" '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 anger.
"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 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 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."