The Warlock's Last Ride (3 page)

Then, done with the task he had come to do, he had called down his starship, and she had stood rigid, knowing she would be deserted again—but Magnus had taken her aboard, given her a new life when her old one had collapsed, taken her to strange and amazing worlds where people labored in need as great as her own. They had fought off wild beasts and wilder people, guarded one another's backs, labored to save the weak and the oppressed, come to know each other's needs in battle, then in daily life—and never once had he put out a hand to try to touch her or uttered a honeyed word to try to coax her into his bed.

It was almost an insult, really, except that she knew now he had known it would violate the fragile bridge of trust growing between them—that, and that he didn't really seem to have much interest in her as a woman, or in any kind of intimacy, for that matter. Now, though, the trust had grown, become solid in spite of her tantrums and insults, and she found herself wishing now and again that he would put out a hand to her—but when she caught herself thinking that, she was aghast. She'd had enough of that sort of thing with the one young man who had used her and spurned her! The friendship she had with Magnus was far better than that!

Though perhaps it could be even richer…

This was not the time to think of it, though, with Magnus so sunken in gloom, so afraid he might not
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reach home in time—so she sat and read, or cleaned and oiled her leathers, then sharpened her blades, or read, fetching a cup of tea for him when she brewed one for herself, accepted the cups he absentmindedly brought her in return, chivied him gently into eating, and didn't let him see how frightened she became when he lost his appetite.

In fact, she did all that a good travelling companion should, all that a battle-mate could, and gradually, little by little, he began to talk, first a phrase or two, then in sentences, and finally in long rambling monologues about his childhood, his early travels, his parents, his brothers and sister—but he always cut short when he realized he was beginning to talk about that last adventure, about the woman who had hurt him, about the reasons he had left home.

"I couldn't be my father's son, you see." He stared straight into her eyes then, as he rarely did anymore. "I couldn't be an extension of him. I had to be myself, my own man, and I could never be that at home unless I turned against him, fought against him—so I left instead."

And Alea listened and nodded, eyes glowing, drinking up all the information about Magnus the boy, Magnus the wounded lover setting off on his travels, Magnus the son and brother—Magnus the person, the human being, as she had yearned to know him for three years and never had.

In return, when he asked her what it had been like growing up as the tallest girl in a Midgard village, one far too tall in every way, she couldn't very well refuse to answer, no matter how sharp the hurts the memories brought—but telling him, she discovered that the pain had dimmed, that she could cope with it now, that she could look at her memories and treasure the good ones and resolve the bad ones. Oh, they were still pain-filled, but they no longer had the power to cripple. She knew she could stand against them now, against any one of the people who had hurt her, could stand against the whole village with Magnus beside her—and knew he would always be there, even without the lure of sex to keep him, that she had come to matter to him as deeply as that—and paradoxically, it made her yearning for his touch grow so sharp that it was almost unbearable, even though she knew that sex hurt, that the feelings that went with it gave pain far sharper—but the conviction grew that with Magnus, it would not be so. She told herself that she only wanted to share his bed so that she could be sure of him, and that wasn't necessary at all, for she could be far more sure of him as a battle-companion, that their steadily-deepening friendship was far surer and more meaningful than romantic love could ever be, that she didn't need the baring of souls that went with it, that the intimacy they were sharing now was far more meaningful than the confidences of lovers, that she could be closer to him as a true friend, now when worry and grief made him more vulnerable than he had ever been.

But something deep inside her refused to believe it, any of it. So the starship shot onward through eternal night, bearing two people who were finally coming to know one another as they never had.

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A SCREAM RANG through the castle's hall, and Rod started up, then looked back at Gwen's pale face on her pillow, framed by the long flows of red hair streaked with white. She opened her eyes, reading his anxiety and smiling. "Go to her, worried father. I shall still live when you return."

"I know. I still don't want to leave you unless I have to." Rod sat back onto her bed, cradling her hand in his. "But it's hard having you ill while our daughter's giving birth."

"I shall linger awhile, I assure you," Gwen said with a smile that suddenly blazed through her illness.

"However, this is women's work, and it is better if you leave it to Cordelia and her midwife."

"Yes, I guess so." Rod managed a smile. "I had to live through you giving birth four times and face the fact that I couldn't do anything to lessen your pain. You think I'd be used to it by now."

"It has been many years," Gwen conceded. "Then too, 'tis different with a daughter than with a wife." For the first time, her own worry showed in her face. "Finally I too must face that helplessness. At least I can share her pain and give her some strength."

"You haven't any to spare!" Rod caught her hand in a panic. "Don't tax yourself!"

"My body may have weakened," Gwen told him, "but my mind is yet strong."

Another scream tore through the hall.

Rod looked up with a shudder, but Gwen said quietly, " 'Tis the last such. The babe is born."

Rod's head snapped around to stare at her. "You mean…"

"Wait." Gwen's hand tightened on his. "We shall see soon enough."

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Nonetheless, it seemed an hour before the midwife appeared at the door, holding a blanket-wrapped bundle that emitted a gurgle.

Gwen held up her arms, suddenly vital again. "Give me!"

The midwife came and laid the blanket in her arms. Gwen cradled it and beamed down, her whole face lighting up with an intensity of pleasure and wonder that almost scared Rod. Tentatively, he reached out to open the blanket in the crook of her elbow a little wider—and looked down himself at the dark-haired, wrinkled, pink-and-red little face with the eyes solemnly shut. He marvelled at the wise, even profound expression and wondered all over again what wisdom souls forsake in order to be born, in that bright world from which new souls come.

Then he looked up at his wife and was awed all over again by the look of near-adoration and exaltation that suffused her face. Could it be that the baby alone would keep her alive?

"Now I have lived most truly and completely," Gwen said softly. "What greater joy could life hold for me than this?"

Rod hoped it was his imagination that gave the words a very final ring.

FINALLY A DOT of light in the dome of the bridge grew brighter than all the others, finally it swelled into a little circle, and Alea knew they were coming home—at least, to Magnus's home; she doubted it could ever be hers, or would need to be. As the disk swelled, Magnus grew even more tense; he began to snap at her if she said the wrong thing. She managed to stifle the retorts that rose to her lips, telling herself that he would be able to relax when the trauma of his homecoming was over, that he would be sorry for the things he had said. She throttled her anger at his not even seeming to notice her, so preoccupied was he with meeting the family he had left ten years before, and though she adamantly resisted the temptation to read his mind, she could tell his thoughts anyway: How would they have changed, the family he had deserted? How betrayed had they felt by his leaving? Was there still any welcome there for him, any love? He had told her many times that "You can't go home again," and she had believed him—so what must it be like for him now, coming back when he knew that the home he remembered was lost in the mists of the past?

Then, in the perpetual evening gloom of the lounge, Magnus looked up at her, his eyes suddenly focusing on her, and warned, "Gregory says we're clear to land—on the night side, of course, so that we won't frighten the peasants."

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"Our usual approach." Alea dared to try a smile.

Magnus stared at her a moment, then smiled in return with a warmth that surprized her and reached out to catch her hand, and something melted within her.

Then he let go and turned his eyes forward to the viewscreen where the huge cloud-streaked disk floated, and advised her, "Better web in."

The arm of the lounge chair popped open, the anchor rod rising up. Alea pulled it across her body and pressed it against the back, where it fastened and clung with a grip that couldn't be shaken even if the ship were smashed to filings. She could feel the pressure of descent, feel that pressure lift as Herkimer countered it with artificial gravity, felt the tug-of-war of natural forces against synthetic ones, as the huge disk on the screen expanded past its edges and was somehow no longer in front of them, but below, rivers and mountain chains streaking past, the night rolling across to engulf them, then only the glint of moonlight reflected off clouds until daylight rolled in to dispel darkness. Now as they raced across the surface of the planet, she could make out the patchwork of fields and relaxed into the familiar feeling of approach on a medieval planet, forgetting for the moment the tension that would come on their landing, of meeting people Magnus knew, but who might have grown and changed into strangers.

Night rolled across the screen again, but this time there were lights here and there from towns, lights that disappeared as night deepened, and when daylight came back, she could make out roads threading from one cluster of roofs to another. They drifted across the screen much more slowly as the starship shed its speed, slowing till it might land without churning up a whole forest. When night came a third time, she could see individual houses very clearly, barns, and even the dots that were cattle in the fields. A dark blot on the screen became treetops silvered by moonlight that drifted so slowly they scarcely seemed to move, then suddenly swelled and went racing by, the speed seeming greater as the ship swooped lower, and Alea's heart rose into her throat, as it always did, the primitive peasant within her unable to believe that they would not fall out of the sky and slam into the earth, to be squashed like flies. Her whole body tensed, pushing against the webbing as though she could slow the ship by her own strength, even as she scolded herself for a foolish barbarian.

Then the racing treetops began to slow, ceasing to be a blur and becoming individual masses again, a mass that opened into a huge ragged circle of a clearing with the silver trail of a river down one side, a circle that seemed to float into sight, then to swell so much that the trees drifted out of view at the edges, that the cluster of dots at the top of the screen grew into people who swam out off the bottom in their own turn. Then there was a jolt, ever so slight, and the dark mass below resolved into individual grass stems, unmoving, and Magnus was releasing his webbing, was rising to his full height, tense and braced, saying, "We're home," and turning toward the airlock as though he were about to face an army.
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Two

ALEA WAS OUT OF HER WEBBING IN AN INSTANT and by his side, matching him step for step as he paced toward the airlock. As they stepped in, she snatched up the two staves that leaned against the wall and pressed the longer into his hand.

Magnus stared down at it. "What would I want with this? I don't have to be ready to fight—I'm home!"

She didn't believe the middle part, couldn't when his whole stance belied it, but couldn't say that either.

"I'm not a cripple, you know," he told her. "I don't need something to lean on."

She didn't believe that either, but said only, "I do. You don't want to embarrass me, do you?"

Magnus looked surprized, barely started to mutter a denial before the outer door opened and the ramp stretched down before them, a silver gleam in the moonlight that showed the cluster of people moving up to its foot.

Magnus steeled himself, though she suspected only she would have noticed it, then seemed to relax completely and stepped out onto the bridge to his home—stepped faster and faster, until with a grin and cry of joy, he swept three of the people up in a bear hug.

Alea followed more slowly, giving him time, giving them time, hoping desperately that they would take his seeming affection in the spirit in which it was offered.

As she stepped off the ramp, one of the figures let go her stranglehold on Magnus's neck and managed to disentangle herself from his arm with a wide grin, staring up with shining eyes as she said,

"Welcome home, brother."

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She was petite, she was slender and shapely, she was beautiful, and Alea's heart sank. She's only his sister, she thought wildly, only Cordelia, his sister. But now she knew the standard of beauty with which Magnus had grown up, knew it was everything she was not, and her heart sickened.

Then the other two stepped back from their brother's hug with equally wide grins, showing themselves to be two young men, one broad-shouldered and lean, the other slender and large-eyed but with an aura of power.