Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 (43 page)

           
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 clutch 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.