The Spell-Bound Scholar

by Christopher Stasheff

  Still, it had to be faced. He knew Finister quite well now, knew that if he stayed here she would come back with a dozen

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  or more ruthless killers to help her slay him. He was proof against them, of course, but accidents could happen, and he had no wish to kill anyone. He would have to brace himself for a more direct onslaught, preferably by being gone.

  Accordingly, he began the process of waking. His muscles softened, his breathing accelerated, and the world began to seem vivid and real again.

  The emotions hit.

  Sorrow and self-recrimination, knowledge of inadequacy, inferiority, failure—all struck and bore him down. Gregory sat still, trying to relax, trying to let it all wash through him. It did, it passed, but it left him trembling with self-contempt.

  Still, if he had failed at human relationships, he knew he could succeed as a wizard—even more, as a researcher who could learn new and varied ways to use psi powers. Resolved to find some way to disable Finister without hurting or killing her, he rose, set and grim, and went to untie his horse, mount, and ride down the woodland path. His first goal must be the nearby village that Finister had claimed was Peregrine's home. Gregory didn't doubt the hamlet was real but was sure the villagers knew nothing of Peregrine and never had. He had to find some way to protect it from the spillover of a psionic battle.

  He rode for fifteen minutes, mind open and seeking the village, before he heard its thoughts clearly enough to be sure where it was. He turned his horse off into a deer trail then and rode away from the cluster of huts—its best protection was distance. He pushed aside low-hanging branches, underbrush swiping at his knees.

  Then, suddenly, he reined in, stiffening, eyes widening. He had felt it, a resonance, a sort of mental echo, a reverberation and reinforcement of his psionic field. When he was sure the feeling was real and constant, not imaginary, he dismounted, tied his horse, and pushed his way into the forest, through a screen of underbrush, turning a little to his right, then right again around a huge rock, feeling the resonance grow and grow.

  Beyond the rock, the land was clear, no shoots or brambles, only emerald grass, thick and soft, cropped low by deer.

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  Boughs arched high above, the afternoon sun's rays sifting down through a thousand nodding leaf shadows. What lay beneath that turf, Gregory had no idea—perhaps nothing, only a confluence of lines of force, perhaps some strange collection of piezoelectric crystals that reflected his own energies back to him in an endless circle—but whatever it was, it grew stronger and stronger as he paced to the center of the clearing.

  Then, suddenly, the feeling thrilled through him from head to toe, rooting him to the spot, filling him, making him feel as though he were swelling, growing ten feet tall, and all his self-doubts fell away as he knew he had found his site of power.

  The trance came upon him suddenly, unbidden. He became aware of vast, dim presences, of spirits of a land that had known hundreds of years of telepaths. The forest was rich with witch moss, storing and reflecting their memories, emotions, and knowledge. Bitter and joyful, angry and grateful, vengeful and loving, the paired emotions drove him into a higher and higher state. Dimly he felt the presence of a host of ghosts, women and men flocking to him, attracted by a wizard mind at the site of power. He heard their voices whispering in his ear, confiding the terrors and joys and guilts of their lives, advising him of their successes and failures, their regrets and delights, filling him with the knowledge they had wrung from life, but more often than not, too late.

  Now he could see them, dim shades in muted colors, flocking toward him, joining hands, beginning to move in an age-old dance as their advice and experience poured into him. Huge though the site may have made his mind, they filled him—yet he seemed to grow more huge yet. Dazed and awed, knowing but not yet understanding, he let the procession weave about him, sharing thousands of lives with him, he who could focus them and sort them and match them, balancing remorse against a burning and unslaked desire for vengeance, fulfilling regrets—for hurts not returned—with guilty memories, countering joys with sorrows. Through him the restless spirits came each to his or her own resolution, some pairing, many matching, all gaining a sort of peace and filling

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  him with their power in the process. Unheard praises filled his mind, tears of gratitude and unsung tributes, as the specters began to fade, leaving the immensity of their combined experiences, memories, and powers behind—and Gregory knew that he had survived the ordeal, the rite of passage, and become a man grown and a complete human being, truly a wizard in every way.

  When they were gone, he thought he must sag, must fall to the ground senseless with the barrage of emotions, thoughts, and memories he had sustained. Instead, he stood straight and tall, vibrant and bursting with power, feeling more alive than ever he had. He let the feeling of exaltation build and peak, then ebb and finally fade, leaving him filled with energy and delighting in existence.

  Finally he relaxed with a smile and went off into the forest to bring back armfuls of brush. When he had a pile as high as his waist, he stared at it intently, beginning to move molecules with his mind. When the work was done, he went back to gather more brush, and more. There was much to do and only a few hours left in which to see the task fairly begun.

  Alarm thrilled through him, echoes of hatred and shame. He thought another band of ghosts had come to fill him again, but looking up, he saw Finister approaching in her own form, face aflame with passion, with desire and lust for vengeance, and her mind boiled with thoughts of mayhem.

  CHAPTER

  -16-

  Finister was astounded to discover Gregory so near to the place in which she had left him. She was even more astounded, almost shocked, to see him calmly dragging brush to the center of the clearing and staring at it while it shrank in on itself, melding into a single substance and hardening into gleaming off-white blocks, very fine-grained, seeming almost translucent, almost to glow with an inner light as they sat there. He had already made a score of them, piling them up by telekinesis, then fusing them together so tightly and making them melt together so that they became one seamless wall. He must have welded their very molecules.

  How dare he! Did she mean so little to him that, instead of seeking her, he would cast aside all thought of her and set himself to playing with blocks? How childlike, how feckless, how fickle!

  How improbable. The thought gave her pause; he was very deceptive, seeming to have decided on one course of action while he really pursued another. What might it cover, this facade of seemingly aimless play? From hiding, she projected a thought at the blocks, trying to analyze them—and was amazed to find that the cream-colored substance drank up her psionic probe as though it had never been.

  So that was it! He was trying to build himself a shelter to protect himself from her! He had feigned desire while he really sought first to trap her, now to wall her out! Blazing with anger, she strode out into the clearing to confront him.

  But she was too late for a frontal assault; the wall was already high enough and wide enough to come between them easily. Gregory had only to step behind it to become impervious to any telepathic attack.

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  That left sex, which hadn't worked, and anger, which she hadn't tried much yet. She advanced on him, crying, "For shame, sir! Would you leave a woman lost and defenseless in so perilous a forest as this?"

  Gregory didn't even try pointing out that it was she who had left him—he knew now that emotionally it was the same thing. "Your pardon, lass—but enemies may come and I had need to prepare a shelter."

  She noticed he hadn't said whose enemies, or whom the wall was supposed to protect. "And how would you have sheltered me if enemies had fallen on me while you were building here?"

  "Indeed, I fear you have the right of it. I should have kept seeking until I found you."

  He didn't sound very penitent
, though, and her blood boiled at the suggestion that he had indeed searched for her. Of course he had, and of course she had made herself very hard to find. "What manner of guardian are you, sir, who ceases the search so soon? Indeed, if you cared at all for your ward, you would rack the forest for months until you found her!"

  "I am a careless escort indeed," Gregory said, striving to seem remorseful—but he was definitely trying and seeming, not being.

  "Dare I travel with you more?" Peregrine advanced on him. "How do I know you would not turn and attack me?"

  At least he looked genuinely appalled. "Oh, no, sweet lady, I would never do such a thing!"

  No, he wouldn't, more was the pity, unless she could make him so angry that he forgot himself. "How can I be sure?" she taunted. "Is it because you are not man enough? Not man enough to search, not man enough to care, not man enough to lust after a woman badly enough to seek her out?"

  For a moment, desire flared in his eyes. 44 So beauteous a creature as yourself could inspire lust in the very stones!" Then the desire doused as quickly as it had come, leaving him as bland and polite as ever. "But I would never act upon it to wrong a damsel."

  'Then you cannot care much for her," Peregrine said acidly. How could the maddening boy remain so calm? She had

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  insulted his very manhood! She pushed another button. "Or perhaps you were afraid to seek me, fearful that you might indeed happen upon some cruel, crude woodmen who would fall upon you with cudgels—or some bear or wolf who would rip with fang and claw!"

  "Perhaps I am," Gregory said with chagrin but no great conviction.

  He was entirely too sure of himself, and for a moment she saw again the fire with which he had frightened away her bandits. Fear rose within her, but she thrust it aside and pressed the attack. The foul insults she had heaped upon him must have stimulated some emotion, no matter how well he hid it! She changed tactics and pressed close, projecting desire and recklessness even as she denounced him. "There, I am within your reach, only inches away! Have you the courage to reach out and take what you say you desire? No, for you are afraid my passion will burn you, sear you from limb to limb, leave you shaking with emotions that tear you asunder!"

  Her eyes flashed as she spoke and she saw the shudder run through him as her projections touched him. She felt an uplift of elation, knowing she held him fascinated, and pressed right up against him, hip to hip and breast to chest. "There, you did not even have to reach—I have come to you! Do you dare to grasp what you touch? Dare to enfold me in your arms and taste the sweetness of my mouth?" She hit him with every ounce of attraction she had, both sexual and emotional, eyes glinting with vindictive delight.

  Gregory swayed for a moment but steadied himself and straightened, arms rising but not touching. His voice shook with desire as he said, "I dare, but I withhold. You are too precious a gem to debase with the sweat of my hands."

  She almost screamed in frustration. She knew his whole body clamored for her! How was he able to resist?

  Gregory felt the power rising from the earth to fill him, power to resist, to maintain his integrity. He wanted her, yes, so badly that he ached with the yearning—but he did not want her like this, angry and challenging, eager only for proof of her power over him. If he could not bring her to him out of

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  her own desire for the totality that was Gregory, for himself and only for himself, he would not accept her at all.

  The thought tripped him into an analytical mode and he felt his senses sharpen, his reason honed by the power of the earth on which he stood. Why should she be angry and challenging him sexually only because he had not come hotfoot after her? Surely not merely to prove her own power! Her anger must be only another ploy in her game of seduction— but why should she want to seduce him if she were not in love with him? He was immensely flattered that she would go to such lengths and dearly wished to believe she had been moved to boldness simply because he had become more attractive—but with the clarity of the site of power, he knew it could not be true.

  Still the idiot boy refused her, refused to grasp what was his for the taking! Could he suspect how she wished to strike at him once she had him mesmerized by desire? No, surely not! But she would never have him transfixed more thoroughly than she did now, and if he would not reach out to consummate his desire, she would! Reaching up, she clasped his face in both hands and pulled it down to her own, kissing him lightly at first, lips nibbling, then with tongue teasing, and as his mouth opened to embrace hers and his arms finally rose about her, she reached out with her mind, pulling his into an erotic dreamland strong enough to make him lose contact with the world.

  Gregory knew well what she was doing and why but allowed hope to spiral and carry him away, letting his heart believe what his mind denied—that she was truly in love with him. He remembered everything Geoffrey had taught him about kissing and put it to practice, letting the kiss deepen almost of its own accord as he touched her back, her shoulders, her hips in the places Geoffrey had told him of, and was elated to feel an answering increase in her desire. Overcome with affection and wanting to give her even more pleasure than she gave him, he fed her own eroticism back to her, amplifying it strongly. He felt his own desire feed hers, then felt her tremble as her emotions became rapacious, feeding back into him until he felt he would burst even though he

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  threw his whole heart into the kiss and fed the desire back into her, swollen with love.

  Finister's whole body convulsed; dazed, she melted in his arms, and Gregory let himself be lost in her kiss and in the ecstasy she wove about him as the emotions of her desire and his fed upon one another, swelling and spinning them both into a whirlpool of rapture that paralyzed them, so intense as to prevent the very deeds it inspired, until the power of the spell overwhelmed Finister and she broke the kiss, slumping in his arms, unconscious.

  Gregory teetered, scarcely able to hold on to consciousness himself, but the power of his site slowly steadied him, and he reached down into her mind with overwhelming love but found there only a sort of rosy haze. With great tenderness his mind groped through that mist, trying to achieve mentally what his body had been denied.

  He froze, and his heart turned to ice. Beneath the haze of a very real desire still burned the white, actinic spark of hatred and lust for revenge, the hunger to slay him as soon as he dropped his guard. It was still there, the determination to fulfill her assignment, to enslave or slay him, and the hormonal intoxication of erotic feedback only obscured it, delayed it, but never for a moment cancelled it.

  Reaction hit him and he plunged into a despair as great as his intoxication had been only minutes before. He slumped to the ground mourning, holding the unconscious woman in his arms and gazing down at her with yearning and agony, overcome with the realization of his failure. All his efforts had been insufficient. His magic had amplified her desire, yes, but he himself had proved inadequate. His enchantment might have taken the desire she had kindled within him and caught her up in a gyre of emotion—but his body, his face, his personality had all failed to win her love.

  Cordelia found him there weeping over the unconscious woman. So deeply immersed in his grief was he that he did not even notice her panicked call for her mother and brother.

  Something flickered across the face of the moon; looking up, Cordelia saw her mother's broomstick spiralling down to

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  land—holding not only Gwendylon, but Geoffrey, too! So that was why he had not teleported to her immediately, only sent a thought that he would join her "presently." Her alarm doubled—what had happened to him, how had he damaged himself, that he must fly on a broomstick rather than teleport?

  Her concern diminished only a little when Geoffrey said as he dismounted, ' 'Mother, you are not sufficiently recovered to do this!"

  He sounded quite anxious. Cordelia cried in alarm, "Recovered? Recovered
from what?"

  "I have slept well and long, Geoffrey," Gwen assured him. "Be not anxious, my son. For the patient's sake as well as my own, I shall not attempt this healing if I so much as suspect I have not the strength." She turned to her daughter. "Your brother is kind to be so concerned, Cordelia, but I have not suffered anywhere nearly so much as he seems to think."

  "No, only exhausted herself, first in a game of riddles with a computer, then with drinking it dry of all its knowledge of the human mind!" Geoffrey protested.

  Cordelia stared. "What computer? Where?" And nothing would satisfy her until she heard the whole story or at least a summary of it, at the end of which she regarded her mother with admiration. "You must tell me how you outguessed a mainframe, Mother, when we have leave—but Geoffrey is right, you must be careful not to strain yourself."

  "I shall be cautious, never fear, and if you doubt me, remember my concern for the patient." Gwen touched her hand with a warm smile. "Now, my dear, what is so horribly amiss? . . . Oh!" She stared at her youngest, sitting on the ground before a wall glowing with twilight, head bowed over the beautiful young woman in his arms. Even from ten yards' distance she could see how his shoulders shook. She stepped closer to Cordelia and murmured, "What has happened here?"

  "I know not," her daughter answered in the same tone. "I know only what I see; I have feared to inquire without you."

  Gwen touched her son's mind and found it in turmoil. "Wisely refrained, Cordelia, when he is so distraught." She

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  stepped forward to kneel by Gregory and asked softly, "Why do you weep, my son?"

  "For a love that shall never live, Mother," he answered in a hollow voice.

  Gwen studied him for a moment, frowning, then said, "Say that you weep for unrequited love, rather—and if the poor child you hold in your arms has been so wounded in her heart as I think, it is small wonder that she cannot love, neither you nor any man."

  Gregory looked up at her with deadened eyes. "There is no hope of healing her heart, then?"