"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 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?"
"I have not said that," Gwen answered. "There may be hope indeed. Let me study her mind awhile."
Gregory straightened, his eyes coming alive. He sat very still, cradling Finister in his arms, waiting while his mother probed and sifted through the woman's memories, even the ones she had forgotten, and especially the ones of which she had never been aware. Finally Gwen nodded and said, "I think she can be healed."
Gregory heaved a sigh of relief, going limp, then remembered that he held Finister in his arms and straightened again.
"Before we do, though," Gwen said, her voice suddenly grim, "we must ask whether we should."
Her children stared at her, appalled.
Then Gregory found his voice. "Do you ask if it is right to slay her, Mother? We have threshed out that question already!"
"You have threshed it," Gwen agreed, "but have you found wheat, or chaff?"
Cordelia frowned, looking into her mother's eyes. "What have you found, Mother, that makes you now doubt her right to live?"
"Chiefly that, though her will may have been formed by those who punished her for independence and rewarded her for subservience," Gwen said, "it was nevertheless her own choice to slay and maim. Perhaps I can cure her, perhaps not; perhaps I can bring her true self out clear of the fears and yearnings that shroud it—but she may still choose to murder and steal. Have we the right to cure her and free her if she will become no more human for our efforts?"
The young people were silent, two of them staring at Finister as though they were seeing her as a monster for the first time—but the third still with love. "Surely we have the right to decide it, Mother," Gregory said, "for it is our family that has suffered from her actions more than any other."
"There is some truth in that," Gwen said slowly. "Must we summon your father for a family council, then?"
"Father? No!" Cordelia said instantly, then explained, "There is no need, for we know what he will say—that if she has injured even one of his children, the only mercy she deserves is a quick death."
Geoffrey nodded. "If he votes for mercy. I think he might prefer that her death be slow."
"Yes, if he did not have to wreak it," Cordelia returned.
"There is truth in that," Gwen sighed. "He loses reason at thought of hurt to you and myself."
"More pertinent, I think, is the question of what Magnus would say if he were here," Geoffrey offered. "After all, it is he who has suffered most at her hands."
Gwen cast a dubious look at the tormented face of her youngest but agreed, "There is merit in that. Do you truly think Magnus would say we should slay her?"
"Probably not," Geoffrey said in disgust. "You have reared us all to be too merciful."
Thank Heaven for that, Gwen breathed in silent prayer.
"We need not wonder," Gregory said, his voice listless. "I have spoken with my brother every other month or so since he left home."
Gwen turned to gaze at him. "Indeed you have, and have told me of his exploits."
Geoffrey and Cordelia eyed their brother with some envy; his telepathic range far exceeded their own—though, Cordelia had to admit, it might only have been that his desire for contact with Magnus was greater than theirs. He had been very young when his idolized elder brother had left home.
"Well enough, then," Gwen said. "Reach halfway across the galaxy if you must, my son. Let us hear what your brother says."
Chapter 17
Gregory's eyes lost focus; his body stilled.
Cordelia stared, then whispered to Geoffrey, "So that is the secret of it! He sends himself into his trance of meditation to reach our brother!"
"No doubt aided by the likeness of genes," Geoffrey agreed, then shook his head decisively. "I should never have the patience for it."
"Nor I," Cordelia agreed. "I have never been able to understand how Gregory can waste so much time in contemplation when he might be out and about doing wonders and celebrating life with others his age."
Geoffrey sighed. "It is his choice, and who are we to criticize?"
"After all," Cordelia said, "he does not criticize us."
"Magnus speaks," Gregory said, his voice remote. "He delights in my thoughts; he greets you all with love."
"Oh, and ours to him!" Cordelia had never been present during one of these conversations.
Neither had Geoffrey. "What foes does he vanquish now?'
"None." Gregory gazed off into space, his voice like the sighing of the wind. "He is aboard his ship, journeying between planets."
"How does he?" Gwen asked anxiously.
Gregory was silent a minute, then said, "Better than at any time except in the heat of battle, Mother. He has a new companion now and she has calmed his inner turmoil considerably."
"She?" Cordelia pounced on the word with delight and jealousy. "What manner of she?"
Gregory paused for an exchange of thoughts again, then said, "She is a peasant woman named Alea, one who has been as badly hurt as he in her way."
"Is she indeed!" Gwen said, fascinated.
"She is, and Magnus is now intent on healing her."
"Magnus?" Cordelia frowned. "What does he know of healing a woman's heart?"
"Only what his computer Herkimer can tell him, but that seems to be a great deal."
"Does she think of healing him?" Cordelia demanded.
"He cannot say, for he will not, of course, read her thoughts unless there is danger," Gregory said, "but he thinks she may be a telepath, though untrained and so of unknown strength."
"That is hopeful," Gwen said, "and might incline him toward mercy toward this woman whose emotions were exploited and twisted in childhood. Tell him our dilemma, my son, but not of your own feelings toward this Finister."