Christopher Stasheff - The Warlock Unlocked

“Oh, fine, just fine! But are you sure your wife can carry all three of us for so long?”

“If I can bear four children,” Gwen called back, “I can bear two men.”

“There’s some truth in that,” Rod acknowledged. “After all, she’s managed to bear with me for almost ten years now.” He turned to the children, floating beside him. “Geoff, you be sure and tell us if you start feeling sleepy, now!”

“Fear not,” Gwen called. “They napped well ere we left the Grand Duchess.”

“Yes, thanks to Magnus. But Geoff, make sure you tell me if you start feeling tired—after all, Cordelia can give you a lift for a few minutes.”

“For an hour ,” Cordelia caroled, swooping her broomstick in a figure-eight, “and not even feel it!”

“Hey, now! Straighten out and fly right! We’ve got a long way to go; no time or energy for fancy stuff!”

“Killjoy!” Magnus snorted. “Night flying’s fun !”

“This, from the expert who thought I was wrong wanting to fly this time,” Rod snorted.

“Well, Papa, you said yourself it’d attract too much attention.”

“Yeah, but we’ve got a hundred miles to go before dawn; we don’t have much choice this time. Besides, we’re not too apt to be noticed at night; and if we are, by the time Duke Foidin can get troops after us, we’ll be out of reach. And we’re certainly going faster than any courier he can send!” He peered over Gwen’s shoulder. “How’s Elidor holding out, dear?”

Gwen glanced down at the small shape huddled against her, between her arms. “Almost beginning to enjoy it, I think.”

“He is the stuff of which kings are made,” Father Al gulped.

Rod decided the priest could use a distraction. “Figured out how magic works here, Father?”

“Oh, it seems to be fairly straightforward. I postulate three forces: Satanic, Divine, and impersonal. Most of what I’ve seen today, and tonight, falls in the ‘impersonal’ category.”

Rod frowned. “What’s ‘impersonal?’ ”

“Essentially, it’s the same force espers use. Everyone has it, to some degree. An esper has so much of it that he can work ‘magic’ by his own power; but everyone ‘leaks’ their little bit, and it goes into the rocks, the earth, the water, the air, absorbed into molecules. So it’s there, ready to draw on; and, in a universe such as this, a few gifted individuals have the ability to tap that huge reservoir, and channel its force to do whatever they want.”

Rod nodded. “Sounds right. Seen anything here that would disprove that?”

“No, but I think I’m going to have to come up with a corollary theory for the faery folk.”

“You do that. Any idea why the whole world is still medieval, even though it’s 3059 AD?”

“Well, at a guess, I’d say it’s because technology never advanced much.”

“Fine.” Rod smiled. “So how come technology didn’t advance?”

Father Al shrugged. “Why bother inventing gadgets, when you can do it by magic?”

That gave Rod pause. He was quiet for the rest of the flight.

Well, most of the time, anyway. “No, Cordelia—you may not race that owl!”

“You sure you’re not getting tired, Geoff?”

“Magnus, leave that bat alone!”

The land rose beneath them, rippling into ridges and hills, then buckling into mountains. Finally, as dawn tinged the sky ahead and to the right, Elidor’s finger stabbed down. “Yonder it lies!”

Rod peered ahead around Gwen and saw the ruins of a great, round tower, perched high on a crag. “Be fun getting up to that.”

Magnus veered close and pointed downward. “I see a ledge of rock beside it, that trails away behind for a good hundred yards.”

“Yeah, but then it blends back into the side of the mountain. How do I get to it in the first place?”

“Why, I will land thee on it, when thou dost wish,” Gwen called back. “But, husband, we have flown half the night, and even I begin to weary. Would we not do well to rest ere we advance?”

“Yes, definitely.” Rod looked around. “Where’s a good place to rest?”

“There, and a safe one.” Father Al nodded down toward a valley, but did not point. “That little village, with the small steeple. There’s a patch of woods near it, to hide our descent.”

Rod looked down. “Well, it looks snug enough. But will we be welcome? As I recollect, mountaineers aren’t generally too hospitable to outsiders.”

“Oh, the parish priest will let us in,” Father Al assured him. “I have connections.”

Rod shrugged. “Good enough for me. Wanna let me off this thing, dear?”

“Aye, if thou wilt wait till I do land.” Gwen tilted the broomstick down. Father Al gulped, and held on tight.

They found a clearing just big enough, and brought everyone in, in orderly fashion. Little Geoff fell the last two feet and pushed himself up out of the meadow grass, looking groggy. Rod ran over to him. “I told you to tell me when you were getting tired! Here, son, why don’t you ride a little, now?” He hoisted the boy up onto his shoulders, and turned to Gwen. “Now—which way’s the village?”

They found it, webbed in the birdsong of early morning. The parish priest was just closing the back door as they came up.

“Good morning, Father!” Father Al called cheerily, in spite of his rubber legs.

The old priest looked up, blinking. He was bald, and his long beard was grey. He was slim with a lifetime of fasting, and rock-hard as his mountains. “Why… good morrow, Father,” he returned. “ ‘Tis early, for travellers to come walking.”

“We’ve been on the road all the night; ‘tis a matter of some urgency,” Father Al replied. “I am these goodfolks’ protection from the powers that walk at night; yet even I must sleep sometime. Canst thou spare us hospitality for a few hours?”

“Why… assuredly, for the Cloth,” the old priest said, bemused. “Yet there is only my poor small room, behind the chapel…”

“No matter; we’ll sleep in the nave, if thou dost not object, under the Lord’s protection. We’ll need every ounce we can get.”

“Father,” the old priest said severely, “one ought not to sleep in Church.”

“Tell that to the goodfolk who must listen to my sermons.”

The old priest stared for a moment; then he smiled. “Well said, well said! Avail thyselves of what little thou canst find, then—and pardon my poor hosting. I must bless three fields and see to a woman whose hands pain her.”

“Arthritis?” Rod asked, coming up behind Father Al.

“Nay, only a swelling of the joints, and pain when she moves her fingers. Elf-shot, belike. A drop of holy water, a touch of the crucifix, and a short prayer will set her to rights.”

Rod stared.

Father Al got the thoughtful look again. “Hast thou ever known the treatment to fail, Father?”

“Aye; there do be stronger spells. Then must I ask the Bishop to come—or take my poor souls to him, if they can walk.”

“And the blessing of the fields—are the crops in danger?”

“Oh, nay!” the old priest laughed. “I can see thy mind; but do not trouble thyself, Father; thou hast journeyed long, and hast need of thy rest. Nay, ‘tis only the usual blessing, without which the fields will yield scarcely half their corn.”

“Of course.” Father Al smiled. “Well, it doth no harm to be certain. Thou wilt send for me if thou dost need me, though?”

“Be assured that I will—but be also assured that I’ll have no need. Be welcome in my home, and make thyselves free of what little thou’It find in the larder. Have no fear for me—the Lord will provide.”

“And He probably will,” Father Al noted as they watched the old man leave, with an almost-youthful stride. “After all, magic works, here.”