Up from the womb of sleep she rose. Even then, fully conscious, she lay with her eyes closed, willing sleep to return, but it held aloof. Finally and with massive regret, she opened her eyes.
Slight though the light was, it hurt, and she squinted against it, looking upward, seeking the lark—but she found the boy instead, the callow youth whom she had been set, and set herself, to enslave or slay.
Massive remorse overwhelmed her, and the sight of his face blurred. She blinked away the tears angrily—how foolish they were, when she needed to see the world clearly! She knew with a certainty that reached to the roots of her soul that she would never again kill any human creature unless it were trying to kill her. Even then . . .
She became aware that she was sitting up, that an arm supported her, encircling her shoulders. She flinched, moving a little forward, away from the touch, and looked up into the face beside hers, the deep and aching concern in his eyes. Poor fool, he is still under my spell she thought, and withdrew any vestige of projection to free him.
The look of concern stayed, the arm still hovering an inch from her back.
Alarm seized her. Was he so thoroughly bewitched that she could not free him? Then her old cynicism came to her rescue—perhaps he was only concerned for another fellow creature. After all, only in that last embrace had she felt his desire, and had followed it back to . ..
She winced, sheering away from the memory of that attempt to slay—but it drew all the memories of her earlier murders, and the tears came so hot and fast that she could not stanch them.
Gregory gathered her in against his chest, murmuring, "They are only tears, sweet lady, and the natural overflow of a heart filled with emotion. Let them fall."
His voice was so tender, so reassuring, that for a moment she gave in and relaxed into his embrace. Then she remembered that he, too, had been one of her intended victims and stiffened, pushing away from him, angrily dashing her tears to the ground, trying to stop their flow. She sought for a thought to distract, anything to take her mind from this crushing burden of guilt—and his even more crushing sympathy. "The kind lady," she gasped, "the woman who led me through my dream quest. Where is she?"
"I know not, for I have not seen your dream," Gregory told her, "but I believe it was my mother, the Lady Gwen-dylon, for it is she who sat beside you and labored to heal the rifts in your mind and heart."
"Lady Gwendylon!" Allouette cried, aghast. "My enemy, and wife of my greatest enemy? The mother of those I sought to butcher? Your mother?"
"Even so," Gregory told her. "She saw great worth in you and labored to save you therefore."
The tears sprang afresh, but Allouette twisted angrily away when Gregory reached out to comfort. How could she accept his solace when she had sought to slay him? How could she accept this healing when she had sought to slay or spay her healer's children?
Long experience in argument brought the excuse to her lips: "She sought to save me for you! It was your desire, not hers, that healed me!"
"There is truth to that," Gregory admitted, "but she would not want to see me victim of a femine fatale. Nay, she would not even have attempted such a work if she had not seen great goodness buried within you!"
"It cannot be! I am corrupted, I am wicked!"
"But you know the truth of that now," Gregory said quietly, "and there is none."
"There is a great deal! I have slain thirteen, mangled one, and sought to slay or warp—yourself! Your brother! Your sister!"
"It was my sister herself who bade me spare you," Gregory told her.
Allouette whirled, staring at him in amazement—then saw something more in his eyes. "You would have slain me! You would have executed me for my crimes! You must have decided that, for it was the only just and reasonable course!"
"Then favor Cordelia for showing me that mercy is as important as justice," Gregory said, "and emotion as vital as reason."
"She took my part only because killing me would have rent your heart for all time!"
"It would indeed." Gregory looked directly and deeply into her eyes. "Your death by any hand would have caused me agony—but I should never have recovered if that hand had been my own."
Witting or not, the wave of emotion swept out from him to engulf her, a wave so powerful that it made her shiver. Then it swept back and was gone—he had realized he was projecting and stopped—but the force of his love left her trembling. In defense, she accused, "Your emotion comes only from the desire I cast and raised in you!"
"It does not," Gregory told her, "for I held on to reason against the most intense of your projections and knew them for what they were, only tricks of your own mind."
"Indeed! Then how did I win your heart?"
"By your intelligence and tenacity," Gregory said, "by the fire of your spirit and your craving for life. It was that which made me fall in love—though when I saw your true face and form, I was bound past withdrawing."
"My true face and form?" Allouette stared at him, astounded. "I am plain, I am lacking!"
"You are beautiful," Gregory said, voice reverberating with emotion. "Your face is enchanting, your body voluptuous." Then the emotion dwindled as though he had dammed a stream, and he sat back on his heels a little. "Mind you, I could have withstood the desire your loveliness aroused in me if I had not already become besotted with your mind and your character."
"I have no character!"
"But you do not deny your mind." Gregory smiled with amused affection.
She blushed. Allouette actually felt her face grow hot for the first time in eight years. She turned away, pushing herself to her feet. "Enough of such nonsense! We have a journey to complete."
Gregory rose with her, a slight smile still on his lips, a glow still in his eyes.
She glanced at him, then glanced away. Seeking to change the subject, she said, "Where is this mother of yours who has been my guide?"
"Gone to rest," Gregory said, "for even with all our energies to draw upon, she is most thoroughly wearied."
"All!" Allouette turned to stare at him. "Who is 'all'?"
"Myself," Gregory said, "and Cordelia and Geoffrey."
Allouette barely stifled a wail of despair. To be saved by her enemies! Grasping at straws, she said acidly, "But your eldest brother had no part in this."
"He could not, since he is most distant, journeying among the stars," Gregory said, "but even he spoke for mercy toward you. I doubt not he would have lent his strength if he had been here."
Allouette bit her lip to keep from crying out. It was too poignant, too humiliating, to have all of them forgiving her! She bowed her head, squeezing her eyes shut, but the tears came anyway. "I have wronged you, I have wronged you all! However may I make amends, however can I repay this kindness to cease its tearing at me?"
"By aiding others," Gregory said simply. "Let kindness pass from person to person in a stream that never ends and it will grow most amazingly on the way."
Allouette stared at him in astonishment. Then she said softly, "I am having a most amazing number of revelations today."
She turned away to hide her face from him. "How you must despise me, all of you!"
"We do not," Gregory said, "for we all realize that your spirit was twisted quite deliberately, that you were trained and molded to be an assassin and traitor, warped by lies and by coercion of which you were unaware. We despise those who have done this to you, but not you yourself."
"How can you not," Allouette said, "when you know what I have done?"
"Because I have seen the great goodness in you that was buried by your rearing, and my mother confirmed it when she had read your memories." Gregory frowned. "She did say, though, that your greatest difficulty will be forgiving yourself."