Free Ladyhawke by Joan D. Vinge

happened, while another part flinched from the thought of Navarre’s acid scorn when he tried to describe it to him. But the part of his mind that knew what it knew desperately wanted some affirmation or denial.
    Navarre reined in the stallion unexpectedly as they rode into a small, peaceful meadow. He dismounted. “We’ll stop now. I need sleep.”
    Looking down at him, Phillipe saw the deep lines of exhaustion on Navarre’s drawn face. Navarre walked away, dropped heavily to the ground beneath the shelter of a tree. Phillipe realized that Navarre must not have slept at all last night. He had never heard Navarre come back into the barn, through all the long hours when he had sat rigidly awake in the hayloft, staring into the darkness, listening to every eerie creak of the ancient boards . . . counting the seconds until morning. Then, somewhere just before dawn, his beaten body had surrendered to its needs, and he had fallen asleep so deeply that Navarre had had to shake him awake.
    Phillipe still had no idea where Navarre had gone all night, or what he had been doing. But he was sure Navarre’s disappearance and everything else were somehow related. He was even more certain now that Navarre was mad, if not possessed; and after all he had witnessed in the moonlight, he had no intention of asking him any embarrassing questions. But now he suddenly saw the opening for his own uncomfortable subject. He slid down from Goliath’s back and crossed the meadow to Navarre’s side. “I could do with a bit more sleep myself, sir. After last night’s goings-on.”
    Navarre settled himself more comfortably among the fallen leaves, eyes shut, totally disinterested.
    Phillipe hesitated. “That wolf could have killed me, but he tore out the farmer’s throat, and left me alone.” The thought struck him that it was almost as if the wolf had intentionally saved his life. In the morning there had been no sign of Pitou’s body; but the bloodstained ground at the edge of the clearing bore mute witness that Pitou’s death, at least, had been a reality.
    Navarre yawned, his eyes still closed. This morning he had frowned, his face darkening with an unreadable emotion, when Phillipe had pointed out the proof of his narrow escape. But then Navarre had simply turned on his heel, striding wordlessly back into the barn to saddle his horse. The fact that they did not even stop to cook breakfast but ate dried meat and journeycake in the saddle as they rode was all that told Phillipe the incident had even registered with Navarre. Disappointment and his own reluctance had kept him silent the rest of the morning . . . until now. “There was more,” he said. No reaction. He took a deep breath. “There was . . . a lady. Like fine porcelain, with glowing jade eyes. A heavenly apparition from some faraway land.” The land of his dreams. As he remembered her face again, his words overflowed, “And her voice! The dulcet tones of an angel—!”
    Navarre’s eyes popped open. “She spoke?” he said.
    Phillipe nodded eagerly. “I asked her if I was dreaming. She said I was. Then, and this sounds impossible to believe . . .”
    Navarre shut his eyes again and rolled over, turning his back.
    Phillipe glared down at him. “I’m not insane,” he said, his voice rising. “You must believe me when I tell you these things.” His words tugged at Navarre’s shoulder.
    Navarre looked up at him, smiling sympathetically. “I do believe; I believe very deeply . . . in dreams.”
    Phillipe’s face fell. “I see.” He began to turn away, defeated.
    “This lady of your dreams. Did she have a name?” Navarre asked.
    Phillipe turned back. “Not that she mentioned. Why?”
    The smile was still on Navarre’s face. “Since I’m about to fall asleep myself, I thought I might conjure her up for my dreams. I’ve . . . waited a long time to see such a lady as you describe.”
    Phillipe stared at him, more curious and more nonplussed than ever. He glanced