"I shall try," Gregory said, "though he is skilled, and will no doubt read some of it from my mental overtones." Then he was silent.
His family waited as he told the whole of the tale to his brother, hundreds of light-years away. Gwen wondered how thoughts could bridge a gap that nothing material could. That led her to thinking of the breakdown of simultaneity at near-light speeds and wondered what time, what year it was where Magnus sailed, how old he was now, and if by some magic of H-space he might be no older relative to herself than he would have been if he had stayed on Gramarye.
Then Gregory spoke. "He is horrified at the thought of executing Finister for her injuries to him, but thinks she should suffer in her own turn so that she will not injure others again."
Gwen expelled a sigh of relief and Cordelia clasped her hands. "His heart is still generous!" Then her face darkened. "But I am loathe to hear that he wishes her to suffer."
"Be sure that she has," Gwen told her, "and it has not inclined her toward mercy—but if I cure her, she shall relive those sufferings in such a way as to triumph over them." She turned back to Gregory. "Does Magnus understand that she is a proven murderer?"
"I spoke to him only of his own grievances," Gregory said, his voice still distant. "Shall I make him judge of her other crimes, then?"
Gwen took her time answering and phrased it carefully. "Say rather an advocate, either for or against. Will her murders change his mind? I cannot, after all, be sure of my healing; the mind is ferociously complex. She may yet murder again."
"Surely not!" Cordelia protested, but saw the look on her mother's face and fell silent.
Gregory was silent, too, but his face creased in pain as he mentally recounted Finister's crimes. Then he said, "Magnus says that death is the traditional punishment for murder, but the murderer may be forgiven if she is sincerely intent on not killing again and makes such restitution as she can to the victim's family and to society."
"That would surely take a goodly portion of her life, if not all of it," Geoffrey said.
"A lifetime of public service is not entirely unrewarding," Gwen said as one who knew.
"Magnus mentions an order of mendicant nuns," Gregory sighed, "and says that if she cannot find one, she may start one—perhaps even a lay order."
"Even cured, I cannot see this woman accepting such a life," Geoffrey said. "Yet there is more. Tell Magnus of her attempt to steal Alain and kill Cordelia, and to seduce me away from Quicksilver." He frowned at a thought. "You have told him of our betrothals, have you not?"
"Yes, and of the witch who sought to prevent both," Gregory said, his voice like a distant wind, "but I shall remind him." Again he was silent; then suddenly he winced. "He is angered far more by danger to his siblings than to himself. Now indeed does he advocate the death penalty."
"Give him my fond thanks," Cordelia said with a sentimental smile, "but the threat was to myself and Geoffrey, so surely we may say whether we should risk forgiveness."
"It is our right," Geoffrey said grudgingly, "and I suppose I shall speak for mercy, if Mother can cure the harpy."
Cordelia beamed at him and patted his hand. "Well said— and I think Quicksilver would be wroth if you did not."
Geoffrey turned to her. "Perhaps she should have some say in this, and Alain, too."
Cordelia shuddered at the thought. "Alain is Crown Prince and would insist on enforcing the law of the land."
"I shall speak for Quicksilver," Geoffrey said, "when I have consulted her mind."
"But it is so like Magnus to make light of his own hurts, yet be angered by ours," Cordelia said with a fond smile.
Gregory began to sway. Geoffrey leaped up to steady him, and Gwen said, "We must be done with this exchange, for your brother is nearly worn out with his emotions. Come, join with me in concert; let us lay our farewells in Gregory's mind, that they may travel to your brother."
Cordelia and Geoffrey joined hands with her; Geoffrey was already touching Gregory. Their thoughts blended in a fond farewell, modulated onto Gregory's telepathic beam. They all felt the nostalgia-laden burst of yearning and resignation that underlay Magnus's own good-bye. Then he was gone, and Gregory sagged against his brother.
"If he feels like that," Cordelia asked, "why does he not come home?"
"I think he is waiting for his own healing," Gwen said, "and for his own notion of maturity."
Cordelia frowned. "He is nearly thirty. What manner of maturity does he seek?"
Her mother could only shrug and shake her head.
Gregory lifted himself away from Geoffrey, saying, "Grammercy, brother. I am restored."
"Not overmuch," Cordelia said with a searching and skeptical stare.
"Enough," Gregory assured her, and turned to his mother. "If Magnus has spoken for mercy, surely even Papa would not object."
Cordelia looked much less certain, but Gwen said firmly, "I shall explain matters to your father. Believe me, he has some notion of redemption and perhaps even more faith in it than any of us."
All three of her children looked puzzled, but Gwen did not feel the need to elaborate. Instead she reached for their hands and said, "Come, lend me your own psionic energy, for this is apt to be a harrowing ordeal."
They came, they formed a circle around Finister's sleeping body and linked hands as Gwen began to work her way into the depths of Finister's mind.
Little Finister gave a squeal of surprise and delicious fright as she plummeted between the knees that had been her seat— but Papa's hands still held her waist firmly and bounced her up again, then down to sit on his closed knees once more. She laughed with delight and carolled, "More! More!"
"Now, Papa, you know better than to make a wee one so excited while Maud and Sukey are even now setting the table," Mama reproved.
"Aye, it is naughty of me," Papa said, chuckling, and hoisted the three-year-old off his lap.
Little Finister pouted and demanded, "More!"
"Tomorrow, little one," Papa said. "Into the high chair, now." He turned her around and sent her toward the table with a pat on her bottom.
The table was very long, as it had to be to hold twenty children and two adults—but the keeping room of the old farmhouse was ample. It had once been a whole cottage itself, but Papa and the big boys had built the sleeping wing onto the end—a boys' dormitory and a girls' dormitory, with Mama and Papa's room in between—and a new kitchen, pantry, and scullery onto the other end. The second wing was easily as big as the first, for a farmhouse kitchen had a great deal more to do than preparing meals, especially when it had to take care of twenty-two people.
They sat down to dinner, and Mama and Papa looked around the table, smiling. Gradually the children fell quiet. Then Papa said, ' 'Before we eat, let us pause to remember all the people oppressed by the King and Queen, and how we may work to free them."
Everyone was silent for a minute, staring at his or her plate, except the tiny boy who was even younger than Finister. There was a baby only a few months old, too, but she slept in her cradle by Dory's side.
Then Papa picked up his knife and began to carve the first capon. It was the signal to begin passing the bowls and platters. They went from place to place, the children serving themselves with fork or spoon, the older children helping the ones who were still too young to serve themselves and scolding mildly if they forgot to use their tableware, then passing the dish on to the left. Mama beamed as she watched her adopted brood, saying, "Very neatly done, Angela! That's how a big girl eats. . . . Derek, not so much, now! That pease porridge has six more to serve. . . . Corey, help little Vera with that milk pitcher, it is so very heavy. ..."