“Failing that, I could leap upon you and bite you on the throat—as I was once reputed to have done. I have the very real feeling that you would rather watch me eat an equine, hooves and all, than for me to nibble away at your lovely neck. I feel quite primitive. And you won’t remember at all, will you, my haughty one? Never mind. Get me a bowl of soup and some bread. And then you can tell me whatever it is you don’t want to tell me.”
She did remember other times and places, he could tell. The light in her eyes was as unfriendly now as it had been warm a few minutes earlier. “You carrion-eater!” She left the room stiff-backed.
He did not regret provoking her. There was a time in his memory, though he could not give it a name or a place, when they had eaten great bleeding slabs of bovine and deer together. That meal ended in a rather greasy but intimate encounter. ‘At least,’ he thought, ‘she didn’t call me a cannibal.’ That was the ultimate insult across the cosmos now. At least among the upper classes. The peasants, he knew, were not nearly as nice in their notions of polite behavior, and often enjoyed a “shovel supper” of some small rodent hacked to bits and roasted in a field on the end of their tools. There were no peasants on Attira, a fact Gilhame had not previously regretted.
A few minutes later, old Farren Vraser stumped into the room and glared at him. “You’re awake.”
“So it would appear.”
“How do you feel?”
“Ghastly. I am starved to death, my head aches like I had been on a very long and very cheap drunk, my shoulder burns and my face feels sore from m’alba’s rough-and-ready therapy. And you just stand there looking like a disapproving gautama. Is it true you wax your dome? How do you expect me to feel?”
Vraser ignored the reference to his baldness. “We should have the problem of your shoulder fixed in a day or so. I can see that at least the tenor of your disposition as a patient has not changed, Gil.”
“Changed? Should it have?” Damn, the old man was a truth-hearer!
“You are . . . different these days.”
“You may blame that on the positive influence of m’alba,” he answered.
“I think not. It began. . . well, no matter. Let me see if I can do something about that shoulder.” He came to the bed and held his big hand over the injured shoulder for several minutes. “Nasty weapon, that,” he commented as he finished. “Better?”
“Some. There are no nice weapons, Farren. Where did it come from, anyhow? Alvellaina clammed up when I asked her. I don’t permit my people to keep things from me, even for my own good. Especially not for my own good!”
“No, you don’t. The dead-brained men all say Por-dallas.” Vraser answered slowly.
“Pordallas. But that’s a restricted world. Do you think they were misled, Farren?”
“Those men had no direct knowledge. They had been told Pordallas. I exanrned the tapes myself.”
“And Captain Devero?”
“Is fr«tfi-blocked, Gil.”
“The Devil you say! Truth-blocked, is she? That means we can’t be certain if Gyre had anything to do with this, as I suspect he did, or if it was Marpessa’s own initiative. She was always terribly jealous and much too impulsive. But the block is almost incriminating by itself, isn’t it?”
“On one level, yes. But she was with Kurrian long enough that it could have been done during that tour and not have any connection with Admiral Gyre.”
“Kurrian? That old fart? I don’t think he’s ever even thought of truth-proofing his staff. No, I see Guth’s fine Denebolian hand in this, but finding evidence is going to be quite difficult. But not impossible. Do you know, I have spent almost as much of my life in the litigation of various suits as I have in battle? It is a curious reflection on our times, isn’t it? Ah, nourishment.”
Alvellaina entered with a tray. She set it over his lap and stepped hastily away with a funny expression on her face. Gilhame removed the dish covers and looked at the stuff on the tray.
“I spoke too soon,” he said. “It is not nourishment. It is pap. Unsweetened, pasty cereal; bitter-fruit; dry, naked bread and something hot and foul-smelling in a cup. No wonder you drop the tray and back away, m’alba. Would that I could do the same. What an infernal stink! I am almost tempted to throw the tea—it is tea, isn’t it?—across the room, but I think the odor would linger on and on—like roses, but not so nice.” He held his nose and gulped down the offending liquid. He finished with an outraged expression on his face. “It tastes worse than it smells.”
The pard jumped up on the bed. It sniffed the tray tentatively, then drew back on three paws. It turned haughtily with its tail held aloft and marched down to the foot of the bed.
“You see. Even the pard disdains it,” Gilhame said, munching a piece of bitter-fruit. “But, I see your plan. You are trying to force me to get well be feeding me things you would not feed your worst enemy. Gah! Glue would taste better.” He glared at the cereal after he tasted it, then ate it as quickly as he could, gulping it down without pausing. He tried a bite of his toast, masticated solemnly, then put the rest back on the tray.
“Please, take it away, m’alba.” He leaned back on the pillows and found Vraser staring at him. “Well?”
“You can begin eating normally in a day or so,” the Healer said. Gilhame could tell that the old man was quite puzzled over something, and he wondered what.
“Normally? I don’t want to eat normally. I want Guthry Gyre’s heart spitted and roasted, or perhaps he would taste better in a Denebolian ragout. And Marpessa, dear Marpessa. No, instead of cooking her goose, I think I’ll give it to the fleet.” The puzzled expression on Vraser’s face faded, but Alvellaina went green under her white skin. “Forgive me, m’alba. I was speaking in jest. I’ve no doubt at all that a single drop of Gyre’s blood would be quite fatal to anyone.”
Alvellaina bent her head and looked at her hands. She found she was unmoved by the prospect of Marpessa Devero’s fleetwide prostitution. Her father had occasionally used such a punishment for mutinous officers of both sexes. The concept of Gyre’s heart roasting made her a little queasy, but she found, on consideration, that she was troubled by feelings which had nothing to do with meat, cooked or otherwise.
Gilhame watched the two of them through nearly closed eyes. Alvellaina looked as if she had not had much sleep in several days. There were deep shadows under her eyes, and she had lost weight. Vraser was still uneasy about something. “How is Derissa?” Gilhame asked.
“Mending, mending,” Vraser answered. “There will be very little scarring, and she is in good spirits. I had a bit of trouble with Buschard, which should not surprise you. I’ll go now. Try to stay put and keep out of mischief, will you, Gil?”
Gilhame was startled at the genuine affection he caught in the older man’s voice. “Of course. Why should I do otherwise?”
“The last time I had you as a patient . . .”
“Yes, I know. I was quite impossible. But I didn’t have m’alba then to bully me into drinking stinking messes. She isn’t afraid of me, which is rather a pleasant change.”
Vraser scowled. “I would be much more settled in my mind ... if you were not acting so . . .”
“Prim and proper,” Gilhame cut in. “I am a reformed character. Quite soon now, I expect I’ll get religion.” Vraser raised his heavy eyebrows, snorted like a baited goat and limped out. Alvellaina continued to stand at one side of the bed, clenching her hands into fists. Gilhame wondered what was upsetting her so much.
“He thinks I am making game of him. Can you tell me, m’alba, now that Derissa will not be a helpless cripple for the rest of her life, how it happened? I am sure I saw the wounds and I have some vague memory of . . .”
“Derissa made an illusory self. It’s quite hard to explain. She made a projection of herself. Her body appeared to them to be bigger than it actually was. They ‘saw’ themselves cutting into the sinews, but they were really only slashing her skin.”
“Yes. She said . .
. ‘mind-scatter,’ but I didn’t understand.”
“She ‘said’?” Alvellaina’s voice was tense.
“Your sister, or a fair portion of her, housed inside my . . . what—head, mind? She didn’t just call for help; she came and got it!”
“And she didn’t. . . mind?”
“What? Oh, I see what you mean. No, contact with me doesn’t seem to have soiled her. Your sister is a remarkable woman, m’alba. Would you not sit down and tell me what troubles you now?”
She sat down and looked at him. “The only thing which has ever troubled me. You!”
“I believe we have been over what an evil and murderous person I am sufficiently that we need not go into it again.” He looked at her—very young and very vulnerable. His pulses behaved in a very un-Admiralish manner. “I see you are . . . confused, little one. Tell me, won’t you, what bewilders you?”
“I am not confused about anything!”
“Little liar. I’ll wait. You look very tired, m’alba. Why don’t you go off to bed? I’ll be quite alright.”
“I. . . couldn’t sleep.”
“Why not?”
“Whenever I close my eyes, I have your dreams.” “How dreadful for you. Come, sit beside me on the bed. There, that’s better. Is it the dreams which disturb you or the closeness it implies?”
“Closeness? Don’t be disgusting.”
“You don’t have to dream my dreams or think my thoughts, little one. Well then, let me change the subject. Why did you call me back? I would have thought you would leap at the opportunity to be rid of me once and for all. And spare me any fairy tales about your duty, please. Now is not the time to break your habit of reviling me at every encounter.”
She bit her lower lip. “I... I didn’t want your blood on my hands.”
“How could you?”
“I ‘heard’ myself, my words, in your mind all the time you were asleep. Even my voice. They were killing you!” “You are, I believe, a contact telepath. I have, as you know, kept our physical intimacy to a minimum so that you would not be bothered by my thoughts. So, do you ‘hear’ my thoughts very often?”
“No. That first evening, in your cabin, when we talked, I did. I hated it and I shut it off as well as I could. But . . . when you were wandering in your sleep, like the night you had the nightmare on the ship, and this past week, I could not keep you out. I never knew what a two-edged gift I had. With Derissa and Armanda, there was never any need to . . . filter anything. And my father was not a physical man. And I do not eavesdrop. I was ever so careful at the dances that week not to peek. I was properly brought up.” She sounded like a very young girl now.
“I keep forgetting that you are untrained. No doubt there is someone on Vraser’s staff who could teach you never to ‘hear’ me again. And I know you would not spy on your dancing partners, though others are not as nice in their manners. Still, since I do not read minds, you might have mentioned the problem to me. But that’s not what is eating you up. What are you afraid of, truly?”
Alvellaina looked directly at him, thoughtfully. The bones of his skull were more prominent now. She wondered how much weight he had lost. The color had faded from his skin, and it looked like parchment. His big, square teeth seemed huge in the thinner face. ‘Truly, an ugly man,’ she thought. ‘Except his eyes. And his voice! Every time he speaks, it is a caress. I wouldn’t let him touch me, and yet he touches me with every word.’ “Who is the Lion?” she asked suddenly.
“Someone I have never met. Another . . . being such as I am, but different. Why?”
“I kept ‘hearing’ the words, ‘Let the Lion deal with it.’ Where is he?”
“I haven’t any notion. Somewhere, on some world, plowing his fields, no doubt.”
“What does he do?”
“What I do.”
“More war?”
“Yes. But the Lion doesn’t disturb your dreams. If you wish precise information concerning him, apply to the Havassit. They say he is coming. They say his Tide comes.” “How do you know?”
“A curious little conversation I had with the Havassit ambassador at that first ball we attended. It would appear that the End of All Things—at least things as we know them—is at hand. I can’t say the prospect fills me with anything but relief. Enough. Tell me what really troubles you.”
“You.”
“It is always the same answer, isn’t it? Why?”
Alvellaina interlaced her fingers and held her hands close to her chest. She whispered, “Because you love me— and I can’t bear it. I don’t want to be loved like that.” “Like what?”
“Like her. You don’t care about me. You are in love with all the women I have ever been. You don’t see me, only all the echoes of long-dead heroes and their ladyloves. If I were some filthy streetwalker, up to my armpits in gore, you would only see your ‘White Lady.’ You love me out of habit, not affection.”
“Do I? I had not noticed. Perhaps you are correct. But I think not. At first, yes. When you tumbled through the door with a sewer pipe in your arms that time, yes. I said to myself, ‘There she is.’ I had been wondering, you see, just how far the play had progressed.”
“The play? This isn’t some cosmic drama! I will not be cast in a role for your convenience—or for anyone else’s. I want to wear my own face.”
“You always do. It is one of your principal characteristics.”
“Damn you!”
“Halba, I cannot cease to be the Dragon. And, as long as I am that being, I will love you—now and forever. I am sorry it is such a burden to your spirit.”
“Love? You don’t know the meaning of the word. It isn’t an automatic response. Look at me. I am not any of those
women who have been before. I am Alvellaina Curly-Krispin, daughter of your enemy.”
Gilhame refrained from pointing out that this too was part of the pattern. Instead, he said, “But how could I fail to adore you? You are so loving and gentle.” He touched the side of his face where she had slapped him.
Alvellaina clenched her teeth. “If you weren’t sick, I’d hit you again.”
“Of course you would. All the way to the Day of Judgment. I cannot see, yet, what is so terrible in my love for you. Tell me.”
She frowned. “What if I give in to you? Then what? I am lost. Alvellaina vanishes. I live out my life, barren and used. Because, somewhere, sometime, it will come to a choice between me and the war, and the war will win. It always has. I will fail you and betray you. 1 always do. And I don’t want to. I want you to care for me, only me—not memories, not our fabled past. I don’t want to be a romantic legend.”
“I can see that. We have contributed quite enough to the literature of our races, have we not?” Barren. The word held him. Then she had not “seen” the dream of the sturdy little boy and the terrible white light. Or, perhaps, it was his son, but not hers. Gilhame tried to imagine seducing Derissa or Armanda, and failed. Betray Buschard? Never. “So, you would have me beat my ships into plowshares and set my hand to tilling the land? An interesting notion. And what of the anonymous millions whose lives will be lost because I have decided not to fight? What about their children and their worlds?”
“It always comes to that, doesn’t it?” She almost snarled the words. “I am always second to the war, the cause, whatever. And you say you love me. How dare you!”
“A man cares for many things in his life.”
“You only care for one thing: Glory. You may dress it up in any garb you choose, but you worship war and fame, the fame which comes with war. You speak of lives destroyed. What of the lives you will spend in defense? What of the love and loyalty you will use like bits of money? I don’t want any part of them. I will not lend my countenance to your foul deeds.”
“Have I asked you to?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“If I would accept this ‘love’ you have for me, then I would be approving of you—and I don’t.”
“Do you
think you will alter the future by keeping me at a distance?”
“Yes. It may seem very selfish to you, but I can find no other way to stop you.”
“Am I to interpret what you say to mean that part of you enjoys my love?” She didn’t answer, but turned quite red. “But only on your own terms. Why?”
She pleated the skirt of her gown in her hands. “You have such gentleness sometimes. It is very hard to hate you. Even though I know that it is that very gentleness which is part of the way you use people. Still, it is very seductive. Here, on Attira, going with you to balls and teas, listening to you speak of music and recite poetry, I almost forgot who you were. Then I saw those little edged disks appear in your hands, like a conjuror’s trick, and watched them fly into the air and kill people, and I remembered. And even though you were saving Derissa, you were still a killer. In fact, she was hurt because of you.” “True. They thought they had you. Marpessa has always had a rather nasty temper. And, if you submit to me—for I am sure it seems to be a submission to you—you have lost? Well, it is gratifying to know the flame burns within you also. Silly girl, you are almost dead with fatigue. Go to bed. We have all the time in the cosmos to continue this debate.”
“No.”
“You can hardly keep your eyes open.”
Alvellaina looked into her lap. “I. . . don’t. . . want to leave you.” The whispered words were dragged out of her slowly. He could see that her legs were shaking beneath her dress.
“I see. You really are in a state, aren’t you? I won’t slip away to my death, I promise. Glass Castle is not nearly as interesting as you are. Lady Silver Wheels is a charming hostess, to be sure, but she sets a very spare table. Go to bed.”
“No.”
“Then lie down here. The bed is large enough for a small army. My dreams need not trouble you. I swear I won’t lay a hand on you.”
“No, you wouldn’t. You have been very good, honoring my wishes. They must seem very foolish to you.” She rose and went around to the far side of the bed. “If only you would not look at me so. I never thought that it could be so terrifying.” She lifted the covers and slid her body under them, disturbing the pard, who was now in the middle of the bed. The animal gave her a disdainful glance, rose and rearranged itself in a new position. Alvellaina put her head on a pillow, her back to Gilhame. “Every autumn we burn the fields on my father’s estates. All the straw on the ground is burned off.”
Adrienne Martine-Barnes Page 16
