Meanwhile the town stood blackened, riddled with holes like a fine old cheese. The dragons had used lightning to drive the invaders back, and that had set the buildings ablaze. The troops Yriatt brought from Firice had ended up fighting fires as much as they fought enemy troops.
Brastigan sighed in exasperated memory. There was so much to do in Harburg, so much to repair, yet he knew he couldn’t stay here. Oskar's ascension was too offensive. Anyway, he was no closer to ruling than he ever had been. Oskar might not have any sons, but Habrok and Calitar did. For that matter, so did the traitors Rickard and Albrett.
The only things keeping Brastigan in Crutham to begin with had been Unferth and Lottres. Now Unferth was gone. Lottres wasn't likely to stay. Finally and completely, Brastigan had no reason to remain in Crutham.
It was funny, really. Coming from such a large family, Brastigan had never been alone, not ever. Maybe that was what spooked him so much when he was far from home and Lottres began to pull away. Brastigan, who feared no man or beast—or bone man, either—had been terrified. As he was now, because he could see it all happening again.
Brastigan restlessly paced along the edge of the tower, pausing when he faced true west. His gaze went past the harbor, seeking that smudge on the horizon where Urland lay. Then he shook his head irritably. Even if he looked Urulai, he wasn't. Anyway, he couldn't expect them to take him on as a leader. There had never been a king in Urland.
More than ever, Brastigan envied Therula and Pikarus for being so sure of what they wanted. Of course, Brastigan was sure, too. It was just that what he wanted could never be. He thought of the girl now with a strange disconnection. As if the whole experience had happened to someone else, long ago. However real it had been, past was past. Brastigan had lost too much to keep looking back.
Dusk was falling. Evening shadows swallowed the war-wracked harbor, and the empty air held no answers. Brastigan turned to leave and saw someone coming up the steps from the courtyard. Shaelen. There was no mistaking the dark fire of her hair, though she had exchanged her leather armor for one of Therula's dresses. The cloth was a blue satin, turned almost black by the orange glow of sunset. Pearls shimmered on the sleeves and bodice. Brastigan could see the dark disc of her jeup in the scoop of the neckline.
Brastigan watched her come, feeling the familiar clash of emotions. It was hard to resent Shaelen when she had helped rescue him, and then saved Therula and Cliodora as well. At some point, he might even owe her an apology. Yet neither could he forget the shadow girl whose life she had stolen.
Shaelen paused, as if she expected Brastigan to say something. When he didn't, she ventured, “Lottres wanted me to tell you, Ymell has decided. We go to Urland.” Her voice sounded strange, faltering and rough.
Brastigan shrugged at the news, but he felt a stirring of excitement. He looked out across the water, where the last golden light touched the waves. Shaelen came to stand beside him, far enough away to respect his silence. She twisted a braid around her finger, and Brastigan saw the beads in her hair, red orbs turned to blood in the last daylight. Those were the beads he had given the girl, a day before she died.
The quiet stretched between them, taut with things unsaid. Shaelen said in a rush: “I have never been to Urland. I would like to see it. Will you go?”
Brastigan eyed her, analyzing her awkwardness. Shaelen had always been confident and competent. There was no reason for such nervousness, unless she was feeling guilty about something. Like what happened with the girl, maybe.
“It wasn't your fault,” he said, ignoring the question about Urland. “Don't dwell on it. I'm trying not to.”
Brastigan thought he was being generous, but Shaelen looked at him like a child about to cry. The red beads twisted over and under her fingers.
“It's not that easy, not for me.” Shaelen's voice was strained. “If it is for you, then I have to wonder how well you knew her. What did you really think of her?”
“Thinking. That was the problem, wasn't it,” Brastigan shot back.
He ought to walk away, he thought. Shaelen was the last person he would choose for an intimate discussion. Yet she was also the first person to ask how he felt about any of it—the girl, his father, the war.
“You met Margura, I hear,” Brastigan spat with distaste. “Well, the court women are all like her. I'd never known anyone like the girl. Someone so... perfect. She was gentle and trusting, like a child. Not greedy, not wanting any favors, and she never judged me because I look different...”
Brastigan trailed off. Shaelen stared at him, her cheeks flushed, her eyes wide and dark. Then she gave a sad laugh.
“Perfect?” she asked. “She was a blank slate, Brastigan. You could imagine her to be whatever you wanted, and she would never tell you differently. Weak as she was, you could mold her however you chose.”
It was Brastigan's turn to stare, seething with rage at the unjust accusation. After he'd been honest with her, too!
“It wasn't like that,” he grated out. “She needed me when no one else did, and I needed someone to take care of. I was not molding her!”
“I know.” Shaelen's smile was luminous, just as the girl's would have been, if she had ever been fully alive. “That's why I admire you. Everyone else saw her as a thing, even Maess, who should have known better. Only you saw that she could be more.”
Brastigan scowled, trying to take in this reversal. He saw again how Shaelen looked so much like the girl. It just wasn't fair.
“How much do you remember from her?” Brastigan asked.
“Everything,” Shaelen answered quietly. “Her feelings, her love for you... I received all of that when we rejoined.”
Love? Brastigan took an involuntary step backward. He had known it, of course, that the girl loved him. It still hurt to hear the words and know she was gone. Abruptly he turned his back, pacing along the edge of the tower.
“Go away,” Brastigan said.
He was sorry he had let Shaelen bring all this up. He regretted showing her any part of himself that was real. It only made him feel worse. Shaelen let go a harsh breath. She followed Brastigan, easily keeping pace with his long-legged strides.
“Do you think it's easy, having two sets of memories?” Shaelen demanded. “I remember going to Maen in Altannath, but I also remember staying with Maess and traveling with you—things that never happened to me. I don't even know who I am any more!”
Her yammering made Brastigan angry. “So you have her memories.” He whirled and caught Shaelen in his arms. “Do you remember this?”
Shaelen stared up at him. He could feel her trembling.
“I remember,” she whispered. She wasn't trying to escape, he noticed. “But you never touched her.”
“That's right,” Brastigan said, “because she didn't understand what she wanted, what it meant.” He tightened his arms around Shaelen's waist until he could feel her heart, and his own, beating together with rage or frustration or something he was afraid to name. Brastigan bent his head toward her. “Do you?”
“Yes,” Shaelen sighed, and leaned toward him.
Brastigan only kissed her because he was angry, but he felt Shaelen's ardent response and then he couldn't stop himself. Incredibly, he was kissing the girl at last, the way he had longed to. He didn't have to abandon her memory at all. Shaelen contained the girl's spirit, and yet had a mind of her own. Shaelen could be wooed like any woman. Brastigan called on all his skills as a seducer. Shaelen clung to him and demanded more. A long time later, Brastigan breathed, “Just tell me you don't already have a man.”
Without his realizing, it had gotten very dark. Only embers were left of the burning sunset. Shuffling steps nearby hinted that sentries were trying to walk their rounds without intruding. Shaelen gave a low laugh and let her head rest on Brastigan's shoulder. The herbal fragrance from Hawkwing House clung to the curls of her hair.
“It would serve you right if I did,” she said. “No, I've never been sought after. As a c
hild of the conquerors, I must be despised. Yet there are so few Urulai women, even I have had suitors.”
Brastigan growled playfully, pulling her closer. Shaelen laughed again.
“None of them stayed,” she said. “I think Maess put them off.”
“She'd better stay out of it,” Brastigan said.
He bent to kiss Shaelen again, before she could argue with him. He let his hands wander, and Shaelen moaned softly. Just as Brastigan was wondering how he could get her back to his chambers, she pulled away again.
“Well,” Shaelen teased, “have I convinced you to come with us to Urland?”
“Try to stop me.” Then, more seriously, “Though I don't know if they'll want me. I'm a half-breed, too, even if I am the greatest swordsman in Crutham.”
“You are the son of a beloved martyr,” Shaelen answered fiercely. “You struck the blow that destroyed Ysislaw! No one would dare deny your right to go home.”
“I was hoping you'd say that,” Brastigan said, lightly, to disguise his relief. “The last time I saw my father, he told me my destiny lies in Urland. I think he was right.”
“But,” Shaelen said with a smile in her voice, “I must tell you the name of our country is not Urland. It is Urutchat.”
“I can't say a word like that,” Brastigan protested. “I was raised here in Crutham.”
“I'll teach you,” Shaelen reassured him. “Say it slowly, after me. U-rut-chat.”
Brastigan did, and made a fumble of it. While Shaelen snickered, he whispered in her ear, “What's the word for...” And he made the picture very clear in his mind, so she could not mistake it.
She answered him with kisses.
Copyright © 2007 Deby Fredericks
Cover Art © 2007 Laura Diehl www.lauradiehl.com
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