"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."
"Yes, but does he know that?" Cordelia asked. "He calls for her aid, but does he know he has come to need her?"
"Does she know she has come to need him?" Allouette countered.
"She will not admit it to herself if she does." But Cordelia was still smiling.
Quicksilver met that smile with one of her own. "She has come a long way toward healing, whether she knows it or not."
Allouette nodded. "She is ready to risk loving again."
"But is Magnus?" Cordelia's smile grew into a grin as she relished the thought of teasing her big brother.
But Allouette's face darkened with guilt. "Will he ever be?"
GEOFFREY ROSE AS Alea rushed out, and paced with her to the stairway. "First door on the left," he told her. "Godspeed."
"Thank you," Alea snapped, and rushed up the stairs, wondering why he bothered to wish her well.
She burst into the room and froze at the tableau that met her gaze—at her friend and shield-mate sitting hunched on a chair that was too low for him, holding the hand of the old woman in the bed, and the aged man who stood hovering across from Magnus. She realized they must be his parents, then dismissed them as unimportant and went to Magnus, light-footed and cautious.
He looked up at her, sensing her presence, and his gaze was a naked plea even as his voice said, "Alea, I would have you meet my mother, the Lady Gwendylon. Mother, this is my shield-mate Alea, who has fought beside me time and again and always given wise counsel."
"A pleasure, milady." Alea turned to the old woman. "Your son has been my .. ." There she froze, for the old woman's gaze held her own, the dim old eyes turning youthful and vibrant again, holding Alea in a bond that should have sent her screaming within herself, fighting to tear free—but there was something so soothing in those eyes, so understanding and sympathetic, that Alea almost welcomed the intrusion.
And intrusion it was, for Alea felt Gwendylon's mind blending with her own, reading the history of her life, of the anguish of her lover's desertion, the misery and grief at her parents' deaths, of the terror and rage at the treatment of the neighbors to whom the judge enslaved her, of fear and panic as she ran from them, and her wariness of the young giant who befriended her, a wariness that waned over the five years they traveled together as Alea learned to trust again, but never completely, never without the fear of betrayal, even though they saved one another's lives time and again, even though he withstood her tantrums and replied with reason and patience to her attacks and arguments …
Then the vibrance of the eyes faded, and they were only the rheumy old eyes of a dying woman—but the smile that blossomed beneath them seemed to enfold Alea in a gentle embrace even as Lady Gwendylon said, "I am glad my son has found so true a companion—and I thank you for his life."
"He has thanked me by saving mine," Alea assured her, then wondered why she cared about the feelings of this stranger.
Lady Gwendylon turned to her husband; her fingers twitched in a shooing gesture. "Off with you, with both you men. We must talk of women's matters."
Alarm surged through Alea at being left alone with this stranger so soon after meeting her—but Gwendylon turned to gaze at Alea again, and Alea realized that the woman was anything but a stranger.
Rod came around the bed with a sigh, beckoning to Magnus. "Come along, son. There are times to argue with your mother, but this isn't one of them."
"But… but she is …" Magnus couldn't bring himself to say the word "weak."
"I shall find strength enough for this," Gwen assured him, and her voice was strong again. "Be off and tell your father what you have learned."
Magnus turned anxiously to Alea. "If there is the slightest need…"
"I will call you on the instant," Alea promised. "Remember, I have learned medicine in three different cultures. Trust me, Gar."
"I will." He pressed her hand.
She almost pulled away, for he seemed to speak of trust beyond caring for an invalid—but she held firm and even managed to smile into his eyes. Then his father took him by the arm and led him away. She watched them go, marveling that this dotard could have fathered a son whose head rose a foot and a half higher than his. Of course, he had probably been a few inches taller once himself, and Gar did tower over his brothers.
"Gar?" the old woman asked.
Alea turned back to her, feeling guilty that she had let herself be distracted. "He calls himself that when we land on a planet—Gar Pike. He began it to confuse spies from his former employers."
"SCENT, yes." Gwen's smile seemed to enfold her again. "I am glad he left his father's organization, though I could wish he had stayed at home. Still, he would not have met you, then, so it is well that he left."
"I am not so special as that," Alea protested, but she sat on the chair Gar had vacated anyway.
'To him you are," Gwen told her. 'Tell me, how is his heart?"
Alea stared, frozen by the question—and its implications. She was only a friend! What should she know of Magnus's heart?
She could not say that to a dying mother, though. Instead, Alea chose her words carefully. "I can only guess, milady, for he is scarcely one to wear his heart on his sleeve."
"He was till he left here," Gwen said sadly, "but even in those few hours before he left for the stars, he had become … very private."
Alea leaned forward, frowning. "What had happened to him, milady?"
"You must hear that from him," his mother sighed, "for I shall not violate his confidence."