"No, I don't have to admit anything, Father." Rod cocked his head to the side, studying McGee. "Still, I do think you're right. But even some of those good souls have succumbed to temptation, and started seeking power for its own sake."
McGee watched him keenly. "Are you thinking of your local abbot now?"
"I am," Rod admitted. "From what I know of him, he's basically a good man, in spite of his being a reasonably competent bureaucrat."
"Ah." McGee nodded, pleased. "Then he may be open to appeals to his conscience, and capable of repentance."
"Yeah, but by the same token, he might reject any idea that he's done wrong."
McGee frowned. "How do you reason that?"
"Because," Rod said, exasperated, "it's the only way he can avoid massive guilt. Once he gave in to temptation, he became a convert to his own particular vice, with all the fanaticism of any convert. You might say he's acquired a vested interest in sin, and to disown it would be to ruin him. No, Father, I think he's gone too far down the road he's on to be able to come back again."
"He may have crossed his Rubicon," McGee admitted, "though I certainly hope not. Why do you think so. Lord Warlock?"
"Because of the tactics he's using. You see, Reverend Sir…" Rod glanced up at the hovering monks, then hunkered down and lowered his voice. "How much did Father Al tell you about our local variety of, uh… magic?"
"As much as he knew. Lord Warlock—that an astonishing percentage of your people are functioning espers of one degree of proficiency or another."
"Good enough, as a summary. And, well. Father, suddenly there's been an unusual number—hell, there's been an outright epidemic of hauntings and poltergeists and unlicensed mind-readers, all spooking the population and driving them toward the Abbot's camp."
McGee frowned, then turned and beckoned Father Boquilva over. As the head monk sat, McGee asked, "Has there been an unusual amount of 'magical' activity lately?"
Boquilva stiffened, then slowly nodded. "I blush to admit it, Reverend Sir, but there has."
McGee's face darkened. "Can it be that a man of the Church would dare to use his flock's superstitions to coerce them into accord with his will?"
Rod shrugged. "Why not? Priests have been doing it for centuries."
"That was not worthy of you. Lord Warlock," McGee snapped. "You know quite well that the Church has done all it can to enlighten its people!"
"Well, yes, I do have to admit that," Rod sighed. "In fact, when the Church wouldn't provide enough superstition, people went out and invented their own."
"Yes, and frequently became lost and tortured in the maze of their own imaginings—which is why it is doubly reprehensible for the chief clergyman of the nation to reinforce those superstitions, by producing illusions of them!" McGee shook his head, scowling. "How does one fight nightmares, Lord Warlock?"
"With dreams, Father." Rod smiled. "Been doing it all my life."
Father McGee raised his hand in blessing over the kneeling monks, murmuring some Latin phrases, then watched them as they rose and turned away, following the path away from Rod's house and back into the woods. Then the Father-General looked down at his monk's robe, pressing his hands over the fabric. "I had never thought I would wear a real monk's robe! It's so much more comfortable than a coverall. But, ah… a trifle more, shall we say, insecure?"
"Nobody said that only pilgrims could gird their loins, Father. I'm sure we can find you a strip of linen, if you'd like."
"I would appreciate that." McGee looked back up at the retreating monks. Their robes were obscured by the darkness now, so that they appeared to be only a double file of torch fires. "Excellent fellows! I'm sure they'll recover from meeting me." He turned back to Rod with a smile. "Still, their awe is a bit uncomfortable, for the time being. I do appreciate your invitation. Lord Warlock—my sons' reverence is pleasant, but tiring. Are you certain, though, that your good wife will not object?"
"Believe me, Father, I know. The system we've got beats radio and visiphone all to he— uh, heck. As long as you don't mind sleeping in the same house with a family of witches."
"Oh, I would, if you really were witches," McGee said, "devoted to Satan and to evil. But I know you to be espers, devoted to good, and according to Father Uwell's report, perhaps better Catholics than you may know."
Rod paused in the act of raising the knocker, frowning. "What's he know that I don't know?"
Fortunately, the door swung open before McGee could answer.
Gwen stared at the priest, frankly awed, then curtsied and stood aside. "Welcome to our home, Father."
"Why, thank you, milady." The priest stepped in, raised his hand to sketch the Sign of the Cross in the air, and intoned, "May the blessing of God be on all in this house." Then he looked up at Gwen with a guilty afterthought. "If you don't mind?"
"Oh, nay, Father! We are honored!"
"Well, that's a relief. I'd hate to bless anybody who didn't want it. By the way, where are 'all in this house'?"
"In their beds, praise Heaven, and asleep—though 'twas quite some time ere I could calm them sufficiently, after Cordelia's news."
Rod wondered what form the calming had taken this time. Shouting? Birch switches? Hypnotism?
"It's so nice to be an occasion! May I sit?"
"Oh, of course, Father! Wouldst thou wish ale?"
McGee looked up, his eyes lighting. "Why, yes, I would, now that you mention it! My sons in the forest are to be commended for their piety, but plain water can become a bit boring, no matter how tasty the brook it was taken from. Yes, that will do nicely. Thank you, milady."
" Tis my pleasure, Father." Gwen sat across the fire from him, beaming. "Hast thou truly come from another star to aid us?"
"Don't pay any attention to her 'humble local' bit, Father— she's been to Terra herself."
"Well, true." Gwen lowered her gaze. "Still, I am amazed thou couldst be with us so quickly."
"The Holy Father counts the planet of Gramarye to be of considerable importance, milady; faith that keeps a whole population within the bounds of doctrine for five centuries is rare."
"Besides," Rod inferred, "you'd rather be drawn and quartered before you'd lose a chapter of your Order. And the Pope is aware of just how much havoc we could wreak if we started trying."
"There is some truth to that," Father McGee admitted, "and the sudden explosion of hauntings here is evidence of it. Tell me, milady, have you noticed any effects of this sudden plague of ghosts on the faith of the peasants?"
"Aye, Father, and 'tis sad to see." Gwen sobered. "Many among them do begin to doubt the goodness of the clergy."
"Just as I feared, just as I feared," McGee muttered, staring at the fire. "The schism would have shaken their faith enough, but ghosts and goblins would finish the job. I shudder to think of the effect on the children—they are so ready to believe whatever they see! Yet they are also so steadfast in the faith and love they've given."
"Pretty good description of it," Rod said, rising from his chair. "In fact, I think I'll just take a peak at our resident fanatic."
"He rests soundly, my lord," Gwen protested, turning to watch him go to the door of the boys' room.
"I take it one of your children suffers from an excess of faith?" McGee asked quietly.
Gwen denied it with an impatient toss of her head. " 'Tis only that the boy doth feel the pull of a vocation, Father. It doth worry his father unduly."
McGee sat still for a moment, then asked, "How old is the lad?"