It didn’t. Morghiad sat through the evening without managing to raise even the corners of his mouth. Death was imminent. Artemi was beautiful.
Neither of these facts could be reconciled with anything he believed or wanted to believe. She, on the other hand, appeared to be having a wonderful time. His new wife laughed at Feyan’s appalling jokes, fluttered her lashes at Qeneris, grinned at his father and endeared herself thoroughly to his step-mother. If Artemi had noticed the development in her powers and the implications of it, then it certainly was not evident in her behaviour.
At last, when the celebrations wound down and Morghiad was quite convinced that she had become a more rooted member of the family than he
had ever been, he led her to his rooms.
“I’ve never seen you more grumpy and irritable than today. I’d have thought you’d be pleased with winning this game,” she said as soon as the door was shut.
“I haven’t won anything.” Except, perhaps, death. Morghiad walked to one of the windows and looked out into the blackness of the night. Only a few more nights left to him.
“Well, I thought all of this was one of your plans to finally prove to me, with your amazing wealth and innate superiority, that you could own
me like you own a pair of socks.”
“You always possessed me,” he muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He could hear her moving around behind him, together with the rustle of clothes that indicated she was undressing. “You were the one who encouraged me to stay. You could have smuggled me away from here, but instead you convinced me there was no other option. Having spoken more with your family tonight, I hardly think they are the sort of people to hound me to the ground. Well done. You
manipulated me again.”
Morghiad remained silent. His suspicions were correct; she had not noticed anything at all.
“Not speaking to me now? What a wedding night I have to look forward to!” She sighed a very long sigh, muttered something about his being the worst husband a woman could be cursed with, and promptly fell asleep in his bed.
He remained at the window for a while, pondering the point of his short existence. If he died now, would anyone remember him? He could not think of anything of worth that he had
done in the last eighteen-and-a-half years. Just battles, pointless battles with someone who ought to have been an ally. He would be remembered as a son who had misbehaved and caused fear; he would be remembered as a child who had mercilessly bullied a girl who had no money, and then as a man who had left her to die because he had been too selfish and stupid to think of the consequences. These were things that could not be remedied in fourteen days. Artemi was still numb to the world when he turned away from the window again, and she did not stir when he clambered into the bed beside
her. He listened to her breathing for a while, which was as steady as the clock that counted down his hours. Tick. Tick. Tick. What was left for him to do? What was left for her? No more arguments. No more underhanded, honourless and bitter fights. No more expressions of fury or exclamations of victory. No more fiery hair that stuck to his clothes and hid in his chambers. Strangely, he found that thought the saddest of all of them. He reached out to touch the fibres that spilled across the pillow, and for a moment relished the soft fizz of Blaze upon his fingers. It was like paddling in the
shallows of shore-break. The feel of the sea rushing over one’s skin was pleasurable, but it only hinted at the awesome power of the oceans beyond. “I’m sorry, Artemi.”
Her eyes opened a fraction. “I preferred you when you never apologised for anything.” After a few moments of stretching and rousing herself from sleep, her glares of indignation returned. “Really, what is wrong with you?”
“Can’t you feel it?”
She sat up suddenly, revealing that she was utterly naked. Her bare skin had not been an issue before, but
now he found his cheeks colouring with embarrassment. She was too... attractive! “I can’t feel it from here, no.” She smirked.
“I don’t mean that.” He placed a hand on her leg, which he deemed the least controversial part of her to touch. “It’s this.”
She appeared to be confused for a moment, but the realisation came to her soon enough. Artemi removed his hand and covered herself up with blankets. “What do we do now?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll kill you.”
“You had better get the
invitations ready.”
“Invitations?”
“I recall you said you would invite everyone at Fate’s to celebrate at the site of my grave, that you would finally know true happiness and that you would dance there until your feet hurt.”
“I said that? I did say that.” She was quiet for a moment, but when she next spoke, her words came slowly. “I don’t want you dead,” and then, “What does it matter? We’ll both be dead from this. We knew this would happen eventually. I just... I thought we had more time.”
Morghiad nodded. “So did I.” There was a long moment of quiet contemplation, where all he wanted to do was embrace her and apologise. She would probably have kicked him in the shins if he had tried, however.
Artemi broke the silence first. “It would be better if I left.”
“No, it wouldn’t.”
She leapt out of bed and set about trying to locate her clothes. “We stand a better chance apart, and you won’t have to spend your final days with someone you despise. Better that it’s nalka for you. Better that than to become an eisiel.” Artemi soon found
her dark travelling clothes in amongst the items that had been brought from the inn, and stepped neatly into her breeches.
“Eisiels are a myth conjured to frighten people like us into not doing the things that we have done!”
She spun rapidly. “No, they’re real. I saw one. It was a dead man walking.”
Nonsense. Morghiad had seen the real creatures of the darkness. They were something to be afraid of. “Do you want to be apart from me when it happens?”
Artemi paused in her
preparations. “When I die? Well... isn’t that what you want?”
“No.”
“I have to go. Will your family accept my apologies?” She looked around herself, looking less sure about her situation than Morghiad had ever seen her. His wife looked afraid, and it was his fault.
And how could he conceive of stopping her? Perhaps, in another instance, he might have instructed her to remain and do as he desired, but that would not have been right here. He felt something depressing and feeble, which he could only describe as guilt. And it
was growing, making him feel as if he owed her an immense debt and that denying her freedom now would only hurt her more. “I can think of an excuse for you.”
Artemi took up her things in saddle bags and placed them over one shoulder. “Thank you.” She made for the door, but Morghiad moved in front of her before she could leave.
“I am sorry, Artemi.”
“Shut up, shut up!” She gave him a nudge in the chest. It was supposed to be a punch, but it had no force in it at all.
“I should at least say goodbye.”
It was not clear what time it was, and contrary to most stories she had heard of the homes of nobility, this manor did not have a great, ticking clock anywhere in it. It was incredibly dark in those halls, and all the closed doors meant that no light came from
the windows of the adjoining rooms. She passed no guards, but tested her sword arm anyway. She did not expect them to prevent her from leaving, but one never knew what these Hirrahans thought was normal behaviour. And Morghiad’s behaviour was something that concerned her very deeply. He had never once apologised to her in all the years they had known each other, and yet, in the past two days she had received at least three confessions of regret. Perhaps their time apart would return him to his arrogant self, and he would be able to die looking down on death as if he coul
d outlive it.
She hoped he would go out fighting. She certainly planned to.
Artemi made it to the bottom of the main stairs. A noise to her right caught her attention, and she saw through one of the doors that a shadow sat behind a candle at a long table. A large, square object had been placed to one side. “You wear breeches better than dresses, girl,” said the shadow. It sounded very much like Lord Calyrish. “Come here.”
She walked into the room with careful steps, her eyes adjusting slowly to the new light.
“Where are you going dressed
like that? And with a sword? Anyone would think you knew how to use it.”
Artemi was not sure how to reply to her new father-in-law, so she did not.
“Hmm. You were far more talkative earlier today. Sit down there, please. Now...” He opened the giant, ancient book that lay next to him. “... Would you care to tell me your real name so that I can enter it here?”
He knew! He’d known all along! Oh, she must have made a real fool of herself without realising it! She did not even try to lie. “Artemi Fevtari.”
“Ha.” He started writing. “Fev
tar-i. Very elegant. Very Sunidaran. Not your name anymore, of course.”
She felt her muscles tensing throughout her body. If he knew this, what else did he know? And had he been waiting here for her? “Why did you allow me to marry into your family?”
Lord Calyrish set down his canal pen and met her gaze. There was really quite a resemblance between he and Morghiad, now that his face was transformed to shadows and outlines. “Twenty years ago, I would not have taken advice from anyone I did not know. But someone, quite possibly the
most insightful individual I have ever met, convinced me that his advice was worthy of heeding. He told me that one day you would come. And when I met you, I could see that he was right about everything.”
“Who was this man?” She had a very good idea.
“That is my business, Lady Calyrish.”
Lady. That sounded very peculiar. Lady for a fortnight. “I still don’t see how my marriage to Morghiad will be of benefit to anyone.”
Puzzlement crossed his features. “You’re very forthright, aren’t you?”
He picked up his pen and tapped it against the table, before setting it down again and rubbing his jaw in thought. “My son is deeply in love with you. Were you aware of that?”
Artemi very nearly burst into hysterical laughter, but caught herself when she noticed that the lord had remained entirely serious. It took some time to be sure that her voice would sound controlled when she spoke. “Forgive me, but I think you are mistaken.”
“Perhaps he is not very good at showing it. When I sent that boy away to school, he was a terrified, angry and dangerous child who did not know how to control his temper...” Not much had changed there. “...And during the feast days he was returned to me as a terrified, angry and dangerous child who did not know how to control his temper. But something happened this year. When he came home he was calm and thoughtful. When he was provoked he did not explode in a fit of rage, and for most of the past few days I have seen him laugh and smile quite consistently. Until today of course - but it may be that you know the reason behind that... Anyway, I believe that the change in him is due to your
presence. I think you scare the demons from him.”
Her chest began to feel tight. This man seemed to know more than was possible, and yet it was not enough. He clearly had no idea that, if his son had reformed himself at all, it was because he faced death. And that death was all Artemi’s fault. What a cold, calculating bastard Silar was to have encouraged this man to see her married to Morghiad! All it had done was to give her husband a day of unhappiness amongst what precious few he had left.
“Will you tell me why you are
leaving tonight? Did you have an argument?”
“No, there was no argument. It was just... it is best that I leave. I have business to attend to elsewhere.”
He nodded slowly. “You know, you are welcome to stay here if you need to, and you know that it would be unwise to be parted from him for too long.”
So he knew that they had shared a bed, too. She certainly would not be welcome to stay in another fortnight, even if she were alive enough to do so. “Thank you for your kind offer.” She stood and collected her belongings.
“I will have two of the guards accompany you to wherever you need to go. You may be a girl with a sword, but you are a Calyrish now, and I ought to see that you are properly protected.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
He cocked his head to one side. “No?”
“I bested your son three times out of five last month, and yet you allow him to travel alone.”
The lord raised his eyebrows and followed her to the front door, down the steps and into the freezing air. She clambered onto her horse’s
back, huddled under the thickest of her cloaks and bid goodbye to her host. “Don’t break his heart, Artemi,” he said, and then turned back to the house without another word.
Heart? A man who had been so cruel could not have a heart. It was hard to believe that he had anything inside his chest other than cold steel and levers and bolts and hinges. The only man who had proven possession of a heart was his father, and Artemi was almost certain to break that one. There was nothing she could do to save any of them now, and facing the guilt of it would serve no purpose at all. But
where to go next? Where to spend her last days and what to do with them? She could not come to a decision, and in any case, she would have to stop off at Fate’s on the way. Cloud moved into a gentle canter, and they headed westward toward the border.
There was no sleep to be had. The rain came down heavily that night
and the wind battered it against the windows without relent. Artemi was probably out riding through fierce storms at that very moment, and Morghiad was not there to shield her from any of it. It was more than likely that she would have refused to allow him to do such a thing, but he was certain that he would have tried anyway. He would have attempted to be a good husband. Here, away from her, he could do nothing.
She had been gone for a day and a night, and already the shadows were beginning to move of their own accord. The creatures wanted to return to him
and taunt him now that they knew he was about to die. Artemi might have given him some respite, but they had always known they would have him in the end. They had come for his soul.
Three knocks sounded at the door.
Here already. Morghiad had no desire to invite anything in. Not yet. It was not time to go yet.
The knocks sounded again, and the shadows started to creep. No. He would not give in to them! They did not exist!
The door opened just a fraction, and Morghiad took his sword in hand.
The shadows were dancing now; soon they would form discernible shapes. He was poised to do battle.
“Are you awake, son?”
The shadows rapidly dissipated.
“Yes.” He set his sword down once more. Not dead yet.
His father stepped inside the darkness of the room, closed the door behind him and came to sit on the bed. He was holding a small lamp, which he set on the floor at his feet. It gave an odd sort of illumination to the room, but the new shadows it made were of a friendlier character. “We haven’t seen much of you today.”
“My apologies, father.”
“An apology? Well, that is new.” He smiled. “Listen... I have come to make an apology to you. I have not been a good father to you, not as good as I could have been. I should have believed you. I am sorry I did not. You did see those things – the creatures in the dark?”
Morghiad was beginning to feel uncomfortable. “You haven’t seen them too, have you?”
His father shook his head. “Do you still see them?”
He did not want to talk about this. He was a good son now, and good sons did not see strange things hiding in corners. He lied. �
��They’ve been gone for a while.”
“Good. That girl does well for you, I think. That is why she is part of our family. She makes up for my mistakes as a father.” He supressed a chuckle, but the smile soon faded. “Ah, I’ve made a fair few of them.”
“No you haven’t.” Morghiad reached out to place a hand on his father’s shoulder, but thought it odd, and stopped halfway.
“You see? You cannot even be honest with me. I look into those big, bright green eyes of yours, all full of
innocence and hurt and fear, and it upsets me every time. I thought you would be your own man, and that nothing I could do would affect how you turned out, but that was not true at all, was it? I treated you differently because I did not understand - I did not understand that you really were my son. I am sorry, Mor.”
Just what was he implying? Did his father think that another man had sired him? “Mother wouldn’t have-”
“Your mother named you Morghiad. What was I supposed to say to that as she lay dying? A Calidellian name – just about as Calidellian as you
can get!”
“Actually... it was Ghialdinian originally.”
Lord Calyrish’s features remained stony for only a second, and then they melted into a huge grin. “Yes, I suppose it was. Ghialdinian. Ha!”
The Fireblade Array: 4-Book Bundle Page 172