by Peter David
“Oh?”
“My father makes me crazy.”
“Believe me, I understand,” he said firmly. “In fact, one of the reasons I set out on this trip is that my mother had died, and—”
“My mother is also dead,” she said. “Her life taken by balverines.”
Thomas gasped, the entirety of Laird Kreel’s attitudes suddenly made clear. “A balverine killed my brother as well, in my presence.”
“I . . . am sorry to hear that,” said Sabrina. Her voice softened, much of the abrasiveness that characterized her speech gone. “I was not there when my mother died. I have long been relieved for that fact. My father, however”—and the bitterness crept back into her voice—“was there. It was his fault that she died. Only his. I can’t ever forgive him for that. But I can do things every now and then that I know are going to drive him crazy.”
“Like indulging in criminal activities.”
“Exactly like that. Unfortunately,” she continued ruefully, “I can only go so far in defying him. It’s like . . . I hear him in here”—and she thumped her head—“banging around, not leaving me alone. He has learned well from his exploits, and from his perpetual quarry, for he has his claws into me right enough. I cannot tell you how much I would like to break free of him utterly, renounce him, put him and this . . . this place . . . to my back forever. But I ...” She paused, and when she spoke again, it was the heavy utterance of one who was forced, very much against her will, to acknowledge her limits. “I can’t. Bottom line is, we all are what we are. I can pull against the ties that bind me to him, but they will never be broken.”
Thomas stepped forward and took both her hands in his. “I used to think the exact same thing,” he said. “You’re maybe a year or two younger than I, and a couple of years may not seem like much . . . but you’d be amazed at how much they matter. What is unthinkable for you today, tomorrow you may be doing.”
“I kind of doubt that,” said Sabrina. “You don’t know my father, and you sure don’t know me.”
“What is your favorite color?”
Her eyebrows arched. “What?”
“Your favorite color?”
“Red.”
“You see,” said Thomas, smiling. “Now I know you better than I did before. That’s how things happen in life: a little bit at a time.”
She laughed at that, and he was pleased to note that she had a rather musical laugh. She should do it more often, he thought.
Then she kissed him again, softer this time, but no less passionately. There was no hesitation in his returning it this time, and he felt a connection to her such as he had never known with any other living being.
They parted momentarily, and then her lips were firmly against his once more, and he felt as if he were falling into a deep, endless well, the world lurching around him.
She withdrew abruptly and it was as if he had suddenly crashed to the ground. She stepped back lightly, like a dancer, and laughed again, and then she turned and was gone from the room, leaving him wondering what in the world had just happened.
He returned to the gathering room where the social intercourse between the various guests was still going on. There was no sight of Sabrina. James noticed him returning and looked at him oddly. “Are you all right?” he said.
“Hmm?”
“You look quite out of breath. Like you’ve been running a marathon or something.”
“I’m . . . fine. Couldn’t be better.” The words were spilling over each other and, to his own ear, Thomas sounded like a complete idiot. Apparently he sounded that way to James as well because James kept staring at him as if aware that there was something Thomas wasn’t telling him. Ultimately, James turned away, apparently deciding that whatever it was Thomas wasn’t sharing, it wasn’t all that important to begin with.
The gathering broke up not long after, and Thomas and James went upstairs to their quarters. They talked about all that they had seen, and their impressions of the other guests. Thomas, however, kept his encounter with Sabrina a secret, close to his heart. It surprised him a little that he was doing so, for he had never felt as if there was anything that he could not tell James. James, supposedly his servant, and yet who was as much a brother to him as his actual brother, long dead.
Soon, with the lights out in their room, Thomas lay in his bed and had to admit that this was indeed quite possibly the most comfortable mattress upon which he had ever been. He expected that slumber would be quick in coming to him; it certainly had been to James, whose regular breathing and slight snoring—courtesy of his irregularly shaped nose, broken in a brawl at a rather young age—could attest.
But he was wrong. Instead, he lay there, staring into the darkness, unable to get Sabrina out of his mind. He would summon up the recollection of his lips against her, of the firmness of her body as his hands had caressed her. He was starting to think that he wasn’t going to be getting any sleep at all; his body felt like it had too much blood in it.
There was a soft creak at the door.
He turned in the bed and looked, and gaped.
Sabrina apparently took after her father in one particular respect: She tended to look good standing in doorways.
She was, however, significantly less clothed than he. She was wearing a simple white shift, and somehow in the dimness of the hall light, it was practically translucent. He could see the entire outline of her slender body beneath it.
Sabrina said nothing. She simply stood there, allowing him to drink her in. He abruptly realized he had stopped breathing. He knew his heart was still beating because he could feel it thudding against his chest.
Then, ever so slightly, she gave the slightest nod before turning and walking away with that uncanny noiselessness she had inherited from her father.
You can’t. You don’t dare. You stay right here and just forget about—
His feet were on the floor before his brain had a chance to emphasize to him the importance of staying in bed. His chest was bare as well; he was clad only in breeches. Poxy lifted her head in lazy confusion at the sudden movement but, seeing no imminent danger, yawned and plumped her head back down. The floor was cold beneath his bare feet.
She just wants to talk. She has things to tell me that might be of use. Don’t make more of this than it is.All these and more did he tell himself, and the entire time he hoped that he was wrong.
He emerged into the hallway, and he saw her disappearing around a corner, the slightest flutter of her nightgown indicating that she was indeed just down the way.
As he reached the end of the corridor, he glanced at the far end behind him. He thought, although he wasn’t sure, that he saw one of the servants, Bell, coming around the corner. He ducked around after Sabrina, reasonably sure that Bell hadn’t seen him although he wasn’t sure why it would have mattered if he did. Thomas was of age; he needn’t concern himself with what anyone thought . . .
Except her father. You’re in his house. What you’re thinking of . . . what you’re fantasizing about . . . it’s wrong, it’s just wrong. You speak of principles; where are your principles now?
But the pounding at his temples was enough to drive any further thoughts right out of his head.
There was a door hanging open to his left. It’s a trap. That’s it. It’s some sort of trap, he thought. The absolutely last thing you want to do is go into that room. Turn around and run before it’s too late.
He entered the room.
It was pitch-black. He could see nothing at all.
He suddenly became aware of someone breathing behind him. He turned, and he had a brief glimpse of Sabrina standing there, her hand on the door. Slowly, she shut it. There was a single taper in a gold candle-holder, the flame flickering.
Thomas gulped deeply. He whispered, having no idea why he was doing so: “Did you want to see me?”
Her voice was low and amused. “Actually, I thought you’d want to see me.” She reached up to the thin straps that were holding up the sh
ift and slid them down her arms. With nothing to support it, the nightdress slid to the floor and gathered at her feet.
She stood there, nude in the candlelight. Thomas had seen countless sunrises and sunsets, and a vast blue sea, and mountains and forests and all the glories that the land and nature had to offer. Yet he knew, without question, that he had never in his life seen anything as beautiful as what he was beholding now.
Sabrina let him drink in the sight of her, and then she turned and blew out the candle.
He whispered her name in the darkness, and then her warm flesh was pressing against his. “Are you sure?” he said softly. “If . . . if you’re doing this just to spite your father—”
“I’m doing this”—and she kissed him again—“because I want to take myself out of myself. Just for one night, I want to leave what I am behind. I want someone to make me feel like something different.”
“And what do you want to feel like?”
“Like I’m yours.”
Then she stopped talking and started doing things with her hands to him. And as she guided him backwards onto her bed, the last vestiges of both his clothing and his restraint were stripped away. There was only him and her and warmth and heat, and the rest of the world was gone.
MUCH LIKE THOMAS, I DISCOVER THAT I have forgotten to breathe as well, and have to force myself to do so. I see the amused look on the part of the storyteller. “Wipe that smirk off your face, for I am not so old and infirm that I am incapable of wiping it from you myself.”
“Apologies, Majesty. I hope that I did not, in the graphic nature of my tale, embarrass you in any way ...”
“Do not be absurd. An old man I may be, but still a man, and in spirit a young one. I had my share of fair young things in my life, and I ...” I am suddenly wistful. “The young man who still resides within me looks at young women now, and lusts after them as much as he ever did. But he sees them as if from across a great divide, for age has distanced me from them.”
“You are the king. Would that not enable you to indulge in such dalliances as you wished? Who would dare refuse you?”
“Who indeed?” I say. “And therein lies the tragedy. For I would know that the only reason sweet young things with firm flesh and a well-turned ankle would be with me is for that very reason. A man in the depths of winter has no business with a lass in the bloom of spring, especially if she believes that she dare not refuse. That is simply the way of things.”
“You are a man of true conscience, Majesty. And I hope that you do not think the less of young Thomas due to his lack of will with the daughter of his host.”
“He hardly forced himself upon her. It sounds to me as if she was anxious to extend some hospitality of her own.” I chuckle at my own witticism although it sounds more like a tired wheeze. Then I feel surprisingly ashamed of myself; it is hardly a dignified response for a king.
If the storyteller shares my negative opinion of myself, he is generous enough to keep that opinion to himself. Instead, he says neutrally, “Indeed she did, Majesty.”
“Perhaps,” I allow, “it was an unwise thing for Thomas to do. But youth is the time for men to make mistakes, and be driven by their passions. Knowledge may be gained from books, but wisdom can only be gained by experience, and mistakes are the greatest granters of wisdom. If one is afraid to make mistakes, then how will one stretch the bounds of one’s world? One should not simply walk gently into walls; one should run into them at full speed.” He looks at me oddly, and with an amused smile. “Did I say something entertaining to you, storyteller?”
“No, Majesty. Merely something with some foresight that you are as yet unaware of. You will understand later in the tale. It is comforting to know that you do not hold Thomas in less esteem for his actions.”
“Not at all. Were I in his position, I would likely have done the same. I never claimed to be pure of heart and chaste in mind and body. Why should I expect more of ...”
“Of the Hero of a story? Is that not the point of a Hero, though? To have someone of whom we expect more?”
“Partially. But they also enable us to see flaws within ourselves. A flawed Hero can be as compelling, if not more so, than a noble one.”
“I quite agree, Majesty. Shall I continue?”
“Best that you would.” I look to the skies and see that the sun is crawling across the horizon toward its inevitable rest. “For I see that the day is determined to flee us despite our wishes that it do otherwise, and I’ve no mind to sit here in the darkness and listen to your words. The cold is already infesting these old bones, and the absence of sunlight will be of no benefit.”
“I did not think it was quite that cold, Majesty, but if you say so, I shall continue.”
“Please do.”
“Very well.” He pauses, gathering his thoughts, and then says delicately, “I shall not go into detail of the rest of that evening, save to say that Thomas’s youth and stamina were well tested that evening, repeatedly.”
I smile, warmly remembering that period in my life. The fires still burn within me, but they are tamped down somewhat by the passing of time. Yet I am still able to bask in the warmth of recollection.
“He did not remember falling into an exhausted sleep. All he knew was that suddenly her hand was upon his shoulder, shaking him gently, and she was whispering to him, ‘The house stirs. ’T’would be best if you were not here when it—’
“ ‘Yes. Yes, of course,’ he said. He clambered from the bed, the beginnings of dawn filtering through the window, and tried swiftly to yank on his breeches. He succeeded in upending himself and falling over. He felt like a complete fool, but he heard a gentle laugh and saw that Sabrina—lying on the bed, without covers, exquisitely naked—was amused by it rather than thinking him a fool.
“ ‘Fortunately, you were more graceful last night,’ she said.
“ ‘I am . . . pleased to hear that.’ He was continuing to whisper as he pulled up his breeches. ‘I am . . . not terribly experienced in such matters.’
“ ‘Nor am I. But judging how I feel this morning, I would have to say we did it correctly.’
“He wondered what he was supposed to say next, but before he could speak further, she gestured for him to hasten from the place. He did so, terrified that the wrong person would be walking past and see him emerging from a room that he had no business being in. He placed an ear against the door, heard nothing, then insinuated himself into the corridor and hastened back to his own room.
“He opened the door with as much stealth as he was able, and it rewarded him by not so much as creaking. Even Poxy did not stir as he quietly closed it behind him, made his way to his own bed, and slid under the covers.
“And then James, who had seemingly been asleep, slowly raised his head and stared at Thomas through half-lidded eyes. For long moments there was silence, and Thomas wondered if James was even awake. Then James’s first words of the day settled that:
“ ‘I hope she was worth it.’
“There was no judgment in his voice; it was too early in the morning for that. It was simply a flat statement. Thomas briefly contemplated posturing, or denial, or claiming that he had absolutely no idea what James could possibly be referring to. But they had known each other too long, these young brothers in all but blood, and Thomas smiled, and said, ‘Completely.’
“James grunted, and then said, ‘Just pray that her father doesn’t find out, or he may decide to hunt you instead of balverines.’
“That was a concern that Thomas could not argue with.”
Chapter 14
“ELDERWOODS, MY FRIENDS. ONE OF the great natural wonders of Sutcliff . . . and home to balverines.”
Laird Ethan Kreel stood on the edges of a forest that seemed shrouded in darkness even though it was midday. A road ran along the perimeter, but there was nothing entering the woods themselves. As near as Thomas and James could discern, it was an area that had been untouched and untrammeled by human beings.
The
entire expedition was gathered at the forest’s edge. The servants were loaded down with the equipment that the brave explorers would require for survival. They were bearing up under the burden well enough although Bell seemed to be struggling a bit with his pack, even limping slightly, and James hoped that he wasn’t overloaded. When he asked out of concern, Bell simply grimaced a bit, and said, “Nuthin I kenna handle,” and spoke no more. Obviously, he was a prideful individual; James could respect that.
He wasn’t entirely sure he still respected Thomas, though, considering that his old friend seemed rather distracted from the endeavor. It was hard to believe: Their entire voyage had come down to this moment, and Thomas’s mind seemed elsewhere. James, of course, knew exactly where, and on exactly whom. Why her? Why that spoiled brat? Maybe Thomas sees something in her. Yeah. He sees himself in her,James thought mirthlessly.
Their trip to the woods’ perimeters had been without incident. There had been much conversation and chatting between the members of the expedition; it was as if the previous night’s get-acquainted gathering had simply been taken on the road. Conspicuous in her absence had been Sabrina, who had not departed with them that morning after breakfast and indeed had not even come downstairs.
Taking too great a chance with fate, as far as James was concerned, Thomas had nevertheless inquired of her father as to her whereabouts.
“Sabrina will not be joining us,” said Kreel easily, as if it were a matter of no consequence. “She has very little taste for these hunts. She will be remaining back at the mansion, where hopefully my servants will do a better job keeping an eye on her this time so that she does not head off into the marketplace and cause more mischief.”
This had been an answer that had saddened Thomas even as it had gladdened James. As the journey had proceeded, James had said in a low whisper into his friend’s ear, “Be grateful she is not along.”
“Why?”
“Because you do not lie well, remember? And if she were hanging on your arm, or otherwise displaying affection for you, and her father asked why there was such a turn in her feelings for you, I do not believe for a moment that you would do a good job of dissembling. That’s why.”