Free The Door into Sunset by Diane Duane

disquieting legends, but nonetheless a place of which Herewiss had had great hopes. It had been mildly surprising, but not specifically unusual, to find a small inn on the river Stel, at the borders of the Waste. After days out in the wild, they had been grateful to stop there for a night. As often enough happened in Lorn’s travels, they were all short of money, and they wound up striking a typical travelers’ arrangement with the innkeeper. One of them would share with her, that evening, by way of settling the scot. There had been some argument over who would get to do this... for the innkeeper was utterly beautiful; dark-haired, green-eyed, a tall queenly woman full of wit and merriment. Segnbora had finally won the draw, and had gone upstairs after dinner, grinning faintly, to the genial hooting and encouragement of the rest.
    Harald and Lang had stayed up a while by the fire to drink, but Lorn had preferred to go straight upstairs to that astonishing luxury, a room of his own, there to revel in a bed with no one in it, especially no one with more legs than he had. Later, of course, he would sneak into Herewiss’s room, or the other way around. But sometimes when you had been traveling with other people for a long time, it was a great joy to slip away and listen to the silence for a while, and watch the moon come up, and not have to worry that the pursuit would find you more easily because of it.
    He did that. A soft spring Moon, full and golden, outside the diamond-paned window; the wind in the apple trees, snowing their petals gently on the ground and drifting them about in a kindly mockery of the season past; a jar of wine that he had appropriated from the kitchen after helping with the dishes—and the innkeeper had scowled at him as if he was a naughty boy, and then winked and gestured him out; a chair and table by the window, with one warm rushlight burning like a star in the dim room, and the good bed with its clean linen, inviting him—not just now, but later, when he was just tired enough—it all conspired to produce such a perfect peace as Lorn had not felt in years.
    And then there she was, in the doorway, gowned in white and dark-robed as if about to retire, and leaning in to peer at him like a mother checking on a child staying up late. Lorn had left the door open for the breeze, and at the sight of her he was glad he had. She came in and sat with him by the window, and they began to talk.
    To this day he remembered so little of what was said. They talked about everything under the Sun—histories and how they part from the truth; and old legends and stories told to children in Arlen, and how they differ from those told eastward in Darthen or south along the Stel; what to do about clubroot in a cabbage field, or about a cavalry charge; —endless other things. And whatever she spoke of, she did so with such knowledge, and such love... and sometimes with great sadness in her face, as if she felt herself somehow responsible for a famine here or an unhappy ending there, so that Lorn would have done anything to ease her sorrow if he could. But it always passed into other talk, into memory, or merriment, or sweet or sober joy. And it was not until long after the rushlight had burnt out, and the Moon had slid softly up over the roof and out of sight, that Lorn realized that the moonlight had not left her, but still rested on her, golden, when everything else lay in starlight or shadow.
    Then, at last, his heart thundering in his ears, he knew Her. Then he understood clearly how poor a word “queenly” had been, yet a word that would have to do, for the One in Whose name all kings and queens ruled—the One Who comes to every man and woman born, once before they die, to share Herself with them and have them know that they are loved. She pushed aside the cup that they had finished between them, and reached out and took his hand, and lifted it to Her lips.
    “Dearest son of Mine,” she said. And the voice was