Father Al started.

Rod cocked an eyebrow at him.

“ ‘… Yorick, who identified the device as not being a time machine, and brought Dr. McAran, who tentatively identifies it as a mechanism allowing travel between alternate universes. He is currently working at fever-pitch, attempting to construct such a device of his own. He attempted to dismantle this one, but I would not permit him to turn it off. So, if you can endure, help should be forthcoming—eventually. Meanwhile, in your absence, the Church and Crown have moved toward war. The Abbot has issued a formal declaration that the Crown encroaches so far upon the authority of the Church that all folk of good conscience should resist their King and Queen as tyrants. He has absolved the barons from their oaths of fealty, and summoned them to attack Their Majesties in force. Four Southern barons have answered his call, with all their knights and men. Three Northern lords have brought their armies to Tuan. The other five lords claim the conflict is no concern of theirs, but is only between the Church and Crown; they therefore stand neutral.’ ”

“Ready to jump in and take over when the other barons have torn each other, and the Crown, apart,” Rod growled.

There was time for it; Gwen had paused, eyes glazed, lips parted, waiting. Now she spoke again. “ ‘FCC robot number 651919, transmitting on human-thought frequency, near the Gate through which the Gallowglass family disappeared, in an attempt to contact them. Though I think it extremely unlikely that the Gate will re-transmit my signal into another universe, I must attempt it. Situation report: The agents responsible for your exile attempted to turn off the transmitter and close the Gate…’ ” She blinked, eyes focusing again. “He repeats himself.”

Rod nodded. “Faithful old Fess, standing twenty-four-hour watch at the Gate, trying somehow to reach us. He probably doesn’t even realize Gregory’s his transmission link. Just keeps repeating the message over and over, hoping against hope—and updating the situation report, of course.”

Father Al nodded. “I was wondering when you’d get around to confirming that your horse was a robot.”

Rod jerked his head impatiently. “No point in giving away information, is there? Though I might as well have; you do a very nice job of putting together comments I’ve dropped here and there.” He turned to Gwen. “Did you reassure him?”

She nodded. “As well as I could—that we still do live, and will come home.”

“But not when.” Rod’s mouth tightened. “Well, you do have to at least try to be honest with a child.” He looked up. “And with ourselves. The situation at home just keeps getting worse, and here we stick!”

“Thou didst say, husband, that even should it come to open war, our babe will not be endangered.”

“Yeah, probably not—but even two percent sounds like too high a probability, when we’re talking about our own baby! Come on, Gwen, let’s get out of here and return this infant to his rightful parents, so we can get busy collecting the favor his father owes us—a quick burst of magic that’ll send us back to Gramarye. If he can do it. Let’s go.” He turned away to the doorway, looking about him, frowning. “Magnus and Geoff and Elidor stayed outside, eh?”

He stepped through the doorway, and saw his sons lying unconscious at the feet of soldiers dressed in the Duke’s livery.

Then something exploded on the back of his head, and he just had time for one quick thought, before the stars wiped out the scene:

Of course. The Duke kept some forces in reserve for an ambush, just in case we did show up…

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

When he saw the light of day again, it was golden-orange, and dim. Turning a head that seemed as large as an asteroid and rang at the slightest touch, he saw the reason for the dimness—a tiny window, barred, and up near the low ceiling. Turning his head again in spite of the pain, he saw walls of rough-hewn rock, damp and splotched with fungus.

He levered himself up on his elbows. Consciousness tried to slide away again, but he hauled it back. Little Geoff huddled next to him, curled into a ball. Beyond him, Father Al sat gravely watching.

They were both shackled to the wall by four-foot lengths of heavy chain.

“Good afternoon, my friend,” the priest said softly.

Geoff’s head snapped up. He saw Rod’s eyes open, and threw his arms around his neck. “Papa!” He began to cry.

“There, there, now, son,” Rod soothed. Chains clanked as he wrapped his arms around Geoff. “Papa’s all right. It’ll be okay.” He looked up at Father Al. “Where’re Gwen and Cordelia and Magnus?”

“In a room like this one, I’d guess. The soldiers carrying them split off one floor up; I gather they’ve two layers of dungeons here.”

“You were conscious.”

“By then I was, yes.” Father Al fingered a bruise in the middle of his tonsure. He had several more on his forehead and cheeks, and there was clotted blood around his nostrils. “It wasn’t much of a fight. Your wife stepped out just as you started to crumble, and they caught her on the back of the head with a cudgel; she was out before she could do anything. Your little daughter and I made something of a try—the air was quite thick with flying stones for a few minutes there, till a soldier caught her from behind with a pike-butt. For myself, I found a reasonably solid stick, and actually managed to lay out a couple of them, myself.” He sounded surprised.

“Which lost you your clergy’s right to not get hit.” Rod found his respect for Father Al going up still more, while dull anger grew at the bastards who’d struck his wife and daughter—and clouted a priest, besides!

He took Geoff by the shoulders and held him back a little. “Try to stop crying, son. I’ve got to check you over. Where does it hurt?”

Geoff pointed to his head, and Rod fingered the spot gently—there was a large goose-egg. Geoff winced as he probed, but didn’t cry out; and the bone didn’t give when he pressed it. Good. “Look at me, son.” He stared into Geoff’s eyes—the pupils were the same size. “No, I think you’re okay.” Thank Heaven! “You’ll have a headache for a while, though. Now, close your eyes, and see if you can hear Mama’s thoughts.”

Obediently, Geoff sat back against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut. After a few minutes, he said, “She there, Papa—‘n’ Mag’us ‘n’ Delia near. But everyone asleep!”

“Haven’t come to, then.”

“Big sleep, Papa—bigger ‘n’ you just had!”

‘Bigger?’ Rod didn’t like the sound of that—it smacked of drugs.

A key clanked in the lock, and the door groaned open. Duke Foidin stepped in, grinning, flanked by guards. “Well, well! The gentlemen wake!”

“Yes, we do.” Rod glowered up at him. “Gonna slip us a sleeping potion now, like you did to my wife and other children?”

The Duke couldn’t quite mask the surprise. “Well, well! Thou dost have some power! And to think Eorl Theofrin assured me ‘twas the other three who were dangerous.”

“We operate as a unit,” Rod snapped. “What’re you planning to do with us?”

“Why, turn thee over to the Eorl, naturally—his help thus far has been rather half-hearted, being solely concerned with capturing thyself. Thou must have offended him deeply.”

“I didn’t exactly find him complimentary, myself.”

“Delightful, delightful!” The Duke rubbed his hands. “He should be quite eager to seize thee and thine—eager enough to pledge full support. To assure it, I believe I’ll give him thy family, but save thee till Lord Kern’s defeated.”

Rod studied the Duke’s face, deciding that his usual squeamishness about murder could be waived in this case.

“Oh, and thy wife! I had forgot!” The Duke raised a finger. “I ha’ not had time to attend to her properly—but I shall.” A leering grin spread over his face. “Be assured that I shall.”