"The problem being yourself," Cordelia said darkly, "or at least, the enslaving of you by her erotic charms/'
Gregory made an impatient gesture, waving the comment away. "The problem matters little: the intelligence and the tenacity do."
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Geoffrey smiled, amused. "How like you to be attracted by such turns of the mind!"
"How like me indeed," Gregory agreed, "and I feel no need to apologize for what I am."
Geoffrey's smile disappeared. "Nor do I." He seemed to bristle.
Gwen interposed smoothly. "The question, then, is not her worthiness of my effort, but whether the healing will succeed."
Gregory shrugged. "Only experience will tell."
"Yes, but if this healing has failed, the proof will be your death or enslavement," Geoffrey said grimly. "Guard yourself well, my brother."
"That is one lesson the youngest learns well." At last Gregory smiled, "Fear not for me, my sib." Then he frowned again. "But how if there is no improvement in her?"
"Then you must summon me," Gwen said, "and we must confer as to the meting out of justice again."
"Justice." Cordelia looked down at the unconscious woman. "How if she is cured, Mother? How many has she slain?"
"Thirteen," Gwen said, "though only one was of her own choice—her former commander."
"Then is it justice to let her go free when she has slain so many?" Geoffrey asked.
"Justice must be tempered by mercy," Gregory said quickly.
"Do not underestimate the agony of the ordeal through which I have guided her," Gwen said, "and the pains of the humiliations that have gone before. Still, if she devotes the rest of her life to aiding people in need, can we not say there is at least some measure of justice served?"
"If she so dedicates her life," Geoffrey said, his skepticism clear upon his face.
"Perhaps that will be the measure of her healing," Cordelia suggested.
"A life for a life," Gregory said, musing. "If she saves thirteen, will that not be justice?"
"Ask the families of those she has slain, brother."
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"It will be hard enough for us to say that she has earned mercy," Gwen said. "What will be hardest of all is for her to forgive herself. You must be very patient, my son, while she struggles to believe she is worthy of love—indeed, that she is worthy of life."
"I shall rival Job!" Gregory said fervently.
"She has been your companion in your search for this Site of Power you have found," Gwen mused. "Is it not right, then, that you accompany her on her quest to discover how she may make reparations and forgive herself?"
"She had little choice about his company," Geoffrey reminded her, "and her motives were scarcely helpful."
"Her motives may have been sinister," Gwen said, "but you may be sure she had every choice. She might not have been able to escape our Gregory, but she did not know that."
"The woman has no difficulty believing in her own abilities, that is true," Cordelia said.
"No, only in her own worth." Gwen laid a hand on her youngest's shoulder. "Go wisely and warily, my son—but remember that in this instance, it is wise to follow your heart. Only use your knowledge and caution to ward it."
"I shall, Mother," Gregory promised.
Gwen turned, leaning on Cordelia's arm. "I believe I shall ride with you, daughter."
"Cling tightly to your own broomstick nevertheless," Cordelia said nervously, and the two brooms rose together to make a seat and a handgrip for Gwen.
The young men watched the women rise into the predawn sky. Then Geoffrey turned to his little brother, made an abortive gesture with his hands, and said, "Fare you well, my sib. Good fortune attend you."
"And you, bigger brother," Gregory said with a smile.
They clasped hands. Geoffrey frowning earnestly into Gregory's eyes, perhaps remembering the two-year-old who had toddled after him once. Earnestly he said, "Patience is all, brother—patience and enticement. The reward is well worth the effort."
Gregory understood that he was speaking of more than
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making love. "I thank you, brother," he said. "I assure you your teachings shall not go in vain."
"Fare well, then! Remember to block with your left and test each coin!" Geoffrey took two steps back, squared his shoulders, and disappeared with a bang.
Gregory stood staring at the space where he had been for some minutes, musing and pondering. Then he looked down at the woman who slept at his feet, looked down and knelt down. Taking her hand, he settled himself to wait for the dawn and her awakening.
CHAPTER
-23-
From the depths of sleep, she heard the lark heralding the dawn. The song drew her upward, away from the refuge of unconsciousness. She resisted bitterly, fighting the compulsion—until she remembered that she was the lark now, Al-louette, and it was her namesake calling.
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 crea-
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ture. 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 femtne fatale. Nay, she would not even have attempted such a work if she had not seen great goodness buried within you/'
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"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 volup-
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tuous." 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
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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."
"Indeed." Allouette turned to glare at him, angered by the feeling of truth the statement raised in her. "What else did she say?"
"That since you accompanied me in finding my Site of Power, it is only right that I accompany you on your quest to discover your true nature."
"True nature? I know my true nature! I am a slut and murderess!"
"That is what people have made you, not the essence of yourself. Already you begin to seek ways to make reparations for your past conduct so that you may forgive yourself."
"Reparations?" Allouette gave him a thin and bitter smile. "So you are to help me find a punishment drastic enough to satisfy even myself, is that it?"
"Perhaps," Gregory allowed. "I do not think we shall know your nature until we have found it."
"Yet you claim to know it already!"
"Of course." Gregory beamed upon her. "You are sweetness and tenderness, intelligence and quickness of wit, tenacity and diligence."
Allouette felt her face growing hot again and turned away quickly. "You are mistaken, sir."
"Let us see." Gregory glanced at the horses; their reins
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untied themselves from the tree limbs to which they'd been bound. The two beasts looked up, then came plodding over to them. "Mount," Gregory invited, "and seek. Find your true nature and prove me wrong."
"A dare?" Allouette's eyes kindled; she was much more at home with competition. She stepped up to her palfrey, but Gregory caught her around the waist and lifted her up. She lost her smile and settled in the saddle rather indignantly, though she was surprised all over again by his strength. "I shall mount by myself in future, sir, if you do not mind!"
"If it pleases you, I shall refrain," Gregory said in mock penitence. He mounted and turned his horse's head toward the forest trail. "Where shall we travel?"
"Must you not still take me to Runnymede?"
"Aye, but there are many roads that lead there, and some are longer than others. Which would you choose?"
Allouette eyed him narrowly and said, "That depends on our goal. What do you think we seek?"
Gregory shrugged. "Perhaps you will discover that you wish to spend the rest of your life trying to aid the poor and the relatives of your victims." She bridled, and he added hastily, "Other than my family. Perhaps you will find some greater work that will benefit everyone indirectly, such as a cure for poverty or war."
"You develop fantasies, sir!"
"Of such dreams are better worlds made." Gregory shrugged. "Or perhaps your penance will take some form that I cannot imagine, but that you can and will."
"Then we go we know not where, to seek we know not what," Allouette interpreted.
"Why, just so." Gregory flashed her a grin. "This much I know, however—that once you have set yourself upon this quest, you shall not stop until you have found what you seek."
"If it exists."
"Even if it does not."
"You have more faith in me than I have, sir," she said darkly.
"I have in
deed," Gregory agreed. "Shall we ride?" Not
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waiting for an answer, he thumped his heels against his horse's sides and guided it down the forest trail.
Allouette watched him go, resenting his confidence, resenting his belief in her. But when all was said and done, where else had she to go? Searching her heart, she found she had purged it completely of any desire to follow the path set for her by her foster parents and their organization. With a sigh, she shook the reins and told her horse to follow Gregory's.
As they rode away from the pale wall he had been building, Gregory glanced at Allouette with concern; she was very subdued, and he wondered at her brooding, hoping that she would be able to absorb and cope with all the new information she had gained. For a moment, he wished that the old seductive Finister would reappear. He realized, though, that the image was only that, an image, deliberately fashioned and the result of methodical exploitation, so he retreated into his old reserve, becoming again the soul of politeness.
They pitched camp at sunset. Gregory brewed a stew of salt beef and roots; Allouette asked how he knew which to choose, and he showed her. He was tempted to caution her about the ones that were poisonous but had second thoughts. Then he had third thoughts—if she still could not be trusted, he preferred to know it at once. Besides, he honestly believed she had really put all that behind her. He told her which plants were unhealthy or inedible as he seasoned the stew with wild herbs and parsley.
"This is women's knowledge," Allouette said as they ate, 4 'or monks' knowledge. How came you to learn it?"
"I have a hunger to learn everything I can." Gregory smiled. "You are scarcely the first to tell me that I think like a monk."
"Why do you seek it?" Allouette demanded. "Riches? Power?"
"Simply for the joy of learning," Gregory answered. "If there is a use for the knowledge, I will discover that someday, too. All I really care about, though, is the learning."
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Allouette studied him for a few minutes, chewing, then swallowed and delivered her verdict. ' 'If that is so, you are a fool."
"It is not the first time I have been told that, either," Gregory said wryly.
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