“In fact, it’s a family affair,” Rod corroborated. “You’d be surprised at what my kids can do, without getting in range.”

The old priest darted glances from one to another, as though they were mad. “Give over, I beg thee! And these poor wee bairns—do not subject them to such hazard!”

“We couldn’t leave them behind if we wanted to,” Rod said grimly.

“We will triumph, Father,” Gwen said gently. “We have but lately set the Crodh Mara to defeat the Each Uisge, and have, together, put a faery lord’s court to flight.”

“Yet the faery lords are not Redcap! They do not delight in murder and bloodshed! No! Do not go! But if thou must, thou shalt go without mine altar stone!”

Father Al sighed and pulled an oiled parchment out of his robe. Rod saw fold lines on it, and guessed it had been in an envelope before Father Al got to Gramarye. The Terran monk said, “I had hoped to avoid this, but… look upon this writ, Father.”

The old man stared at him, frightened. Then, reluctantly, he took the parchment and unrolled it. He read it, gasped, and grew paler the more he read. At last he rolled it back up with trembling hands and lifted his head, eyes glazed. “It…it cannot be! He… he is in Rome, halfway ‘cross the world! Rarely doth he speak to those of us in this far land, and then only to Archbishops! How doth it chance… Aiiieee!” He dropped the parchment, clasping his head in his hands. “What have I done? What sin lies on my soul, that he should write to me?”

“No sin, Father, surely!” Father Al cried in distress, clasping the old man’s arm. “In truth, I doubt he doth know that thou dost live! He doth address this Writ to any who should read it, should I choose to show it them, having need of their aid!”

“Aye, oh! Aye.” The old man lifted a haggard face. “Yet what mischance doth befall, that I should be the one from whom thou dost require aid? Why doth this chance befall to me? Nay, surely have I failed in my duty to my God and to my flock!”

“Thy humility doth thee credit,” Father Al said gently, but with the firmness of irony underlying it. “But thy common sense doth not. This lot doth fall to thee only because thy flock doth live near to the Tower of Gonkroma, whither I and my friends must go to challenge Redcap.”

Slowly, the old man’s eyes focused on Father Al. He nodded, and his face began to firm up. “Aye. ‘Tis even as thou dost say.” He straightened his shoulders and rose. “Well, then, if it must be so, it must—and I do not doubt it; I cannot read his hand, yet I’ve seen the picture of his Seal in books.”

“And now thou dost see the impression of the Seal itself. Wilt thou render up thine altar stone, good Father?”

“Aye, that will I. If His Holiness would wish it, then thou shalt have it. Come; I will lift it for thee.”

They came out of the chapel a few minutes later, Father Al holding the stone wrapped securely under his arm.

“That wasn’t quite honest, was it?” Rod asked.

Father Al looked up, startled. “Why not? The letter’s genuine, I assure you! That is the impression of the real Papal Seal, and the signature of the real Pope!”

“Yes, but not his pope.”

Father Al frowned. “What do you mean? John XXIV is Pope… Oh.”

“Yes.” Rod nodded. “In our universe.”

“But he is not, in this universe?”

“How could he be?”

“Why not?” Father Al turned a beaming smile on him. “This Earth is very much like the Terra of our universe; the constellations are the same; the language is the same as that of Renaissance England. Why might there not be people who are the same in both universes, too?”

“You don’t seriously believe that, do you?”

Father Al shrugged. “I’m willing to consider it. But it doesn’t really matter greatly. We Catholics believe that the Pope speaks for God, when he speaks as Pope, not just as himself—ex cathedra, we call it.”

Rod stopped dead still, ramrod-straight, eyes closed. He counted to ten, then said carefully, “Father—doesn’t that strike you as a little medieval?”

“Have you looked around you lately?”

“Cheap rejoinder, Father.” Rod fixed him with a gimlet eye. “Our universe isn’t medieval—but your belief is.”

“Not really,” Father Al said earnestly. “Spiritual beliefs really can’t be proven or disproven by physics or chemistry, any more than theology can deduce the formula for a polymer. It comes down to faith, after all—and we believe that Christ gave Peter the power to speak for Him, when He told that first Bishop of Rome, ‘I give to you the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven. What you bind on Earth, it shall be bound in Heaven; what you loose on Earth, it shall be loosed in Heaven.’ We also believe that Peter’s ‘keys’ descended to his successors, down to the present Pope.”

“Very interesting, but I don’t see…” Rod broke off, staring. “Oh, no! You don’t mean…”

“Why not?” Father Al smiled. “Did you think there would be a different God for each universe? I can’t prove it with physical evidence, but I believe in a God who existed before anything else did, and who created everything—one God who began all the universes. I’ve noticed that the people here are Christians—Roman Catholics, in fact. So, if it’s the same God for both universes, and the Pope speaks for Him, says what God wants said, surely the Pope in this universe will give the same answer to any given question as the Pope in our universe would.”

“So your Writ from your Pope says what the Pope in this universe wants that old priest in there to do.” Rod gave Father Al a sidelong look. “Doesn’t that sound just a teeny bit lame to you, Father?”

“Of course,” said Father Al, with a disarming smile. “Because, when my Pope wrote this letter, he wasn’t speaking ex cathedra; so he was speaking as John the XXIV, not as Pope. Nonetheless, I’ve no doubt the Christians here hold basically the same beliefs as Christians in our home universe; so I don’t doubt the Pope here would want me to have this altar stone.” He frowned, gazing at the sky.

“Pretty problem, though, isn’t it?” Then his face cleared. “Well, I’ll tell the Jesuits about it, when we get back. Shall we get down to business?”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Gwen brought her broomstick hovering over the ledge, a hundred yards from the Tower, and brought it slowly to ground. Rod and Father Al dismounted, just as Magnus and Geoff popped into sight beside them.

“What’re you two doing here?” Rod demanded. “I want you up on top of that crag!”

“Aw, Papa! Do we have to?”

“Yes, you do! I want you watching from a safe distance, ready to teleport me out of there if it looks like he’s really apt to kill me! And where’s Elidor?”

Magnus’s eyes widened; then guilt rose in them. “Uh—we left him atop the crag.”

“Uh-huh!” Rod nodded grimly. “So what’s to stop a spriggan from hopping in and snatching him again, huh? Now, you two get back there—fast!”

“Yes, Pap…” They disappeared before they finished the syllable.

“And that goes for you, too.” Rod glowered at the witchling who hovered before him on a makeshift hearth-broom. “Stay out of the fight, Cordelia! But help your Mama, and be ready to drop a few rocks on the meany!”

“Oh, all right, Papa!” Cordelia huffed, and wheeled her broomstick up and away toward the top of the mountain.

“You, too, dear.” Rod caught Gwen’s hand. “Out.”

“I will. ”Tears stood in her eyes. “Take care of thyself.”

“I will,” Rod promised. “You take care of me, too, huh?” And he gathered her in.

Father Al turned away to study the local geology for a few minutes.

Rod turned back to him with a happy sigh. Air whooshed behind him as Gwen swooped back up to the top of the mountain.