The Spell-Bound Scholar

Chapter 15

Gregory stiffened with the electricity of that kiss and sat frozen in every fiber except his lips, which thawed, then brushed, then parted and met hers with enthusiasm to match her own. Finally he managed to break away, panting, "Damsel. . . this is not seemly. ..."

"It seems very right to me," she gasped, and pulled his head down again. "It does to you, too, I feel it in your kiss! Oh, sir, take my sweetness and give me your own!"

But Gregory sat stiff-necked, braced against her pulling. "I would not wrong you. ..."

"Wrong me, despoil me! Only give of yourself to me!" Peregrine panted. "I should blush, but I do not! Oh, sir, I had only lain in love with my Corin half a dozen times, only enough to truly discover ecstasy, when he tired of me and revealed me to the derision of the whole village! My delight was turned to ashes, my joy to bitterness, but you have given both new life! Your kiss inflames me, the press of your body ignites me, I burn with the aching for another taste of the delights I had barely discovered before they were denied me! Do not withhold yourself, I beg of you! Take me, enfold me, lose yourself in me, and give me back the thrill and the wonder I have lost!"

"I... I must not," Gregory stammered. "I would wrong you, I would merely leave you as Corin did. ..."

"I care not!" Peregrine's voice shook with passion. "Tomorrow I may, but tonight I do not, tonight I would only rejoice. This, this is what I want, the caressing and merging and delighting of bodies! Cast me aside tomorrow if you wish, sir, but leave me not lorn tonight!"

"Such union should not be for a single night only, nor even one single year. ..."

"I shall take what I may! Oh, fie upon me, for I know myself now to be truly a wanton! I will take this pleasure now without let or demand, I crave it so deeply! Do not withhold it, sir, I pray you!"

"There . . . there is more that you wish, far more, whether you know it or not." The agony of desire racked Gregory's voice. "There is no true ecstasy without a union of hearts as well as bodies, and that I cannot give!"

"Love me, then," Peregrine panted. "I care not for how long—only love me for now, delight me for now!"

"I cannot," Gregory said, as though it were torn from the roots of his soul. "A man cannot love others if he does not love himself, and I see too much that is despicable within me."

"Then let me show you what is admirable!"

"There is too much wonderful in you for me to ever be worthy of your touch," Gregory said with total sincerity. "It is not despoiling that you wish, but sanctuary while you wait for the one who is born to love you, born to delight you, born to give you joy to your very core! I know a convent where you can shelter while you wait. Let me escort you there!"

Perigrine froze in his arms. "A convent?"

Instantly she thawed, heated, turned to fire. "How can you speak of barren nuns when I know you burn to make love to me? Do not deny me, for if you do, you deny yourself! Give in to your true nature, as I do! Love me, make love to me, take my surrender, and revel in your triumph!"

"I... I am no lover. ..."

"I know that you are!" Peregrine moved back a little, just enough so that she could gaze up into his eyes squarely and, for the moment, soberly. "If you are not, turn yourself to wood again as you did last night! But I know you cannot, for that wood would burn with the heat of your ardor. Only restore yourself to your vigil and I will cease to importune. Attempt it—but I know you cannot when I am here in your arms!" To prove it, she pressed close, wriggling in a way that he should have found electrifying.

But she had given him the wrong challenge; Gregory stilled, his eyes lost focus, his breathing slowed and lightened, and as she watched in horror, he stilled into immobility, leaving her trapped in arms that had become hard as wood.

Finister stared appalled for a minute. Then in fury she cried, "A murrain upon you!" and pushed herself away— but found those wooden arms held her fast. Enraged, she flailed about, rocking and thrashing, crying, "How dare you! Coward! Eunuch! How can you so spurn a lass who craves you? How can you turn to wood with a wanton warm and burning in your arms? How can you so despise me that you would send a woman in the ripeness of her youth to dwell among dry old relics of nuns?"

No matter how she railed, though, he sat like a statue, arms still folded to embrace her, rigid as timber. In desperation, she pressed herself tight against him and slid, squirming, out of his oaken embrace.

For a moment, she was tempted to ignite a spark within him by telekinesis to see if that wood could burn, but decided it would give too little satisfaction. Instead she snatched the hidden dagger from her kirtle and drove it into him.

The point stuck in his skin; the blade bent, then skidded aside.

With a curse, Finister threw the useless thing on the ground. She stood rigid, fists clenched, glaring into his glazed eyes, trying to think of some way to hurt him, to shock him out of his trance, to make him notice her. She probed his mind but found only the blank reflectiveness of his shield and knew she could press no further, for that shield would only turn her own energies back on her. First she must wake him, bring him out from that shell; then she could touch him again—but unless she could touch him, she could not jar him out of the trance. It was a closed loop, a snake biting its own tail, and she turned away to stalk off into the woods in frustration and anger.

Walk away indeed! her pride said to her. He cannot stop you! Leave him, go back to command your agents, and find another way to slay him! But she found she could not; she told herself it was important not to arouse Gregory's suspicions but knew the truth was that she found him too much of a challenge. Since leaving her foster parents' home, she had measured her own worth by her sexual attraction on the one hand and her skill as an assassin on the other; in spite of the chill with which he had rebuffed all her advances and the skill with which he had turned aside her knife (or perhaps because of them), she wasn't yet ready to admit defeat.

Accordingly, she paced the woods for an hour or so to cool off, then returned to find Gregory sitting by the fire and looking very dejected. He looked up and said, "I must apologize for the discourtesy with which I took leave of my senses."

"I am glad to hear it." She glared down at him. "You must fear me mightily to have sent your mind sailing and left me a lifeless statue."

"Perhaps it is fear," Gregory sighed, "but I am determined to treat you with respect."

"Whether I wish it or no? Fie, sir! What manner of man are you who can spurn a lady so?"

"One who cannot resist a challenge, I fear," Gregory lamented.

That struck too deep a chord within Finister. She snapped back, "You certainly should have! Resist your pride, not my favors! I am so embarrassed I shall fear to offer them again ever!"

The scoundrel should have looked appalled, and tried to, but he had the audacity to be relieved beneath it! Sizzling with anger, Finister said, "Well, there is no help for it. I would have made a man of you, but it seems the material is lacking. Come, let us mount, since you will not, and ride where your reason takes us, since you will not be guided by passion!"

"Even so," Gregory sighed, and stood up, reaching for her hand.

She snatched it away and stalked to her horse. She heard him coming quickly behind her but snapped, "You need not aid me to mount, sir!" and set her foot in the stirrup, then sprang up to the saddle, curled her knee about the sidehorn, and shook the reins. The palfrey walked away, and Gregory had to scramble to mount and join her.

Thus it went for the rest of the day, Finister carping, snapping, and shrewish, insulting Gregory in every way she could, but the sheepish fool only rode there, returning meek replies that were neither agreement nor contradiction, and never once during that long afternoon did he show enough spirit to lash back.

She might as well have been made of wood herself! There could be no question about it—he had no real regard for her, did not care enough about her to grow angry. He must have lacked even the male drive to be irritated—either that, or he was sick of her and eager to be rid of her.

So that evening, when once again he sat down by the fire and went into his trance, Finister threw up her hands and stalked off into the forest again, thinking bloody thoughts and determined never more to come near him without overwhelming lethal force at her back.

She had access to the computer and all its data banks! Gwen almost went limp with relief and realized that she hadn't really believed she could win this contest, pass the examination that no monk had managed for five long centuries. But pass it she had, and the opportunity, once gained, had to be exploited. She pulled herself together and phrased her first inquiry very carefully—the question could not be too broad or she would reveal that her knowledge was out of date and lose all she had gained. "What are the most recent findings concerning the mechanisms by which the brain produces hallucinations?"

The computer launched into an explanation of surges of neural currents, activators and inhibitors, and malformations in new brain cells. Gwen hung on its every word, afraid to lose a syllable—and hoping she could come up with just as effective a question about child abuse, mood disorders, paranoia, and insecurity.

She did.

When it was over, she was exhausted, trembling—and understood Moraga far better than she wanted. She found herself repelled by the tortuous ways in which the foster parents who had raised the orphan must have deliberately twisted her mind and ravaged her emotions. "I. . . thank you, computer. I will strive to make this information benefit as many others as I may."

"You are welcome—to any information at any time," the computer responded. "Look upward, please."

Too exhausted to wonder why, Gwen looked up almost involuntarily. A bright light winked next to the blue one. She flinched, looked down quickly—and just managed to see the afterimage as it faded.

"There is no damage to your vision," the computer assured her, "but I have now recorded your retinal patterns. If at any future time you wish to consult me, you need only sit in that chair, look upward, and I will respond."

" 'Tis . . . good to know. Again I thank you."

"And again you are welcome. May you have a pleasant journey."

The blue light winked off and Gwen started to rise—then had to grasp at the arm of the chair to avoid falling. Brother Milton and the Abbot were at her side in an instant. "I thank thee, gentlemen," she murmured. "I will ... be well presently."

"Aye, praise Heaven," the Abbot said, "but first you needs must dine and rest."

"There is a chamber for such uses, only a little way away," Brother Milton assured her. "Come, good lady."

Gwen let them steer her toward the elevator, protesting, "The guest house . . . 'tis quite adequate. ..."

'Tis a long, long climb away, milady, and thou art exhausted," the Abbot said with gentle firmness. "Thou hast sat in converse with the computer for twelve hours without pause."

"Twelve hours?" Gwen looked up in disbelief.

The Abbot nodded as he ushered her into the elevator. " 'Twas amazing."

"Oh! Milord Abbot—I am sorry to so long detain you. . . ."

"It was mine honor—and my joy, to see one at long last find a means of speaking with the daunting mechanism. When all is well with you, milady, I may ask you to return and pose certain questions to it."

"I. ..shall be delighted. ..."

The elevator door opened and they escorted her down the hall. "There is a question of propriety," the Abbot explained, "and I know the abilities of your children and husband. Can you summon one of your kin?"

Gwen considered, clinging to his arm a moment. Rod would be too much alarmed, too solicitous, and she had left Cordelia to watch over Gregory. That left only one. She frowned in concentration a moment; then air boomed, and Geoffrey rushed to support her. "Mother! What have they done to you?"

"Naught. I have done it to myself; they have but cared for me." Gwen gestured at the door ahead. Geoffrey looked up, startled, and ushered her toward it. "I must rest, my son. Do thou stand watch over me."

"With delight!"

"Bless you, my son." Gwen turned back in the doorway, inclining her head toward the Abbot and the friar. "I thank you, gentlemen."

'Twas our honor. Good night, milady."

"Good night," Geoffrey seconded. "I thank you, milord— and you, brother." Then he turned to half-carry his mother into the cabin.

Deep in his trance, Gregory watched Peregrine leave with disappointment. He knew that when he emerged from the trance he would be buried under an avalanche of sorrow. His calisthenics, his lessons in Finister's mind, his crash course in lovemaking—all had gone for naught, cancelled by his timidity. Of course, Finister had not yet undergone her own therapy, but as far as Gregory could see, he was no more attractive to her now than he had been before. He had failed, that was the plain and simple truth of it, and when he surfaced, he would know himself for the worm he was.

Still, it had to be faced. He knew Finister quite well now, knew that if he stayed here she would come back with a dozen or more ruthless killers to help her slay him. He was proof against them, of course, but accidents could happen, and he had no wish to kill anyone. He would have to brace himself for a more direct onslaught, preferably by being gone.

Accordingly, he began the process of waking. His muscles softened, his breathing accelerated, and the world began to seem vivid and real again.

The emotions hit.

Sorrow and self-recrimination, knowledge of inadequacy, inferiority, failure—all struck and bore him down. Gregory sat still, trying to relax, trying to let it all wash through him. It did, it passed, but it left him trembling with self-contempt.

Still, if he had failed at human relationships, he knew he could succeed as a wizard—even more, as a researcher who could learn new and varied ways to use psi powers. Resolved to find some way to disable Finister without hurting or killing her, he rose, set and grim, and went to untie his horse, mount, and ride down the woodland path. His first goal must be the nearby village that Finister had claimed was Peregrine's home. Gregory didn't doubt the hamlet was real but was sure the villagers knew nothing of Peregrine and never had. He had to find some way to protect it from the spillover of a psionic battle.

He rode for fifteen minutes, mind open and seeking the village, before he heard its thoughts clearly enough to be sure where it was. He turned his horse off into a deer trail then and rode away from the cluster of huts—its best protection was distance. He pushed aside low-hanging branches, underbrush swiping at his knees.

Then, suddenly, he reined in, stiffening, eyes widening. He had felt it, a resonance, a sort of mental echo, a reverberation and reinforcement of his psionic field. When he was sure the feeling was real and constant, not imaginary, he dismounted, tied his horse, and pushed his way into the forest, through a screen of underbrush, turning a little to his right, then right again around a huge rock, feeling the resonance grow and grow.

Beyond the rock, the land was clear, no shoots or brambles, only emerald grass, thick and soft, cropped low by deer.

Boughs arched high above, the afternoon sun's rays sifting down through a thousand nodding leaf shadows. What lay beneath that turf, Gregory had no idea—perhaps nothing, only a confluence of lines of force, perhaps some strange collection of piezoelectric crystals that reflected his own energies back to him in an endless circle—but whatever it was, it grew stronger and stronger as he paced to the center of the clearing.

Then, suddenly, the feeling thrilled through him from head to toe, rooting him to the spot, filling him, making him feel as though he were swelling, growing ten feet tall, and all his self-doubts fell away as he knew he had found his site of power.

The trance came upon him suddenly, unbidden. He became aware of vast, dim presences, of spirits of a land that had known hundreds of years of telepaths. The forest was rich with witch moss, storing and reflecting their memories, emotions, and knowledge. Bitter and joyful, angry and grateful, vengeful and loving, the paired emotions drove him into a higher and higher state. Dimly he felt the presence of a host of ghosts, women and men flocking to him, attracted by a wizard mind at the site of power. He heard their voices whispering in his ear, confiding the terrors and joys and guilts of their lives, advising him of their successes and failures, their regrets and delights, filling him with the knowledge they had wrung from life, but more often than not, too late.

Now he could see them, dim shades in muted colors, flocking toward him, joining hands, beginning to move in an age-old dance as their advice and experience poured into him. Huge though the site may have made his mind, they filled him—yet he seemed to grow more huge yet. Dazed and awed, knowing but not yet understanding, he let the procession weave about him, sharing thousands of lives with him, he who could focus them and sort them and match them, balancing remorse against a burning and unslaked desire for vengeance, fulfilling regrets—for hurts not returned—with guilty memories, countering joys with sorrows. Through him the restless spirits came each to his or her own resolution, some pairing, many matching, all gaining a sort of peace and filling him with their power in the process. Unheard praises filled his mind, tears of gratitude and unsung tributes, as the specters began to fade, leaving the immensity of their combined experiences, memories, and powers behind—and Gregory knew that he had survived the ordeal, the rite of passage, and become a man grown and a complete human being, truly a wizard in every way.

When they were gone, he thought he must sag, must fall to the ground senseless with the barrage of emotions, thoughts, and memories he had sustained. Instead, he stood straight and tall, vibrant and bursting with power, feeling more alive than ever he had. He let the feeling of exaltation build and peak, then ebb and finally fade, leaving him filled with energy and delighting in existence.

Finally he relaxed with a smile and went off into the forest to bring back armfuls of brush. When he had a pile as high as his waist, he stared at it intently, beginning to move molecules with his mind. When the work was done, he went back to gather more brush, and more. There was much to do and only a few hours left in which to see the task fairly begun.

Alarm thrilled through him, echoes of hatred and shame. He thought another band of ghosts had come to fill him again, but looking up, he saw Finister approaching in her own form, face aflame with passion, with desire and lust for vengeance, and her mind boiled with thoughts of mayhem.