by Jane Baskin
Which quickly became a fist, launched at his face.
Okay, let the blow land. You deserve it. And … she was far stronger than she looked. Turned his head with the blow, but his lip … bleeding copiously, nonetheless. Knocked backward, went down a few steps to keep from falling down the stairs.
Spit some blood, tried to speak. “Zoren, wait … ”
She, running to the top of the stairs. Still dragging the absurdly heavy cloak. He following, catching her in the hall. This time, grabbed her arm. Trying hard not to hurt her … but holding on tightly. Had to be done. Had to be done.
“Zoren, let me explain.”
“No! There is no explanation. You wanted me dead!”
“I wanted you gone.”
“What’s the difference?”
“You have to hear me out!” Wiped the blood off his lower lip with his free arm.
Suddenly, almost as angry as she. Needing to get this rot out of himself. Needing so badly … how could she refuse? How could she let him fester with this? Jerked her arm, pulled her closer. Then noticed: of course. Did he forget where they were? Look: just outside the door to his rooms. Half pulled, half dragged her along. Then: through the door. Reaching backward for her cloak; pulling it into the room, tossing it at her feet. Blocking the door as he whipped off his own cloak.
She made just one rush for the door. Blocked by him. His eyes, hard slits. “No.”
Zoren-te, backing up. Still in a fighter’s stance. But her eyes, becoming wet. She, trying to blink back the tears that wanted to come. Choking out: “You miserable bastard. And pretending to be … a friend … these last days. How could you! You almost killed me, and it was your own idea!”
Nayan, not knowing exactly what to do. But sure of one thing: he had to get this – thing - out of him. Had to. Remembering his mother’s words, how he would do some things in his life that would leave marks on his soul forever. No. Not this. No.
Put his hands on her shoulders. Despite her efforts to get away, managed to steer her to a fireside chair … the one furthest from the door. Planted himself in another chair, positioned it between her and the door. Should he lock it? Decided against.
But then: she, seeming to give up. Put her face in her hands. Would not look at him. Would not raise her head.
“Listen to me, Zoren. When you first came here – when Noar brought you here, when I found out about it … I hated you. It wasn’t anything personal, I didn’t know the first thing about you. But you were a threat. Having you here … Noar’s done a lot of stupid things, but this was maybe the stupidest of all. All my rage, it focused on you. Maybe that wasn’t fair, but I was protecting my brother. And my home, and my friends. All I could think of was your father’s vengeance.
“So when Noar suggested maybe your father thought you had died in the explosion at the weapons cache… and then when our riders confirmed there were black flags flying from the keep … we didn’t know what to do with you. All I could think of was that you had to disappear. Let your father think you were dead. And the only way to accomplish that – ”
“You bastard! You could have hidden me. I could have explained to my father. He’s not the beast you think he is!”
“I know that now. But I didn’t know that then. I thought he’d come here with all the lords of the South, and send us all to every hell in the universe. I thought he’d never believe you weren’t harmed. He’d never forgive the insult. I have never felt so much guilt … never in my entire life. I swear to you. It’s like rotting from the inside out.”
Now, oh. Tears. Rageful tears.
Nayan: so confused. Wanting it all to go away. Having no clue how to smooth it over. But wanting to … needing the beast to go away.
Suddenly rising to his feet. One of his catlike moves, so silent and fast she never saw it. Reaching for her before she knew he was coming. Pulling her out of her chair, wrapping her in a bear hug. Like he could squeeze the pus out of this bad thing between them.
She: fighting him at first, of course. Pushing against him, trying to wriggle out of his grasp. But his long arms, enveloping her completely. Put his head on top of hers, to further hold her still. She: finally giving up. Nayan, feeling the wet of her rage through his shirt. But holding on, still. Yes. Metabolize those feelings too intense for words.
Maybe stood there for half an hour. Or half a minute. Hard to tell. Both of them swept with pain, only trying to squeeze it out and away.
Sometime in those awful moments, Nayan, raising his head. Putting a hand beneath her chin, pulling her up to look at him. His eyes, so sorrowful.
Not fighting him this time. All the fight, the rage, gone out of her. What was left?
All gods. Nayan, suddenly knowing … what was left. What called out to be done. What the terrible ocean had demanded … of them both. No wonder she had been so drawn to the sea. It had called them both. Been calling them. I have been so stupid. Pulled her into a long, desperate kiss.
Then picked her up – she seemed to weigh so little – and moved into the bedroom. She did not protest, he knew she wouldn’t.
Clothing, seeming to just fall away. As if dissolving.
His mouth, upon hers; upon her neck. She, arching up to meet him. Her hands, exploring him, everywhere. And his hands … he had guessed she was beautifully built, but this … her fine skin, retaining its velvet texture even in this harsh winter. Every part of her, as if sculpted by an artist. Kissing her, as if drinking her whole body into his like the finest warm ale.
Am I shaking? A fine tremor, passing through him. And yes, through her too. From where? Am I on the planet? In my bed? Or somewhere else?
When he pushed into her: felt her freeze for a moment. Slowed until she relaxed. Remembering … she is so young.
But in another moment she: arching up to meet him, raising her legs beside him, then around him. Finally Nayan, able to give release to the feelings wracking his body. Moving like the sea. Like the ocean that so enchanted her. That writhed and slammed and now commanded them both.
Then his breath … ragged. Feelings … like a ricochet off her splendid flesh. Urgency rising; the sea becoming more wild. Nayan, sliding a hand under her hips, pulling her closer to him. His body, sleek with sweat. His mouth, on her neck, her mouth … as if he could drink her down, devour her in great succulent chunks.
From somewhere, a sound. Like a rising wind, or a sighing of trees in early summer. Meeting his desperate moans, her little bird cries; swirling around them. Arched up, pulled his head back, looked at her. Her eyes, tearful.
Fell into her. Shut his eyes, squeezed out … yes, tears. His breath shivering, now.
Nayan cried out, feeling his body shudder and buck. Zoren-te, crying with him, grasping him as if he were the last thing in the universe to anchor her to living. He, out there with her, on that desperate plain of almost nothing but everything at once … until the currents threatening to tear them to pieces finally slowed, rested, sighed, put them gently on the shore.
Dar-agan, waking with that pinch in his back that his older son was so good at fixing. Did something with his hands, and his knee against his spine … a little crack, and then good as new.
“Ilia, please. Go get Nayan. I can’t move.”
“I’ll get him. Lie still.”
So Ilia-te, padding through the chilly hall, to Nayan’s rooms. Entered quietly, the door slightly ajar. He: probably not awake yet. Went into the bedroom. Stopped dead.
There, before her: her fondest dream. The answer to her prayer that war would not come with the spring.
Nayan, fast asleep, but not alone. His arm slung over a girl, a beautiful girl with copper colored hair.
Illia-te tiptoed out of the room. Pulled the outer door shut, softly. Tiptoed back to her rooms, as if her soft footballs could cause the universe to fracture.
To Dar-agan: “You’ll have to manage. Or I can give it a try.”
“Where’s Nayan?”
“In bed.”
“
Well wake him up. He can always go back to bed.”
“He’s not alone.”
“All gods, not with that idiot maid.”
“No. Not at all.”
14.Blossoms in Winter
Was that supposed to happen?
Huh? Nothing’s supposed to happen. Or not supposed to happen.
What kind of an answer is that?
A realistic one.
(head shake) You confound me, sometimes.
Forgive me, that’s not my intention. I only mean to say that anything can happen.
I’m confused. You say we’re here because of a call, from the planet itself or the remains of its AI or whatever … then you say we must not interfere, just do our job as observers … then you say we must allow or even convene war … which is it? Are we observers or instigators?
(sigh) I know. It’s difficult. We may be both.
How can we be both? And why would we be?
(sigh, again) Answering a call is a difficult business.
Please don’t go all wonky on me. What are we doing here, really?
We’re watching.
We always watch. But this is different. These humanoids are in a primitive state. They’re Class 2, for pity’s sake. We have no business meddling with Class 2 civ’s. It’s against all the rules. It’s against law.
Some … may be special. May call for – different – interventions.
There you go again. You’re a very religious person, wouldn’t you agree?
No more so than you.
Squat! That’s insulting.
It’s not intended to be. Scientists can have a spiritual side, and still be good scientists. Perhaps –
We must remain objective!
We can do both. You can do both.
I’ll concede you think you can do both. But I don’t agree.
(sigh) You rarely do.
Look, we have the sister to think of.
That’s precisely my point!
How are all these petty humanoid dramas pertinent? What possible importance can they have?
Listen to me. We agreed to a difficult assignment. One in which the boundaries of science are … less clearly defined than we may be used to. But we agreed. It’s unprofessional to take the job and then complain it’s too hard.
I’m not complaining!
You are. You have been, since we got here. But it’s not important.
Squat! You’re infernal! It’s legitimate to question the science of your actions.
It’s legitimate to question my leadership, and I encourage you to do so if you feel the need. But I doubt any action you take, will give you much comfort. We’re here to see what becomes of this civ, and even, at certain times, to guide it.
I do not contest your legitimate leadership. It’s frustrating, that’s all.
Thank you, my old friend. It’ll work out. You’ll see.
This thing between them: no secret possible. Not that they had a notion to keep secrets. But could not have done so, even if they had wanted to.
Because it growled and shouted like the sea itself. The next morning at breakfast, something else, like another whole person, at the table with them. No words. None necessary.
Dar-agan, feeling better after having Ilia-te walk around on his massive back.
Ilia-te, trying not to stare. Not to smile to herself. Talk at the breakfast table: quiet. Subdued?
Only Noar, acknowledging openly the difference between his brother and the girl who was now hostage only to the winter. Staring. Viciously.
Later, Che. Following Nayan away from table. Gods alive, Nayan. Really?
What?
Don’t even try to deny it.
Nayan, running his hand over his face. Is it that obvious?
Yes.
Well, they say love and hate are horns on the same bull.
They do indeed. This is serious, Nayan.
Nayan, looking at his feet. I guess you’re right, Che.
That’s the Lord of Vel’s daughter.
I suppose he’ll be happy to find out she isn’t dead.
And just how are you planning to tell him?
I haven’t figured that out yet. But I will.
Shared smiles. For that moment, friendship: confirmed. Alive again.
Gwildan, not so sure. Made an effort to find Zoren-te. Needing to speak to her, alone. Even knocked at her rooms. Finally found her in the library. “My Lady.”
Looking up from her book. A smile. “Gwildan.”
“May I speak with you, My Lady?”
“Of course.” Motioned for him to sit. “Although … I’d be very grateful if you’d make an effort to address me by my given name.”
Gwildan, sitting. Clearing his throat awkwardly. “I can try, but for me, such a thing will be difficult.” Silence, for a few moments. Then: “Zoren-te (even the formal address almost caught in his throat), may I ask a rather personal question?”
A laugh. “You may.”
“It seemed this morning … or um … I had the impression … that you and the young Lord Nayan … ”
Zoren-te, a trill of laughter. “You mean to ask whether Nayan and I are romantically involved.”
“Yes. That.” Deeply embarrassed. But sticking to his mission.
Zoren-te, pausing a moment. To think about it. “I believe, yes, that is true. We haven’t talked much about it, it’s very new. But yes, we both feel it’s … something important. You’re aware he tried to kill me, aren’t you?”
A look of shock. “No. I wasn’t aware of that.”
“Well, now you are. I was brought here as a hostage, as you know. But when northern spies reported that my family thought me dead, they didn’t know what to do with me. It was Nayan’s idea to – shall we say – make me disappear. He challenged me to a sword fight. I had a fever: I wasn’t up to the contest. I’m told I put on a good show, before passing out on the ground. As you can see, he couldn’t go through with it.”
“All gods, My Lady.”
Zoren-te, fixing Gwildan eye to eye. “Have you ever been in love, Gwildan?”
“I – I can’t say as I have, My Lady.”
“I have, the one time you’re aware of. Now, again. I recognize the feelings.”
“But – this man tried to kill you.”
“I still hate him for it. And I love him as well.”
“This makes no sense, My Lady.”
“Love never does. Or maybe I just select men who are bad for me.”
Gwildan, turning his face away for a moment. Then back to her. “Z-Zoren-te. This is a bad thing. A very bad thing. You’re young, I understand. But your father – ”
“My father will understand. Because I’ll make him.”
“My Lady, your father will come here with the fury of all the hells in the universe. He will want to kill the beast who took you … slowly. And to think of you in the arms of a northerner … he’ll destroy this place.”
“Don’t be so sure, Gwildan. My father wants above all else, my happiness.”
“And you could be happy with a man who tried to kill you?”
“I already am. Don’t you see? I’ve been happier these last months – this terrible winter – than I ever have been in my life.”
“I don’t understand, My Lady.”
“I was born in the South. Apart from my father, that was a bad situation for me. I’m a freak in the South. I have always been distressed by cruelty. Cruelty to the lowliest barn animals. Especially, the cruelty in which your people are kept. It’s better for me to be here in the North, where all people are free.”
Gwildan rose. Shook his head. “You are very young, My Lady. And bewitched by the young Lord. You and he are fooling yourselves. No ordinary person is really free. And I pray to all gods that you don’t find that out, painfully.”
Nayan, cornered again in the hall. This time by Noar.
A weird smile, on Noar’s face. Almost a sneer? “You know, Nayan. I was the one who took her. Rightfully speaking
, she should be mine.”
Denying love: like trying to hold back an ocean. That it might be impractical, that it might be dangerous – fatal, even – no such reality has ever held back young lovers.
Nayan and Zoren-te, unabashedly curling up together for winter’s coldest time. His door, usually closed, now. Her rooms, cold and unoccupied.
His friends, happy for him … and concerned.
His brother, boiling privately in his own juices.
His parents: plotting. To make this mad thing … turn out right.
Ilia-te: “When spring comes, we’ll just send a line message to Lord Vel. Just tell him outright. We’ll lie about the abduction, of course.”
“Of course. But we’d better hope our lies are backed up.”
“Of course they will be. All the neighbors want Nayan’s happiness. And honestly, they’ll be relieved. He’s so peculiar, they may have been wondering if he’d ever find a mate, much less a beloved one.”
“He’s not that weird.”
“He’s … different.”
“He’s highly skilled and respected by everyone.”
“And maybe – slightly feared?”
“Nayan? You’re joking.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t wondered – as I have – where he came from. He doesn’t look like either of us.”
“He looks like you.”
“If I had skin like a moon and hair like the dark of night.”
“You’re foolish. His coloring is unique, I admit. But his features are yours. And no one thinks he’s weird, except you.”
“A mother knows her children.”
“There! You just said he’s yours.”
“You’re impossible.”
“No, you.”
And so on.
At meals, the new lovers recognized. But still: a shadow. What?
Maybe the dark look from Gwildan, still sharing Dar-agan’s table, possibly against his will? Maybe the occasional worried look from Che, wondering if his friend would be alive after spring came? Maybe the hateful glare from Noar, enraged that his prize went to his brother – and his rival?
Dar-agan, seeing all of it. Wondering if this madness could indeed be worked out as his scheming wife planned, or would bury them all.
