"Do you tire of me already?"
There was coquetry in her question that he, in his lack of experience, failed to recognize, answering earnestly, "Never! But ..."
She rose to her elbows, careless of the sheet that fell from her breasts, aware of the excitement in his eyes as he turned and again saw her nudity. Aware, too, of the hesitation in his voice, realizing its source as he fumbled with his discarded clothing.
"You'd not have the others know of this night, that we are lovers now?"
"I think ..." He broke off, awkward, not wishing to offend. "Did they ..."
Cennaire laughed, rising to her knees, moving close to him, that she might hold him, her lips against his neck, smoothing the tangle of his golden hair.
"They should disapprove? I'd shout it. I'd publish it abroad."
"That would not . . . They might not ... I doubt ..."
She silenced him with her lips, briefly, pushing him gently away then, smiling as she said, "But I'll not, do you deem that the wiser course. Though it be hard not to declare my love, still I'll be silent if that's what you wish."
Calandryll touched her cheek, returning to the lacing of his shirt. "They might not"—he shrugged, uncertain—"understand. I'd not see fresh differences arise."
"Nor I." Cennaire grew solemn, slipping lithe from the bed, seeking her own clothing. "For both our sakes. That you understand, that you love me, is enough."
Calandryll found his boots and tugged them on, buckled his swordbelt in place. "It shall be mightily difficult," he declared, musing.
"Do we spend nights along the trail, aye," Cennaire returned, chuckling. "For I shall find it hard to sleep alone now."
"And I," he replied. "Dera, Lady, but I love you."
She looked up from her dressing, not going to him, only smiling, seeking in her turn to ease his doubts, wondering the while that she should feel like this.
"Shall it then be our secret?" she suggested. "We've declared our love, but none save we need know ..." She gestured at the crumpled bed. "And along the road to Pamur-teng, beyond, we shall each sleep solitary."
"That shall," he answered gravely, "be hard. But, aye, I think that likely the wiser course. Until, perhaps, Pamur-teng."
"How shall that change matters?" she asked.
"The gijan—the spaewife—there shall confirm your role," he answered, utter conviction in his voice, "and then all must recognize the part you play. None shall object then, that we be lovers."
"Save ..." She once more touched her breast, and was suddenly afraid that such reminder should again set a distance between them.
"That you are revenant?" Calandryll wondered how he could find it so easy to pronounce that ugly · word. Had it not been that alone had held him back from coming to her earlier? Now it seemed that had no meaning: she was what she was, and did mortal heart or conjuration propel the blood along her veins, the courses of her arteries, still that blood flushed her cheeks, warmed her lips. That she was revenant no longer mattered, was no longer a barrier between them. He had seen her weep, and those tears had tasted salt, had been entirely natural. They had, he realized, washed away his doubts, his fears. He could no more think of her as an undead creature than he could believe himself a necrophile. She had become, weeping, only Cennaire, only his love. "Shall you be different then, do we recover your heart? Shall that render you worse, or better? I love you now, and I shall love you then. Do any find fault with that, then the fault is in me, and they must direct their objections at me."
Her smile was radiant in the faint light of the early morning, and she went to where he sat, putting her hands upon his cheeks, cupping his face as she bent to kiss him, soft and swift, holding him a moment after, gently, his head against her breast.
"You are gallant," she murmured fondly. "Once, in the keep, when Ochen advised me I should speak with Anomius, I told him—Anomius—that you were a gentle man. I meant it then, and now I know it true. But still ..." _
She let him go, stepping back, studying his upturned face with affectionate eyes, those growing serious as she continued, "But still—as you have said—think you Bracht, Katya, shall approve?"
"I know not," he answered. "I care not. They must accept the scrying of the gijan."
"But you must care!" she told him, urgent now, their arguments reversing. "Is Rhythamun to be defeated, there can be no dissension."
He shrugged defiantly: he loved this woman— how should his comrades object once the gijan had scried her true?
Cennaire saw that in this she was the wiser, far more experienced than he in such matters. Fleetingly—a memory from a past she would sooner now forget—she thought of other young men, innocent like him, who had come to love her. They, too, had been careless of opinion, guided by their lust, their love, and had learned to their cost that not all their friends saw the world through their passion-clouded eyes. That, she could not let happen now, neither for his sake or her own, not for the quest's sake.
"I'd not come betwixt you and your comrades/' she declared, touching a hand to his lips as his mouth began to form a protest. "No, hear me out. I love you, and were it possible I'd spend each night 'tween now and the world's ending in your arms. But that should be foolishness, did it sunder you from your comrades. That Bracht no longer names me enemy is a great step forward—let us not jeopardize that."
"But we speak of times after Pamur-teng," he protested. "Once the gijan scries your future, surely Bracht can find no fault."
"Save I've not yet my heart," she returned, "and so he might well object."
"No!" he cried fiercely. "I do not, so how should he?"
"But you did," she said. "Before."
Calandryll felt a warmth suffuse his cheeks at that, and sighed, shrugging. "I'd ask forgiveness for that," he muttered. "I was a fool."
"No, you were not," she told him gently. "You were a natural man, and felt a natural revulsion."
Her tone, her smile, removed the sting of reproach from her words, but still Calandryll sat shamefaced, so that she could not but move toward him, stroke his hair, his cheek.
"There's no blame," she murmured. "Ask not for forgiveness, for there's no need."
He took her hands, holding them, and repeated back her words, precisely, so that they both smiled again.
"But still," she pressed, "Bracht remains a natural man, and he does not love me, and so might well find fault that we be lovers. At least, were we to express ourselves openly."
"I am not ashamed of it," he argued.
"Nor I," she replied, "but we speak now not of us, but of those who ride with us, who are our allies and our comrades, whose confidence we must surely retain. Do you not see it?"
For a while Calandryll sat staring at her, frowning as he clutched her hands, then, reluctantly, nodded. "Aye," he allowed at last, "I do."
She said, "Let us agree that this night be our secret, at least until we reach Pamur-teng and consult with the gijan. Do I then win Bracht's— Katya's—wholehearted confidence, then shall we declare it."
"And do they, as you fear, object still?" he asked. "What then?"
"Then," she said, herself reluctant now, finding a strength she had not known she possessed, finding it in him and what she felt for him, "we shall behave as do they. Are they not bound by their vow?"
"That—their vow—" he answered slowly, "is different. Katya is of Vanu, and the customs of Vanu demand such obligation. You are of Kandahar, I of Lysse, and it is not the same."
"But still perhaps the wiser course," she returned.
"Perhaps," he allowed, and grinned. "But I am neither of Vanu nor Cuan na'For, and I am not at all sure I should find it possible to observe such a vow."
"Think you it should be easy for me?" she asked, answering his grin with her own smile. "It shall be very hard indeed."
His expression then reminded her of a child denied some coveted pleasure, and she could not help but laugh, and take his face again in her hands, and kiss him briefly, drawing back before he had chance to c
lutch her, for fear they should fall again onto the bed and reveal to their companions all she looked to hide.
"Listen," she urged, holding him at arm's length, "do we agree on this to Pamur-teng, at least, and after speak again?"
He studied her awhile, then sighed, and ducked his head in slow agreement. "Until Pamur-teng. But we must surely halt awhile there. A day or two—a night or two . . ."
His eyes asked a question, and she nodded, and said, "Can we hold it a secret between us, then aye—come to me there, and you shall find a welcome."
"And does the gijan convince Bracht?" he asked.
"Then all is well," she told him.
"And if even that scrying fails?" he demanded. "What then?"
"Then we go on as if vowed," she said, "to Anwar-teng."
For a moment Calandryll's brow creased, his expression become dark, then he smiled again and said, "Where we shall find the wazir-narimasu, and, the gods willing, they shall restore you your heart, and none can object."
Cennaire's smile grew wistful at that, her answer soft: "The gods willing. I pray it be so."
"As do I," he declared, his voice fervent. He reached then for her hands, seizing them before she had a chance to step back, holding them as he rose to stand before her, his expression grave now. "And, Lady, do we survive this quest, and deliver the Arcanum safe to destruction, I ask—be your heart returned you, or no—that we be wed, and remain always together."
Cennaire had not thought to blush—had not since taking up her former profession—but now she did, looking up into his solemn eyes, wondering.
"Sir," she asked, "would you truly wed me? Knowing all about me that you know?"
"I would," he answered, sincerity writ clear on his face, loud in his voice. "So—how do you reply?"
"That you honor me," she said.
And he returned her: "No. Rather, you would honor me."
"Then, sir, I answer you aye, with all my heart."
Almost, they laughed at that, for now they could, those reservations that had stood between them dispelled and forgotten. Instead, they kissed, tenderly at first, and then with mounting passion, until Cennaire pulled back and set firm hands against his chest, holding him off.
"No, not yet, not now," she gasped. "Remember we are vowed until Pamur-teng. Better that you go now, ere we are discovered."
"This shall be mightily difficult," he remarked, and she answered him, "Aye, it shall," and propelled him gently to the door.
He paused there, studying her face as if to commit her features to memory. He touched her cheek, and she held his hand an instant there, glorying in the warmth of his callused palm, then again drew back, motioning that he should leave. -
He sighed and ducked his head, listened awhile, then opened the door and stepped out into the passageway beyond.
It was dim, lit by a single window at its farther end and that illumination faint, for the sun was not yet fully risen, but only a handspan as yet over the eastern horizon. Sounds came from the rooms below, but the corridor was silent, empty, as he paced toward his own chamber. He was almost to the door when another across the way opened to reveal Ochen.
The wazir was dressed for the road, his expression difficult to interpret in the crepuscular light, but Calandryll thought he smiled. Knew it as the ancient mage came close, his features creasing in striated wrinkles as he raised a hand in greeting, or perhaps in blessing.
"I trust," he murmured, a hint of mischief in his voice, "that you passed an agreeable night."
"Aye." Calandryll nodded, not knowing what else to say, confused and a little fearful that Ochen might disapprove, did he learn the truth.
"And Cennaire is well?"
"Aye."
Ochen's smile announced a knowledge of what had transpired, confirmed by his next words: "What passes between you is your concern and hers, none others. You've my blessing, do you ask it; and my advice, too."
"I'd have them both," Calandryll returned.
"The one is yours," Ochen said, "sincere and whole of heart. The other—perhaps it were better to keep this from your comrades."
"We'd agreed on that," Calandryll explained. "To Pamur-teng, at least. After shall depend on the gijan and Bracht, Katya."
"A wise decision," the sorcerer remarked.
Calandryll nodded his thanks, paused an instant, and said, "We spoke of regaining Cennaire's heart. Of taking it back from Nhur-jabal, that it be her own again. Shall that be possible?"
"She'd have it so?" asked Ochen.
"She would," said Calandryll. "Do you but ask her, and she'll say the same."
"Excellent." The wazir's smile grew a moment wider, then faded as gravity overcame his face and he said, "It may be done, though only with powerful magic. And no little danger. I cannot, alone, but the wazir-narimasu . . . Aye, they could, perhaps."
"Then do we reach Anwar-teng, and ask they do it," Calandryll declared.
Ochen paused a moment before replying, and when he did his voice was solemn, a note of caution there. "Ask, certainly," he said.
Calandryll frowned at the delay, at the tone. "You doubt they'll agree? Why should they refuse?"
"I do not say they shall," the mage answered. "I say only that I cannot speak for them, and that what you ask is a difficult thing, and perilous."
Fear drove a sudden dagger into Calandryll's soul: Ochen's responses seemed to him equivocal. "I like this not," he said. "Do you speak plain?"
The sorcerer's answer gave him no more comfort. "I cannot scry the future as does a gijan," Ochen told him, somewhat evasively, he thought. "Nor do I say it shall not be—only that I do not know."
"But do you doubt it?"
The ancient spread his hands wide, succeeding in expressing both regret and a lack of knowledge, of certainty. "I would suggest," he said, "that you put that matter aside until we reach Anwar-teng."
Calandryll would have questioned the old man further, for the absence of immediate confirmation, the hint of doubt he discerned in Ochen's voice, worried him, but the inn began to stir now, and Ochen denied him the opportunity with the observation that he had best enter his room, lest he be found already dressed in the corridor and his secret be guessed. He could only agree, albeit with reluctance, halting by the open door to ask that they speak again along the road.
"Do you wish it," Ochen agreed, and Calandryll must be content with that.
He went into the chamber, closing the door behind him, and readied what little gear he carried for departure. It was an afterthought to disarrange his bed, rumpling the sheets and indenting the pillows, as if he had passed the night here, not with Cennaire. The memory stretched a reminiscent smile across his mouth, and then he sighed at thought of his imposed celibacy. Dera, he murmured, do you grant that Bracht and Katya, both, shall understand and I am forever in your debt.
Then a fist pounded and he heard the Kern's voice: "Do you sleep still?"
"No," he answered, composing himself, "enter."
Bracht came through the door, saddlebags across his shoulder. He studied Calandryll's face and grinned. "Ahrd, but did you sleep at all? You've a night bird's look about you."
"Not much," Calandryll returned truthfully.
The Kern's grin faded, replaced with a speculative expression, and he said, "I left you with Cennaire ..."
A question hung between them, and almost, Calandryll blushed, turning away as if busying himself with saddlebags. Casually as he was able, he said, "We talked—she was afraid." It was not entirely a lie.
"Afraid?" Bracht's response confirmed the wisdom of secrecy. "What's a revenant to be afraid of?"
"Anomius," Calandryll returned, defensive now. "Dera! Bracht, think you she knows no fear? Anomius yet holds her heart ensorcelled, and might well destroy her, did he but learn she takes our side."
"Aye," the Kern allowed without overmuch enthusiasm, "that's true, I suppose."
"Suppose?" Calandryll felt anger rise. "He's but to return to Nhur-jabal, to that pyxis. Think
you she's without feelings? I tell you, no! She was terrified he should discern she betrays him—she sought my company awhile."
"Hold, hold." Bracht raised both hands in mock defenses. "I asked only a simple question."
"With subtler meaning," Calandryll snapped.
Bracht frowned then, studying him with quizzical eyes, and he feared he had let too much slip, cursing himself, reminding himself that he must set tight rein on his temper.
"I know you love her," the Kern said, softer, "and I thought perhaps . . . But no, surely you'd not bed her, knowing what she is."
It was hard to hold back the truth, hard to hold back his anger. Dera, he thought, shocked, do we already fall to arguing? I must be careful. As mildly as he was able, he asked, "And if I had?"
"I'd count you"—Bracht shrugged—"strange. Ahrd, what mortal man would bed a dead woman?"
"Cennaire is hardly dead," Calandryll replied curtly.
"Nor yet alive." Bracht fidgeted with the bags slung on his shoulder, clearly ill at ease with the path their conversation took. "Hear me, my friend, for I know you love her, and that cannot be easy for you. I've yet to come to terms with what she is— perhaps I shall not—but I'd not see that come between us."
"Nor I," Calandryll declared.
"Then do we make compact?" asked the Kern. "Agree we'll not discuss her condition further, or what you feel for her?"
"Aye," said Calandryll eagerly. "Save one last question—were she to regain her heart, how should you think then?"
"You think it possible?" asked Bracht, curious now.
"Ochen believes the wazir-narimasu might accomplish it," Calandryll explained, setting aside his doubts.
"And you'd see it done."
It was not a question and Calandryll nodded: "As would she."
"She'd lose much," Bracht murmured.
"But regain her mortality," Calandryll said. "Be once more only a woman."
"For your sake? Does she love you so much? Truly?"
"I believe it so," Calandryll replied, "in equal measure with my belief that she becomes one with our quest."
Bracht shrugged, eyes narrowed as he pondered this. Then: "For me, the gijan's yet to confirm her part in our quest, but be that done, and the Jesseryte wizards make her again mortal, you've my word I'll name her friend. And for the nonce our compact shall stand."
Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 Page 31
