Magnus still stood unable to move as he heard the door close quietly behind him. At the sound, the old man looked up.
CHAPTER FOUR
Rod laid his wife's hand on the blanket and rose with a smile of welcome and pleasure stretching the lines and creases of his face, a smile at the sight of his eldest son—but a muted smile, struggling to emerge through sadness, and through wrinkles that his son had never seen. Rod Gallowglass held up his arms, and Magnus leaned down to embrace his father.
After a few minutes, Rod's hold loosened; he stepped back to gaze up at his son with pride. "You came," he said softly, "you came in time."
"Praise Heaven." Magnus was surprised to find his own voice shaky. "Are you… are you well, Papa?"
"As well as can be expected," Rod said sadly, and turned to lead Magnus to the bedside. "Sit down, son, and tell her you're home."
Magnus sat. For another moment, he felt he was looking at a stranger again; then he saw the familiar features beneath the ravages of disease and took his mother's hand. But such a frail hand, so wasted and bony! The eyes opened, though; she frowned, puzzled, as she looked up at the hulking stranger beside her bed. Then she recognized her son, and her smile transformed her face. For a moment, the years fell away, and she was as he remembered her from his leave-taking. "You came," she said in the voice he recognized. "You came back." With great effort, she raised her arms a few inches.
Quickly, Magnus slid his arms under hers and leaned close to press her into a very gentle embrace.
Rod hovered near, anxiety warring with joy as he gazed upon his eldest and his wife. For a moment, his eyes clouded as he remembered the boisterous golden-haired toddler bouncing off the walls as he learned to levitate and the anxious young mother who rushed to collect him. Then the reality of the present became more important than memory, and he gazed upon the two with fond concern.
When Magnus let his mother go and laid her gently back on the pillow, she beamed up at him with pride and said, "Tell me, now. Tell me all that you have done."
"But you know it," he protested. "Gregory must have told you."
"Told me where you have been and what you were doing, yes." She seemed to tire simply with the effort of speaking. "How can a few hours' talk speak of years? He could not tell me how you were feeling, nor of the people who filled your life."
Slowly, then, Magnus began to tell her—not about the people of Melange or Oldeira or Midgard, but of the emotional ordeals he had passed through on their accounts, of his fellow disillusioned bachelor Dirk Dulaine, of their shared trials and triumphs, of Dirk's falling in love and staying behind as Magnus's ship lifted off to find yet another planet of oppressed souls to free, and finally of Alea and their growing friendship.
His mother listened, her hand in his, opening her eyes now and again to meet his gaze at a particularly telling remark, but always with that little smile of peace and pleasure in his presence—and Magnus knew she was listening as much to the emotions and images that crowded his mind as to the words he spoke. When he could see how badly she was tiring, though, he said, "Well, enough for now. I'll talk to you again tomorrow; there will be time."
"Perhaps." Her eyes opened again, looking directly into his, and for a moment he felt again the old power, the authority of this amazing woman who had borne, birthed, and reared him. "Bring her," she commanded. "This shield-mate of yours, this Alea. I must meet her."
Magnus knew she must be over-tiring herself. "Tomorrow…"
"There may not be a tomorrow, my son." She had to work hard to say the words. "Bring her now."
Magnus stared at her, feeling another wave of the tide of grief, but he thrust it back and closed his eyes, nodding, then reached out with a thought.
In the room below, Alea felt his plea and broke off in mid-sentence, staring at the sisters-in-law before her, then rose and rushed to the door without the slightest excuse or apology.
The women watched her go, then exchanged smiles. "We cannot blame her for lack of ceremony," Quicksilver said, "when he needs her so badly."
"Yes, but does he know that?" Cordelia asked. "He calls for her aid, but does he know he has come to need her?"
"Does she know she has come to need him?" Allouette countered.
"She will not admit it to herself if she does." But Cordelia was still smiling.
Quicksilver met that smile with one of her own. "She has come a long way toward healing, whether she knows it or not."
Allouette nodded. "She is ready to risk loving again."
"But is Magnus?" Cordelia's smile grew into a grin as she relished the thought of teasing her big brother.
But Allouette's face darkened with guilt. "Will he ever be?"
Geoffrey rose as Alea rushed out, and paced with her to the stairway. "First door on the left," he told her. "Godspeed."
"Thank you," Alea snapped, and rushed up the stairs, wondering why he bothered to wish her well.
She burst into the room and froze at the tableau that met her gaze—at her friend and shield-mate sitting hunched on a chair that was too low for him, holding the hand of the old woman in the bed, and the aged man who stood hovering across from Magnus. She realized they must be his parents, then dismissed them as unimportant and went to Magnus, light-footed and cautious.
He looked up at her, sensing her presence, and his gaze was a naked plea even as his voice said, "Alea, I would have you meet my mother, the Lady Gwendylon. Mother, this is my shield-mate Alea, who has fought beside me time and again and always given wise counsel."
"A pleasure, milady." Alea turned to the old woman. "Your son has been my…" There she froze, for the old woman's gaze held her own, the dim old eyes turning youthful and vibrant again, holding Alea in a bond that should have sent her screaming within herself, fighting to tear free—but there was something so soothing in those eyes, so understanding and sympathetic, that Alea almost welcomed the intrusion.
And intrusion it was, for Alea felt Gwendylon's mind blending with her own, reading the history of her life, of the anguish of her lover's desertion, the misery and grief at her parents' deaths, of the terror and rage at the treatment of the neighbors to whom the judge enslaved her, of fear and panic as she ran from them, and her wariness of the young giant who befriended her, a wariness that waned over the five years they traveled together as Alea learned to trust again, but never completely, never without the fear of betrayal, even though they saved one another's lives time and again, even though he withstood her tantrums and replied with reason and patience to her attacks and arguments…
Then the vibrance of the eyes faded, and they were only the rheumy old eyes of a dying woman—but the smile that blossomed beneath them seemed to enfold Alea in a gentle embrace even as Lady Gwendylon said, "I am glad my son has found so true a companion—and I thank you for his life."
"He has thanked me by saving mine," Alea assured her, then wondered why she cared about the feelings of this stranger.
Lady Gwendylon turned to her husband; her fingers twitched in a shooing gesture. "Off with you, with both you men. We must talk of women's matters."
Alarm surged through Alea at being left alone with this stranger so soon after meeting her—but Gwendylon turned to gaze at Alea again, and Alea realized that the woman was anything but a stranger.
Rod came around the bed with a sigh, beckoning to Magnus. "Come along, son. There are times to argue with your mother, but this isn't one of them."
"But… but she is…" Magnus couldn't bring himself to say the word "weak."
"I shall find strength enough for this," Gwen assured him, and her voice was strong again. "Be off and tell your father what you have learned."
Magnus turned anxiously to Alea. "If there is the slightest need…"
"I will call you on the instant," Alea promised. "Remember, I have learned medicine in three different cultures. Trust me, Gar."
"I will." He pressed her hand.
She almost pulled away, for he seemed to speak of trust b
eyond caring for an invalid—but she held firm and even managed to smile into his eyes. Then his father took him by the arm and led him away. She watched them go, marvelling that this dotard could have fathered a son whose head rose a foot and a half higher than his. Of course, he had probably been a few inches taller once himself, and Gar did tower over his brothers.
"Gar?" the old woman asked.
Alea turned back to her, feeling guilty that she had let herself be distracted. "He calls himself that when we land on a planet—Gar Pike. He began it to confuse spies from his former employers."
"SCENT, yes." Gwen's smile seemed to enfold her again. "I am glad he left his father's organization, though I could wish he had stayed at home. Still, he would not have met you, then, so it is well that he left."
"I am not so special as that," Alea protested, but she sat on the chair Gar had vacated anyway.
"To him you are," Gwen told her. "Tell me, how is his heart?"
Alea stared, frozen by the question—and its implications. She was only a friend! What should she know of Magnus's heart?
She could not say that to a dying mother, though. Instead, Alea chose her words carefully. "I can only guess, milady, for he is scarcely one to wear his heart on his sleeve."
"He was until he left here," Gwen said sadly, "but even in those few hours before he left for the stars, he had become… very private."
Alea leaned forward, frowning. "What had happened to him, milady?"
"You must hear that from him," his mother sighed, "for I shall not violate his confidence."
"I think I know some of it," Alea said, "and that it has to do with that witch downstairs."
Gwen smiled with gentle amusement; it seemed to require great effort. "All women in this house are witches, Alea, at least in local custom."
"Is that what your people call espers?" Alea nodded. "Gar has told me something of that—scarcely surprising, for people who know not how folk fly on broomsticks or read others' minds. Still, it is Allouette of whom I speak."
"Do not blame her for her beauty," Gwen said, still with the gentle, labored smile. "She is not now whom she was then—a murderess named Finister. I learned much of the mind in a few days, then labored mightily to show her how her life had been twisted by lies."
"I shall try to forgive her," Alea said, tight-lipped, "as Gar has—though I think not in his heart."
"He cannot, until his heart is healed," Gwen said sadly. "You must see to that for me, damsel, for I no longer have the strength."
Alea caught the meaning the old woman did not say—that she would not be here to do it. Still, the charge alarmed her. "I cannot finish your work for you, milady!"
"No, but you can finish your own." Gwen's hand stirred on the coverlet, reaching for Alea's. Almost against her will, Alea took it. There was some quality about this dying woman, some gentle authority that compelled obedience—almost like her own mother…
Alea purged the thought and said, "I can finish my own work, lady, but not yours."
" 'Tis work that only you can do," Gwen contradicted, then added, "I ask only that you finish what you have begun."
Alea frowned. "What have I begun?"
"To do for him what he has done for you," Gwen said simply.
Alea fought down unreasoning alarm to answer. "He has given me much of healing, aye, but he has done it by treating me as an equal, by teaching me what he knows."
"Only that?" Gwen asked, her voice a bare whisper.
Alea knew what the old woman was asking but refused to say it. "He has been a friend, a stalwart friend, and has given me some feeling of worth again, by…" She bit the words off.
"By treating you as though you are precious to him?" Gwen's head stirred in a faint nod. "Have you given him to know the same?"
"Surely he must…"
But the old woman's head stirred again, from side to side. "Men have to be told, damsel, or they will deny what they see and hear."
Well, Alea had to admit the truth of that. "A friend," she argued, "a precious friend, and nothing more."
"Go where your heart tells you," the old woman whispered, "or you shall never know the fullness of happiness."
"My heart tells me nothing," Alea snapped.
"Only because you will not hearken to it." The old eyes closed; Gwen sighed faintly. "You must learn to listen."
Alea felt anger and defiance at the order, but could not bear to speak it to a dying woman. Gwen knew her thoughts, though; a faint smile touched her lips, and her eyelids flickered in a knowing look, then closed again.
"Who tells me I must?" Alea challenged.
"Destiny," Gwen breathed, then relaxed so completely as to say without words, Forgive me, but I am very tired and must rest now.
How had Alea known that?
Perhaps Magnus's lessons in telepathy had worked better than she knew—or perhaps this old esper's mere presence increased the strength of Alea's talents. Either way, she knew the time for silence when she saw it—but she wasn't about to leave this new-found friend, either. She sat by the bed, the old woman's hand in her own, clinging to her for strength and warmth in the few hours left before Gwen should be taken from her.
As Magnus closed the door, he whispered to his father, "Why is she not in the most modern hospital on Terra?"
"Because her poor body won't take the acceleration of liftoff," Rod said sadly. "That's the opinion of the two best physicians in Gramarye."
Magnus frowned, puzzled for a moment, then asked with a touch of mockery, "You mean Cordelia and Gregory?"
"Yes, but Brother Aesculapius came from the monastery and confirmed the diagnosis," Rod said. "So did the Mother Superior of the Order of Cassettes."
"I thought Sister Paterna Testa refused that title."
"She did, but the convent's official now, so she has to be, too." Rod shook his head. "Under the circumstances, I'll trust her diagnosis more than his."
"What? A woman who specializes in psychiatric disorders?" Magnus's frown turned dangerous. "You don't mean…" Then he caught the implications of his own words and lifted his head, eyes widening in horror. "It's her nervous system!"
"That's part of it," Rod agreed, "but it's really her whole body. She's just wearing out, son."
"How can that be!"
"Because she's a quarter elven," Rod answered, and waited.
Magnus's mind spun furiously through the chain of facts, trying to catch up with what his father had spent months absorbing. Yes, he knew his grandfather (who would never admit to the relationship but had been the darling of his childhood anyway) was half-elven, so his daughter was a quarter of the Old Blood—which in Gramarye, meant one-fourth witch moss, the strange local substance that could be molded by the thoughts of a projective telepath. Some unwitting telekinetic long ago had told tales of the Wee Folk, and blobs of fungus in the nearby forest had pulled together, shaped themselves into a form that could stand and walk, then turned more and more into an elf, one who could beget its own kind, one who had…
"Genes!" Magnus stared at his father. "The elves can reproduce, so their fashioning must have worked on so deep a level that the tele-sensitive fungus even formed chains of DNA!"
"Yes," Rod said softly, "and when that re-creation interacted with real human genes, it only modified them so that they became extremely long-lived…"
"But the elves live forever! Then should not mother…" Magnus's voice trailed off as a terrible suspicion occurred to him.
Rod watched him carefully, saw the realization in his eyes, and nodded. "When the witch-moss genes are outnumbered two to one, it seems they eventually break down. You might say they become overwhelmed by reality."
Magnus gazed at him, mind still reeling through possibilities. Then he said, "But couldn't Cordelia… I mean, if the genes have become faulty, couldn't she…"
"Remake them?" Rod nodded. "We thought of that—but by the time we did, the elven DNA had deteriorated so much that we couldn't be sure what they had been like origin
ally."
"Then copy the human ones!" But Magnus had begun realizing the result before he finished the sentence.
Again, Rod nodded. "Which human ones—her mother's, or her grandmother's? In either event, what emerges might be viable, but it wouldn't be your mother."
"No, I see." Magnus's gaze wandered. "So her choice is to die, or to live, but not as herself."
"And you can be the one who tracks down a philosopher to ask how that's different from dying." Rod shook his head. "For me, all I know is that I'm losing the woman I love—but at least she gave me fair warning."
"As though she had any choice!"
"Didn't she?" Rod locked gazes with his son, and for a moment, his eyes burned with his old fatherly authority. "You think it's an accident that she was still alive when you landed?"
Magnus stared back at him, chilled. Then he said slowly, "She waited for me."
Rod nodded, not taking his gaze from his son's. Magnus broke the lock and turned away, feeling numb. "Have I made her linger in agony, then?"
"No, she doesn't seem to be in any pain," Rod said, "just very tired—and that can be taken care of by long and frequent naps. Always terrifies me, though, because I never know for sure if she'll awaken…" His gaze wandered to the bedroom door. "She's been conscious for an awfully long time, now…"
Magnus gazed off into space, his mind touching Alea's. "No. She's sleeping again, and Alea won't let go of her hand for a second."
"I know how she feels." Rod's smile could almost have been one of fondness. "You choose your companions well, son. Come on, though—we'd better relieve her." He went back to Gwen's chamber.
Magnus followed, knowing that his father was in a rush to take his wife's other hand.
The door opened—and Alea looked up to see a dwarf enter. She stared, because he had the head and upper body of a big man, but very short arms and legs.
He met her glance with a grave nod. "Good e'en, damsel."
Alea realized her rudeness and gave herself a shake. "Good evening, sir. I am Alea, Magnus's battle-companion."
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