The Spell-Bound Scholar

by Christopher Stasheff

  "I have not said that," Gwen answered. "There may be hope indeed. Let me study her mind awhile."

  Gregory straightened, his eyes coming alive. He sat very still, cradling Finister in his arms, waiting while his mother probed and sifted through the woman's memories, even the ones she had forgotten, and especially the ones of which she had never been aware. Finally Gwen nodded and said, "I think she can be healed."

  Gregory heaved a sigh of relief, going limp, then remembered that he held Finister in his arms and straightened again.

  "Before we do, though," Gwen said, her voice suddenly grim, "we must ask whether we should."

  Her children stared at her, appalled.

  Then Gregory found his voice. "Do you ask if it is right to slay her, Mother? We have threshed out that question already!"

  "You have threshed it," Gwen agreed, "but have you found wheat, or chaff?"

  Cordelia frowned, looking into her mother's eyes. "What have you found, Mother, that makes you now doubt her right to live?"

  "Chiefly that, though her will may have been formed by those who punished her for independence and rewarded her for subservience," Gwen said, "it was nevertheless her own choice to slay and maim. Perhaps I can cure her, perhaps not; perhaps I can bring her true self out clear of the fears and yearnings that shroud it—but she may still choose to murder and steal. Have we the right to cure her and free her if she

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  will become no more human for our efforts?"

  The young people were silent, two of them staring at Fin-ister as though they were seeing her as a monster for the first time—but the third still with love. "Surely we have the right to decide it, Mother," Gregory said, "for it is our family that has suffered from her actions more than any other."

  "There is some truth in that," Gwen said slowly. "Must we summon your father for a family council, then?"

  "Father? No!" Cordelia said instantly, then explained, "There is no need, for we know what he will say—that if she has injured even one of his children, the only mercy she deserves is a quick death."

  Geoffrey nodded. "If he votes for mercy. I think he might prefer that her death be slow."

  "Yes, if he did not have to wreak it," Cordelia returned.

  "There is truth in that," Gwen sighed. "He loses reason at thought of hurt to you and myself."

  ' 'More pertinent, I think, is the question of what Magnus would say if he were here," Geoffrey offered. "After all, it is he who has suffered most at her hands."

  Gwen cast a dubious look at the tormented face of her youngest but agreed, "There is merit in that. Do you truly think Magnus would say we should slay her?"

  "Probably not," Geoffrey said in disgust. "You have reared us all to be too merciful."

  Thank Heaven for that, Gwen breathed in silent prayer.

  "We need not wonder," Gregory said, his voice listless. "I have spoken with my brother every other month or so since he left home."

  Gwen turned to gaze at him. "Indeed you have, and have told me of his exploits."

  Geoffrey and Cordelia eyed their brother with some envy; his telepathic range far exceeded their own—though, Cordelia had to admit, it might only have been that his desire for contact with Magnus was greater than theirs. He had been very young when his idolized elder brother had left home.

  "Well enough, then," Gwen said. "Reach halfway across the galaxy if you must, my son. Let us hear what your brother says."

  CIJHPTER

  -17-

  Gregory's eyes lost focus; his body stilled.

  Cordelia stared, then whispered to Geoffrey, "So that is the secret of it! He sends himself into his trance of meditation to reach our brother!"

  "No doubt aided by the likeness of genes," Geoffrey agreed, then shook his head decisively. "I should never have the patience for it."

  "Nor I," Cordelia agreed. "I have never been able to understand how Gregory can waste so much time in contemplation when he might be out and about doing wonders and celebrating life with others his age."

  Geoffrey sighed. "It is his choice, and who are we to criticize?"

  "After all," Cordelia said, "he does not criticize us."

  "Magnus speaks," Gregory said, his voice remote. "He delights in my thoughts; he greets you all with love."

  "Oh, and ours to him!" Cordelia had never been present during one of these conversations.

  Neither had Geoffrey. "What foes does he vanquish now?'

  "None." Gregory gazed off into space, his voice like the sighing of the wind. "He is aboard his ship, journeying between planets."

  "How does he?" Gwen asked anxiously.

  Gregory was silent a minute, then said, "Better than at any time except in the heat of battle, Mother. He has a new companion now and she has calmed his inner turmoil considerably."

  "She?" Cordelia pounced on the word with delight and jealousy. "What manner of she?"

  Gregory paused for an exchange of thoughts again, then

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  said, "She is a peasant woman named Alea, one who has been as badly hurt as he in her way."

  "Is she indeed!" Gwen said, fascinated.

  "She is, and Magnus is now intent on healing her."

  "Magnus?" Cordelia frowned. "What does he know of healing a woman's heart?"

  "Only what his computer Herkimer can tell him, but that seems to be a great deal."

  "Does she think of healing him?" Cordelia demanded.

  "He cannot say, for he will not, of course, read her thoughts unless there is danger," Gregory said, "but he thinks she may be a telepath, though untrained and so of unknown strength."

  "That is hopeful," Gwen said, "and might incline him toward mercy toward this woman whose emotions were exploited and twisted in childhood. Tell him our dilemma, my son, but not of your own feelings toward this Finister."

  "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

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  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."

  1 That would surely take a goodly portion of her life, if not all of it," Geoffrey said.

  "A lifetime of public servi
ce 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

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  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

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  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.

  Riding up to Boston, Riding up to Lynn, You 'd better watch out Or you y re going to fall IN!

  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.

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  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. ..."

  The pitcher, wobbling in thin air, steadied suddenly. With all the affectionate assurance of fourteen, Corey smiled down at eight-year-old Vera. 'There, I shall bear its weight with my mind. Do you make it tilt, now—not too much, of course."

  Vera studied the pitcher fiercely. It tilted slowly, poured the milk into her mug, then tilted back.

  "There, neatly done!" Corey said.

  Vera beamed up at her, then turned to glower at the pitcher. It drifted to the left and Essie said, "I have it, Vera. Thank you."

  "You're welcome," Vera said, then settled herself rather proudly as her mug lilted off the table to tilt against her lips.

  On the boys' side of the table, a turnip floated out of the bowl and toward one of the smaller girls. The older children shouted angrily; one plucked the offending vegetable out of the air.

  4 Tut back that turnip, .labelled Papa said sternly. 44 No,

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  Robey, do not do it for her—she must undo her own misdeeds. Send it back, Jabelle."

  Jabelle tucked her chin in, glancing about her in fright, then stilled long enough to stare at the turnip balanced on Robey's palm and send it back to the bowl with a thought.

  "That's better," Papa said. "If you do it again, though, I shall give your portion to someone else."

  The little girl shrank in on herself. The teenager across the table from her smiled down at her, and they could all hear the thought he sent into Jabelle's mind, for the little girl did not yet know how to shield very well. Never fear hunger, Jabelle: Mama and Papa will see to it there is a serving left for you when the bowl comes around.

  Finny wondered why Dory had to lean over and repeat the message for Mama in a low voice. She found out three years later that Mama and Papa couldn't hear thoughts. She found out even more quickly, though, that she couldn't get away with thinking nasty things at other children or making unheard jokes about Mama and Papa—the older children were quite severe about that.

  Plates filled, the girls ate with their hands in their laps. Finny wondered why the boys got to hold their forks and spoons, but the girls had to make them move by thinking at them. Li
ttle Lally forgot and picked up her fork, but Mama instantly frowned and said, "Make the fork move itself, Lally. Hands in your lap."

  Wide-eyed, Lally dropped the fork and tucked her hands together. "I'm sorry, Mama—I forgot."

  "Of course, dear." Mama smiled reassuringly. "See, you manage almost as well with your mind already. Beri, help her."

  "I shall if she needs it." Twelve-year-old Beri smiled down at her little foster sister. "But she is doing quite well by herself."

  Lally glanced up at her with a shy smile, reddening with pleasure.

  Mama and Papa were allowed to hold their utensils. Finny thought this was because they were grown-ups, their privilege

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  as mother and father, but she found out later it was because they couldn't move things with their minds.

  "Dory, give the cradle a push, there's a dear," said Mama. "She seems a little restive."

  The cradle began to rock again, but Dory assured Mama, "Her body may be restless, Mama, but her mind is still deep in sleep."

  Dory was the eldest girl, nearly eighteen and really a young woman. She turned eighteen and disappeared a few months later; Finister still remembered the party, and the sense of loss when she realized Dory was gone. Mama explained to her, though, that Dory had grown up and moved away, for she had adult work to do in saving the people from the King and Queen. Finister wasn't sure what the King and Queen were, but she hated them for taking Dory away from her.

  Not that there weren't two other girls to fill Dory's place, nor a new foundling on the doorstep to make their numbers twenty again. Rhea and Orma were really young women, too, as Jason and Donald were really young men. Nonetheless, little Finny still missed Dory, though it helped that she came back to visit now and again. There were always "alumni" coming back to visit, and always new "graduates" leaving.

  When they were finished eating, three of the older children went out to the kitchen; the other teenagers made the serving bowls and dirty plates float out to them for stacking and washing. The younger children concentrated fiercely at sending their forks and knives, and those of the bigger children next to them, after the dirty plates. Then Dory came back in, a huge cake floating before her, and the other teenagers began singing in joy: