Alea purged the thought and said, "I can finish my own work, lady, but not yours."
" Tis work that only you can do," Gwen contradicted, then added, "I ask only that you finish what you have begun."
Alea frowned. "What have I begun?"
'To do for him what he has done for you," Gwen said simply.
Alea fought down unreasoning alarm to answer. "He has given me much of healing, aye, but he has done it by treating me as an equal, by teaching me what he knows."
"Only that?" Gwen asked, her voice a bare whisper.
Alea knew what the old woman was asking but refused to say it. "He has been a friend, a stalwart friend, and has given me some feeling of worth again, by …" She bit the words off.
"By treating you as though you are precious to him?" Gwen's head stirred in a faint nod. "Have you given him to know the same?"
"Surely he must…"
But the old woman's head stirred again, from side to side. "Men have to be told, damsel, or they will deny what they see and hear."
Well, Alea had to admit the truth of that. "A friend," she argued, "a precious friend, and nothing more."
"Go where your heart tells you," the old woman whispered, "or you shall never know the fullness of happiness."
"My heart tells me nothing," Alea snapped.
"Only because you will not hearken to it." The old eyes closed; Gwen sighed faintly. "You must learn to listen."
Alea felt anger and defiance at the order, but could not bear to speak it to a dying woman. Gwen knew her thoughts, though; a faint smile touched her lips, and her eyelids flickered in a knowing look, then closed again.
"Who tells me I must?" Alea challenged.
"Destiny," Gwen breathed, then relaxed so completely as to say without words, Forgive me, but I am very tired and must rest now.
How had Alea known that?
Perhaps Magnus's lessons in telepathy had worked better than she knew—or perhaps this old esper's mere presence increased the strength of Alea's talents. Either way, she knew the time for silence when she saw it—but she wasn't about to leave this new-found friend, either. She sat by the bed, the old woman's hand in her own, clinging to her for strength and warmth in the few hours left before Gwen should be taken from her.
AS MAGNUS CLOSED the door, he whispered to his father, "Why is she not in the most modern hospital on Terra?"
"Because her poor body won't take the acceleration of liftoff," Rod said sadly. "That's the opinion of the two best physicians in Gramarye."
Magnus frowned, puzzled for a moment, then asked with a touch of mockery, "You mean Cordelia and Gregory?"
"Yes, but Brother Aesculapius came from the monastery and confirmed the diagnosis," Rod said. "So did the Mother Superior of the Order of Cassettes."
"I thought Sister Paterna Testa refused that title."
"She did, but the convent's official now, so she has to be, too." Rod shook his head. "Under the circumstances, I'll trust her diagnosis more than his."
"What? A woman who specializes in psychiatric disorders?" Magnus's frown turned dangerous. "You don't mean…" Then he caught the implications of his own words and lifted his head, eyes widening in horror. "It's her nervous system!"
"That's part of it," Rod agreed, "but it's really her whole body. She's just wearing out, son."
"How can that be!"
"Because she's a quarter elven," Rod answered, and waited.
Magnus's mind spun furiously through the chain of facts, trying to catch up with what his father had spent months absorbing. Yes, he knew his grandfather (who would never admit to the relationship but had been the darling of his childhood anyway) was half-elven, so his daughter was a quarter of the Old Blood—which in Gramarye, meant one-fourth witch moss, the strange local substance that could be molded by the thoughts of a projective telepath. Some unwitting telekinetic long ago had told tales of the Wee Folk, and blobs of fungus in the nearby forest had pulled together, shaped themselves into a form that could stand and walk, then turned more and more into an elf, one who could beget its own kind, one who had …
"Genes!" Magnus stared at his father. "The elves can reproduce, so their fashioning must have worked on so deep a level that the telesensitive fungus even formed chains of DNA!"
"Yes," Rod said softly, "and when that re-creation interacted with real human genes, it only modified them so that they became extremely long-lived…"
"But the elves live forever! Then should not mother…" Magnus's voice trailed off as a terrible suspicion occurred to him.
Rod watched him carefully, saw the realization in his eyes, and nodded. "When the witch-moss genes are outnumbered two to one, it seems they eventually break down. You might say they become overwhelmed by reality."
Magnus gazed at him, mind still reeling through possibilities. Then he said, "But couldn't Cordelia… I mean, if the genes have become faulty, couldn't she …"
"Remake them?" Rod nodded. "We thought of that— but by the time we did, the elven DNA had deteriorated so much that we couldn't be sure what they had been like."
"Then copy the human ones!" But Magnus had begun realizing the result before he finished the sentence.
Again, Rod nodded. "Which human ones—her mother's, or her grandmother's? In either event, what emerges might be viable, but it wouldn't be your mother."
"No, I see." Magnus's gaze wandered. "So her choice is to die, or to live, but not as herself."
"And you can be the one who tracks down a philosopher to ask how that's different from dying." Rod shook his head. "For me, all I know is that I'm losing the woman I love—but at least she gave me fair warning."
"As though she had any choice!"
"Didn't she?" Rod locked gazes with his son, and for a moment, his eyes burned with his old fatherly authority. "You think it's an accident that she was still alive when you landed?"
Magnus stared back at him, chilled. Then he said slowly, "She waited for me."
Rod nodded, not taking his gaze from his son's. Magnus broke the lock and turned away, feeling numb. "Have I made her linger in agony, then?"
"No, she doesn't seem to be in any pain," Rod said, "just very tired—and that can be taken care of by long and frequent naps. Always terrifies me, though, because I never know for sure if she'll awaken …" His gaze wandered to the bedroom door. "She's been conscious for an awfully long time, now …"
Magnus gazed off into space, his mind touching Alea's. "No. She's sleeping again, and Alea won't let go of her hand for a second."
"I know how she feels." Rod's smile could almost have been one of fondness. "You choose your companions well, son. Come on, though—we'd better relieve her." He went back to Gwen's chamber.
Magnus followed, knowing that his father was in a rush to take his wife's other hand.
THE DOOR OPENED—and Alea looked up to see a dwarf enter. She stared, because he had the head and upper body of a big man, but very short arms and legs.
He met her glance with a grave nod. "Good e'en, damsel."
Alea realized her rudeness and gave herself a shake. "Good evening, sir. I am Alea, Magnus's battle-companion."
"Road companion too, if Gregory's report holds true." The little man sat down opposite her. "I am Brom O'Berin, long a friend of this family."
"I am honored, sir."
"I, too." But Brom looked down at the sleeping woman, and his face creased in lines of guilt. "My fault," he muttered.
Alea frowned. "How can that be?"
Brom glanced at her in irritation. "Because her whole life is my fault!"
Five
NOW ALEA DID STARE AT HIM, REMEMBERING ALL Magnus had said about his mother—only a sentence here and there, but Alea had remembered them all and put them together. "If that is so," she said slowly, "she must also thank you for a very happy life and four wonderful children."
The little man stared at her, amazed, then slowly nodded. "There is truth in that—and aye, I may have had something to do with her meeting a good man. Who charmed your tongue, damsel?"