The Warlock Rock

Chapter Twenty-Four

They hadn't gone very far the next morning before the music began to be physically painful. It wasn't just the volume of the sound—it was the total cacophony of a dozen different tunes and beats all going at once. They were all oddly similar, but contrasted just enough to set Rod's teeth on edge. He remembered what the young folk near the rocks' meadow had said, that the sounds had to be so loud that they could feel them in their bodies, and wondered once again how impoverished their souls must be, if the only way they could have any feeling was through the impact of sound waves.

Gregory walked with his hands over his ears, looking miserable. Gwen and Geoffrey stumbled along, determined to be brave and stoic about it, but even Magnus was beginning to look a little dazzled, and Cordelia was glassy-eyed and twitching three ways at once. As for Rod, he had a humdinger of a headache building, which he could swear was working its way up to a migraine.

Finally, Gwen had had enough. Rod saw her halt, standing firm with resolution; he saw her hands clap together, he saw her mouth move; but he didn't hear the clap, or a single word. He frowned, shaking his head, and pointed toward his ear. Gwen sighed, and her words echoed inside all their heads: We cannot abide this. We must halt and find some way to block out these sounds.

The children stopped and gathered round her. Mayhap as the peasants did, Gregory suggested.

Well thought, Gwen approved. Find wax.

It didn't take long to find, or much doing to get—the bees were limp on the floor of the hive, stunned by the sonic booms. The boys did think it odd that the markings grew in the shape of a G on their abdomens, but dismissed the oddity and brought the wax to their mother—and found their sister busy stitching together strips of bark into a little pot. They knew better than to ask why.

Gwen took the wax and molded it in her hands, staring at it intently the while. For his part, Rod was astonished at her fortitude, as always—softening the wax by telekinesis took concentration, and being able to concentrate in the midst of this racket took incredible strength of mind.

As Gwen finished each pair of covers, she handed them to the child whom they fit. Rod took a spare blanket from his saddlebag, tore it into strips, and helped tie the makeshift bandages over the earcovers. Each relaxed visibly as he or she tied the knot. Then Rod set his own into place, and the worst of the racket dimmed amazingly—except for the thumping and growling of the bass notes. He turned to explain this to Gwen, but she was wearing her own earcovers now, and was busily at work, stirring herbs into the bark pot Cordelia had made. Steam rose from it; she had heated the water without fire, by speeding up molecular motion. She finished, lifted the pot to her lips, swallowed, then handed it to Cordelia, who sipped and passed it on. When it came round to Rod, he drained what was left—and found that the thumping rhythms dwindled to a bearable level. He turned to Gwen, amazed. How'd you do that?

I brewed a potion, she thought simply. Our minds can shut out aught we do not wish to heed; I have only aided and directed them.

A perceptual screen, Rod realized—and more a matter of persuasion than of medicine. The potion had done what they wanted it to do; he suspected sugar pills would have done just as well, provided it had been Gwen who had made them.

Whatever the method, the goal was accomplished— Gwen had brewed an excellent rumble phyltre.

He faced her and moved his mouth slowly as he said, "Of course, now we can't talk to each other without mind-reading."

But surprisingly, he could hear her answer. Her voice sounded muffled, but it was there. "It would seem we can, my lord. What magic is this, that the music is muted but our voices are not?"

"Your speaking voices are in the middle of the range of pitches human ears can hear," Fess explained. "The waxen covers seem to block out the higher frequencies, while the potion dampens the lower ones."

"So they're filters, more than silencers?"

"Yes, Rod. They screen out the noise and preserve the information."

"I guess we can manage with that. Thank you, wonderful woman." Rod offered his arm. "Shall we promenade?"

They strode off into the worst that music could do. The good part was that Rod's headache began to fade. The bad part was that Cordelia and Magnus were tapping their toes again.

Then they followed the road around a curve and saw the priest sitting by the roadside.

Instantly, Rod distrusted him—he wasn't wearing ear-muffs. He also wasn't wearing the habit of the Order of St. Vidicon, and they were the only legitimate Order in Gramarye. No, this man was wearing a robe of plain black broadcloth, and his tonsure was definitely the work of an amateur. Needed a shave, too. The man was obviously self-ordained—one of the new crop of hedge-priests he and Tuan had been worrying about lately.

But the priest was, at least on the surface, all affability.

He looked up with a smile of welcome. "Godspeed, goodfolk! Whither art thou bound?"

"North," Rod said, forcing a smile. "We're trying to find out where this plague of noise is coming from."

"So small a thing as that?" The priest said, surprised. "Why, I myself have been to its center and back again!"

Rod was astonished—and while he was trying to figure it out, his daughter, with the full friendliness of innocence, was pleading, "Lead us to it, then! For we shall be forever on the road, without thy guidance!"

Rod caught his breath for a blistering tirade, but Gwen's fingers touched his lips, and he just barely managed to bite it down. Probably wouldn't have been heard, anyway. "If thou wilt, holy man," Gwen said. "We would cry thy mercy."

They needed somebody's mercy, that was for sure—but the priest was nodding with a happy smile. "Come, then, come! Be assured, there's naught to fear!" And he turned away, striding north with the aid of his staff.

They followed, with Rod thinking at Gwen, You know I don't trust him, of course.

Neither do I, she answered, but I'd sooner be at his back than have him at mine. Yet we are proof against ambush whiles our senses are not dazed by this pandemonium.

Full vigilance, Fess. Rod directed the message by thought, knowing the robot would have his audio gain turned down again. Why don't you trust him, Gwen?

For that he wears no covers to his ears, yet seems to scarcely notice all this clamor, she answered. Thy reason?

Just the look of him—and the fact that he hasn't told us his name.

Rod set himself to the journey, feeling a bit more confident—but scrutinizing every outcrop of rock and every smallest shrub on the road ahead.

"I am Reverend Iago," the black-robed priest said over his shoulder.

"I am Rod." He hurried to catch up with Iago, wondering why he didn't prefix his name with the more usual "father" or "brother." He decided the man was just a little stuffy and asked, "Anything we should be careful about when we get there?"

Iago shrugged. "We must cope when we must. It is confusing, I will own, yet I find little enough danger in it."

Rod noted the qualifications; his adrenaline started flowing. "How far is it?"

"Yon it begins." Iago pointed to a lofty castle towering above the forest trees.

"Strange—I hadn't noticed that before," Rod said.

The turrets seemed to soften around the edges, then to melt, flowing together into a mountain.

The children gasped, and Gwen demanded, "What witchery is this?"

"Further," Iago urged. "There is more to see." He went forward another few steps, then looked back, frowning. "Do not delay—oh, come! You must hasten to see! See such wonders as thou never hast aforetime!"

Rod glanced at Gwen, but her face had hardened, and she nodded slowly. "Okay," Rod said, "we're coming."

The children followed, subdued, Magnus's glance flicking from his mother to his father and back, then on to the priest.

Above them, the mountain seemed to melt, like a dish of ice cream left in the sun—revealing a glittering diamond tower at its core.

Iago pushed through a stand of tall grass. The Gallow-glasses followed him—and came out into a broad plain. They stopped, and gasped.

The plain was filled with impossible forms, all in pastel colors. Behind them, the sky was all glowing mist, wreathing and curling in continually shifting shapes. The forms themselves weren't all that stable, either—here a giant clock stood in the form of a zero with nine hands, each a number, all revolving at different rates with two turning backward; there a giant beetle crawled before a towering obelisk that had an opaque, multicolored cloud churning about its top. Nearer and to their right, two knights jousted, never touching one another but forever wheeling and charging again. Here the plain suddenly bulged, the mound growing and swelling until it had become a hill, with skids sliding down it; then its northern face began to slump. Down its side a wheel rolled by itself, but as it rolled, it elongated into a cam, flipping along with an eccentric motion; then even the cam slowly changed, warping and squeezing into a long, slender track, then melting on down to disappear into the floor of the plain. But the line of it rose up again in an undulating form, until a hydra writhed where the wheel had melted—but the flailing arms grew heads, and the heads grew bodies and tails, and six snakes crawled away from the place where the hydra had been. As they crawled, though, they changed, one becoming a tapir, another a salamander, a third a raven, and so on.

In fact, all the forms on the plain were constantly in flux, the knights becoming dragons, the clock turning into a windmill, the cloud flowing down over the obelisk and forming a giant beehive. Behind and above all towered the diamond tower, though its surface was hardening and dulling now, beginning to show the mortar lines of masonry.

Over it, and under it and through it, ran the heavy, pulsing beat of the metal stones, snarling and whining back and forth across the plain, audible even through their filters.

Rod clutched at his wife. "Gwen! I'm hallucinating again!"

"Thou art not," she said, clinging to him just as tightly. "I see them too."

"And I," said Magnus, staring, and the other children chorused their agreement.

"Tell me," Rod demanded of Iago, "are any of these things real?"

Iago shrugged. "What is reality?"

"Oh, not again!" Geoffrey groaned. "Wilt thou answer him, Fess?"

Iago looked up, startled.

He cannot hear me, Fess reminded them.

"Reality is not a matter of opinion," Gregory informed the priest.

Rod and Gwen stared at-their youngest, taken aback. Rod turned to give Fess a narrow glare. But Iago only grinned, and his smile wasn't entirely pleasant. "Then thou shouldst not fear to walk among these dreams."

"Nay, not so," Geoffrey contradicted, "for though these things may not be what they seem, they may nonetheless be summat fearsome."

"These things shall not harm you," Iago insisted, "but if you seek to find the center of all this music, you must needs come within." He turned away, walked a few paces, then looked back, as though to ask them whether or not they were coming.

Magnus gazed out over the plain, frowning, but the younger children looked up at Rod and Gwen, who looked at each other; then Gwen said, reluctantly, "We are proof against it."

"So far," Rod agreed. "Fess, what do you see?"

Only a plain, Rod, with rocky outcrops here and there, and occasionally a grove.

"You're our touchstone, then. Okay, family, it's psionic—which means we can probably counter everything it can throw. Just remember, kids, that anything you're seeing isn't really there. Stay alert to your mother, and do whatever she does."

"Gramercy for thy confidence," Gwen said sourly. "How wilt thou guard?"

"As you do, of course—and with this." Rod drew his sword. "Just in case."

Steel slickered as Magnus and Geoffrey drew.

"Psi first, boys," Rod cautioned. "Don't start fencing unless I say to—I have a hunch our enemies here aren't going to be soldiers. Fess, tell us if you see anything armed."

Of course. Rod.

"After Iago, then. Let's go."

They stepped out onto the plain, and waded into the morass of illusion.

When they were in the center of the plain, surrounded by strange, transforming shapes, Rod suddenly stopped. "Wait!"

Iago turned back, still smiling but with glittering eyes. "Aye?"

"That—big thing!" Rod pointed. "It was a castle when we first saw it, and then it was a mountain, then a diamond tower, which turned to masonry—but now it's something huge and amorphous."

Iago turned to look. Sure enough, the masonry tower had melted into a sort of bulging obelisk that tapered at the top into a hyperbola. It was a melange of shifting colors, streaked through with melting bands of various hues, reminding Rod of a silken moire.

"It doth seem like to a giant chrysalis," Gregory said.

"If that is the chrysalis, brother, Heaven defend me from the butterfly!"

"Is that what you see, Fess?" Rod asked.

Yes, Rod. It has been coming into view gradually, as the fog has been dispersing.

Interesting. Whatever it was, was perceptible to visual senses, as well as to psionic.

Iago turned back to them. " Tis an odd form, true, but only its latest—and like as not in mid-shift between two forms."

Well, at least now Rod knew the man was as befuddled by glamours as they were—or was a liar.

At the base of the giant cocoon, two jets of flame flared.

Rod frowned. "What was that?"

"Let us go see," the priest suggested.

He turned away, and the children started to follow, but Gwen held out a hand to bar their path. "Nay! We shall not move till that changeling mount doth settle to a form!"

"Why, then, let us rest."

The younger boys plumped down cross-legged. Cordelia and Magnus were a bit more graceful about it, but Rod located a stump and a boulder for himself and his wife and sat carefully, hoping they wouldn't melt away beneath him. He looked up to see that Iago had joined the youngsters on the grass, and felt a stab of apprehension at the man's thus identifying himself with the young, virtually declaring that he was not a grown-up—he was one of them, and was therefore to be trusted.

His first words weren't exactly encouraging, either. "Wherefore dost thou encumber thyselves with these bulky headgears?"

"So that the music doth not drive us to distraction," Gwen answered.

"Be assured, thou canst accustom thyself to it! Walk among these sounds awhile, and thou wilt scarcely notice them!"

Cordelia began to look uncertain, but Rod said, "That may have been true fifty miles back. Now, though, it's so loud and discordant that we can't possibly block it out."

"Nay, surely! Tis merely a matter of learning the joy of it!"

Magnus glanced at Rod, but asked, "Wherefore should we learn to enjoy music that we dislike?"

"Why, for that it will give thee pleasure if thou dost!"

Magnus eyed the man warily, but made no answer.

"That may be true of music that requires knowledge to appreciate," Rod said, "but it doesn't mean you should try to overcome an innate dislike for music that grates on your nerves."

"Oh, nay! 'Tis only a matter of what we are accustomed to," the priest protested. "If you had heard such strains from your cradle, you would love them!"

Cordelia was following the debate, eyes switching from her father to the black-robed priest and back, her face uncertain.

"Somehow, I doubt that," Rod said. "It's not just a matter of music that seems strange—it's a manner of music that's poorly done."

"I assure thee, within its style, it is most expertly made!"

"Thou speakest too kindly, husband," Gwen said, eyes hardening as she watched the priest. "It is not 'poorly done'—it is bad music."

The priest's smile became a little wider, as though it needed forcing. He swept them all with a glance, then focused his argument on the one who was weakening. "Come, pretty maid! Thou dost know that all thine age do revel in these sounds! Remove thy filters, and immerse thyself in music!"

Slowly, Cordelia reached up to her ears.

"No!" Gwen snapped. "Leave them!"

Cordelia yanked her hands away. "But Mama, all young folk do heed these strains!"

"What 'all'?" Gwen demanded. "I have seen many fond of gentler music, but only a handful here! What reason hast thou to think that they were more than a few who had gathered all together?"

"Why… the priest doth say so."

"Thou hast it, pretty maid!" the priest pressed. "Do not let them command thy soul! Think for thyself!"

"Think for yourself, by doing what he says?" Rod let the sarcasm drip. "Who's thinking for you, then?"

"Hearken not to the voices of age, who ken not the virtues of the new!" The priest rallied her.

"Actually, it isn't all that new," Rod said. "It's the same stuff we heard back near Runnymede, only bigger and louder—and not as well done. Maybe they figure that if they make it big enough and bad enough and tell you it's good, you'll believe them."

"But how am I to refute what he doth say?" Cordelia wailed.

"You don't need to! Just say 'No!' "

"But he is a priest!"

"Is he so?" Gwen's eyes narrowed. "Any can pull on a monk's robe and shave a tonsure."

"How durst thou question my vocation!"

"If they will not, I shall," declared an iron voice.

They all looked up, startled, and Geoffrey leaped to his feet, hand going to his sword, mortified—for strangers had come upon them unnoticed, in the midst of the clamor.

Not that they were strangers to worry about—at least, by their looks. They were monks, wearing the plain brown habit of the Order of St. Vidicon, with gentle, smiling faces. One was young, gaunt, and blond, but the other was in his fifties, plump, grizzled, and black.

The children stared, and Gregory sank back against Gwen's skirts.

"Avaunt thee!" the black-robed priest screamed. He leaped up and away, face contorted in loathing, pointing a trembling finger. "They are false monks, they are limbs of Satan! Folk, be not misled—here are demons in the shapes of men!"

"Why, what lies are these?" said the older monk sternly. "We are of St. Vidicon! But thou—what habit's this? What Order dost thou claim!"

"I will not submit to any's orders!" the black-robe screeched. "I am free in heart and mind! I will not suffer those who bow to idols!" He snatched a vial out of his robe, pulled its cork, and snapped it toward the monks. Gray-green droplets spattered, and the Gallowglasses instinctively pulled back.

As did the monks, though a droplet hit the younger one's habit, and burned through it. He gasped with pain, but glared at his shin, and the skin healed where the liquid had burned it.

"See!" the black-robe cried. "Evil burns where the blessed water doth touch!"

"That is not holy water, but corrupted ichor," the elder monk snapped. "What creature are you, who would seek to lead the innocent astray!"

"Lead us astray?" Cordelia was totally confounded. "But he is a priest!"

"Nay," the younger monk told her. "He is a false monk, a Vice, whose purpose is to tempt and corrupt. He is a Judas priest."

"Do not believe him!" the Judas priest screamed. "He speaks with the voice of they who wish no change!"

"We wish all folk to change by kinder conduct, each toward each," the elder monk said, "yet thou wouldst have them debase one another." He pulled on a chain around his neck, drawing a locket from his robe and thumbing open its cover. "Stare within this jewel, and seek to work thine evil if thou canst!"

The Judas priest stared, fascinated. His lips pulled back from his teeth in a hideous grin, emitting a grating whine.

The jewel seemed to come alive, beginning to glow—and the Gallowglasses began to feel it pulse with psi energy.

The Judas priest started to tremble in time to that throbbing. Then the elder monk snapped, "Begone!" and the air cracked in a sudden implosion, kicking up dust. When it settled, the Judas priest had vanished.

The monks relaxed, and the elder closed the locket.

Cordelia stared. "What magic's this?"

"The magic of the jewel within that amulet," the younger monk explained. "It doth transform whatever power a witch or warlock doth use. This Judas priest was the sort of warlock who can bemuse good folk and make them to believe things that they would know for lies if their minds were clear."

"The jewel did take that energy and change it to another form," the elder monk explained, "yet it was for me to choose that form."

"What manner of jewel is this?" Gregory asked in wonder.

"One made by the High Warlock of Gramarye, little one."

"Thy rock?" Magnus looked up at his father in surprise.

The elder monk paused in the act of closing the locket. "Art thou the High Warlock, then?"

"I am Rod Gallowglass," Rod acknowledged, "and this is my wife, the Lady Gwendolyn."

"Lady Gallowglass!" The elder monk inclined his head. "I am Father Thelonius, and this is Brother Dorian."

The younger monk also bowed.

Gwen returned the gesture, saying, "And these are my children—Magnus, Cordelia, Geoffrey, and Gregory."

"We wondered how four young ones had stayed safe within this vortex of corruption," the younger monk said, "yet if they came under thy protection, we are answered."

Gwen smiled, but said, " Tis more that we are their parents, I think, than that we are magical."

But Father Thelonius disagreed. "Would it were so—yet many are the young folk we have seen led astray by just such as this Judas priest, whether their folk were by them or no. They are canny malefactors who do seek to use these music-rocks for their own purposes, look you, and that purpose is to fill their lust for power, and drain the vitalities of a generation. They are cynical, and have learned the worst of human impulses, then have used that knowledge to mislead and warp. Most parents lack such knowledge; they cannot hope to oppose ones who devote their whole attention to beguiling youth."

Magnus and Cordelia shared a horrified glance.

"Yet how knew you this false priest for what he was?" Geoffrey asked.

"Because he did not preach the word of Christ, and His Eucharist," Brother Dorian explained.

Geoffrey eyed them with suspicion. "Yet how may we know that thou art true monks? For surely, having been misled by one friar, I hesitate to trust another!"

"I profess the Christ, and His miracles," Father Thelonius answered, "but most especially His miracle of giving us Himself, in the forms of bread and wine. Will that satisfy thee?"

"No, not quite, I'm afraid," Rod said. "You'll pardon me, good monks, but I find I share some of my son's skepticism, at the moment."

"Then test us as thou wilt," said Brother Dorian.

Cloistered members of the Order of St. Vidicon, said Fess's voice inside Rod's head, are taught at least the rudiments of modern science.

Rod nodded. "I believe your profession of faith, Father— but can you tell me the Laws of Thermodynamics?"

Brother Dorian stared, but Father Thelonius smiled and said, "Primus, that the amount of energy within a closed system is a constant."

"Which is to say," said Brother Dorian, "that human folk cannot create or destroy energy, only change it from one form to another—as thy rock hath done."

Father Thelonius beamed with approval, then went on. "Secundus, that in any flow of energy, entropy will ever increase."

"We must ever strive to maintain harmony and order," Brother Dorian said softly, "but the universe will someday end—and Christ will come again."

Scientifically, they are accurate, Fess's voice said, though I question their theological inferences.

"We're satisfied," Rod said. "You're real. Sorry about the testing, Reverends."

"Nay, do not be," Father Thelonius said.

And Brother Dorian murmured, "Would the young folk so test those to whose words they hearken. We should always question authority before we accept it."

"But we should listen to the answer," Father Thelonius amended, "and sieve its worth."

Gregory was puzzled. "Please tell, Father, how thou didst govern the action of Papa's jewel."

"Aye," Magnus chimed in, "for he could not."

Rod gave him a gimlet glance, but Gregory pressed, "Didst thou have but to say, 'Begone'?"

"In a manner, yes—but the saying of that word did focus my will, giving an imperative to the forces molded by the jewel. I am a projective myself, though not greatly endowed; if I were, I'd need but the impulse-thought, and would not have to speak the word aloud. Still, I've strength enough to direct the operation of this crystal."

"Why could not the Judas priest have taken its direction from thee?"

"Because he held it not. We have found that whosoever doth touch the jewel doth direct its action."

"Anyone?" Gregory exclaimed, saucer-eyed.

"Anyone who doth know the manner of using it, aye."

"Then where is thy squadron of knights, to protect thee?" Geoffrey cried. "Where is thine army of guardians? For surely, if that Rock did fall into the hands of one who wished to exploit others for his own use, he could wreak great havoc!"

"Aye, we know," Father Thelonius said, his face grim. "Yet there was no time to send for guardsmen, for our Abbot did heed the words of his thought-sentinels, who did say that there was a hideous force building on this West Coast, seeking to capture and twist the power of the music-rocks to enslave the folk."

Rod found it interesting that the new Abbot had monks mentally scanning the island for trouble. That could be a blessing—or a curse. "So there was no time to send to the King for aid?"

"Aye; he could only send out teams of us to counsel and advise, and myself—with Brother Dorian to watch o'er me—to find the evil soul that doth seek to misdirect the power of music, then to wield the Warlock Rock against him."

"Yet if thou wert taken…" Geoffrey protested.

"None other could wield the Rock, for they know not the manner of it," Father Thelonius assured him.

"Yet if they chanced to discover it… !"

"They won't." Rod clasped his son's shoulder. "Because as of now, they've got the best guardians they could ask for, haven't they?"

Geoffrey turned to him, startled, then drew himself up, eyes alight. "Aye, sir!" He turned back to the two monks. "Thou shalt not take a step that we shall not shadow!"

Father Thelonius inclined his head gravely, to hide his smile. "We shall walk in thy debt."

"Nay, for thou hast banished that false priest that might have swayed us." Geoffrey's glance lit on Magnus and Cordelia.

"What mistrust is this?" Magnus demanded, and Cordelia said hotly, "We were tempted, aye—yet now our eyes are cleared, and we will no longer be misled!"

"Yes." Rod smiled. "As long as you keep your ear mufflers on."

"Then let us go forward in company." Father Thelonius held out a hand, and Geoffrey fell into step beside him.

So they strode onward into the world of illusion, a family led by a boy and a middle-aged monk. The melting forms rose and fell about them—but, strangely, seemed to part and make way for the two monks.

As they went, Rod stepped up beside Father Thelonius and murmured, "A word with you apart, Reverend, if you would."

The holy man looked up with a smile—and without surprise. "Surely." He turned to Brother Dorian and murmured a few words, then turned back to Rod. "At your disposal, Lord Warlock."

"I hope not—I wasn't planning to be disposed of, yet." Rod lengthened his stride, to put a little space between himself and the rest of the family.

"But I had heard you were a man of excellent disposition," Father Thelonius protested.

Rod winced. "Whoever told you that, don't believe him—but I am predisposed in favor of your Order."

"I rejoice to hear it," the monk said softly. "But what did you wish to discuss, Lord Warlock?"

"Just wanted to know how things are on Terra."

The monk took it without batting an eyelash. "They are well at the moment, Lord Warlock. Are there so few Blacks on Gramarye that you could tell me for a foreigner at one glance?"

"Right on the first guess, Father. There's the occasional folk tale, from which I gather that the chromosomes link up now and then—but I've never met anyone who wasn't Caucasian, here."

That startled the monk. "Really! Well, that explains your children's reaction on seeing me. I would have thought the original colonists would have included a few people of my race."

"They probably did—but after five hundred years of intermarriage, I would expect their genes to be so thoroughly dispersed among the population that they wouldn't show much. May I ask why Father Al didn't come himself?"

"Because there was no cause for concern."

"No cause … !"

"None that we knew of at the time." The monk raised a hand, palm out. "It was simply good luck that I happened to arrive at a time when I could be of use. Father Aloysius Uwell sends his regards, of course, but didn't know there was any particular reason for him to come himself."

"Well, I'm glad to hear he's well, at least," Rod sighed. "So he didn't have a hunch about things going wrong here on Gramarye?"

"Not in this case. I am not here in response to any emergency, Commander Gallowglass…"

It had been long years since anyone had called Rod by his military title. It felt odd, somehow—strangely ill-fitting.

"… nor to any concern of the Vatican's. I am only here out of scholarly interest."

Rod couldn't dispute anyone else's right to visit the planet—after all, it wasn't his personal property. Nonetheless, he said, "I would have appreciated your checking in with me, Father—just as a matter of courtesy, if nothing else. I do have some concern about who's visiting and who isn't."

"I understand, Lord Warlock—and my apologies for not having contacted you immediately. I had intended to, but had scarcely acclimatized myself before the Abbot asked me to attend to this little problem that has come up."

"Scarcely 'little'—it's one of the larger threats I've seen. I hope that means you'll be able to take care of it easily?"

"Sadly, no—I am an excellent scholar, but not terribly able as an engineer."

Rod had heard the same thing before, from men who had moved mountains with little help—or asteroids, at least, which could be classified as flying mountains. "How are you on R&D?"

"Research and development? Oh, I'm quite able—as long as I have a laboratory assistant." He nodded toward Brother Dorian. "This young fellow seems very competent. He's Gramarye-born, by the way."

"That's reassuring. Should I interpret this to mean that the Abbot gave you a local guide, but expects you to solve the problem?"

"Oh, no! Brother Dorian is much more than a guide. He is quite talented, and very skilled for so young a man."

Rod noticed who was left solving the problem, though. "Skilled in what area?"

"As a musician. And a projective."

"Oh." Rod left his lips in the form of the letter. He glanced at the younger monk, chatting amiably with Gregory and Cordelia. "Isn't music a little—odd, for an engineer?"

"Not entirely, when you consider that he is continually trying to learn more about the interrelationships between psionic powers and music."

Insight exploded in Rod's mind. "Perfect combination, in light of the current crisis. But everybody thought what he was doing was pure research, without any practical application?"

"Oh, it was—until now."

"Yes, of course." Rod nodded. "As soon as you find some use for it, you stop calling it pure research. Might I infer, Father, that his interest is in some way allied to your own?"

"Quite accurately." The black man smiled. "I trained as an electrical engineer and managed to make a living designing musical intruments. But the more heavily involved I became, the more I realized that the computer programs involved might bear some resemblance to the musician's mental processes—and the more deeply I delved into that, the more I became convinced that musical talent had some kinship to psionic talent. Then, of course, I began speculating on the nature of talent—which led me to my vocation, and the Order."

"Of course." Actually, Rod didn't really see any link between talent and religion, but he wasn't about to open that topic just then. "So your research led you to Gramarye."

"To the only pool of operant espers in known space, yes—and I seem to have arrived at the ideal time for my researches."

"Ideal for us, too. When this is all over, I'll have to introduce you to Ari the Crafter—but only if you promise not to try to lock him up in a laboratory."

"The man who made these musical rocks? Excellent! But in the meantime, I think we have to deal with people whose talents may be exceptional, but are devoted to using mtfsic rather than making it."

"You mean they want to make a living from music, but don't want to go to the trouble of learning how to play?"

"I see you're familiar with the syndrome. Yes, the idea seems to be that if you have the talent, you don't need to learn anything—it will all come naturally, without any effort. It doesn't, of course—and in their disappointment, the young hopefuls become cynics, seeking to exploit those who have taken the time and trouble to learn how to play."

"And you think we're facing such a person?"

"It is possible. Certainly the young woman—excuse me, she might not be young, might she?—the woman, this Ubu Mare I've heard of, seeks to use music to gain power and status, not for the sheer exhilaration of it."

"She's getting something out of it, that's for certain—and doesn't mind who gets hurt in the process."

"Ever the way of them." Father Thelonius sighed, shaking his head. "We have known them for a long time, Lord Warlock—the vampires who batten on people's souls, who drain the joys and hopes of youth as Dracula drained the heart's blood, leaving only dessicated carcasses behind. We have fought them, they who seek to grow rich from works that should be freegiven, since Philip the Deacon turned the people of Samaria away from the sorcerer. We have protected the weak and gullible from these wolves for three millenia and more, and we will protect them now."

"Then we'd better hurry," Rod told him, "because the wolves are coming in packs these days."

"Haven't they always?" Father Thelonius flashed him a smile. "Be of good cheer, Lord Warlock—vampires thrive by night, but we bring the sun."