by Melanie Rawn
Roger had recovered from shock and was taking this opportunity to move in. "Something sexy," he said as he leaned closer.
Al strolled over to observe technique.
"But subtle," Cynthia agreed.
"Evocative," murmured Roger.
"But elegant," Cynthia purred, fluttering her lashes as skillfully as Scarlett O'Hara.
Al peered at her in the evening gloom. "Honey, are you really falling for this?"
Roger was no Rhett Butler. "Stolen nights in a castle tower . . ."
"Moonlight shining on the moat. . ."
"I may throw up," Al announced.
Lips mere inches from Cynthia's, Roger whispered, "A minstrel singing love lyrics from a balcony . . ."
They kissed. Cynthia's eyes widened as if she hadn't expected quite this degree of competence— and hadn't expected to enjoy it quite so much. She stepped back and with a slightly forced little laugh said, "And the stench rising from the middens. Get real, Rog. I need a title, not a cliche."
Roger deflated like a popped balloon. Al cheered. Sam grinned to himself; she might look the dainty damsel, but Cynthia Mulloy was twentieth century down to her editor's blue pencil. He almost felt sorry for Roger.
"Well?" Al snapped. "Get in there and start swinging, Sir Percy! Think honor! Think chivalry! Think book royalties!"
"Think about getting out of my way," Sam suggested.
Al sniffed and punched the handlink. A rectangle of light opened, and a moment later he was gone.
Stepping from the shadows, Sam said, "How about Knights of the Morningstar? You stole the rest of my book, Roger, why not take my title as well?"
Cynthia gave a little gasp of surprise, and maybe guilt. "Philip? What—?"
"Go on, Roger. Tell her who really wrote what she just read."
Roger drew himself up to his full six feet four inches. "7 did. And you know damned well I did, Phil!"
Sam advanced menacingly—a piece of purest luna-
cy, considering his and Roger's relative sizes. "Tell her the truth."
"It is the truth!" Roger stood his ground.
Cynthia was the one who backed up a pace, genuinely worried by what she saw in both men's eyes. "Wait a minute. I don't understand. Who wrote the book?"
"I did," they answered simultaneously, exchanged dirty looks, and tried to outtalk each other.
"Alix de Courteney was just the name I used—I didn't know any other way of letting you know how I feel about—"
"I was hoping you'd read the description and recognize yourself as Alix, and find out how I feel about—"
She stuck two fingers in her mouth and gave a piercing, unladylike whistle. "Hold it right there! Shut up!"
They followed this excellent advice, glowering at each other.
"I'm Alix? You put me into the book?"
"Yes," they chorused.
Cynthia winced. "We'll let that pass for the moment. Roger. You said you hadn't shown it to anyone else."
"I didn't."
"Then how does Philip know the heroine's name?"
Nary a pause for quick thinking. "He must've stolen it from my tent and read it on the sly. He knew I was writing it—"
Sam broke in. "He stole it from my tent. If we go there now, it'll be gone. Because it's not there, it's here." This made precious little sense—even to
him—so he started over. "Look, I know it sounds lame, but you have to believe me, Cynthia. Would I make up something like this?"
"It sounds incredibly lame," she declared. "I don't know who to believe. What I do know is that in my tent is a novel I can make into a surefire blockbuster. The question is, who wrote the damned thing?"
Turning slightly so Roger couldn't see her face, she placed an unobtrusive hand on Sam's arm. He read her eyes instantly: it was much the same look she'd given him earlier, before the joust. She wanted some sort of sign from him, some kind of proof.
Sam was as tongue-tied now as he'd been this morning. He parted dry lips, hoping something would occur to him.
Something occurred to Cynthia instead. Quickly, eerily, distorted by tiny warping pulses of light, she changed.
And became Alia.
CHAPTER
SIX
Alia!
But Alia it was. Cynthia's touch had been light and pleading; Alia's fingers dug into the muscles of Sam's arm. Cynthia's silver-and-crystal cap had crowned a mane of golden hair; now it rested atop Alia's wheaten chin-length bob. Sapphire eyes had paled, the cheekbones arched higher, and the rose-strewn gown slid down a figure taller and slimmer.
Sam stared down at her in mindless shock.
She smiled, full lips curving with artless innocence, eyes glistening with artful malice. Her whisper was sweet and taunting, pitched to Sam's hearing alone.
"Well, Sam Beckett. You're a difficult man to find."
She removed her hand from his arm and turned, no longer smiling as she let Roger see her face. He, of course, still saw Cynthia.
"The manuscript in your tent is mine," he was saying defiantly. "Philip didn't write a single sentence of it."
Alia turned an earnest gaze on Sam, lips twitching slightly at the corners in silent mockery of his stunned paralysis. "What am I going to do?"
He heard so many meanings in that question that his throat closed even tighter.
"Either I wrote it or Phil wrote it," Roger stated. "It all depends on who you believe, doesn't it, Cynthia?"
"Yes," she said, with a thoughtful nod and a sidelong glance for Sam. "It certainly does."
A horn sounded—that damned herald again, Sam thought, startled out of near catatonia. Alia looked from him to Roger and back again, a frown flickering above bright eyes. All at once she assumed a wild, almost fey look, and Sam knew he had to do something, say something—
"Roger—" he managed, thick-voiced and without the slightest idea of what could follow next.
"What?" Roger growled.
Sam opened his mouth, closed it again. What, indeed? This isn't Cynthia! She may look like her, but she isn't. Her name is Alia and she's a time traveler from I don't know where or when, and she's here to ruin your life, or Philip's, or Cynthia's, or all three—and mine, too, because I'm not really Philip Larkin—in fact, she may be here to kill me— Hopeless.
"What?" Roger asked again, and took a threatening step forward. "This isn't the tourney field, Phil, but it's still just you and me. Let's do it. Right here, right now."
"Don't be ridiculous!" Alia suddenly gathered voluminous blue skirts in both hands, heading for the
sound of the hunting horn. "Come with me, both of you!"
They followed. Sam figured his bewilderment and Roger's were probably just about equal. He was positive their levels of dread were not. Sam worried most about her confidence—and secretly envied it. The first part of a Leap was, for him, always an exercise in urgent confusion. But Alia seemed to know exactly who everyone was, exactly what was going on, and exactly what she intended to do about it.
She led them down the center of the horseshoe, right past a tangle of acrobats, straight to the High Table. She dipped a low curtsy as King Steffan, crown slightly askew, raised his goblet and smiled welcome.
"Lady Cyndaria! Escorted by two noble knights, no less! How fare you this evening, Lord Rannulf, Sir Percival?"
Before Roger could do more than bow—Sam was incapable even of that—Alia spoke up.
"Your Majesties," she said, including the queen, "pray forgive this untimely interruption, but I am convinced that this is a matter you alone can decide."
The king gestured to the herald, whose stentorian yell quieted the crowd at once. The acrobats dropped their act—but, happily, not each other— and withdrew.
"What matter is this, my lady?" asked the king.
"Lord Rannulf and Sir Percival both claim ownership of the same item. Because there is no proof either way of the truth, I beg your wisdom in resolving the problem."
"W
hat the hell is she doing?" Sam hissed at Roger.
"Playing by League rules," was the reply, rich with delight. Roger was settling into his Lord Rannulf role with every evidence of relish. He was actually enjoying this. Anticipating it, even. He didn't know what Sam knew. He had no reason to fear what Sam feared.
"Lady Cyndaria," said Queen Elinor as she dipped her fingers up to the rings in a bowl of water and floating rose petals, then plied a linen square to dry her hands. "You wish us to settle this matter of honor?"
Alia humbly bent her shining head, hiding what Sam knew instinctively was a smug little smile. The crystals brushed her cheeks and forehead with soft color. "If Your Majesty would be so gracious, please."
The queen folded the linen daintily. "There is precedent in resolving such questions, as you know. Lord Rannulf and Sir Percival are aware of it also, I believe."
"Precedent?" Sam asked blankly.
"Ample," the herald put in. "Four years ago, the question of the kingship itself was decided between—"
"We were all there, Harvey," the king interrupted.
"Owain," corrected the queen.
"Whatever," said the king. "Well, my lord? Sir Percival?"
Alia subtly eased herself to one side with the air of a task excellently accomplished. But nothing had happened. Sam was more confused than ever.
Roger thundered his challenge for the benefit of the crowd. "I demand that Sir Percival make public apology for his slanders!"
The crowd loved it. King Steffan held up a hand for quiet. "Silence! We will hear Sir Percival's answer!"
Sam's head spun. Matter of honor—League rules— public apology—be damned! He knew who'd written Knights of whatever-it-was, however badly. Philip had lost publication credit and Cynthia and eventually his life because he hadn't had the gumption to stick up for himself. Well, Sam was wearing Philip's Sir Percival persona now, and Sir Percival was about to do the Proper Medieval Thing.
Whatever it was.
Better make a start. "I do not apologize! There is nothing to apologize for!"
"You lie, knave!" Roger roared.
His Majesty looked enthralled.
Her Majesty was not amused. "This conflict distresses us, my lord, Sir Knight. Surely there can be a peaceful solution."
Roger sneered at Sam. "Only if he makes formal amends, Your Majesty. Otherwise—"
A rectangle of white light only Sam could see appeared to Roger's right, and a silhouetted figure stepped through. An instant later the light vanished. Al was clearly visible now, frantically punching the handlink. "Got him, Gushie! Sam! Boy, am I glad I found you! I don't know what's going on, but we lost you for a couple minutes. Ziggy's about to bust a circuit. I've only seen her this way once before—"
He caught sight of Alia.
"And that was when! Moses on a pony, Sam, where the hell did she come from? What's she doing here? How'd she find you?"
Possessing not the vaguest answer to any of these queries, Sam cast him an anguished look of appeal.
"Otherwise . . ." Roger repeated direly.
"Come, now," said the queen. "There ought to be some way of settling this, short of violence."
"The Rules of Order for disputes between knights—" the herald began, but was glared to silence by His Majesty's piercing green eyes.
"Challenge him," Al urged.
"What?"
Sam's request for clarification was interpreted by Roger as an invitation to detail his intentions. He did so with a wide grin.
"To a duel!" Al said. "Trial by combat! Challenge him!"
"Are you crazy?" Sam demanded—of them both.
Roger's grin became a snarl. "Coward!"
King Steffan was frowning. "I like not your tone, Lord Rannulf. Nor your implication, Sir Percival. Her Majesty is right. But while it is ever our hope that we can avoid contention between our noble knights, if this truly is the only way to resolve the difficulty—"
For once, Sam had the luxury of combining two conversations into one—and his reaction to each was total incredulity. "You mean I'm supposed to slap his face with a gauntlet and toss it on the ground at his feet?"
"Sir Percival," asked the queen, "is that your wish?"
Al waved one arm madly, as if signaling Sam on past third to home plate. "Go for it, Percy!"
"I'm not wearing a gauntlet, damn it!"
"Sir Knight!" Owain, the herald, exclaimed. "The queen and her ladies are present!"
"Uh—sorry." Sam added a slight bow for good measure. Her Majesty nodded frosty forgiveness. He faced Roger—and beyond him saw Alia, breathless with excitement. Clearing his throat, Sam shouted, "I do not apologize! And I challenge Lord Rannulf to a duel!"
The crowd went wild, and nothing the herald could do would quiet them.
The foot of the royal goblet hit the banquet table with a thunk. "You wish to prove the truth of your claim upon your body?"
"Uh—forsooth." Sam was proud of himself for that one; he felt he was finally getting the hang of this. Warming to his theme, he went on. "Your Gracious Majesties, I hereby demand satisfaction of Lord Rannulf for his lies and slanders and—and calumnies! He stole what belongs to me, and says it is his own!"
"Atta boy, Percy baby!" Al crowed.
The king exchanged whispers with the queen, then addressed Sam once more. "We must needs give fair warning, Sir Percival. Should you be defeated on the field of honor, then his words are proved true." Leaning forward, he continued more softly, "Look, Phil—you sure about this?"
"Your Majesty, I am in the right—as Lord Rannulf well knows!"
Roger looked murderous. "I accept the challenge!
And for my own part, I issue a counter-challenge— for the right to woo and win the fair Lady Cyndaria of the Chimes!"
Pandemonium.
Trial by combat, questions of honor, chivalrous contention for the hand of a lady—this was better than Errol Flynn, the Round Table, and Sir Walter Scott all rolled into one.
Queen Elinor beckoned Alia forward. "My lady? Do you agree to the terms of this challenge?"
Wide-eyed and demure, Alia trod lightly to the High Table, smiling like a cat with dollops of cream still on her whiskers. "I am unworthy of causing such dissension, Your Majesty. But far be it from me to interfere in matters of chivalry between noble knights."
The king thumped a fist on the table, rattling the platters. "Well-spoken, Lady Cyndaria!"
Resigned to the inevitable, the kindhearted queen sighed. "My liege, will you name the hour?"
"Herald, clear a place in tomorrow's lists." King Steffan raised his voice to address the throng. "Be it known by all here present that Sir Percival has issued challenge to Lord Rannulf on a matter of honor, and that Lord Rannulf has issued counter-challenge for the favor of the fair Lady Cyndaria. Until tomorrow on the field of combat!"
Cheers abounded, cups were lifted high, and wagers flew thick and fast. Sam, in that moment, honestly hated Alia for what she'd done—not to him or even to Roger or Cynthia, but to these people all around him. What had been a sweet, harmless, elaborate conspiracy among romantic dreamers, Alia
had turned into something darker. It was up to him to keep them happily ignorant of the possibly deadly truths behind this innocent medieval charade.
Watching her face as she accepted a seat at the High Table and a cup of wine, he amended "possibly" to "probably."
CHAPTER
SEVEN
. . . finished his prayer and made the sign of the
cross just before he Leaped.
Here endeth the Priest's Tale
.
Donna Alisi Beckett hit the SAVE key on her office terminal and smiled. If Al was Sancho to Sam's Don Quixote, she had taken on the role of Dr. Watson to her husband's Sherlock Holmes, rendering each Leap in prose. Ziggy regarded this story-telling as scornfully as Holmes viewed Watson's efforts until Donna suggested a perusal of the only tale the Great Detective himself had written. The Master had confessed h
imself, if not humbled, then at least mildly chastened by the difficulty of the literary task. Ziggy had reacted with a thoughtful silence. Ever since, she looked forward to Donna's stories—and complained if she didn't get enough lines.
At first Donna had tried to keep up with the Leaps in chronological order—not by the years Sam was in but by the sequence here in her own time. Some stories, though, she found she was incapable
of writing down. Not necessarily the ones when Sam got involved with another woman—she had recorded the three Leaps centered around Abigail Fuller, Sammy Jo's mother—but the ones that had hurt emotionally.
She knew, for example, that she would never be able to write about the agonizing Leap into the mental institution. She could still see in memory the reddened wounds on his temples when he'd come back to her for those twelve brief hours. And she had not yet found resilience enough to record the Leap in which she herself had been a prominent player. There were others; she tried not to think about them too much.
But some she wrote about for the sheer joy of remembering the people involved, especially those she had come to know in the Waiting Room. Jimmy, with his eager, sunny smile. Sam himself as a teenager, with his blush and stammer—which evened the score, because now she'd met him as a kid, too. The young Al, who had ogled her legs to the infuriated mortification of his elder self. Samantha Stormer—bright, ambitious, determined to succeed in the chauvinistic sixties. And of course Jesse, the elderly black man whose reaction to seeing a young white man in the mirrored table had been a polite request that they give him his own face back. "Ain't the prettiest face in the wide sweet world, but I lived with it nigh on sixty years, near's I can figger. I'm used to it by now, Missie."
Donna included the New Mexico end of each Leap in every story, because when Sam came home he would want to know. She wrote for him, and because