The Warlock Rock

Chapter Twenty-Five

Brother Dorian said, "It cannot be much farther now, for I do sense such a morass of psi power about me that I feel as though I wade."

"Morass of psi?" Rod looked up in surprise. "I thought it was the music!"

"Mayhap 'tis psi power reflected through the music-rocks," Gregory suggested.

Rod stared at him. "A field of psi power that's active even though it's separated from the crafter who began it? I never heard of such a thing!"

"That will not prevent it from being invented, Papa," Cordelia pointed out.

"No, apparently not," Rod said, feeling numb.

"What are these music-rocks, if not just such an invention, husband?" Gwen said gently.

"Yes," Rod acknowledged. "It does make sense, doesn't it? Sorry to be the slow one in the family."

"Thou art not." Gwen squeezed his arm. "None of us could have seen it, plain though it was, had it not been for these good friars."

"And for thy bauble, Papa," Gregory piped up.

"Why, yes," Rod said, feeling stunned, "that was kind of the main clue, wasn't it?" Then he snapped out of his mental fog. "No, it wasn't! That's technology, not magic!"

Gwen only raised her eyebrows.

"I know, I know," Rod conceded. "Don't say it."

"Father," Cordelia said to Thelonius, "if the Judas priest sought to mislead us—where was't he sought to mislead us to?"

"Aye," added Magnus, "and wherefore?"

Father Thelonius shook his head. "I can but conjecture, children."

"Then do," Gregory urged.

The monk sighed. "I fear he meant to lead thee into bondage, to enslave thee to the sorcerer who hath gained dominion over this fall of rock."

"For what purpose?" Cordelia asked.

"I cannot tell," Father Thelonius said, with a dark frown. "Mayhap to be a sacrifice to his fell purpose."

"What is a sacrifice?" Gregory asked.

"Never mind, little brother," Magnus put in quickly. "In any event, 'tis but conjecture."

"It is," Father Thelonius agreed. "I cannot tell to what purpose he would have warped thee—nor do I wish to."

"Nor," said Magnus, "do we."

"Rod," Fess said, "whatever that amorphous shape before us may be, it bodes ill. Perhaps you should leave the younger children behind under my care."

"Good idea," Rod said, but Geoffrey whirled. "Nay! Assuredly thou shalt not bid me bide when the fighting hath at last begun!"

Father Thelonius looked up in mild surprise. "Truly, good folk, there is no great danger yet."

"Let us at least discern what perils lurk, ere we dispose our forces," Brother Dorian urged.

Geoffrey looked up, amazed. "Thou speakest well, for a monk!"

"And thou," Brother Dorian returned, "dost speak well, for an aspiring warrior. Shall we not go see, then?"

"No." Gwen spoke with decision, unlimbering her broom. "Prithee, friars, let us go no farther till I have seen what I may, from above."

The monks exchanged a quick glance, but Rod said, "Let's try it her way, if you don't mind, Father. She's almost never wrong."

Gwen halted in the act of leaping on her broomstick, staring at him. "Almost?"

"Well," Rod said, "there was that time you tried putting saffron in the…"

"It matters naught," she said quickly. "Be ready, husband!" Her broomstick shot up into the air.

The two friars started, then watched after her, wide-eyed.

"I take it you've never seen a witch ride a broomstick before?" Rod inquired gently.

"Nay," Brother Dorian answered. "We dwell in a monastery, seest thou, and 'tis a female's talent…"

"What did she bid thee be ready for?" Father Thelonius asked.

"Just in case she runs into trouble—which we both doubt. But just in case."

"She had no need to say it," Magnus protested.

"No, but it made us both feel better."

"Papa," said Cordelia, "in what did she put the saffron?"

Rod took a deep breath, thinking fast, but he was saved, because suddenly Gwen's broomstick shot upward, then back and to the side, as though some huge hand had slapped her away—and, for a moment, she was falling.

Rod didn't even remember taking off; all he knew was that he was halfway to her, and she was halfway to the ground, when the broomstick pulled out of its tumble and came swooping back toward him.

I am well, Gwen assured him, even before she came into earshot. Yet there is danger there that will take greater preparation than we have made.

Rod went limp with relief, which is not entirely safe in midair. He hovered till she was alongside, then flew next to her. "What did you see?" But Gwen was nosing her broomstick up for a landing, and he had to jump down beside her.

"Most amazing!" Brother Dorian was shaking his head in admiration. "Few of our monks can fly so well, and none so quickly!"

"Oh, Mama!" Cordelia flung her arms around her mother and squeezed. "We feared for thee!"

And her boys were around her, too, with shaky grins and sweaty brows.

She embraced Cordelia, allowing herself a little smile. "Peace, sweet chuck. 'Twill take more than a wall unseen to best me."

"An invisible wall?" Brother Dorian looked up sharply.

Gwen nodded. "I had just come close enough to begin to see what stood at the base of the tower, when I jolted into a barrier that gave, then hurled me back. But in that time, I had seen a mass of people, and a dais with flaring torches."

"That hath an ominous sound." Father Thelonius scowled. "Canst say more clearly?"

"Nay," Gwen said, "for I had but glimpsed it ere I fell."

"We must see more," the priest said, rubbing his chin, "but how?"

I have a surveillance device, Rod, Fess advised silently.

"Come to think of it, you do." Rod turned to the robot, eyes lighting.

"Be not concerned—he is well," Gwen assured the two monks. " 'Tis only that his horse can talk to him when none others can hear."

Now it was her they were looking at as though she were crazy. Then they smiled apologetically and turned away, taking it on faith.

The metal egg popped out of Fess's saddle again. Rod saw the monks' faces, and smiled. "The horse is a robot, Reverends."

Their heads lifted; they smiled. They did, at least, know the basics of technology.

So they weren't too surprised when the sphere drifted up into the air, then winged away toward the giant cocoon. "It will seek out what sight lieth there?" Father Thelonius asked.

"Yes," Rod said, "and show it to us on a built-in screen."

"So many of us shall see little on so small a screen," Geoffrey said plaintively.

"Well, let me see." Rod frowned.

I can monitor the video in progress, Rod, Fess contributed.

"Yeah." Rod's face lit up. "And we can all monitor Fess. He's telepathic with the family, Reverends. If you can read our minds, you can see it, too."

Brother Dorian smiled and closed his eyes, concentrating.

"My talent is weak," Father Thelonius lamented, "yet we are so close that mayhap I shall see summat." He closed his eyes, too.

Rod kept his open, just in case, so that the image relayed through Fess was superimposed dimly over his surroundings, like a vacation remembered during a conversation.

The viewpoint was high, looking down on the plain as the spy-eye skimmed toward the cocoon. Then Rod saw the mob at the tower's base, and the slab flanked by flares of fire. The image grew larger; the spy-eye was swooping lower. Whatever barrier had stopped Gwen had no power over Cold Iron, or even an aluminum alloy. The image became larger, clearer…

And Rod saw an altar flanked by huge, oily torches, all set down in a pit, a sort of amphitheater, jammed full of people who seemed to have absolutely nothing in common except dirt and disorder. They wore all manner of clothing, in a range of colors that was guaranteed only to clash—but they achieved consensus in voice and motion. They chanted and swayed in time to a dimly heard beat, overlaid with snarling tones. Before the altar, facing them, stood a woman in a robe that was all flashes of metallic light against dark cloth, moving in some arcane ritual involving a huge knife and a staff—but her movements were abrupt, random, almost palsied.

The giant cocoon that overshadowed them all drew Rod's attention, as it must have drawn the attention of anyone looking upon the scene—for it was, very clearly, a vast stationary whirlwind. What could have held it in place, what could have enclosed it to prevent it doing damage, Rod could scarcely imagine—perhaps some new and immensely powerful form of psi. Even its noise was muted and distant, as though shut away—a constant roar that was only a background for the grating music of the ceremony before it.

The picture abruptly filled with flames. The children cried out, pressing their hands over their eyes and turning away. Gwen's head snapped up as she and Rod broke their connection with Fess instantly. They were all silent for a moment, staring at one another.

Then Father Thelonius said, " 'Tis well we did watch through thy robot, whiles we could."

"Yes," Rod said, feeling numb. "Not much question about it, is there? The sorceress saw we were watching, and blew that spy-eye to bits." Almost involuntarily, he reached out and caught Gwen's hand. She returned the pressure, knowing his panic at the notion that it could have been she who was so destroyed, reassuring him that she was still there, still alive and vibrant.

We can make another surveillance device, Rod.

"Glad to hear it. Uh, I don't suppose there's any chance you recorded that episode, is there?"

Of course I did, Rod—that is standard operating procedure. Do you wish to review it?

"Yes, it's recorded," Rod informed the monks. "Anyone want to see it again?"

"Aye." There was a sudden grim intensity about Father Thelonius. "An we can, I must study that sight, Lord Warlock."

"And its sounds," Brother Dorian added, scowling.

They closed their eyes, concentrating on the link with Rod's mind.

He saw it again, the flight over the plain, the crowd in the amphitheater, the torches…

"There is a cross inverted betwixt the flames," Father Thelonius said.

The children looked up, shocked.

In the image, the sorceress before the altar suddenly threw off her robe and danced naked.

She didn't have the body for it.

Then the flames came, and instantly, the scene disappeared.

"The sound is wrong." Brother Dorian's eyebrows drew down. "Canst review it backwards?"

"Backwards?" Rod asked in surprise. "Well, I guess…"

Surely, Fess said, and the picture disappeared. Then, a moment later, came the sound of the chanting—and Rod broke out of the playback, looking up, startled. "Latin!"

"Aye." Brother Dorian had turned grim. "Latin, chanted backwards."

"Inversion, reversion, perversion…" Father Thelonius' face twisted with disgust. "They seek to enact the Black Sabbath."

"Trying to worship the devil?"

Gwen was horrified, and the younger children, shaken by the thought, crowded closer to her almost without realizing it. Magnus stepped a little nearer to Rod.

"That is what they attempt," Father Thelonius said. "All they achieve is the sacrificing of what little power of psi they have to the hag."

"But what can have led them to this?" Cordelia protested.

Father Thelonius' eyes met Rod's and Gwen's.

Magnus saw the look, and knew its meaning. "Thou canst not mean 'twas the music!"

Father Thelonius nodded heavily. "I do so mean. This woman before the altar—'tis she who hath beguiled the crafter into twisting the music of his rocks, who hath gathered and dispersed them, to win herself followers and gain some measure of worldly power."

"And she gains it," Rod asked, "by combining the minimal talents of ordinary people?"

"Aye, and- strengthens them by the basest of their emotions—which, though less powerful than love or compassion, are more easily evoked."

"And that tower of wind behind her," said Gwen, "is the repository of their powers."

"Gathered and compressed, aye, and churning the air into a maelstrom."

"But what can hold it bound?" Gregory asked.

"She doth hold the churning winds within the envelope of her own mind's force—for she, at least, is an esper of genuine power."

"A psi-made tornado," Rod breathed, "held in a cell of pure force—a cysted twister."

But Gwen shook her head. "It cannot be her mind unaided. If she were so powerful a witch, I'd ha' heard of her ere now."

"There could be aids," Rod said slowly, thinking of high-tech devices.

"But what hath led her to so foul an end?" Cordelia exclaimed.

Father Thelonius shook his head. "I can but conjecture."

"So can I," Magnus said darkly. "This much we know— that she is the ugliest witch in the land."

Cordelia glared at him, incensed, but before she could argue, Rod asked, "Now that she has managed to gather some power, what does she intend to do with it?"

"To gather more, of course. That is ever the way of power," Brother Dorian said, and Father Thelonius nodded.

Rod caught at Fess's saddle for support, staggered by a sudden vision of witch-moss rocks imbued with hate, greed, and lust, flying out from this plain of delusion, sped onward with all the power of the chained minds of the mob, gaining more and more converts to the worst of human nature—and the worst of the new fanatics finding their way back here, to contribute their own hatred and self-contempt to the swelling power of the emotional sink. "It could be the end of all that's good in Gramarye," he whispered.

He was aware of a strong hand on his arm and opened his eyes to see his wife's face, taut with concern. He forced a weak smile, managed to stand away from Fess, and turned to the monks.

Father Thelonius met him with a steady, grave gaze, nodding slowly. "Therefore can we not allow this obscenity to continue."

"But how can we stop it?"

"We have powers of our own." Father Thelonius touched the amulet. "Yet even without this jewel, there is great virtue in the yearning for right. We shall focus that—the aching for goodness and order, for love and compassion, gentleness and understanding, that is locked away in the hearts of us all. We shall focus and condense it, and pit it against that hideous chaos."

"Well said." Rod frowned. "Now, how about the engineering?"

Brother Dorian smiled and drew a long leather case out of his robe.

The children stepped forward, curiosity swelling.

Brother Dorian untied the case, and drew out…

An artifact of advanced technology.

Rod's eyes widened. "You made that?"

Brother Dorian shook his head, and Father Thelonius said softly, "We do remember the arts that the rest of humankind do own, mind—yet in this case, 'twas sent us from Terra."

It was a keyboard, with a full set of built-in visual synthesizers and subsonic modulators.

"You really know how to use that?" Rod asked skeptically, but Brother Dorian answered with a very serene smile. He extended the legs of the keyboard and set it up for playing.

"What is it?" Magnus asked.

"Listen," Brother Dorian said, "and watch."

His fingers moved over the keys, and a lilting melody arose. It wasn't nearly as loud as the rock music around them, but somehow it compelled attention, making the snarling and whining seem to recede into the background.

The children were transfixed.

A mist of glowing mauve formed in the air above Brother Dorian. Then, moving in synchronization with the music, it thickened, swirling, and churned itself into the form of a drooping flower bud. As the music built, the flower quickened, blooming and opening, lifting its face to the sun. It faded as the music swept down to a hush—and now, where the melody had been, a series of squeaks and chirps began. The children knelt hushed, recognizing the sounds of small woodland animals and birds—but what were they doing here on a plain?

Then they appeared, off to the side of the keyboard— foxes, badgers, mice, pheasants, hedgehogs—gathered in a semicircle, staring spellbound.

"What do they see?" Gwen whispered.

It was almost as though the music shaped itself to answer, swirling and settling into physical form—the figure of a small man with blue skin, clad only in a fur loincloth, a wreath of flowers in his hair and a flute at his lips. They could hear his piping, clear and flowing, and as he played, a small dancing shape appeared between him and the small furry creatures, a tiny elfin being, whose pirouettes whirled it so fast that it became a spot of light.

Then it dimmed as the music faded—and the small man and his creatures faded with it, disappearing, gone. The music took on a bittersweet, nostalgic quality, that both regretted and promised renewal—and ended.

The children were silent for a few breaths, and it seemed that even the music-rocks held their peace.

Then Rod realized the twanging and bonging was still going on around them, and the children released their breaths in a concerted sigh. "Wondrous!" Cordelia said, and Geoffrey added, "Thou art a magician!"

"Aye, certes," said Magnus, his eyes on the monk, "for thou art of the cloister of St. Vidicon, not of a parish. Thou art a wizard, art thou not?"

"Only in this," Brother Dorian demurred, "only in my music."

"Yet that is his magic," said Father Thelonius, "not the instrument alone."

"Yes, there is psi power in that, isn't there?" Rod mused. "You're a genius, Brother Dorian."

"Not I," the monk protested, though he flushed with pleasure. "Not I, but he who composed this piece."

"I could almost believe that such magic as this could counter the power of that fell maelstrom," Gwen said.

"It can! I assure thee, it can!" Brother Dorian said, his eyes bright. "Yet not alone."

"No, not alone," Father Thelonius agreed, "but with other instruments to aid it, and the power of a sacred ceremony to counter the vicious impulses drawn by the sorceress's profane ritual, we may hope to build a strength of psi power that will stand against it."

"Not just us eight," Rod protested.

"Aye, not we alone," Father Thelonius agreed, "for there are twelve-score monks in the monastery who shall sing and play, and shall link their upwelling of hope and serenity to ours."

"Why, how shall this be?" asked Gregory.

"It is the talent of our choirmaster, little one—the blending of musics, and the sharing of their power with those who have need of it, no matter how far removed—for he is a man for distances."

"A tele-man?" Rod asked. "And you'll be linked to him?"

"Aye, and he to all of us. We must have a meeting of minds, seest thou, a concert indeed."

"But how shall we aid?" Cordelia wondered.

Brother Dorian smiled and came around the keyboard, taking small instruments from hiding places within his robe. "Why, thou shalt play with me, as the spirt moves thee. Youngest one, a pipe for thee." He gave Gregory a wooden flute. "And a harp for the lass."

Cordelia took the wooden frame, gazing at it, caressing it. "But I have not the time to learn to play!"

"Thou hast but to sweep the strings, for they are tuned in harmony. A tambour for the warrior-lad." Brother Dorian handed Geoffrey a sort of shallow drum, a tambourine without the bangles, and a stick with a head on each end. "Strike the skin in time to the lowest notes I shall sound. And thou, O eldest son, shalt have an heir's portion." He held out a flat slab as long as his forearm and as wide, with four inset plates for the right hand and and six pressure-pads for the left. Magnus took it, frowning, and pressed one plate. A chord sounded, seeming to come from the air before his face. He almost dropped the instrument. "But how shall I know when to press which?"

"Thou shalt feel the impulse from me, for I have just such plates and pads upon my board."

"Yet wherefore should we play," Cordelia asked, "if we know not how?"

"Because," said Brother Dorian, "there is great power for good in the innocence of youth."

Father Thelonius nodded. "That is why such innocence is so great a threat to those who wreak evil—and why they are so eager to corrupt it."

Rod gave the monk a measuring gaze. "You seem to have this awfully well planned out, Father."

"Aye." Father Thelonius looked up with a smile from where he was gathering brushwood. " 'Tis for this we were sent, Lord Warlock—to keep the domain of vengeful music from increasing, and to push it back if we may."

Rod watched him silently for a minute. Then he said, "No wonder you found us."

"Aye." Brother Dorian smiled. "No wonder at all."

Rod was tempted to ask why Father Thelonius was gathering sticks, but decided he didn't want to know.

Brother Dorian turned back to the junior Gallowglasses. "Thou must attune thy selves to me, young ones, so that we may make sound together—and that blending of musics will increase the linking of our minds."

"Then we must be linked with thee, too," Gwen stated.

"Thou must indeed." Father Thelonius locked gazes with them—and, suddenly, the atmosphere was grim. "Thou must needs be at one with all of us—thy children, ourselves, and the monks in the monastery."

Rod was almost afraid to ask: "And how shall we make music?"

"Thou shalt not."

They stared at him in silence for a long moment. Then Gwen asked, "What shall we do?"

"Thou shalt fly sped by melody," said Father Thelonius, "for someone must bear the Warlock's Rock into that unholy place, to turn the witch's power back upon herself."

They were very quiet, the children stock-still, chilled with dread.

Rod wasn't exactly feeling warmed himself, but he swallowed and nodded. "Okay, Father. Give it to me. Someone has to stop her."

"Nay," Gwen snapped. "Whither thou goest, I will go. 'Twas into my keeping thou didst give the jewel, husband." And she stepped forward, bowing her head.

Father Thelonius nodded, slipping the chain over his head and holding it out.

"No!" Rod protested. "One of us at risk is enough!"

"Yet life would never be enough for me without thee," Gwen returned. "I beg thee, Father."

He slipped the chain over her head.

Gwen straightened, then turned to her eldest. She rested a hand lightly on his shoulder. "If we should miscarry, do thou care for thy sister and brothers."

Eyes huge, Magnus nodded.

"And thou." Gwen gave the other three her sternest look. "Do thou heed and obey him."

Wide-eyed, they nodded slowly.

"Take care of them, Fess," Rod said softly.

"I will at need, Rod—yet I hope that need shall not come."

"Yes." Rod smiled, and broke the spell. "What's a mere coven, against a cloister-ful of psionic monks and a family of espers? Even if they are reinforced by the more depraved emotions of an eighth of the souls of Gramarye." He turned to Father Thelonius. "What ceremony is this you'll be performing to the music, Father?"

The monk turned back from draping a linen cover over a table improvised out of stones and scrub. "It will be the Mass of Light."