"Perhaps." Her eyes opened again, looking directly into his, and for a moment he felt again the old power, the authority of this amazing woman who had borne, birthed, and reared him. "Bring her," she commanded. "This shield-mate of yours, this Alea. I must meet her."
Magnus knew she must be over-tiring herself. "Tomorrow …"
"There may not be a tomorrow, my son." She had to work hard to say the words. "Bring her now."
Magnus stared at her, feeling another wave of the tide of grief, but he thrust it back and closed his eyes, nodding, then reached out with a thought.
In the room below, Alea felt his plea and broke off in mid-sentence, staring at the sisters-in-law before her, then rose and rushed to the door without the slightest excuse or apology.
The women watched her go, then exchanged smiles. "We cannot blame her for lack of ceremony," Quicksilver said, "when he needs her so badly."
"Yes, but does he know that?" Cordelia asked. "He calls for her aid, but does he know he has come to need her?"
"Does she know she has come to need him?" Allouette countered.
"She will not admit it to herself if she does." But Cordelia was still smiling.
Quicksilver met that smile with one of her own. "She has come a long way toward healing, whether she knows it or not."
Allouette nodded. "She is ready to risk loving again."
"But is Magnus?" Cordelia's smile grew into a grin as she relished the thought of teasing her big brother.
But Allouette's face darkened with guilt. "Will he ever be?"
GEOFFREY ROSE AS Alea rushed out, and paced with her to the stairway. "First door on the left," he told her. "Godspeed."
"Thank you," Alea snapped, and rushed up the stairs, wondering why he bothered to wish her well.
She burst into the room and froze at the tableau that met her gaze—at her friend and shield-mate sitting hunched on a chair that was too low for him, holding the hand of the old woman in the bed, and the aged man who stood hovering across from Magnus. She realized they must be his parents, then dismissed them as unimportant and went to Magnus, light-footed and cautious.
He looked up at her, sensing her presence, and his gaze was a naked plea even as his voice said, "Alea, I would have you meet my mother, the Lady Gwendylon. Mother, this is my shield-mate Alea, who has fought beside me time and again and always given wise counsel."
"A pleasure, milady." Alea turned to the old woman. "Your son has been my .. ." There she froze, for the old woman's gaze held her own, the dim old eyes turning youthful and vibrant again, holding Alea in a bond that should have sent her screaming within herself, fighting to tear free—but there was something so soothing in those eyes, so understanding and sympathetic, that Alea almost welcomed the intrusion.
And intrusion it was, for Alea felt Gwendylon's mind blending with her own, reading the history of her life, of the anguish of her lover's desertion, the misery and grief at her parents' deaths, of the terror and rage at the treatment of the neighbors to whom the judge enslaved her, of fear and panic as she ran from them, and her wariness of the young giant who befriended her, a wariness that waned over the five years they traveled together as Alea learned to trust again, but never completely, never without the fear of betrayal, even though they saved one another's lives time and again, even though he withstood her tantrums and replied with reason and patience to her attacks and arguments …
Then the vibrance of the eyes faded, and they were only the rheumy old eyes of a dying woman—but the smile that blossomed beneath them seemed to enfold Alea in a gentle embrace even as Lady Gwendylon said, "I am glad my son has found so true a companion—and I thank you for his life."
"He has thanked me by saving mine," Alea assured her, then wondered why she cared about the feelings of this stranger.
Lady Gwendylon turned to her husband; her fingers twitched in a shooing gesture. "Off with you, with both you men. We must talk of women's matters."
Alarm surged through Alea at being left alone with this stranger so soon after meeting her—but Gwendylon turned to gaze at Alea again, and Alea realized that the woman was anything but a stranger.
Rod came around the bed with a sigh, beckoning to Magnus. "Come along, son. There are times to argue with your mother, but this isn't one of them."
"But… but she is …" Magnus couldn't bring himself to say the word "weak."
"I shall find strength enough for this," Gwen assured him, and her voice was strong again. "Be off and tell your father what you have learned."
Magnus turned anxiously to Alea. "If there is the slightest need…"
"I will call you on the instant," Alea promised. "Remember, I have learned medicine in three different cultures. Trust me, Gar."
"I will." He pressed her hand.
She almost pulled away, for he seemed to speak of trust beyond caring for an invalid—but she held firm and even managed to smile into his eyes. Then his father took him by the arm and led him away. She watched them go, marveling that this dotard could have fathered a son whose head rose a foot and a half higher than his. Of course, he had probably been a few inches taller once himself, and Gar did tower over his brothers.
"Gar?" the old woman asked.
Alea turned back to her, feeling guilty that she had let herself be distracted. "He calls himself that when we land on a planet—Gar Pike. He began it to confuse spies from his former employers."
"SCENT, yes." Gwen's smile seemed to enfold her again. "I am glad he left his father's organization, though I could wish he had stayed at home. Still, he would not have met you, then, so it is well that he left."
"I am not so special as that," Alea protested, but she sat on the chair Gar had vacated anyway.
'To him you are," Gwen told her. 'Tell me, how is his heart?"
Alea stared, frozen by the question—and its implications. She was only a friend! What should she know of Magnus's heart?
She could not say that to a dying mother, though. Instead, Alea chose her words carefully. "I can only guess, milady, for he is scarcely one to wear his heart on his sleeve."
"He was till he left here," Gwen said sadly, "but even in those few hours before he left for the stars, he had become … very private."
Alea leaned forward, frowning. "What had happened to him, milady?"
"You must hear that from him," his mother sighed, "for I shall not violate his confidence."
"I think I know some of it," Alea said, "and that it has to do with that witch downstairs."
Gwen smiled with gentle amusement; it seemed to require great effort. "All women in this house are witches, Alea, at least in local custom."
"Is that what your people call espers?" Alea nodded. "Gar has told me something of that—scarcely surprising, for people who know not how folk fly on broomsticks or read others' minds. Still, it is Allouette of whom I speak."
"Do not blame her for her beauty," Gwen said, still with the gentle, labored smile. "She is not now whom she was then—a murderess named Finister. I learned much of the mind in a few days, then labored mightily to show her how her life had been twisted by lies."
"I shall try to forgive her," Alea said, tight-lipped, "as Gar has—though I think not in his heart."
"He cannot, until his heart is healed," Gwen said sadly. "You must see to that for me, damsel, for I no longer have the strength."
Alea caught the meaning the old woman did not say— that she would not be here to do it. Still, the charge alarmed her. "I cannot finish your work for you, milady!"
"No, but you can finish your own." Gwen's hand stirred on the coverlet, reaching for Alea's. Almost against her will, Alea took it. There was some quality about this dying woman, some gentle authority that compelled obedience— almost like her own mother…