The Spell-Bound Scholar

by Christopher Stasheff

  Christopher Stasheff

  "Only if we can be sure she will be rendered as harmless as the dead." Gregory raised a palm to forestall his sister. "I know, I know—on this planet, the dead are not always harmless. Still, we can be sure of the lightness of our merciful course only if she becomes no more dangerous than a ghost. After all, dear sister, there may be some people who can never be cured, whose wickedness is born into them, or so deeply bred that they live for it and will never willingly leave off."

  "That is possible," Cordelia allowed, "but I doubt that this Moraga is one of them. We know she is an agent of our bitter enemies, after all, and young enough so that she was probably raised by them, reared and trained to be a traitor and assassin. Is that not as much as to say she was warped and twisted in her growing?"

  "Most likely," Gregory said with immense relief. "You have argued well, Cordelia. If we can cure her, we shall— and cure her or not, we shall do all we can to consign her to the happy prison of her ideal man, at least until we are sure it cannot hold her."

  Cordelia breathed a massive sigh of relief. For a moment she swayed, almost unable to stand.

  Gregory's arm steadied her. She looked up at him and was astounded to see his face woeful and gaunt with yearning. "But Cordelia—must we consign her to a witch-moss construct? Could I not become her ideal man as easily as some mind-built toy?"

  CHAPTER

  -8-

  That gave Cordelia pause, for all her instincts protested against the idea of letting her little brother remake himself to suit some she-wolf's whims. "There is danger in that, Gregory. Surely it is wrong for anyone to yield their identity to another person's will—wrong and impossible, for you are what you are, and no matter how you try to hide it and pretend to be otherwise, sooner or later it shall burst out in outrage."

  "True," Gregory said, pleading, "but I do not speak of changing myself, only of learning what she truly wants and needs of a man, so that I can provide it to her."

  "Surely you do not mean to make yourself her willing slave, to be ever at her beck and call, pathetically eager for her slightest nod of pleasure! No woman wants a man who so abases himself!"

  "You see?" Gregory said. "Already you have told me one thing that women do not want in a man. You could tell me more, sister, and her mind could tell me the rest if we seek among her memories. It is only a matter of technique, of learning how to speak to her, how to woo—for surely I have never learned anything about courting a woman!"

  "You think it is purely a matter of skill, as the song says?" Cordelia asked. "There is more, Gregory. It is not enough to act the part for her—either you are in essence what she wants in a man or you are not; there is no other way about it."

  "True, I cannot be anybody but myself," Gregory agreed, "and to try would be only a living lie. But surely I can learn to become all that I can be and to discover how to let it show forth. Where is the wrongness in that, sister? After all, if I

  Christopher Stasheff

  am not to her liking, we can still forge the artificial construct, her ideal man."

  Cordelia barely managed to bite back the retort that all ideal men were indeed only artificial constructs, but she put it aside; her brother's need was more immediate. He was so forlorn, his face so beseeching, that Cordelia found herself saying, "Let us discover what her ideal man is. Perhaps you are already he."

  Gregory gave a mirthless, sardonic laugh. "I am scarcely a warrior bold!"

  "It may be that she is not either, in her heart," Cordelia pointed out. "It may be that she is by nature a shy and retiring creature whom her tyrannical employers fashioned into a weapon as she grew." She shrugged. "Who can say?" Then she stepped back, surveying her little brother with a critical eye. "I shall tell you this, though—if you would become any woman's ideal man, you shall have to gain great brawn on that skinny frame, for most women do like a bit of muscle on a man."

  Gregory's jaw firmed. "If that is what she shall want in me, I shall do it!"

  "If you would do it at all, you must do it quickly," Cordelia warned, "and there may be great pain when 'tis done in a matter of days, no matter the magic that aids it."

  "I can withstand it," Gregory said stoutly. "Who knows the doing of such things?"

  "Whom should we call to heal the lass's mind?" Cordelia countered.

  "Mother," Gregory replied.

  It was handy being related to the wisest witch in the land. He closed his eyes for a second, sending out a silent appeal, then was surprised to feel an overwhelming sense of relief in answer.

  So did Cordelia. They stared at one another, eyes widening; then she hastened to reassure her mother that she, too, was alive and well. Gwen informed them of the attacks on herself, Geoffrey, Alain, and their father, then told them that she would be with them straightaway.

  Cordelia boiled over with wrath, pacing the grass. "The

  The Spell-Bound Scholar

  gall of them, the duplicity, the malice! To separate us and strike at us all at the same minute, so that we could not come to aid one another! Whoever their captain is, he deserves to be hanged! We must seek him out, we must rake him over hot coals, we must see him drawn and quartered!"

  " 'Twas not a man," Gregory said in a small voice. "It was Finister. I read that in her mind."

  Cordelia whirled, staring, emotions churning in confusion. She had convicted the woman by her own tongue. She glanced down at Finister, seeming so innocent, so helpless, so vulnerable in her sleep, and found that even knowing the woman had meant to slay her whole family only a few minutes past, she still could not bring herself to become her executioner. "Gregory ... I spoke in haste, in the heat of an-ger.

  "I know, sister," Gregory said gently, "but I did not. Your intentions may be excused, but what of mine?"

  There was no ready answer to that. Cordelia tried, and found none.

  "If we let her live," Gregory said, his voice low, gazing at the sleeping woman, "will she ever forgive me?"

  Cordelia said quickly, "There is no need for her to know."

  "There is every reason for her to know," Gregory countered, "if I am to hope for her love."

  "There is some truth in that," Cordelia allowed, "but not if your love is all that keeps her alive."

  Gregory frowned, thinking that one over. "Love cannot endure if it is founded on deceit."

  "I have known of many loves that did," Cordelia said sourly.

  Thus it went, back and forth, argument and counterargument, and Cordelia began to enjoy it thoroughly—it was the first time her brother had shown any interest in relationships outside his own family. She was almost sorry when their mother swooped out of the sky, skimming her broomstick low over the meadow, then hopping off beside them. She stared at the sleeping woman, frowning, puzzled. "Who is this wench, and how has she need of me?"

  Cordelia and Gregory exchanged glances, each waiting for

  Christopher Stasheff

  the other to begin. At last Gregory said, "I have fallen in love with her, Mother."

  "In love!" Gwen spun to him in surprise, then smiled broadly and embraced her youngest—only for a few seconds; then she held him off at arm's length. "It has been long in coming, my son. I rejoice for you."

  "Do not," Gregory said, his voice hollow, "for this is the woman who even now commanded her henchmen to strike at our family."

  Gwen spun, staring down at the slender, frail-seeming blonde in shock. Then the storm clouds began to gather.

  Gregory tried to stave off disaster by telling her the worst at the outset. "She is also the witch who tormented Magnus and sought to steal Alain from Cordelia and Geoffrey from Quicksilver."

  "The witch Moraga?" Gwen demanded, face turning stony.

  "That was but one more disguise," Cordelia told her, "wrought by projecting into our minds the appearance she wished us to see."

  "If that is so, she is an extremely powerful projective." Gwen turned slowly to Gregory and spoke with compassion. "Therefore, my son, you ha
ve not truly fallen in love with her, only fallen victim to the compulsion she laid upon you."

  "Is the love any the less real for that?" Gregory asked, caught between hope and trepidation.

  Gwen started to answer, then hesitated.

  "Many women have gained love by glamour and allure, Mother," Cordelia reminded.

  "Only infatuation," Gwen cautioned her. "If it grew into love, it was rooted in likeness and liking."

  "Might she not have been like to me if she had been reared by a mother like you?" Gregory asked. ' 'If her heart and soul had not been twisted by evil folk seeking to use her for their own purposes, might we not have liked one another for goodness and intelligence more than for appearance?"

  Gwen took a long, slow look at the sleeping woman. "It is vain to ask what might have been, Gregory. The plain fact is that she was raised as she was and is what she is. Can you

  The Spell-Bound Scholar

  love a woman who might stab you in your sleep?"

  "I do not need to sleep," Gregory said instantly, "and in my trances, I can watch well enough to protect myself."

  'That avoids my question," Gwen said, "and does not answer it."

  "We think it may be possible to cure her, Mother," Cordelia said softly.

  Gwen stood motionless.

  "I had thought I must execute her," Gregory said, "but Cordelia has thought of a prison she could not escape because she would wish to stay in it—a valley where she might dwell alone with a witch-moss construct, a stock who was her ideal man."

  "We would hem it about with an invisible wall and elves to watch," Cordelia said quickly, "in case she might become bored and seek to leave."

  "That is not enough," Gwen said, her tone unyielding. "If we cannot erase her desire to hurt, she will always be a threat and may yet destroy us all."

  "Cannot that desire be erased?" Cordelia asked.

  Again, Gwen stood mute.

  "I am too clumsy to essay it myself," Gregory said, "and I know too little of such aspects of the mind. Indeed, I know little save the use of psionic talents."

  "I know somewhat more of feelings and reasons for deeds," Cordelia said, "but surely not enough."

  "Nor do I," Gwen said at last.

  Silence held the clearing.

  Then Gregory's shoulders sagged. "There is no hope, then." He stepped up to Moraga, face tragic, but his gaze sharpened, and they could feel the power of his concentration as the rise and fall of the woman's breast slowed.

  "No, Gregory!" Gwen cried, appalled. "You must not slay her if she does not threaten your safety!"

  "But she does, Mother." Gregory looked up, tears in his eyes. "We have spoken it again even now—that while she lives, we are all in peril, we Gallowglasses. Nor is it we alone who are in peril—there are also the King and Queen, Alain and Diarmid, and all the folk of this isle of Gramarye. If she

  Christopher Stasheff

  has her way, Chaos shall be loosed upon the land, Anarchy shall cry 'Havoc!' and each man's hand shall be turned against his neighbor."

  "The danger is not immediate!" Gwen protested.

  "It is not present," her son agreed, but went on with inexorable logic, "yet it is inevitable. Only death will forestall it." He turned to focus his will on Moraga again.

  "There must be another way!" Gwen cried. "I did not raise my son to be an executioner!"

  "What did you raise me to be, then?" Gregory stared at her with such intensity that his eyes seemed to pierce her soul with the icicles of logic, and for a moment even his own mother was afraid.

  Silliness! she told herself. Ridiculousness! He lay in my arms, he suckled at my breast! The image evoked gave her the answer to his question. ' 'I reared you to be a whole person, Gregory, one who knew mercy as well as justice, who felt emotions as keenly as the delights of reason, who prized intuition as the capstone of both and was capable of turning it to action. I reared you to love and laugh and sing as well as to analyze, to nurture as well to protect, and above all, to devote yourself to the happiness of your fellow folk, for only thus can you gain happiness for yourself."

  The intensity of Gregory's gaze slackened into brooding. He nodded slowly, not speaking. Finally he said, "It is well spoken, Mother, and a noble cause—but I have fallen somewhat short of the mark before this. Now, though, I have at last learned to love someone other than my kin and understand how much more vast can be the love for a mate. Can you say truly that you have reared me to this and not do all you can to save my love?"

  Gwen sighed, capitulating. "As you shall have it, my son. I shall essay it." Then she frowned, becoming stern. "Yet by what right would you have me meddle in her thoughts, dig deeply into her most private memories, and have the temerity to meddle in the workings of another's mind?"

  Gregory's gaze did not waver, and he spoke with the certainty of a judge pronouncing sentence. "She lost the esper's right to the privacy of her mind by using its powers to commit

  The Spell-Bound Scholar

  murder and torture the hearts of others, for she thus became the concern of the people, who are the nation. The state must know her heart to judge her guilt and decide her fate—justice or mercy; either slay her out of hand, or invade and remake her mind." For a brief moment he lapsed into a smile. "I think she would choose the path of life."

  Gwen stood stiffly, staring at her youngest as the realization flooded through her, the shattering discovery of how deeply he had fallen in love. For a moment she had to fight down blind rage and the urge to tear the sleeping woman to bits for having manipulated her son's affections so callously.

  The vixen had put her in a devil of a predicament. Even if she turned the witch over to the Queen's Justice, Gregory would be heartbroken by her death—but if she let the woman go free, she would twist and warp his heart until he could no longer love. The only course of action that would not hurt Gregory deeply was curing Finister completely so that she could become a worthy mate for her son, if she had it in her, or be compassionate enough to turn him down gently if she did not fall in love with him.

  4 T shall cure her, Gregory," she promised. "I shall find a way."

  The lad folded. The tenseness went out of him so suddenly that he stumbled, almost falling, and Cordelia dashed to embrace him, hiding the need to prop him up. "Beware, my brother. For all our mother's good intentions, even she may not be able to work so great a spell."

  Gregory straightened again, his face settling into lines of resolution. 4 T shall brace myself for it—but it is kill or cure, and I shall accept what Fate brings."

  That was a new title for her, Gwen thought sardonically— Fate. Then she realized that every mother was just that, her children's fate, or at least the greatest single factor in the making of their destinies. No wonder the Fates were pictured as women!

  She pushed the thought aside, recognizing it as the refuge and the procrastination it was. She turned to the unconscious woman, kneeling and reaching out to touch her temple. Her eyes glazed and the sunlit meadow blurred and ceased to reg-

  Christopher Stasheff

  ister on her senses as an avalanche of emotion swept her, anger and bitterness, fear and discord, pathetic yearning and despair all mingled together as the events of the woman's life cascaded through her mind in a shattering kaleidoscope.

  Moraga's own reflected mind stroke felled her, memory faded to the blankness of unconsciousness, and Gwen withdrew her hand with a shudder.

  "Is it so bad as that, Mother?"

  Turning, Gwen saw Cordelia at her side, hands on Gwen's arm, holding her up, and wondered if she had cried aloud, and what the words had been, if any. She said nothing of it though, only nodded. "She would indeed prefer the course of life, even if I remake her memories so vastly that she does not recognize herself, and will be long rediscovering herself, learning that she has still the same identity. Indeed, I find a yearning there, and I think it is for nothing so much as a humble but joyous life. Let us attempt it."

  "How are we to begi
n?" Cordelia asked, intimidated by the magnitude of the task she had proposed.

  "More to the point, how are we to end?" Gwen asked tartly. She turned to her son. "As I understand it, this plan of yours depends on you yourself becoming her ideal man, not some stock made of witch-moss."

  Gregory blushed and lowered his gaze.

  "That.. . that was our notion," Cordelia said with misgiving.

  "What will you offer her when she awakens, then?" Gwen challenged. "What qualities will you gain that will make you a fit mate for so beautiful and talented a woman?'

  "Have I no talents of my own?" Gregory returned.

  "Great talents," Gwen answered, and let a brief smile of pride show. "But you have only cultivated the gifts of the mind, Gregory, and those are only part of what an intelligent and sensitive woman needs. What else have you to offer?"

  "A loving heart," Gregory said simply.

  "And how shall she know that?" Gwen demanded. "Are you a poet, that you can spin a spangled net of images and resonances in which to catch her fancy?"

  "I shall become so," Gregory averred.

  The Spell-Bound Scholar

  "Well begun," said Gwen, "but only begun. Can you also become a romantic, ever thinking of ingenious gestures to express your love, weaving always about her the magical web of romance?"

  "I shall learn it if I must read every romance ever written!" J'A better beginning, but there are many more books you must read if you would know enough of women's thoughts to entice her." Gwen smiled, amused. "I need not ask her if you can read her mind, as every woman wishes, for that is the saving grace of the male telepath—but can you understand the desires that you read therein, so that you will fulfill their spirit, not their form alone?"

  "If you will tell me what her desires are, I may succeed," Gregory said.

  "That she must do," Gwen told him, "even as she sleeps—in fact, most assuredly while she sleeps. Come, sit in my place." She rose in a single fluid motion, gesturing at the place where she had sat. "Touch her temples and read her thoughts. Some will appall you, some will disgust you, but you must know her as she is to understand what she may become, and the cavernous yearning that underlies her needs."