Isabeau hesitated, her eyes darkening with doubt. She moved forward again, resolutely, step by step. Navarre held his breath, felt the Bishop stiffen in his grip. At the far end of the cathedral Phillipe and Imperius watched Isabeau walk forward; the monk crossed himself silently.
The shaft of light grew wider as Isabeau stepped into it. Her body shimmered, absorbing the glow; caught in the moment when time stood still . . . and passing through it. She blinked again in astonishment, came on toward them, luminous with sunlight, her smile widening as she realized that she was truly and irrevocably human once more. Navarre gazed in awe at her, as he too realized that hope had at last become reality. He stepped down from the altar and ran to meet her; knelt before her as she came to him, and took her hands in his.
She clung to him, reaffirming her reality and his own; and then she released his hands again and moved past him toward the altar, toward the Bishop. Her eyes burned with fierce triumph as they met the pale, staring eyes of her tormentor. She stood before him, holding his gaze relentlessly, and opened her hand. In her palm lay the jesses that held a hawk captive. She dropped them at his feet, her face stiff with contempt. She turned her back on him again, and started away from the altar.
Behind her the Bishop’s eyes darkened with fanatical rage. He touched the base of his staff with his foot, exposing the steel blade hidden in its tip. Taking a step forward, he raised the staff like a spear.
“Navarre!” Imperius shouted from the back of the cathedral. “Look out!”
Navarre tore his eyes away from Isabeau, saw the Bishop raise his staff behind her back. Navarre flung up his own arm and hurled his father’s sword at the altar with all his strength. It struck the Bishop through the heart, impaling him against the altar, killing him instantly. Isabeau turned back, staring in horror. She looked at Navarre again; she ran to him, held him close inside the circle of sunlight, with her face buried against his chest.
A sudden murmur of awe and dread filled the stunned silence all around them. Navarre lifted his head, glancing back at the altar. He stared in disbelief; Isabeau turned in his arms, following his gaze.
The Bishop was gone. His robes hung in an empty cascade from the altar. Instead a scrawny, aging wolf stood before the congregation, peering around the hall with frightened, bewildered eyes. The wolf bared yellow fangs as it fled the altar and ran down the length of the cathedral, making a wide arc past the patch of light in which Isabeau and Navarre stood. It scuttled on through the ring of dumbstruck, gaping clergy with its tail between its legs, and disappeared past Phillipe through the waiting doors.
Navarre drew Isabeau to him again, holding her tightly. The circle of light widened around them, spreading outward like their own radiant joy. She laughed in delight as he swept her off her feet, dancing her around and around in the golden air. He set her down again, pulling her close once more, feeling her warm and real against his heart. He kissed her deeply, endlessly, their two bodies no longer as separate as night and day, but in that moment one, as their souls were one.
Phillipe threw his own arms around Imperius, hugging the old monk in ecstatic congratulation as he watched Isabeau and Navarre embrace at last. Imperius beamed with pride; Phillipe pulled his rumpled head down and kissed him, grinning. On every side Phillipe saw the gathered clergy smiling too, their own faces filled with relief and celebration as they watched the joyous couple embracing in the sunlight—knowing that they had witnessed the defeat of evil, the triumph of faith and love.
Isabeau and Navarre ended their kiss and broke apart, their hands still joining them together. Isabeau looked toward the cathedral entrance; her eyes found Phillipe’s, and for one brief moment her radiant smile belonged entirely to him. Phillipe glowed as a sudden, shining pride filled him. Her own face filling with love and laughter, Isabeau winked at him.
Phillipe glanced down, blushing; looked up again with a wink of his own—to meet Navarre’s eyes gazing coldly at him. His grin faltered, until he saw Navarre surrender to laughter. Phillipe’s grin came back, wider than before. He watched Navarre and Isabeau hold each other close and kiss again inside the shower of golden light, and his smile widened until he thought it would never stop. He was happier in this moment than he had ever been in his life, and every moment of his life from now on would have to be measured against this one. He had lived the dream at last . . . and because of him, the dream had come true.
Epilogue
Phillipe stood in the road beside Imperius’s oxcart, watching Isabeau and Navarre ride away together. Their figures, on the ridgeline high above, were limned by the golden clouds of evening as they began their journey through the mountains toward Navarre’s home. They would come back to Aquila in time, when Navarre returned to serve a new Bishop in his rightful place as Captain of the Guard. But for now they wanted only time to share alone together, in peace. They rode side by side at a lazy walk, their horses almost touching, their eyes only for each other.
They looked back together one last time, in farewell. Phillipe lifted his hand, smiling, while Imperius watched contentedly from his cart. As Navarre and Isabeau looked ahead again, Phillipe’s hand fell, and his smile faded; but the yearning lingered in his eyes.
Imperius looked down at him from the cart, shaking his head. “Don’t worry, little thief,” he said gently. “Your time will come.” He glanced at the road ahead, and down at Phillipe again. “I’m heading back for the abbey.” His smile widened. “To discover where the wind comes from. May I drop you somewhere along the way?”
Phillipe glanced on along the road at the sound of another cart approaching. He blinked, stared with sudden fascination. Coming toward them was a small wagon, driven by a young peasant girl with the face of an angel. Long honey-colored hair fell loose down her back, shining like gold in the light of the setting sun. “Actually,” Phillipe murmured absently, “I’m headed in the other direction.”
Imperius looked down at him with a firm but kindly gaze. “I fully expect to meet you at the Pearly Gates, little thief.” He smiled again. “Don’t disappoint me.”
Phillipe grinned, and waved the monk a farewell as the oxcart lumbered off down the road. He turned back, glancing up at the ridge. The sun’s fiery ball disappeared behind the line of the hill as he watched; he felt a sudden, familiar tightness fill his chest.
Up on the ridge, Navarre’s expression darkened as he watched the sun sink behind the hills. Isabeau’s hand clutched his arm in a painful grip, as the same unspoken thought filled both their minds. She was free of the curse . . . but was he?
Phillipe heard a wolf howl, somewhere in the hills. He shut his eyes, suddenly unable to keep watching; forced them open again, repeating a silent prayer. He looked up at the hills apprehensively. His eyes fell on a riderless horse; his heart missed a beat as he searched the ridgeline. Farther along it he found the black stallion—Isabeau and Navarre riding together, her arms wrapped around him, her face nestled against his chest. Phillipe whooped with triumph, his smile back to stay as he watched them ride on toward a new life.
Isabeau glanced back toward the valley with a grin as she heard Phillipe’s shout. She looked up into Navarre’s face again, filled with such happiness that she still could barely believe it was not a dream. Navarre kissed her hair tenderly, his eyes shining with contentment.
Goliath stumbled in the stony track. Isabeau steadied herself, putting her hand on the hilt of Navarre’s sword. She glanced down as her fingers wrapped around it; saw the Bishop’s emerald ring, which Phillipe had embedded in the empty socket at its top, the symbol of a quest fulfilled. Her hand adjusted comfortably around the familiar grip; her fingers shifted, searching, as they slipped into a sudden unfamiliar concavity. She looked down in curiosity, opening her hand. On the far side of the hilt was another empty socket. The emerald that Navarre’s father had set into place had disappeared.
Navarre looked down at her sudden indrawn breath, and saw the empty socket. His eyes filled with realization, and then with o
utrage and dismay. He turned back in his saddle, glaring down into the shadowed valley.
“Damn you, Gaston! Damn you!”
Phillipe glanced up into the flaming colors of the sunset as he heard Navarre’s shout mingling with the peals of Isabeau’s delighted laughter. He looked down again, moving a little closer to the warm body beside his own on the wagon seat. He held the emerald out in the palm of his hand, watching the peasant girl’s eyes, which were the color of sapphires, widen in awe. “It belonged to my mother,” he said softly.
“It’s . . . beautiful . . .” she whispered, gazing back at him in wonder, as he had always known she would.
“Actually,” he sighed, “it’s my only memory of her . . .”
They rode on together, into the most beautiful sunset he had ever seen.
About the Author
JOAN D. VINGE was born in 1948 in Baltimore, Maryland. An avid science fiction reader since junior high school, she has been writing it professionally since 1973. She now lives in Chappaqua, New York, with her husband, Jim Frenkel, and their daughter, Jessica. Jim is the publisher of Bluejay Books.
Joan studied art in college, but eventually changed to a major in anthropology and received a B.A. degree in it from San Diego State University. She has worked as a salvage archeologist, and finds her background in anthropology has been very useful in writing science fiction. Anthropology is similar to science fiction in many ways—they both offer fresh viewpoints for looking at “human” behavior: archeology is the anthropology of the past, and science fiction is the anthropology of the future.
Her first story, “Tin Soldier,” a novelette, appeared in ORBIT 14 in 1974, and her stories have also appeared in ANALOG, MILLENNIAL WOMEN, ISAAC ASIMOV’S SF MAGAZINE, and other magazines and anthologies, including several “Best of the Year” anthologies. Joan has six books out: PHOENIX IN THE ASHES, WORLD’S END, PSION, THE SNOW QUEEN, THE OUTCASTS OF HEAVEN BELT, and EYES OF AMBER AND OTHER STORIES. She has also written a children’s storybook of THE RETURN OF THE JEDI, and a version of TARZAN for young adults, as well as the DUNE STORYBOOK.
Her story “Eyes of Amber” won the 1977 Hugo Award for Best Science Fiction Novelette, and her novel THE SNOW QUEEN won the 1981 Hugo Award for Best SF Novel. Joan has been nominated for several other Hugo and Nebula awards, as well as for the John W. Campbell New Writer Award. PSION was named a Best Book for Young Adults by the American Library Association. THE RETURN OF THE JEDI STORYBOOK was the #1 Bestseller on The New York Times Book Review List for two months; it was the first such book to reach #1 on the list.
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