The Stone of Farewell (109 page)

When he could walk once more, he continued with even more care, so that his journey to the door seemed to take hours. When he reached it at last he discovered to his immense disappointment that the door was shut; there seemed little more he could do to prevent himself from spending a sleepless and freezing night. As he thumped his hand against the frame in frustration, the door swung open to reveal the empty pier outside, a dim gray rectangle in the moonlight. A blast of chill air rolled over him, but before he could grasp the elusive handle and pull the door closed again, something caught his eye. Baffled, he took a couple of limping steps out through the doorway. There was something odd about the fine mist that floated down through the moonlight.

A long moment passed before Tiamak realized that it was not rain that dotted his outstretched palm, but rather tiny flakes of white. He had never seen this thing before—no Wrannaman ever had—but he was unusually well-read, and had also heard it described many times in his student days. It took only a moment for him to understand the significance of the downy flakes and the vapor that rose from his own lips to drift and dissipate on the night air.

Snow was falling on Kwanitupul, in the heart of summer.

Miriamele lay in her bed in darkness and wept until she was too tired to weep any longer. As
Eadne Cloud
rocked at anchor in Vinitta's harbor, she felt loneliness pressing down on her like a great weight.

It was not so much Cadrach's betrayal: despite her moments of weakness toward him, the monk had shown his true colors long ago. It was rather that he was her last link with her true self, with her past life. As if an anchor-rope had been cut, she felt herself suddenly adrift in a sea of strangers.

Cadrach's desertion had not been a complete surprise. So little good feeling remained between the two of them that it seemed only circumstance had kept him from deserting her earlier. She looked back on the cool deliberateness he had shown in selecting his traveling cloak before they left the boat and saw that he had clearly anticipated this escape, at least from the moment they had been summoned down to Vinitta. In a way, he had tried to warn her, hadn't he? On the deck he had asked her to listen, saying “this last time.”

The monk's betrayal was unsurprising, but the pain was no less heavy for that. A long-anticipated blow had fallen at last.

Desertion and indifference. That seemed to be the thread that ran through her life. Her mother had died, her father had changed into something cold and uncaring, her uncle Josua had only wished her out of his way—he would deny it, no doubt, but it had been plain in his every word and expression. For a while she had thought Dinivan and his master the lector could shelter her, but they had died and left her friendless. Although she knew it was not even remotely their fault, she still could not forgive.

No one would help her. The kinder ones, like Simon and the troll or dear old Duke Isgrimnur, were absent or powerless. Now Cadrach, too, had left her.

There must be something inside of her that pushed others away, Miriamele brooded—some stain like the dark discoloration in the white stone canals of Meremund, hidden until the tide went out. Or maybe it was not in her at all, but in the souls of those around her, those who could not stay rooted to obligation, who could not remember their duty to a young woman.

And what of Aspitis, the golden earl? She had little hope that he would prove more responsible than the others, but at least he cared for her. At least he wanted her for something.

Perhaps when all was over, when her father had reshaped the world in whatever way pleased his corrupt fancy, she would be able to find a home somewhere. She would be happy with a small house by the sea, would gladly shed her unwanted royalty like an old snakeskin. But until then, what should she do?

Miriamele rolled over and pushed her face into the rough blanket, feeling the bed and the entire ship moving in the sea's gentle but insistent grip. It was all too much, too many thoughts, too many questions. She felt quite strengthless. She wanted only to be held, to be protected, to let time slip away until she could wake into a better world.

She cried quietly, fretfully, anchorless on the edge of sleep.

 

The afternoon slipped past. Miriamele lay in the darkness of her cabin, wandering in and out of dreams.

Somewhere above, the lookout cried sunset; no other sound intruded but the lap of waves and the muffled cry of sea birds. The ship was all but deserted, the sailing men ashore in Vinitta.

Miriamele was not surprised when the cabin door quietly opened at last and a weight pressed down on the bed beside her.

Aspitis' finger traced her features. Miriamele turned away, wishing she could pull the shadows over her like a blanket, wishing she were a child again, living beside an ocean that was still innocent of kilpa, an ocean upon whose waves storms touched only lightly and disappeared at the sun's golden rising.

“My lady ...” he whispered. “Ah, I am so sorry. You have been badly treated. ”

Miriamele said nothing, but his voice seemed a soothing balm to her painful thoughts. He spoke again, telling her of her beauty and kindness. In her feverish sadness the words were little more than nonsense, but his voice was sweet and reassuring. She felt calmed by it, gentled like a nervous horse. When he slid beneath the sheet she felt his skin against hers, warm and smooth and firm. She murmured in protest, but softly, with no real strength: in a way, this, too, seemed a kindness.

His mouth was at her neck. His hands moved over her with calm possessiveness, as though he handled some lovely thing that belonged only to him. Tears came to her again. Full of loneliness, she let herself be drawn into his embrace, but she could not suffer his touch unfeelingly. While a part of her yearned only to be held, to be drawn into a reassuring warmth, a safe harbor like the one in which
Eadne Cloud
rocked gently at anchor, untroubled by the storms that swept the great ocean, a different self wished to break free and run madly into danger. Still another shadow huddled deeper within her, a shape of dark regret, tied to her heart with chains of iron.

The thin light leaking in at the doorframe caught glimmering in his hair as Aspitis pressed himself against her. What if someone should come in? There was no latch, no latch on the door. She struggled. Mistaking her fear, he whispered soothing things about her beauty.

Each curl of his hair was intricate, textured and individual as a tree. His head seemed a forest, his dark form looming like a distant mountainside. She cried out softly, unable to resist such implacability.

Time slid by in the shadows and Miriamele felt herself drifting away. Aspitis once more began to speak.

He loved her, her goodness and wit and loveliness.

His words, like caresses, were blind but enflaming. She did not care for flattering talk, but felt her resistance melting before his strength and sureness. He cared for her, at least a little. He could hide her away in darkness, pull it around her like a cloak. She would disappear into the deeps of a sheltering forest until the world was right again.

The boat swayed gently on the cradling waters.

He would protect her from those who would harm her, he said. He would never desert her.

She gave herself up to him at last. There was pain, but there were also promises. Miriamele had hoped for nothing more. In a way, it was a lesson the world had already taught her.

Awash with strange new feelings, not completely comfortable with any of them, Miriamele sat quietly across the dining table from Aspitis, pushing food from one side of her plate to the other. She could not understand why the earl had forced her to come sit with him in the brightly candlelit room. She could not understand why she was not even slightly in love.

A soldier rapped at the doorway, then entered.

“We've caught him, Lord,” the guardsman said. His satisfaction at having redressed the earlier error of the monk's escape was plain in his voice. Miriamele, seated across the table from Earl Aspitis, felt herself stiffen.

The guardsman stepped aside and two of his fellows brought Cadrach in, slumped between them. The monk seemed to be having trouble keeping his head up. Had they beaten him? Miriamele felt a sickening pang of regret. She had half-hoped that Cadrach would just vanish, so that she would never have to see him again. It was easier to hate him when he was not around.

“He's drunk, Lord Aspitis,” the guardsman said. “Stinking. We found him in the
Feathered Eel,
down on the east dock. He'd already bought a place out on a Perdruinese merchantman, but the fool got pissed and diced it away.”

Cadrach looked up blearily, his face slack with despair. Even from across the table, Miriamele could smell the stink of wine. “Was ‘bout t'win it back, too. Would've.” He shook his head. “Maybe not. Luck's gone bad. Water's rising ...”

Aspitis rose and strode around the table. He reached out a hand and grasped the monk's chin, pressing with his strong fingers until the flesh bulged between them. He forced Cadrach's pink face upward until their eyes met.

The earl turned to Miriamele. “Has he tried to do this before, Lady Marya?”

Miriamele nodded helplessly. She wished she were somewhere else. “More or less.”

Aspitis returned his attention to the monk. “What a strange man. Why does he not just leave your father's service instead of sneaking away like a thief?” The earl turned to his squire. “And you are sure nothing is missing?”

The squire shook his head. “Nothing, Lord.”

Cadrach tried to pull his head free from Aspitis' restraining fingers. “Had m‘own gold. Stole nothing. Need t'get away ...” His eyes fixed uncertainly on Miriamele, his voice took on a note of added desperation. “Dangerous ... storm will get us. Danger.”

The Earl of Eadne let go of the monk's chin and wiped his fingers on the tablecloth. “Afraid of a storm? I knew he was not a good sailor, but still ... that is very strange. If he were my liege man, his back would be flayed for this trick. Still, the fellow shall certainly not be rewarded for deserting his innocent ward. Neither shall he share a cabin with you any more, Lady Marya.” The earl's smile was stiffy reassuring. “He may have gone mad, or have conceived some drunken fancy. He says danger, but he is the dangerous one as I see it. He will be confined on the
Eadne Cloud
until I return you to Nabban, and we shall then hand him over to Mother Church for discipline.”

“Confine him?” Miriamele asked. “That is not ...”

“I may not leave him loose to plague you or worry you, my lady.” The earl turned to his guardsmen. “The hold will do nicely for him. Give him water and bread, but put the leg irons on him.”

“Oh, no!” Miriamele was genuinely horrified. However much she despised the monk and his cowardly treachery, the thought of any living thing forced to wear a chain, trapped in a dark hold....

“Please, my lady.” Aspitis' voice was soft but firm. “I must have order on my ship. I gave you sanctuary, and this man with you. He was your guardian. He betrayed your trust. I still am not sure he has not stolen something from me, or perhaps thinks to sell some intelligence of my mission here in Vinitta. No, I am afraid you must leave such men's business to me, pretty Marya.” He waved his hand; Cadrach was led out, staggering between his escorts.

Miriamele felt her eyes blurring with tears. They spilled over and she lurched suddenly from her chair. “Excuse me, Earl Aspitis,” she mumbled, feeling her way along the table toward the door. “I wish to lie down. ”

He caught her before she reached the handle, grasping her arm and pulling her smoothly around. The heat of him was very close. She averted her face, conscious of how foolish she must look, eyes red-rimmed and cheeks wet. “Please, my lord. Let the monk go.”