Warlock’s Last Ride Read online

  "Oh, yes." Evanescent smiled, then remembered just in time to keep her lips closed. "Necessary on that world, and on several others. I hid aboard their star-boat, you see, and went with them."

  The little man frowned. "If you care so much for them, why did you not come down the ramp with them, rather than sneaking off like a thief in the night?"

  Evanescent caught from his mind the image of a thief and had to throttle her own anger, remembering that to these little creatures, she was an unknown and threatening presence. "They do not know of me," she explained. "I have kept myself hidden from them, to keep them from relying upon my magic instead of their own cleverness."

  "There is sense to that," a foot-tall woman said to Puck, and images escaped from her mind-shield, enough to show Evanescent that these little folk hid themselves from the humans, too, though as much from wariness as from refusal to be used.

  But Puck was not so easily convinced. "You forsook your home and surely can have little hope of returning there. What kindled within you so great a liking for my ward and his leman that you were willing to leave all for their sake?"

  "Fascination at their … efforts." Evanescent almost said "antics," but remembered in time that these small ones were prickly and that it behooved her to choose her words carefully. "It is quite unknown among my kind for a person to risk her welfare, to risk pain and even life for others— well, once they are no longer kittens—and is absolutely unthinkable to care in any way for people one knows not at all, to be concerned for them simply because they are people!"

  "And thus did our Magnus?" Puck asked, frowning.

  "Not simply that," Evanescent said. "He has gone from world to world, seeking out people who are miserable, almost as though he needs to have someone to care about!"

  "So he does," Puck said slowly. "So do most of his kind. Still, even if such caring was a novelty to you, why would its attractions be so great as to make you leave your home?"

  "But that is why," Evanescent explained. "Our home means little to my kind. In fact, nothing means much to us, save food when we are hungry and mating in season and kittens when they are born."

  An elf-woman shuddered. "What a dreary life!"

  "So it is!" Evanescent turned to her, delighted that someone had seen the point; it would be far easier to explain. "When you've reared a litter or two, mated a few dozen times, tasted all the different meats our planet offers—why, you begin to grow bored and restless. We seek out more experiences, more sensations, even growing cruel in the pursuit—but after thirty or forty years, there seems little point even in cruelty or power. I wished to learn your ward's secret that keeps him so interested in life, so immune from my kind's ennui."

  "Ssssooo!" The word echoed all around the glade in a hiss and a moan, and Puck nodded, face somber. "You joined them in search of relief from boredom, then. Do you truly wish to discover how to care about others?"

  "Do you wish to keep living?" Evanescent countered.

  The wee folk growled warning, spreading out to surround the cat-headed alien.

  "I wish to keep living, too," Evanescent said quickly, "but I know I shall end my own life and its dreariness if I cannot learn what Gar and Alea know, what all their kind seem to know, perhaps even yours: how to find a reason for living, to find it in other people—yes, even people they do not know at all."

  "And what will you do with this knowledge once you find it?" Puck demanded.

  Evanescent stared, astounded that he should ask a question that had so obvious an answer. Then she shrugged. "I shall live."

  "You shall do more than that," Puck said, "or you shall have learned nothing." He gave her a knowing smile, a nod, and turned away.

  "We shall let her wander where she will, then?" an elf asked, frowning.

  Puck nodded. "She is no threat to the folk of Gramarye, human or elfin, for she shall act only to keep Magnus and Alea alive—and will thereby help them achieve their goals." He looked back at Evanescent. "Is that not true, cathead?"

  Evanescent frowned. 'True enough, bite-size. Indeed, there is some amusement in helping them without their knowledge."

  "And since we know Magnus will not undertake any evil purpose …" The elf left the sentence hanging, still not happy.

  "If he does, we shall speak to him most sternly," Puck returned, "though I cannot believe even ten years of harsh encounters can have changed our Magnus so much."

  "You think rightly," Evanescent assured him. "He seeks only to help others and strikes out solely in his own defense—or to defend others. It is one more mystery to me—why he will strain so hard for goals that gain him nothing."

  "Oh, he gains enough," Puck told her. "When you discover how his efforts enrich him, I shall be glad to discuss the asininity of it with you. You are welcome to the freedom of this land, star-farer. Do not abuse it."

  Evanescent opened her mouth for a hot retort, then stared in amazement, for all the little people were gone, vanished in an instant. She closed her mouth and cocked her head, listening with a sense far more acute than mere ears and caught only fading chuckles, scraps of conversation. The Wee Folk seemed quite reassured now.

  It was maddening, not to say insulting. There is, after all, something deflating about others deciding you're no threat.

  THERE WERE HORSES waiting, so the Gallowglasses and their spouses rode out of the woodlands to the house that stood in the meadow beyond. Magnus drew rein in surprise. "They have come back to the cottage, then?"

  Some cottage! Alea thought, mouth curving with irony. It was two stories tall with dormers peeking out from an attic, half-timbered and stucco-walled, with leaded windows that glowed with the light of a fire within, and candles on the floor above.

  "Mama wanted to come back to the house where we grew up," Cordelia explained softly. "We were together for years here, after all, before Queen Catharine insisted we take the castle, and in spite of all the work and the exasperation we caused Mama, she said her happiest memories have soaked into the timbers of this house."

  "I doubt it not," Magnus said softly, and urged his horse forward. "We were only in the castle for four years, after all, all of us together."

  "Together, yes." Cordelia left it unsaid: Before you deserted us, but the sentiment hung in the air, and Magnus bowed his head as his horse carried him home.

  Gregory pushed up beside him, murmuring, "Do not berate yourself, brother. Your absence gave Geoffrey room to grow."

  He did not mention himself, Alea reflected, and could see from the ironic twist to Magnus's mouth that he realized it, too, though Gregory probably did not.

  They dismounted at the door; hostlers appeared out of the shadows to take their horses. Magnus looked around at them in surprise. "Where are Puck and his kin?"

  "About their nightly business, most likely," Gregory answered. "Come in, brother. The candle burns upstairs, and I doubt not that Papa is awake and watching even if Mama is asleep."

  He opened the door and beckoned. Magnus followed, and it seemed to Alea that a mantle of doom settled over his shoulders. She stepped toward him automatically, reaching out to reassure, but Cordelia intercepted her deftly, steering her toward the sitting room and saying, "We must give them some minutes alone, must we not? Her first-born, after so many years."

  "Yes … yes, of course." Alea let herself be led into the sitting room, turned to take a chair by the hearth, and sat gazing into the flames, mind and heart open to the young giant who walked up the stairs, alert for any call for support he might send—but none came. Finally she looked up at Cordelia—and at Quicksilver and Allouette. With a shock, she realized how neatly Magnus's sister had split her off to have her alone with the young women, and Alea knew at once what it meant. She braced herself for an interrogation, and for judgement.

  Cordelia, however, only smiled gently and said, "Gregory has told us what Magnus has said of you, and of the rush of feeling that went with it. That seems so little, though, now that we actually see you."

  "Rush o
f feeling?" Alea was instantly intent. "What feelings did he speak of?"

  All three women exchanged a quick glance of surprise.

  "Admiration," Cordelia said, "for your skill in battle, the sharpness of your tongue, and keenness of your wit—but also admiration for your face and form."

  Alea gave a sharp, bitter laugh. "Face and form? A horsehead atop a beanpole? What could he admire in that?"

  The women exchanged another surprised look, this one veiled; then Quicksilver turned back to Alea. "You know very little of yourself, damsel, if that is how you see your reflection."

  "How shall I see my reflection," Alea asked bitterly, "when there is no mirror tall enough?"

  "Almost as tall as Magnus, you mean?" Cordelia smiled. "Why would he want a minikin my size, when there is so much of him?"

  Alea stared at her while she tried to quench a wild unreasoning hope, and had to lower her gaze to contain it. "No man wants a woman who's as tall as a tree …"

  "Except a man who is a mountain," Quicksilver said, amused. "Besides, there is movement to mention."

  "How?" Alea frowned. "What matters motion?"

  Allouette made a small sound of exasperation.

  "No, damsel, I do not know the workings of men's minds as you do!" Alea snapped. "I know only the result of your deeds—hurt that has burned so deeply that the wound can never heal and a heart locked away where none else can touch it!"

  Allouette seemed to shrink where she sat, and Cordelia clasped her hand, saying to Alea, "That was unjust. It was not the woman you see before you who hurt my brother, but the she-wolf she was before my mother healed her."

  "Indeed," Quicksilver seconded, "and we say that whom she assaulted, we from whom she tried to steal our beloveds."

  "But failed!" Alea said hotly. "She did not fail in what she did to Magnus! I do not know what it is, I know only what I have guessed from the scraps of comments he has dropped now and again, but I know enough to gauge how deeply she has hurt him!"

  "And how badly that has walled him from you?" Cordelia asked, her voice low.

  Alea started to answer, but her voice caught in her throat and she had to shake her head angrily to clear the words. "I do not want that from him! Indeed, his loathing of sex, of any hint of it, was no doubt my protection in those first few months of our journeying together, when I was sure every man wanted to use me as his toy no matter how repellant I was, for I was at least female! To use but never to keep—and it took me long indeed to believe that your brother wanted my companionship and my welfare and finally my protection, but never my body! Aye, I suppose I should thank you for that." But her tone was bitter.

  Allouette's eyes were wide and tragic, though, and she said softly, "One cripple healing another, then."

  "Healing?" Alea snapped. "How can he be healing? Oh, I have tried, I suppose, much good it has done me—aye, much good indeed, when he has not healed a bit!" Then she stopped, staring in amazement at the words that had come from her lips.

  "Do you wish him to be more to you, then, than a shield-mate in battle?" Cordelia asked gently, then answered her own question. "Of course you do, if you would see him fully healed."

  "Aye, I wish it!" Alea cried. "But how can that be? I am not the sort of woman to be able to heal a man!"

  "You are exactly the sort of woman to heal that man," Allouette said with certainty.

  "To protect him, at least!" Alea turned on her. "Let none dare to strike at him again, for she shall meet two swords instead of one!"

  "There is none here who will seek his hurt," Allouette assured her, voice low, but face composed with a serenity that discarded any possibility of fear.

  By her very confidence, she struck doubt into Alea's heart, so that she spoke with more vehemence than she might have otherwise. "How can anyone be healed from wounds such as that!"

  "By truth and kindness and forgiveness," Cordelia said, "even as our mother healed Allouette."

  Alea turned to stare in surprise.

  "She was most horrendously twisted from infancy on," Cordelia explained, "kidnapped from her real mother and reared by those who sought to fashion her as a tool for their own purposes—by people who knew exactly what they did and what pain they inflicted and cared not a whit, as long as it accomplished their ends. They twisted her and warped her into believing the world was far worse than it is, and no goodness possible."

  "Twisted for their pleasures, too," Quicksilver said, her voice low.

  Alea understood instantly what she meant, understood five possibilities on the instant, and winced at the thought.

  "Do not feel sorry for me," Allouette said. "Do not pity me, for I deserve it not. What I did, I chose to do, and it does not matter that those choices were based on lies and on hatreds that were based on still more lies. It was nonetheless my decision, my choice, and I deserved every torture wreaked upon me."

  "When the deeds came after the tortures?" Quicksilver snapped. "Be not so ingenuous, sister! You had not the ghost of a notion that you had any choice at all." She turned back to Alea. "Pity her indeed, for she was debased and humiliated so badly that I wonder she had any will to live. Forgive her, too, for when she learned the truth, remorse overwhelmed her, and threatens even now to drown her in spite of all the love and praise Gregory lavishes upon her."

  Alea stared at Allouette, and the minutes stretched as Quicksilver and Cordelia held their breaths. Then, "I shall forgive you," Alea said, her voice cold, "when Magnus is healed."

  "Do you see to it, then," Allouette said, "for only you can."

  Cordelia and Quicksilver were still a moment more, then nodded, and Alea stared at the three of them, appalled and feeling completely helpless and inadequate.

  A SINGLE CANDLE lit the room, showing the woman who lay propped up by pillows in the wide bed with the grieving, gray-haired man beside her, her hand in both of his, gaze never leaving her face. For a moment Magnus wondered who she was, then realized the shrunken, wrinkled face on the pillow was that of his mother. He froze in shock.

  "Speak to her," Gregory said softly at his shoulder. "She will waken for you."

  Magnus still stood unable to move as he heard the door close quietly behind him. At the sound, the old man looked up.

  Four

  ROD LAID HIS WIFE'S HAND ON THE BLANKET and rose with a smile of welcome and pleasure stretching the lines and creases of his face, a smile at the sight of his eldest son—but a muted smile, struggling to emerge through sadness, and through wrinkles that his son had never seen. Rod Gallowglass held up his arms, and Magnus leaned down to embrace his father.

  After a few minutes, Rod's hold loosened; he stepped back to gaze up at his son with pride. "You came," he said softly, "you came in time."

  "Praise Heaven." Magnus was surprised to find his own voice shaky. "Are you … are you well, Papa?"

  "As well as can be expected," Rod said sadly, and turned to lead Magnus to the bedside. "Sit down, son, and tell her you're home."

  Magnus sat. For another moment, he felt he was looking at a stranger again; then he saw the familiar features beneath the ravages of disease and took his mother's hand. But such a frail hand, so wasted and bony! The eyes opened, though; she frowned, puzzled, as she looked up at the hulking stranger beside her bed. Then she recognized her son, and her smile transformed her face. For a moment, the years fell away, and she was as he remembered her from his leave-taking. "You came," she said in the voice he recognized. "You came back." With great effort, she raised her arms a few inches.

  Quickly, Magnus slid his arms under hers and leaned close to press her into a very gentle embrace.

  Rod hovered near, anxiety warring with joy as he gazed upon his eldest and his wife. For a moment, his eyes clouded as he remembered the boisterous golden-haired toddler bouncing off the walls as he learned to levitate and the anxious young mother who rushed to collect him. Then the reality of the present became more important than memory, and he gazed upon the two with fond concern.

  W
hen Magnus let his mother go and laid her gently back on the pillow, she beamed up at him with pride and said, 'Tell me, now. Tell me all that you have done."

  "But you know it," he protested. "Gregory must have told you."

  'Told me where you have been and what you were doing, yes." She seemed to tire simply with the effort of speaking. "How can a few hours' talk speak of years? He could not tell me how you were feeling, nor of the people who filled your life."

  Slowly, then, Magnus began to tell her—not about the people of Melange or Oldeira or Midgard, but of the emotional ordeals he had passed through on their accounts, of his fellow disillusioned bachelor Dirk Dulaine, of their shared trials and triumphs, of Dirk's falling in love and staying behind as Magnus's ship lifted off to find yet another planet of oppressed souls to free, and finally of Alea and their growing friendship.

  His mother listened, her hand in his, opening her eyes now and again to meet his gaze at a particularly telling remark, but always with that little smile of peace and pleasure in his presence—and Magnus knew she was listening as much to the emotions and images that crowded his mind as to the words he spoke. When he could see how badly she was tiring, though, he said, "Well, enough for now. I'll talk to you again tomorrow; there will be time."

  "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."