Red Country (30 page)

“You said,” I heard myself answer, “that you'd take me back.”

It was paltry, ignoble, a vain postponement of the inevitable, and I could not help myself. He looked embarrassed.

“Yes, I—but Karyx is there. And your brothers. You'll be quite safe. And—there's still a lot to do.”

The cold hand clenched. “Yes,” I said. “There must still be a lot to do.”

Silence. There must not be silence, he would hear me think. “But are you sure,” I demanded, “that this is right?”

“Mm?”

“That I should be queen? I have such a temper, and I make so many mistakes, and the Confederacy—the Estarian migrants—I might get Everran in such trouble—”

He pondered, giving the question its true weight. “I think it will be all right. Everran wants you. And you belong to it.”

I don't, I don't! yelled my heart.

“You know the—the mechanics of the thing. And”—it came with effort—“you don't make mistakes—very often. But if there is trouble, you can always call on me.”

I could not resent the patronage, if it was patronage.

“Yes. Thank you.” I must not think, I must keep some rags of pride, not let him know. . . . I said in a hurry, “Will you come down to say good-bye?”

He hesitated. I said, “I'll keep my mother away.”

Looking relieved, he gave a quick nod.

Now, the dynamics of the scene dictated, it was time to go. I looked about, at the cave, my bough-shed, the fireplace, worn into harmony now with the morrethans' valiant straggle on Fengthira's grave, the copper-red towers, the great breadth of Hethria sprawled out below. Sunset had just begun, and suddenly I could not cope with the thought that I would never see it again.

“Zam,” I stumbled over the words, “could you—would you—may I ask a favor?” He nodded instantly. “Can I stay up here till it's dark—alone? I know it's your place and I don't belong here, but—I'd like to see the sunset, one more time. And—and Fengthira—say good-bye.”

There was a shadow in his eyes, darkening their gray; they had stilled, for an instant he might have been in pain. But he rose at once. And then paused.

Then he said abruptly, “It might be better if we say good-bye now. Down there tomorrow—it will be chaos, big camp-strikes always are.”

The cold hand's sudden constriction was too tight to bear. You must bear it, I told myself. You must.

I stiffened my back, gritted my teeth and faced him, saying, amazed at my voice's composure, “Yes. That's a good idea. Well . . . good-bye.”

He was watching me, the attentive, penetrating look of the first night we met, and in sudden panic I shut off my thoughts. His face revealed nothing. He said, “Good-bye, then. And . . . thank you, Sellithar.”

“It was nothing.” Suddenly I wanted to scream, to explode. We could not, we could not be saying good-bye with such a meaningless exchange of platitudes, we could not! I turned away, saying rather wildly, “I won't be long.”

“Stay as long as you like.”

If only you meant that, said a rogue thought, before I stamped it to death.

“I'll be down by the well,” he said. Staring at the rock wall I answered, “It's very good of you.” He said in turn, “It's nothing.” And I heard him walk away.

Three steps, four, the crunch and rustle and familiar rhythm of his stride in the grass. Don't think anything, I screamed at myself. Just don't think!

Five steps, six. A sudden halt. Two, four, five steps, louder, closer, and he said in a harsh, strangled voice I hardly recognized, “Sellithar?”

I turned round. He grabbed my belt with one hand and a fistful of nape hair in the other and began kissing me, wildly, violently, half the kisses gone astray from inexperience's clumsiness, all of them painful, and I would not have changed them for the touch of the most polished, most accomplished, most elegant lover on earth.

He stopped at last, and stared at me wildly, quite distraught. “Oh, Zam,” I cried, half in laughter, half in tears of relief. “You lovely idiot, not like that!”

The stare cried for him,
Not like what?

“Listen.” I disengaged his fingers from my belt buckle. “Put your arms round me.” Obediently he slid both arms round my waist. I tilted his head sideways with a hand on either cheek. “Like this, unless you want to bang your nose. Now. . . .” And then there was no more call for tuition. The flame was between us, the one and only, unmistakable flame.

When the time came to pause I leant back in his arms, thinking openly now. If you'd only said something, you cursed rockface, instead of letting me go on—

Instantly, stumblingly, he began to explain.

“I always get the words wrong—say the wrong thing to you—make you boil over—and when I try to explain I make it worse—you thought so much of Everran—you said, Thank you, when I offered to take you back, I thought—you told your mother you didn't want any more husbands—and I knew you should go, it was the right thing—I never meant to kiss you but you wouldn't say anything—so I thought I should say good-bye—get it over—but when it came to going I couldn't bear it, I know I have no right to—I shouldn't—but I—I think I must love you, Sellithar.”

My amusement, my very joy vanished in a pang of the deepest remorse. In all our time together we had fought for the vantage as everyone does in every relationship from marriage to war, fought for it bitterly. I had fought to the very end, when it was something I did not want. I had made him admit his feelings, still withholding mine, I had even demanded that the surrender be in words. And without the slightest hesitation he had delivered himself up to me, unarmored, unarmed.

I leant forward against him, my cheek in the hollow of his collarbone, smelling sweat and warmth and desert cloth washed without soap, hearing the wildly agitated thump of his heart. “I don't have to think,” I said into it. “I do love you, Zam.” And I put both arms around him and pulled him tight.

He gasped as if he had been hit. His back arched and he strained me against him and there was no mistaking the rest of the response.

As he went fiery crimson and pulled back, stuttering, I could not help a smile. “It's nice,” I said, “to be sure you're wanted—at last.”

“Wanted!” He choked on a laugh. “I must have wanted you since—since—I think about you all day, I dream about you at night. You even get into Ruanbrarx. I forget where I am, I keep bungling things, I can't concentrate. I can't eat, I can't sleep. If I do I wake up wanting you and—oh, 'Thar, it hurts.”

He said it like a child who does not understand what is happening to him, looking at me in bewilderment and despair, so my heart turned over in pity that cut almost deeper than love.

“Enough,” I said. “It's enough, love.” I tugged the robe over his head. He disentangled his arms, I threw it on the grass and pulled him forward by the belt, and, as his fingers, trembling now, began to struggle with my habit buttons, I said, “It's over. You needn't hurt any more.”

We were in an almighty tangle before we finished. I remember the sunset, coming fast, dyeing his skin that was white as milk to the color of liquid gold, catching the uncertainty in his eyes, and as I pulled him down on the robe I was thinking, It's a good thing one of us has been married before. . . . He gave a snort of shocked, startled laughter and buried his face in my breast. “You think the most damnable things, 'Thar. Very well, then. I love you, and I want you. And I'm ignorant. Show me what to do.”

* * * * * *

It was not dawn, or sunrise, it was full, broad morning when I woke, roused by the light and still more effectively by the heat. I was lying on Zam's robe amid a garland of discarded clothes on the grass below Fengthira's grave. My head was on one of Zam's arms. The other was clipped closely over my waist, and I was curled into the curve of his body as snugly as a hand into a glove. His breath, still slow and regular in the rhythms of sleep, stirred softly in the back of my hair.

For a little while I lay there, to bask in the comfort and closeness of our touch, savor the quiet joy of haven attained at last, of belonging somewhere and being in that place. Then the heat roused me to the small but important fact of where and how I was lying.

As my breath caught I heard Zam's breathing change too, and knew he was awake. His arm tightened a little. He said in drowsy mindspeech,

Not bothering with any sort of words, I simply projected the image of us lying stark naked where anyone could see us, and probably would with the chances that someone would come in search of me, out on the open grass, in the clear light of day.

My back transmitted the tremor of his silent laugh. Then my much-abused green habit rose from the discard pile, hovered over us, spread and settled down.

he commented sleepily,

I could not repress a giggle at this calm assumption that all was now well. That woke him fully. We both moved, he rolling on his back while I leant up with an elbow either side his ribs and my chin on my hands. He regarded me contentedly through half-closed lids, and I made a discovery.
I've never seen you really smile with your eyes before.

The smile deepened, touching his mouth.

I pummeled him with my chin, the only weapon in range. He still smiled, faintly, unconsciously. Then his eyes assumed a purpose. As if a wind had stirred it, my hair rose and drifted out and hung like a nimbus around my head.

You may not be a sorcerer, but you certainly are debauched. Whatever would Fengthira think of this?

My hair collapsed as he chuckled aloud.

The saeveryrs churred, down by the well. Briefly I pondered debauchery, the heat, a move to the shade, and opted for sleep instead. But I had transmitted the thoughts. As my head sank on his chest I felt Zam gather himself together, preparing to move.

And something more. I lifted my head and was startled. There was no happiness, however absent, in his face. There was resignation, and steeled resolution, and an acceptance of approaching grief.

he said, without protest,

My horror and disbelief emerged as one wild thought-yell. He jerked his head away as from a shout, I grabbed a handful of hair and yanked it back. “You want me to go? You really want it—”

“Oh, imsar Math!” That was horror too. Then the rest came in one straight and for-once-lucid streak of thought.

I thumped him with my fists this time, vehement with relief.
How could you think I'd do something so—so—I may be a bitch, but not such a bitch as that!

His eyes were open, joy held back as he dared not believe in it.

<'Thar . . . ?> Even in mindspeech, he sounded short of breath.

I took a deep breath for myself. Now it was my turn to cast off defense.

“I do not,” I said firmly, “want to go away. I love Hethria. And I love you, in case it escaped your notice. I think I only told you ten or fifteen times, but you're so benightedly slow. . . . I want to stay here. At Eskan Helken. Or in Hethria. Or wherever your funny twisted mind takes a fancy to go.”

The sun was rising in his face. He put out a hand, carefully, delicately, cupping my head through the fall of hair as if it were too fragile for the touch. Then he said doubtfully, “But Everran—”

“Forget Everran! I don't want Everran, I want you.”

“But they need you—independence—the crown—”

“Sazan or Haskar can take the crown. And don't say they're too young for it. Mama can be their Regent. She was made for the job.”

He shuddered and shut his eyes. he said.

Don't be impertinent. And don't start to fall apart because I've misunderstood you again, you know I know what you mean.

He opened his eyes and studied me uncertainly.

I want to live in a desert. How often do you have to be told?

Evidently more than this, for the doubt deepened to anxiety, almost to dread. <'Thar . . . I'll say this all wrong, I know I will. . . .>

Say it anyhow.

He dried up altogether. Then he went on desperately, A jib. A despairing plunge.

There was something like terror in his look. I rubbed my cheek on his chest.
I know that. I've always known it. As for having nothing . . . isn't Hethria enough?

“Mm?”

I struggled to capture my feelings for Hethria, the harshness that was paradoxically precious because it made the rare beauty so much more beautiful, the spell of that capricious bounty whose charm was in its very caprice, the impulse to preserve its desolation solely for that desolation's sake, the way it had taught me what “respect reality” truly means. The ability to see and live with what is, not what it could or ought to be. As concepts eluded me I found myself shuffling memories, storm and sunset and wet firelit moonlight, grubbing for roots and lizards, a vale full of ephemeral, impossible flowers. But as I gave up in despair I heard him exclaim,