The Spell-Bound Scholar (12 page)

"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 have 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

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

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

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.

"I
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.
"I
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-

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 begin?" 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.

"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."

Gregory sat promptly, saying, "I shall give her all that she wishes!"

"Do not," Gwen said. "Give her what she needs—and fulfill only her greatest wishes. Now study her mind, and learn to tell the one from the other." She stepped back, surveying him with a critical eye.

Gregory stiffened in surprise but withstood her inspection.

"There is also the matter of physical attributes."

Gregory sighed with weary patience. "I know, Mother— you were ever telling me that I should have exercised more."

"The hour for telling is past," Gwen said.

Cordelia intervened. "We have spoken of this, Mother, and we shall summon Geoffrey to see to the building of his body. We shall do it by telekinesis as well as exercise, of course."

"You will wish you had heeded me and done this over the years," Gwen warned her son. "Bringing it about in a matter of days will be torture."

"It will, at least, be honest and open," Gregory said stubbornly. "If Magnus could withstand the tormenting of his heart, I can surely endure the agony of the flesh."

Gwen wasn't sure Magnus had really withstood that torture, but he had at least survived it. For a moment she had second thoughts about curing his torturer and saving her life, but she consoled herself with the thought that if she succeeded, Finister would scarcely be the same person as the one who had mangled her son. She would become her true self, shedding layers of bartered affection and frustrated striving for approval, of denigration and insult, of frustration and abasement. Perhaps the core of her identity would blaze with beauty and goodness—or perhaps, when all Gwen's efforts were done, she would still be the same homicidal vampire she had been before.

Gwen put aside the possibility; it was extremely unlikely that Finister had been born a sadist and assassin. "If I succeed in this salvage," she told her son, "the woman will emerge with a heart that is quite fragile for some months. She will try you in every way she can imagine before she risks giving you her trust; she will attempt to drive you away again and again before she lets herself begin to believe you will stay. She will need a man of infinite patience, of extreme empathy, and of great emotional strength to support her through those perilous first days."