Read Online Gravelight by Marion Zimmer Bradley - Free Book Online Page A

the dark.
    She could hear the sound of underground water, its plashing bizarrely magnified by the staircase beneath the earth. It was that insane adherence to the laws of physics that frightened her most; as if the reality of the small details of this vision were the most damning proof of her madness. What she’d called her gift was next to madness, after all. Perhaps this was only some logical evolution.
    The thought was unbearable. It’s a dream — it’s a dream — it’s a dream —Caught between the soft seduction of the darkness and the fire’s roaring destruction, Sinah
flung open the door and ran back out into the fire.
    No, no, NO—
    First heat, then pain. Unbearable brightness that seemed to penetrate her flesh and her perceptions. She died in flames.
    And was reborn.
    Sinah opened her eyes. She was rolling on the ground, covered with the flecks of last year’s leaves, weeping with the terror and the pain of being burned alive. It took a long time for her battered mind to comprehend that those things were not real. That she was here, and safe. There wasn’t even the smell of smoke in the air.
    The memory of the vision began to fade even as she grasped at it, until all the images were shadowy, as inchoate as any nightmare.
    What … happened? Slowly Sinah got to her feet. The fear of madness—never far from her—returned afresh. What had happened had not been a secondhand experience stolen from another’s mind. It had been something else— she’d been someone else. And instead of remembering what she’d taken from that other mind, she’d been drowned in it and discarded.
    As though she hadn’t quite fit.
    â€œYou let it burn!”
    Luned’s accusation was the first thing Wycherly heard as he came through the door. His undershirt was balled up in his hand, and his tattered shirt was draped across his shoulders, still damp from the sluicing he’d given it.
    He glanced around. The room was oven-warm from the fire in the wood stove, and the iron pot was still sitting on top of the stove, steaming gently. The table was set with napkins, bowls, and spoons, and there was a tin box of crackers placed prominently on the table. Beside each plate there was a tin cup filled with tawny liquid. Luned was sitting in one of the chairs waiting for him. Her hands were
in her lap and her whole demeanor was one of painful dignity.
    â€œI’m not the cook.” Wycherly went to the table and picked up the cup at the unoccupied place. He sniffed at it suspiciously.
    â€œIt’s hard cider,” Luned said, relenting. “Don’t they have that where you come from?”
    â€œI doubt Mother would let it cross the threshold,” Wycherly said absently.
    Luned got up and picked up one of the bowls, moving toward the stove; Wycherly walked past her into the bedroom.
    The bed had been made up with fresh sheets and blankets, topped with a patchwork quilt. The white window curtains, which looked to have been at least shaken out, if not washed, swirled gently at the window. Most of the obvious dust was gone; the room looked like one in some over-quaint bed-and-breakfast.
    What in the name of all that was reasonable was he doing here?
    â€œDo you guess you’ll want dinner now?” Luned asked from the door-way. She sounded uncertain. She wiped her hands down the apron she had tied around her waist.
    I’d rather have a drink . Wycherly pushed the automatic thought aside out of some reflexive perversity. “You don’t have to wait on me,” he said instead.
    â€œI don’t mind,” Luned said shyly. “I’m sorry I rowed at you before; I was just scairt, is all. Looks like you’re going to need someone to do for you, cooking and cleaning … and like that.”
    â€œI’ll manage,” Wycherly said shortly. Shouldn’t this girl be in school somewhere, or off playing with dolls? An odd