by Melanie Rawn
She groped for the morningstar, eyes crazed with frustration and fear. He knew then that he'd been right: there was no hope for her this time. She had lost her balance on the knife's edge and fallen into the acid black well.
And Sam had pushed her there.
"Stop it, Alia! It's over!" He grappled with her, trying to pin her arms. The leather gauntlets made his hands clumsy. He didn't want to hurt her again, but she had no such qualms; she thrashed beneath him like a wild animal, arms and legs flailing. A fist smashed into his sore ribs, and one side went nearly numb.
She writhed partially out from under him. "You'll have to kill me to stop it, Sam!"
He managed to fling himself onto his back, taking her with him, and pushed off again with a foot. It worked; she was pinned under him again, and he had a grip on one arm.
"That's not the way out!"
"It's the only way! If I die, I'm free—because you'll
stay here and never Leap again! That's why I did it, Zoey—"
That was a lie, and he knew it—and hoped to God that Zoey did not. He played his part as he guessed it was supposed to be, wondering if together they could convince Lothos. "Alia, I can help you! Listen to me!"
He saw in Alia's suddenly terror-stricken face that it hadn't worked. She was past listening, hearing, understanding: drowning in the knowledge of her failure. Her body arched with frantic strength beneath his. Her fingers scrabbled at his neck, thick gloves clawing beneath the chain mail so she could wrap both hands around his neck and dig her thumbs into his throat.
Air clogged in his lungs. His head spun. From very far away he heard an enraged bellow: "I'm a goddamned hologram, Gushie! I can't do anything!"
Samuel John Beckett, M.D., knew exactly what was happening to him. The blood supply to his brain was being squeezed off at the carotid arteries; the passage of air was throttled before it got past his trachea; his larynx was bruised and soon would be crushed. He'd never feel it, though; he'd pass out before then.
"Philip!"
From the outside rim of his tunneling vision he saw a blur of yellow that both expanded and receded, then was subsumed in gathering darkness.
Suddenly he could breathe again. It hurt like hell, and when he swallowed reflexively it hurt even worse, but his head was clearing. A sound like an iron temple bell rang in his ears. He waited
a moment for his brain cells to flush with blood, then heaved himself to one side, off Alia's limp body.
Cynthia stood over them, blank-faced with shock, the handle of the morningstar gripped in both fists.
Sam tore off his helmet, then Alia's. Her cheeks were splotched with red, slick with sweat. Long lashes fluttered, and Sam exhaled in relief. She was only dazed, semi-conscious at best, but unhurt.
"Get help—hurry!" Sam rasped to Cynthia, cradling Alia's head in one palm, the other hand feeling for the pulse at her throat.
"Philip—"
"Hurry, Cynthia!"
Alia swallowed once, twice, and blinked up at him. "Sam?"
"Here, Alia." He cleared his throat. "I'm here."
"Cynthia's gone for the League doctor, Sam," Al said quietly. Then, reluctantly: "Is Alia all right?"
Yes. And no. The madness had drained from her eyes, leaving only weary resignation. He pulled in a breath that caught painfully in his chest. She knew what awaited her, and was too exhausted even to fear it.
"Stupid," she whispered. "Should've known. I can't even die."
"How could you ever think I'd kill you?"
A corner of her mouth twitched. "That's what Zoey just said. I'm sorry, Sam."
"You don't have to die to be free of Lothos, Alia. There's another way." He stroked sweat-damp hair from her forehead. "There has to be."
"That's something Zoey would never say." Her face changed, serious and intent now—and curiously
innocent, like a little girl's. "Do you understand? Do you know why, Sam?"
"Yes."
She almost smiled. After a moment she shifted away from him, propping herself on one elbow. She reached up, touching his face briefly. "Sam? Your eyes—they're green."
And he felt the sting of tears in them. "Yours— yours are blue, Alia. And beautiful—"
Incredibly, she was still smiling when her body warped inside the armor and the livid rainbow claimed her, and Lothos took her back.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
The chain mail, once more encasing its rightful owner, clattered as Roger collapsed onto the grass. Sam stared at the man's face—still seeing Alia's. Why had she smiled? Was it because this time she hoped she would pay for her failure with death?
He looked up at Al, questioning mutely.
"Gone," he said, and no more.
Running footsteps warned Sam to get control of himself. Cynthia returned, with various court nobles, all clamoring to know what had happened. Only one, wearing plain brown and a heavy gold chain, did anything to the purpose. He nudged Sam aside and knelt beside the unconscious Roger. Quickly and professionally he checked pulse and pupils.
"Out cold, but he'll wake up in a minute."
"No thanks to you, Lady Cyndaria," accused the herald.
"Now, Harvey," the king began.
"And what exactly was I supposed to do?" she countered. "Let them kill each other?"
"Hold still, you." Fingers startled Sam, probing the bruises and abrasions at his throat. He reared back, pushing the hands away.
"I'm fine," he said.
"You're insane!" Cynthia yelled. The sudden force of her fury actually toppled Sam onto his rump. She was absolutely raving.
"What the hell did you think you were doing? Philip, we're not in the goddamned fifteenth-century! Fighting over a woman—it's barbaric! I should've clopped you both over the head! I couldn't possibly damage brains you don't even have!"
Verbeena Beeks would have called it reaction to stress; Al would have called it temporary gaga. Ziggy would have called it partial systemic breakdown due to overload. Whatever it was, Sam did exactly the wrong thing as far as her ladyship was concerned. He began to laugh.
"Cynthia! Am I ever glad to see you!"
"Don't you dare laugh at me, Philip Larkin! And I never want to see you again as long as I live!"
But he kept laughing as he pulled her down onto her knees beside him and bear-hugged her— an uncomfortable process, what with his chain mail scraping her bare shoulder and her crystal headdress scraping his cheek. Torn between justifiable rage and stunned amazement that Philip was actually making a move, Cynthia lost all powers of speech.
The herald had no such difficulty. "Highly irregular, Your Majesty—the whole question of the joust— and Lady Cyndaria's illegal interference, using a forbidden weapon—"
"Oh, chill out, Harvey." King Steffan waved him aside. "They both acted like total jackasses, but there's no law against that. Stupidity isn't a victimless crime, y'know. They're both gonna limp around like Quasimodo for about a week."
"But they broke every rule of chivalry on the books! They actually tried to kill each other!"
"Well, they didn't succeed, did they? Tell you what—I'll bust 'em back to squire second-class and make 'em serve at High Table this Yuletide." When the herald opened his mouth to object further, he was favored with an awful scowl. "We remind you that We Are The King."
"As Your Majesty wills," sighed the herald.
The royal paw clapped him companionably on the back, nearly staggering him. "Good. Glad you see it my way, Harvey. Let's get back to the stands. Damn, I need a beer!"
Sam had meantime released the flustered and blushing Cynthia. He grinned at her. She looked as if she'd purely love to smack him one.
So Sam leaned over and kissed her. It seemed the thing to do; besides, he'd had quite enough of being knocked around for one day, thanks.
"Hot damn!" Al crowed suddenly. "You did it! Brave knight and fair maiden do get married! Roger writes four sequels and marries the actress who plays Lady Alix in the m
ovie—I told you he was more in love with her than with Cynthia—"
"Fool," Cynthia accused.
Sam hugged her again. Over her shoulder, his gaze fell on the morningstar lying in the grass.
All at once it looked familiar.
But his thread of thought snapped when Roger made feeble swimming motions and moaned. Cynthia helped him sit up, asking anxious questions to which he reiterated his first incomprehensible comment. The doctor looked him over again and departed after seconding Sam's silent diagnosis: gargantuan bewilderment but no real hurts. The morningstar hadn't touched him, of course. Sam figured it must be the shock of transference that had him glassy-eyed.
Sam's gaze strayed back to the morningstar. He'd seen it before—and not just when it was hurtling at him with killing force. Something about the blue-painted wood, the dark chain ending in a gray iron ball studded with golden spikes. . . .
"You two and your stupid book!"
This time the interruption was eloquent, and full volume. With her intended audience complete, if not completely functional, Cynthia evidently decided she was more interested in cussing than cuddling. She shoved Sam away from her; he went over on his side again, grimacing.
"Do you know I was actually considering offering an advance? Twenty thousand bucks! For a first novel! Twenty thousand—and you two so set on murdering each other I was sure it'd end up paying for your funerals! Christ on a kayak, I may kill you myself!"
Al listened and admired. "Anybody ever tell you you're just gorgeous when you're mad?"
Roger perked up—but not at the threat. "How much?"
"Twenty grand." When he made no reply, she
ground her teeth. "All right, thirty. But that's it! Not a penny more!"
Roger gulped, squinting at Sam. "You won the joust. I'm not sure how you did it, but you did."
With no intention of enlightening him, Sam leaned on one elbow and squinted back. "So?"
He cleared his throat. "According to League rules, that means you've been vindicated. You won, so you're right and I'm wrong."
Cynthia threw both hands into the air as if soliciting divine witness to this imbecility.
"So it's all yours," Roger finished.
"Cynthia," Sam said deliberately, "it's Roger's book. He wrote it."
"He did?" Both hands fell to her lap. "Then why did you—all this—the joust and the challenges—" She paused, gathering breath and steam for another tirade. Sam reached up and clapped a hand over her mouth.
"Hush, your ladyship," he grinned. "We're negotiating."
She jerked free and glared at him.
Roger was shaking his head. "You take half, Phil"
"Five percent," Sam countered. "You did the work. And we both know I can't write a grocery list."
"Thirty-five. You did most of the first draft. And it was your idea to put Cynthia in it as Lady Alix."
This took all the wind out of her sails. "It was?"
"Uh-huh," Sam replied.
Wrong thing to admit.
"You did that? You turned me into that stupid, simpering, brainless little twit?"
"Only in my version," Roger explained. "That's
why Phil's is so cruddy—well, one reason, anyway." All at once he bristled in defense of the woman he loved. "And Alix is not a twit! She's accurately portrayed, and authentic to her era—"
"In the twelfth century, Cynthia, you'd be an anachronism," Sam supplied helpfully.
"And then some," Roger emphasized, giving Sam a look that plainly said, Better you than me, buddy. "I only used the way you look. Because the way you look is perfect. But—" He steeled his jaw, then said with simple honesty, "But Phil wants you the way you are."
Sam began to understand why the two men had started out as friends. With luck, they'd end up that way, too.
"Oh," said Cynthia. She chewed her lip, then burst out, "Were you planning to tell me about Lady Alix, Roger, or just let me look like a fool when everybody else saw it except me?"
"Well.. ." He gulped again. "Actually, if Phil hadn't said anything last night. . . neither would I."
"And since he did, you did. Men!" she growled, and Sam saw another flood of creative vituperation heading their way. But an instant later she was giving Roger her sweetest smile. "First editorial decision: no wind chimes. She can knit socks, grow orchids, or make pistachio baklava for all I care. But no wind chimes."
"But—that's integral to her character! And the plot! She—" He took another look at the steel inside the silken glove, sighed, and submitted meekly. "No wind chimes."
Sam took advantage of the pause to say again, "Five percent."
"Twenty," Roger replied at once. "Call it an agent's fee."
"An agent's usual percentage is ten," Cynthia pointed out.
Sam nodded. "Okay, ten."
"Fifteen," countered Roger.
Al cleared his throat. "Five percent of thirty grand is a nice chunk of change, Sam. Fifteen hundred bucks would buy a lot of mistletoe. Not that Philip's gonna need it. . . ."
Sam half-choked on laughter. "Okay, okay, fifteen. But I'm taking only ten. We'll use the other five percent to throw the biggest Yuletide party the League has ever seen. Maybe then King Steffan will forgive us."
"I like it!" Roger agreed instantly. "Dinner, a humongous tree, gifts for everybody—"
Sam cast a sideways look at Cynthia. "Mistletoe. . . ."
She arched a brow. "Do you think you'll need it?"
"I definitely like this lady," Al announced.
Roger tugged off his right gauntlet and held out his hand. "Ten percent of the advance to you, five to the League. Shake on it, Phil?"
"Done." Sam removed his own glove. "Y'know, I've got a feeling you're going to do a lot better with that book than anybody thinks. In fact, I see the New York Times best-seller list in your future—"
Al gave him a warning look that Sam blithely ignored.
"Two or three sequels—"
"I knew it," said Cynthia. "You hit him on the head too hard, Rog, he's lost it. First he kisses me, now he's gone psychic."
"And a movie deal," Sam went on, "and getting married—"
"If you insist," said Cynthia.
Sam blinked at her. She met him stare for stare.
"My mother always told me to make the most of my opportunities—and a man in a state of temporary insanity sure looks like an opportunity to me."
Al chortled quietly in the background. "Nice work, Sir Percy. Ready to go?"
Roger was climbing gingerly to his feet. "Just don't let her near the weapons rack again. Did she really use that thing on me?" He pointed at the morningstar.
"It got your attention," Cynthia retorted. "Even through that thick skull. Besides, I didn't hit you that hard."
"You put a dent in my helmet!"
"So I'll buy you a new one."
Sam fixed on the weapon, his heart suddenly pounding. He knew what was familiar about it now. The wooden handle was painted the same blue as in Philip's drawing; the iron ball was the same gray as the cube; the gold spikes were the same as the squiggly yellow lines.
The whole damned thing was a dead ringer for the Larkin Capacitor.
"Get ready to Leap, Sam."
He shook his head. "Look." He reached for it, arranging it carefully on the grass.
PHP
"Look at what?" Cynthia asked.
The Holy Grail.
"The Capacitor," he murmured, almost hypnotized. "When it was whirling around in the air— that's the exact configuration—"
"Can you believe this?" she exclaimed. "Mistletoe to marriage to physics in two minutes flat! I suppose I can learn to live with it."
"If I just keep looking at it. ..."
Al's confused gaze went from Sam to the morning-star and back again. Then he understood. "If you're looking at it when Philip Leaps in—" The handlink chittered. Al let out a whoop. "It worked, Sam! Patent registered in May 1988—that's a year and a half earlier than be
fore! And get this—he gave it to us for free!"
"Phil? You okay?" Roger crouched on his left, Cynthia on his right.
"Fine." Sam went on staring at the weapon that had nearly killed him. The pattern that might give him back his life. Did everything possess a dual nature, having within it its own opposite?
In the last day, Sam had seen both sides of his own soul.
And Alia's.
"All right, Ziggy, I'm comin'," Al said to the handlink, and Sam glanced up. "No, don't look at me, look at the thingamabob! She says we have an important visitor—and you get one guess who it is," he finished with a grin.
Sam grinned back. He didn't have to guess; he knew. Returning his gaze to the morningstar, he felt the familiar tingling begin. He squeezed Cynthia's
hand, silently wishing her and Philip well. Another instant, and he would be somewhere else, some other time—
And he thought, as he always did, And maybe, someday soon . . . home.
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
She was there when it happened: the sudden tensing of his body, the abrupt lift of his head, the slight puzzled frown, frozen for a split second before the . faintest glimmer of blue-white light flickered like St. Elmo's fire and then vanished.
Sam? she thought, as she always did. Sam, have you come back home to me this time?
The white-clad body seated on the bench slumped over. Donna and Sammy Jo sprang forward before it could topple. Supporting him between them, they waited for green eyes to focus into sanity.
Sam, Donna thought mindlessly. Please.
"It's okay, you're all right, you're safe," murmured Sam's daughter. "Just relax, take it easy. That's it, slow breaths."
Shoulders stiffened, then eased. The women tentatively let go, saw that he could sit upright unaided, and backed off. He cleared his throat, gulped, and looked around.
"Can you tell me your name?" Sammy Jo asked,
her voice soft and quiet, with a hint of a Southern accent.
He divided a perplexed gaze between the two of them. "I'm—I'm Josh," he said slowly, as if not quite sure. "Who're you?"