The Warlock's Last Ride (2 page)

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On the archbishop went to Allouette, who stood rock-firm but with a trembling bouquet, and intoned, "Who gives this woman to this man?" and Tuan and Catharine answered, "As her liege and sovereign, we do!"

Then the archbishop returned to stand between the line of young women and the line of young men to ask, "Do you, Cordelia, Quicksilver, and Allouette, take Alain, Geoffrey, and Gregory for your lawfully-wedded husbands, for better or for worse, to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?"

Cordelia's answer pealed forth: "I do." Quicksilver answered a beat later, "I do!" Allouette swallowed thickly but glanced at Gregory and froze, her gaze on his as she whispered, "I do."

Gregory seemed to glow.

The archbishop turned to the three young men. "Do you, Alain, Geoffrey, and Gregory, take these women Cordelia, Quicksilver, and Allouette, to be your lawfully-wedded wives, for better or for worse, to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?"

Alain stammered, "I do!"

Geoffrey, his gaze burning through Quicksilver's veil, said, "I do!"

Gregory, unable to take his eyes away from the veil that hid the face he loved so well, breathed, "I do."

"Then I now pronounce you husbands and wives."

The three couples stood, unbelieving, for a few seconds.

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Gently, the archbishop explained, "You may kiss the brides."

The women lifted their veils, radiant; their husbands stepped close. As their lips touched, twelve trumpets pealed their joy. The archbishop cleared his throat and turned away, taking off his mitre and handing it to an acolyte, then trudging back up the stairs to the high altar to begin the nuptial Mass, as more acolytes brought out six kneelers for the brides and the grooms.

Either the Mass was short—which Rod doubted, since it was a solemn high Mass—or his time sense had slowed down, making everything a blur; it seemed only minutes until the three couples were standing, the women relaxed and joyful with their veils folded back, and the organ burst forth in Mendelsohn's notes of rejoicing, as the three grooms, laughing and chatting with their brides, descended the stairs to the aisle and fairly floated down that long avenue to the great oaken portal.

THERE WAS MUCH more, of course—a banquet in the Great Hall of the royal palace for all the nobility; dancing afterwards, with the three young couples leading and Rod having his first waltz with Cordelia since she had grown too big to stand on his toes; the wine flowing freely and the younger nobility becoming rather rowdy, on the verge of bearing the three couples away to a bridal night that would have had spectators—a must for royal weddings in the middle ages, when virginity was vital to be sure the heir was really of the royal line. But at that point, Gwendylon wound her way magically through the throng and assembled all three couples on the dais that held the high table. The bridesmaids and other young women lined up facing them, chattering eagerly, forcing the young men back a little, and the throng began to count: "One … two … three!"

All three brides tossed their bouquets high, and the young women pushed and shoved to catch them. Then, the ceremony of the garter not having spread to Gramarye, the three young couples waved at their contemporaries, calling their thanks and farewells—and with the resounding of triple firecrackers, disappeared.

The hall fell silent for a moment, for even the people of Gramarye were still unnerved by teleportation, or any of the other psi powers they thought of as witchcraft.

Besides, they'd been robbed of the erotic riot they'd been planning.

So talk began, gathering anger—but King Tuan stepped forth, smiling with good cheer, hands upheld, and the crowd grew silent. "Each bride has gone with her groom to the love nest each couple has
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selected," he explained, "but there is wine aplenty and sweetmeats besides, so though they may seek their beds, there is no reason why you should. Musicians, play!"

A sprightly tune sprang up from the musicians' gallery, and the nobility turned, not without a little grumbling, to the quick steps of the dance. In minutes, they had forgotten their disappointment at having been robbed of their shivaree and were cheering with gladness.

"It is done, then," Gwen said, her hand on Rod's arm. "We have spirited them away to privacy, thank Heaven!"

"Not without quite an input of psionic power from their mother," Rod said with a knowing smile.

"I may have helped in some small way," Gwen admitted. "Lead me back to our place at the high table, husband, for I am rather weary."

"Not surprising, with months of planning and fixing and defending," Rod said, gazing down at his bride, with a look that echoed those his sons had given their brides. "And capped with a day that must have been the most strenuous of your life."

Gwen gave a little laugh, then said, "Well, there was that night when Magnus was ten, when he woke with the nightmare, and Gregory had colic and was screaming, and woke Cordelia who joined him, and Geoffrey was determined to have his share of attention …"

"Yes, but there were two of us to sort that out," Rod said. "This you pretty much had to do alone."

"Not without a great deal of moral support, husband," Gwen said, with a look that renewed her wedding vows.

But she stumbled as she climbed the steps to the dais. Rod steadied her with his arm and tried to laugh it off. "More tired than you thought!"

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"That may be," Gwen admitted.

But she stumbled again as they were leaving the castle, stumbled only on the single step down from the drawbridge, and this time Rod had to catch her, not steady her, and she couldn't make her legs bear her. He held her in his arms while footmen ran for a coach.

" 'Tis only weariness," she told Rod.

"You mean exhaustion," he said, "and you're right—total exhaustion. A few weeks' rest will restore you."

But it didn't.

ALEA CAME INTO THE LOUNGE AND FOUND IT empty. Impatiently, she looked around, irritation growing, then put the feeling into words and smiled with amusement that was tinged with self-mockery. She was feeling, How dare Magnus not be here when I'm wanting company? as though his only purpose in life were to amuse her!

Well, of course it wasn't. He was there to provide her this wonderful spaceship with its luxurious furnishings and gourmet food and drink, and to guard her back in battle. What else was a man for?

Loving, something in her seemed to say, but she shied away from that. The parents she had loved had died and left her alone and defenseless; the neighbors she had thought her friends had turned against her to gain her inheritance. The boy who had proclaimed his undying love for her and seduced her had then mocked her and spurned her. What need had she for love? Much better to have a shield-companion like Magnus, a true friend who was unwavering in his devotion, even though that devotion was so much less than a lover's—and what did she want with love anyway? There hadn't been any pleasure in it, only pain. Oh, there had been pleasure in knowing she was making her lad happy, there had been pleasure in his passion, in the intensity of his longing for her, his need for her—but no pleasure for her body.
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Magnus, though, with the sensitivity under his impassive shell, with the leashed fire of the emotions that he focused only on The People, whatever people they might be at the moment… if he were in her bed, might not love-making become…

She shut the thought off with anger. The bards lied, the poets lied, there was no pleasure in love!

Besides, why jeopardize the solidity of their friendship for a romance that might turn sour?

Or might grow to greater heights all their lives …

Poetic falsehoods, she told herself angrily, and went to look for Magnus, already angry with him for leaving her the victim of her thoughts and feelings. Of course, she could ask Herkimer, the ship's computer, but somehow she thought she knew. If Magnus wasn't in his stateroom and wasn't in the lounge, he would probably be on the bridge. What need to ask?

So she strode down the companionway, a tall slender woman wearing loose shipboard coveralls to hide the curves beneath, long-faced with eyes too large and a mouth too wide, with a nose too small for the chiselled planes of a warrior's face, a latter-day Valkyrie born to a mortal man and woman rather than to the gods, in token of which her long yellow hair was coiled atop her head in two long braids, as though to cushion a helmet.

Up the spiral stairs she came, into the hush of the bridge. It was dark, of course, with only pools of light at the never-used consoles, to let the projected stars show in the dome overhead, that the pilot might see toward which star he coursed. She looked up herself, caught in the majesty and grandeur of the galaxy. She gazed for minutes, longer than she had intended, before she lowered her gaze to the solitary figure silhouetted against the powder-trail of the Dragon.

She gazed at him for a few minutes, marvelling that his seven-foot form with all its bulk of muscles should seem small against that starry grandeur, then looked more closely, feeling his unaccountable sadness, letting it soak into herself until she shared it, wondering.

Wondering? Why? How should it be unaccountable? For as badly as love had treated her, it had treated Magnus far worse. She didn't know the details, honored his privacy too much to try to read the depths of his mind, but from a careless word dropped here and there, she gathered that some young she-wolf had tortured his heart, whipsawing his emotions from love to utter humiliation not once, but
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again and again, for the sheer pleasure of abasing him. At least her lad had done it only once, and then more to taste the pleasures of her body than of her grief, and when he had spurned her, it was to make sure he wasn't burdened with a great lumbering lass, not for the purpose of tasting her pain.

Though he had seemed to enjoy that, too …

She shook off the memory of him angrily, concentrating fiercely on the great hulk in the acceleration chair, head back, eyes fixed on the stars. What need had she of the memory of a traitor when she had the reality of a friend who cared for her far more than any but her parents ever had? And what right had he to be gazing at the stars and wallowing in his misery when she was here, lively and vital, to distract him?

She stepped forward, angry words rising to her lips to rouse him from his lethargy, to jolt him back to the life they shared—but as she came close, she saw the unutterable grief in his eyes. She slowed, letting her gentler emotions well up, sympathy and concern, and asked, very softly, "What hurts you, Magnus?"

His head tilted, gaze coming down, seeming to wander over the fittings of the bridge until it found her face, then rested a minute before he said, "My little brother."

Words of anger leaped to her tongue again, anger at the younger man who would hurt his own brother so, but she contained them, pushed them down, knowing that the younger d'Armand, the titanic telepath so distant on their home world, would scarcely spend the vast amount of energy necessary for his thoughts to reach Magnus over so many light-years unless there were good reason. "What news could a brother have to so sadden one of his own blood?" she asked softly.

"News of our mother," Magnus answered. "She is dying."

ALEA SPOKE BUT little in the days that followed but was never far from Magnus, trying to reassure and comfort him by her mere presence. She remembered well the death-watch as her mother lay dying, remembered the greater pain of her father's last days, greater because there was no one with whom to share it, no one whose pain dwarfed her own.

She never thought that it was unfair that Magnus should have the comfort of a friend when she had not—she was only glad that he did not have to face this long journey home alone.

In moments of honesty, she had to admit that she was also glad he finally needed her in a way neither of them could deny.

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So she sat by and waited, watching his profile against the stars or watching him sitting in the lounge in the cone of light from the hidden lamp, saw him looking up now and then, startled to see her sitting and reading across from him, remembering his manners enough to ask how she fared, trying to engage in conversation, and she tried to be reassuring and positive then, smiling and talking of inconsequentialities, but ones in which she knew he had an interest—art and literature and science—though before long, his attention would fade, his gaze would wander, and she would let her own conversation lapse and return to her reading.

Reading ! She hadn't even known how, when he met her on the road, on her home planet of Midgard, where only the nobles were literate. She hadn't known how to fight when she had run away from slavery, had survived a night or two alone and friendless in a world torn by war and hatred, in a forest filled with wolves and bears. Magnus had—well, not taken her in, though it felt like that. She was sure he hadn't thought of it that way, either, though she suspected he knew he was giving her protection. He hadn't said so, though, only that he was glad of a travelling companion. So he had walked the roads with her, teaching her how to fight and how to use the talent for telepathy that had been buried inside her all her life, and that she had never known. Together they had braved the perils of her world and set in train a course of events that would prevent her own people from their continual attempts to tyrannize the other peoples of Midgard.