ve adapted to the concept very well.”

Rod shrugged. “I’m getting used to the place.” He turned to Gwen. “How you feel about it, dear?”

She shrugged. “Is it harder to get home over the void between universes, than over a thousand years?”

“I dunno,” Rod said, “but I bet we’ll find out. Here comes brunch, Father.”

The children came toiling back uphill. Magnus held a few partridge, Geoff proudly bore a rabbit skewered on his sword, and Cordelia had her apron full.

“Rowan. Papa.” She held up some red berries as she came to Rod. “You forgot.”

“You’re right, dear—I did.” Rod accepted the berries ruefully and turned to the priest. “Know what an ash tree looks like, Father?”

 

They woke about sunset. The children scouted up dinner, and rolled the leftovers in a fresh rabbit-skin for Elidor. “For,” said Gwen, “he’ll surely have had the sense to eat no fairy food.”

“We hope,” Rod said grimly. “If he has, it’ll take more magic than ours to pry him loose from Theofrin.”

“Have no fear,” Magnus assured them, “he hath neither eaten nor drunk. His godmother hath told him tales.”

Rod looked down, startled. “You’re still tuned in on him?”

Magnus nodded.

“Hmm.” Rod rubbed his chin, gazing southward along the track. “Okay, son—when you ‘hear’ him getting close, give an owl-hoot. Any questions?”

Everyone shook their heads.

Except Father Al. “I have several—but I think I’ll have to observe, and work out the answers for myself.”

Rod gave him a withering glance. “I wasn’t talking about theology.”

“Neither was I.”

“That does it.” Rod clapped his hands. “Battle stations, everyone—and keep an eye peeled for spriggans.”

They took their assigned positions, and waited. And waited.

Rod took a stout hold on his ash staff and reminded himself that midnight was the witching hour. Probably a long wait yet…

An owl hooted.

Rod looked up, startled. The real thing, or Magnus? But it hooted again, and it was coming from across the track, high up. He glanced up at the sky, saw only stars, moon, and the light-gray of clouds.

Magnus.

Then he began to hear it—tinkling, like tiny cymbals, and a weird skirling of pipes. Over it all ran a wavering drone, like an army of bees, but soaring from one end of the scale to the other.

Then came the clatter of harness.

Rod glanced up at the thicket above him, but there was no movement. Of course not—Gwen was an old campaigner in her own right.

Then the vanguard appeared.

They wound around a hill at the southern end of the track, a host of small, bright, dancing figures, followed by tall, impossibly slender, elongated horses, coats sheening golden by moonlight. And the riders! They caught Rod’s breath. Extravagantly dressed, in a rainbow of colors—tall, slender, and beautiful. And glowing. Each of them.

And one tiny rider, in the center of the company, slouched over, head low—Elidor!

Rod rolled to his feet. Time to get moving.

He set off across the hillside, angling downward, then hiking back upward, as though he were trying to keep a straight line and failing. He let his gait wobble and started singing, slurring his voice as much as he could.

He heard a multiple whoop of glee behind him and choked down the surge of panic, forcing himself to keep his feet steady.

He heard hisses behind him. “ ‘Tis a toss-pot!”

“Nay, ‘tis a long road home he’ll have tonight!”

“Do thou afright him from the front!”

Suddenly a huge dun-colored dog rose up before him, growling, mischief dancing in its eyes.

Rod jerked to a stop, trying to stay in character.

“Ere, now! ‘Owzh it wizh ‘ee, Bowzher?”

“Nay, look behind thee!” a voice giggled, and he whirled about, stumbled, caught himself on his staff, and found himself staring straight into the dancing eyes of a snake, reared to strike. He let out a shriek and stumbled back, into the multiple arms of a giggling thing with a mouth like a slice of melon. He screamed and thrashed about, but its hold tightened—and touched his staff.

It shrieked, yanking an arm back, and fell over around the wound, screaming like a burn victim. “His staff! ‘Tis ash, ‘tis ash! Oh, mine arm, mine arm!”

“Ash! Ash! Ash!” whispered through the crowd of faeries; and they drew back, leaving a wide space around Rod. Many more came flitting over from the caravan, leaving only the lordly faery folk on their horses; and they were watching closely.