The Forever Hero (83 page)

The woman sat on one side of the narrow drop table and picked up the empty cup one more time, studying the webwork of lines underneath the porcelain-smooth glaze. A simple cup, heavy, with a handle ample for a man, finished in a uniform off-gray. On one half was a golden diamond, faded. On the other was a stylized spruce tree, green and brown.

When she studied the two designs closely, she could see precise brush strokes, finely done under the heavy and clear glaze. Both the cup and the two designs were unique in small ways, almost in the feel of the cup and the sense of the designs. Both the object and its decoration had been produced by a skilled hand.

Cigne shook her head. The man who had rescued her from the ten month wind and storms, winds and storms which still were striking the surrounding hills periodically, had produced both house and cup. Or so he had said.

If he had, he was extraordinarily skilled. If he had not, he was rich, or a thief, or both.

Greg—that was the name he had offered. But she had refused to use it. So far she had avoided any form of address.

Click
.

Cigne kept her eyes on the cup as he walked to the other side of the table.

“Feeling better?”

She nodded, but did not meet his eyes. The old legends had been dismissed by most, but she remembered to be wary about “the old man of the hills” with the demon-yellow eyes. Still, he had been nothing but gentle when easily he could have taken advantage of her.

He had not pressed when she had refused to discuss why she had been out in the storm or from whom or what she had fled.

In turn, she had not pressed him on how he could so easily dare the gusts that felled bigger men.

“Still don't want to go back?” He waited for her answer.

This time, this time, she shook her head.

“What about Denv?”

“I have no money. No goods. No trade. Besides…a woman who
cannot…without…” She stopped and looked up to see his reaction, but the smooth face with the near-elfin face remained impassive.

Finally, he spoke slowly.

“Forget money. Never a real barrier. Nor goods. You know enough.”

Her chin moved as if to nod, but she halted the movement almost before it started.

“Real problem elsewhere.”

She did not have to nod.

“No children?”

She looked down at the smooth inlays of the table, taking refuge in the abstract design of the dark and the light wood. Wondering how he had been able to set such intricate and curving strips of hardwood within the boundaries, and to match the repeating patterns so identically time after time.

“He blames you.”

Cigne could not trust her voice and continued to study the inlaid pattern of the table.

“Wondered about the bruises. Figures. Need population. Fewer children, but no recognition yet. Macho types. So far.”

His laugh, while gentle, was mirthless, and chilling, as if he understood something that no one else could possibly see.

Both his words and laugh had not been addressed to her, and she did not answer. Not that she had understood all that he had said, but the tone had been clear. He had not sounded pleased.

Cigne shivered.

Although “Greg” had not raised his voice around her, she could not forget how he had carried her through the winds that had staggered and stopped Aldoff, those winds that the strongest of the hill runners feared. She recalled the unyielding strength of his arms, a strength that made Aldoff seem childlike, and she reflected on his speed and the silent way he moved, so quickly he seemed not to cast a shadow.

“Money and a child—what a good widow needs…,” he mused.

Cigne frowned, but looked up at the amused sound in his voice. He stood between the table and the nearer portal window.

As she glanced toward him, his eyes caught hers, and she was afraid to look away.

“Do you really want your heart's desire, lady?”

Cigne looked down at the table, afraid to answer, afraid not to.

“Be careful with wishes, lady. Certain you will never return?”

“I am sure. I will never go back.”

“Suppose not. Not if you were willing to try the spout winds.” He turned halfway toward the oval transparency before his desk. “And the other makes sense. Especially if you could get to Denv. Not that it would be a problem.”

“Denv? Not a problem? It is kays and kays away.”

“No problem.”

He sat down in the strange leaning chair by his desk and pulled off the light black boots.

“Listen for a time, lady. Just listen.”

The lilt in his voice seemed more pronounced, and she looked toward him, but he was gazing into the window.

“Listen?” she asked.

“Just listen.” He turned back toward her, but she would not meet his eyes and stared at the dark spruces in the afternoon light.

“A long time ago, in a place like this, the people were dying, for each year they had less food, and each year there were fewer of them. The winter lasted into the summer and the summer was cold and short and filled with storms. And the summer storms were like the ten month storms, while the winter storms hurled boulders the size of houses and ripped gashes the size of canyons into the high plains.

“In this old time, a young man escaped from the cold and storms in a silver ship sent by the Great Old Empire That Was. And he went to the stars to learn what he could learn. He wished a great wish, and it was granted. And he came back to his place, and it was called Old Earth. And he broke the winter storms of the high plains. And he taught the people how to grow the grains and make the land bear fruit they could eat. But the storms elsewhere still raged, and the people in those places away from the high plains sickened and died, and the ten month storms raged through all the year but the short summer. And still the trees would not grow.

“The young man wished another great wish, and it was granted. But the price for the second wish was that he must leave his people forever. He climbed back to the stars, and in time he sent them the Rain of Life.

“The trees grew once more, and the people no longer sickened, and the summers returned. And the people were glad. In their gladness, they rejoiced, and as they rejoiced they forgot the young man and the two great wishes.

“As the great years of the centuries passed, the young man climbed back from the stars and returned to the place he had left. But it was not the same place. He was still young in body, but old in spirit. And his people were gone, and those who now tilled the soil
and cut the trees turned away when they saw him. For they saw the stars in his eyes and were afraid.

“The women he had once loved had died and were dust, and those who saw him feared him and would have nothing to do with him

“But his wishes were granted.”

Cigne shivered at the gentle voice telling the fable that she knew was not a fable. She said nothing, but looked back down at the inlaid pattern on the table, endlessly repeating itself.

“There is a danger in wishing great wishes.”

She lifted her head, though she did not look at him, and spoke. “There is danger in not wishing.”

This time he nodded. “True. All wishes have their prices, and the price we agree to pay is the lesser of the prices we pay. Are you certain you wish to pay such a price? For you will pay more dearly than the spoken word can tell.”

Holding back a shiver, she nodded.

“Then listen again.”

He stood and turned toward the window. A single note issued from his lips, lingering in the late afternoon gloom like a summer sunbeam trapped out of season.

A second note joined the first, both singing simultaneously, before being replaced by a second pair, then a third.

Though she had never heard of the songs of an old man who looked young, she listened. Though she feared the demon who might kill with gentleness, though she had never heard of the double melody, and its double price, she listened. And she heard, taking in each note and storing it in her heart, though she knew each would someday wound as deeply as a knife.

A tear welled up in one eye, then the other, as she began to cry. And still she listened, and heard the sadness, and the loneliness, and the loves left long since behind, but not forgotten.

His arms reached around her shoulders, warm around her, and the song continued, along with her tears. The tears become sobs, and the sobs subsided.

As the last note died away, his lips fell upon hers, and her lips rose to his. She let her body respond to his heat and his song, knowing that the child would be a daughter, her daughter, for whom she would pay any price. For whom she would have to pay any price.

And one tear, and one kiss—they were for the old man who looked young and never had been.

One tear and one kiss, and a single great wish.

The man glanced out the window, letting his eyes slide by the oval window that had once been the viewport of a ship even more ancient than he was.

His peripheral vision caught a movement, a dash of red, and his attention recentered on the scene outside. Outside, where the warmth of late spring slowly removed the last of the long winter snows. Outside, where only a scattered handful of snowdrifts remained, and where the golden oaks were putting forth the first leaves of the new season.

The figure in red was a woman, wearing a clinging pair of leather pants and a thinnish leather jacket. The jacket was doubtless imported, reflected the blond-haired man with a quirk to his lips. No local dyes or fabrics glittered that brightly, and the emerging local ethic opposed the use of synthetics except where no alternatives existed.

Looking around the central and golden wood-paneled room, he stepped back from the window. His smile was part amusement, part anticipation.

The winter, with the exception of a few pleasant interludes with those who needed what little he had to offer, had been long, as were all winters on Old Earth. While he could not refuse those in need, most were ignorant of the life beyond the High Plains. As he had once been. Only one had been farther than Denv. Denv, while a model of the environmentally oriented and integrated community, remained laudably practical.

The woman whose shiny leather boots now clicked on the stone walkway he had built years ago seemed haughtier than his earlier visitors, as if she might attempt to control him.

Control him?

He chuckled at the thought. Some had, but not by attempting to do so.

“Will you stoop that low?” he asked the empty air.

He grinned a cold grin in response to his own question.

Clack, clack
.

The heavy wooden knocker sounded smartly, twice.

He opened the door without a word, surveying the woman who
stood on the stones before him, waiting for her to speak. Her face was pale, and her shoulder-length hair was black. So were her eyes.

“You don't look like the old devil of the hills.” Her voice was hard, like the shiny finish of her black leather pants and glittering red jacket. The accent was Old Earth, unlike the clothing.

“If I were a devil, would you expect me to look like one?” He did not smile, for the imported fragrance with which she had doused herself was overpowering, far more effusive to him than it would have been to most men. The perfume and her attitude both repelled him, while freeing him to toy with her.

“Not very big, either,” observed the black-haired woman.

“Am what I am.” He paused. “Would you care to come in?”

“What's the price?”

“For what?”

He had almost stopped questioning those who came, stopped denying since denials did no good. Perhaps his acceptance was a sign of age, age that had not showed in his face or body, or perhaps he had repressed the anger because he feared its release.

But this woman, with her hard and demanding attitude, her expensive imported clothes, who used her body for her own ends, deserved questioning, deserved contempt.

“For what you are rumored to provide.” Her painted lips tightened.

“Rumored to provide?”

“Off with the innocence, old devil. Those little girls, that boy. They all look like you. Never seen anyone else around here who looks so much like you.”

He stepped back and half bowed, satirically gesturing toward the main room.

“Please enter, lady. What little I have is yours for the moment.”

“Thanks.” Her heels clicked as she walked past him into his home.

Her eyes widened as she took in the paneling, the few carvings, the inlay work in the small table by the wall, and the antique books in the shelves.

“You must collect at double mastercraft.”

He almost chuckled at her overtly mercenary nature.

“Not a credit. No need to.”

“Not a credit,” she mimicked. “Then how did you get all this?”

“Magic.”

For the first time, the hard and self-assured expression on her face faded.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Should I?”

“I am Gramm Lostwin Horsten's daughter.”

“And he is?” the former devilkid answered in a bored tone.

“Head Councilman of Denv.”

“I am suitably impressed.” So Lostwin had descendants around, descendants who had done well. Well indeed by their forebearer.

He smiled at the recollection of those times, and noticed that the brassy woman backed away.

She was not as young as her outfit proclaimed, well past first youth, and probably past thirty, perhaps even older if the devilkid genes ran strongly in the blood.

“Take it you have no offspring, and your husband may look to greener forests?”

“My reasons should not concern you.”

“Your reasons are your reasons.” He turned and closed the door, slipping the heavy bolt into place and shielding the action with his body.

For whatever obscure reason, she reminded him of another woman from the past, a copper-haired woman who had also used her, body beyond her wisdom, and paid dearly. Even though there was little physical similarity, beyond a slender waist and full breasts, the woman before him, thrusting herself at him while demanding recognition, reminded him of the earlier lady. Reminded him of her, without the subtlety, without the refinement.

“You never answered my question.”

“About the price?” He smiled again as he moved back toward her. The smile was both hard and amused. “No price, nor will I accept one. You pay the price from your own body and soul.”

“Philosophy is cheap.”

He did not contradict her, knowing this woman would not understand. How few there were who understood. How many women had there been, and how few like Caroljoy, or Faith, or Allison, or Lyr? Or even Constanza?

His eyes looked past the woman in red, who stood, a full pout on her lips, before the built-in shelves on which rested the ancient volumes he still collected and read.

He did not look at her, even as she shrugged her way out of the red jacket.

Swissshhh
.

The jacket, tossed carelessly, landed on the desk, with one sleeve dangling halfway to the polished golden wood floor planks.

Under the imported red jacket, she wore a filmy formfitting blouse, under which she wore nothing.

The devilkid could see her nipples, nonerect, and a creamy and pampered skin beneath the gauzelike blouse. His nostrils widened as he drank in the mixed odor of excessive fragrance, woman, fear, and imported powder.

“Sit down.”

She turned her head toward him as he stepped into the center of the room, but did not move.

“Sit down!”

At his seldom-used tone of command, she sat, dropping into an old swivel in spite of herself.

“Now listen.”

Explaining would do no good. Neither would a gentle approach, not that he was in the mood for gentleness. Not after her attitude. Not now.

He began the song with a near military stridency, a march-driving beat, keeping his eyes on the woman as he did. The power of the double-toned music caught her. She began to lean forward, her body moving toward him against her judgment.

Slowly, slowly, he began to weave in the theme of betrayal, adding the notes that sounded power. He could see her breathing deepen, as the music began to reach inside her.

She said nothing as he finished the first tune. Then, he walked over to the wall and extended the double-width pallet, spread the crimson and gray comforter.

He walked back to her and offered his hand.

She took it and followed his lead back to the pallet.

“Sit here.”

When she sat, he knelt and pulled off, first, her right boot, then her left. He turned away from her, beginning the second song.

The second song screamed lust and power, power and lust.

As he reached the end, trailing off the last notes, he edged back toward her, noting the raggedness of her breathing, noting how she had opened the front of the thin blouse.

Her arms reached toward him.

“Not yet.”

He could feel the cruelty of his smile, and nearly laughed, ignoring the desperation in her eyes.

He began a third tune, more demanding in its own way than the first two.

Before he finished, her hands were on his arms, tugging him toward the pallet.

“Please…”

“Not yet,” he whispered between notes as he worked toward the finish of the third melody, dragging it from the depths where it had rested undisturbed for so long. His eyes glinted as he saw her remove the blouse and began to slide her nakedness from the tight trousers, her hips moving with his music.

He barely hesitated before beginning the fourth song, the hardest one, the one that mixed power, lust, teasing, and betrayal.

When the last note died, the woman who had worn red, who had thrust her hips and bared nipples at him, lay huddled on the corner of the raised pallet, curled into herself, even as her body shuddered to unaccustomed rhythms.

The devilkid ran his tongue over his lips, slowly removed his tunic and trousers.

The woman did not notice until his hand touched her shoulder.

“Bastard…devil…” Her voice held desire, hatred, fear, and desperation.

But she pulled him down and into her.

His right hand pinned both hers over her head, holding her helpless, for all that she did not struggle against him, but with him.

Finally, after long combat, her shudders lapsed. Then did he release her hands.

The one-time devilkid watched her breathing ease as the two lay in the indirect light of the late morning, watched as her nipples relaxed, and as the hardness crept back into her face. Watched as she shook herself and sat up.

Half-sitting on the fold-down pallet, she reached for her trousers.

His hand disengaged hers from the clothing.

“Once is enough, devil man. You do well. Well as I've had.”

She reached again for the trousers.

This time his hand was firmer, less gentle.

“Business is business.” she said, with the hardness completely restored to her voice. “Now. What do I really owe you? None of this offage about no payment. Everything has its price.”

He swung off the pallet, setting his feet lightly on the smoothed plank flooring, then reached down and tossed her trousers across the room.

“True.”

“Then what do I owe you?”

He laughed, a hard, barking, mocking laugh.

The woman shivered, although the air in the room was not at all cool.

“Humility…if anything.”

“Humility?”

“Think everything is yours to take. Or buy.”

Her eyes met his, then recoiled.

“It's been an interesting conversation, but I should be going.”

She stood, but barely had her feet reached the floor before he stood next to her.

“Not yet.”

She inched sideways, unable to back away from him because of the pallet behind her knees.

“This has gone far enough, little man.”

Smiling, he did not move.

She inched toward her blouse, then leaned down to lift it.

His hand caught hers, so swiftly and with such power that her fingers opened and the gauzy garment floated back downward.

She moved her body toward him, sliding her skin against him, seemingly relaxing, letting her hands reach as if to go around his neck.

Her knee knifed toward his groin.

Thud
.

She lay on the floor, momentarily, then began scrambling toward the desk and her jacket.

The devilkid did not move. Not until her fingers touched the dangling sleeve of the jacket. Then he seemed to flash across the space between them, his left hand slashing down and knocking the dart pistol from her fingers.

“Very interesting, lady,” he said sardonically. “So you were going to use the old devil, then assassinate him to retain the family honor?”

The whiteness in her face confirmed his statement.

“So what shall we do—”

Another quick kick toward his groin, but he blurred, and his hands shifted position. Abruptly he lifted her overhead, with his hands holding her tighter than iron bands. Then he carried her toward the pallet, releasing her suddenly.

Thump
.

He watched as the impact left her breathless. Watched as she scrambled to get her feet under her. Watched as she dashed for the front door.

He pounced again, picking her away from the still-bolted exit and carting her back to the pallet. Her breathing was ragged.

Again, he stood there, naked, watching her, also naked, as her eyes darted around the room, as her eyes glanced from one door to the other, from front to rear. Waited as she looked at the wide and closed side windows.

“Sick! You're sick.”

He said nothing, letting his eyes run over her skin, inhaling the mixed scents of previous arousal and current fear.

Once more, he did nothing immediate as she feinted toward the front door, then dived for the less obvious rear door.

He caught her, holding her overhead again, dropping her on the pallet a second time. Waiting, letting his eyes take in her fear and nakedness.

“What do you want? You want something different? Tell me. Tell me. I'll do it. Just let me go.”

He shook his head.

She gathered her feet under her, but, shoulders slumping, settled into a sitting position on the edge of the pallet, looking at the floor.

He took one step toward her, deliberately, then stopped.

She looked up, eyes wide.

Then he took another. Stopped, letting his eyes rip across her nudity.

Her mouth opened, soundlessly.

He took another step. Now he was close enough to touch her.

She looked away, then back up, her mouth opening wider, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

“…no…no…no…”

He stepped back. Waited.

She seemed unable to close her mouth, panted raggedly.