by Judith Tarr
She stayed with him until the servants of the dead came. They wrapped him in white linen, folding it close about his long limbs, and carried him away to their houses on the far side of the river.
Seti left when they left, leaning on the arm of a strong young priest. She sat alone in the flickering lamplight. Slowly it dawned on her: the night was clean. No shadow tainted it. No armies came riding across the river to raid the villages.
There had been respite before, a year and more of it. But this was different. There was no darkness behind the stars; only the night, pure and unsullied. Something about it made her think of her lord: dark beauty with the splendor of a sun in its heart.
She wept then, a little, because she was mortal and she was weak and she yearned for his arms about her and his warm rich voice in her ear. She yearned so strongly that almost—almost—she could have sworn—
“Beloved.”
That was his very voice. It lived still inside her. Yet it seemed so real, as if indeed, impossibly, he could be there.
She turned slowly.
He was standing behind her. The light within him was clearly visible. She could not meet his eyes at all, any more than she could stare straight into the sun.
“Dear heart,” he said. “What did I promise you?”
“That you would never leave me,” she heard herself say. “But—”
“I couldn’t keep my body,” he said. “There are rules and prices, and that is one of them. But nothing could forbid me to come back to you. That oath I swore, and oaths are sacred. They bind even the gods.”
“Even you?”
He seemed bemused. “I suppose I am a god now—truly; not simply a mage from beyond a Gate. I wasn’t thinking of that when I did it. There was no other way to kill the dark, except to overwhelm it with light. But to do that, I had to give up whatever mortal substance I had.”
His words were profoundly strange, but that was nothing new or remarkable. She reached carefully and touched him.
He was not flesh, no; it felt like holding her hand in sunlight, yet sunlight given shape and form. He moved under her hand. He seemed to breathe, though that might only be habit from his earthly self. She could wrap her arms about him and hold him, and he could complete the embrace. The warmth of it, the sheer white joy, was almost more than she could bear.
A good part of it was his. He had likened his magery once to living with one’s skin off. Now his skin was lost altogether.
“I can’t stay long,” he said. “I can’t be with you as I am now, not often; I’m scattered through the worlds, among the chains of Gates. I hold back the dark from all of them. But part of me is always here. It will never leave you. If you need me, or simply want to be with me, look in your heart. You’ll find me.”
“Always?”
“Always,” he said.
“And when I leave this flesh behind? Will I be as you are?”
He ran his finger down her cheek as he had done so often before, a gesture so tender and so familiar that her eyes filled anew with tears. “The greater gods have promised, beloved. When your body has lived out its span, you will come to me. We will never again be parted.”
The question that rose in her was inevitable, but far from wise. She did not ask it. The gods knew when she would die. It was not right or proper that she should know. She said instead, “I shall live every day in gladness, and sleep every night in peace, with that before me.”
“O marvel among women.” He kissed her, long and slow and ineffably sweet. He said no word of farewell, but then he had not left her. Only this semblance was gone. The truth of him, the living essence, lay folded in her heart.
The dawn was coming, bright and free of fear. She wiped away her tears and composed herself. Her son was waking: she felt him within her, close by his father.
She would tarry with him until the day came. Then she would go out, and put on her mask of paint and royal pride, and be queen of her people. They would mourn because the gods had left them, and rejoice because the darkness was gone. She would give them what comfort they needed, and rule them as best she could.
After a while they would forget their grief. Hers was already passing. She must not seem too glad, not yet; none of them would understand. But in her heart, where he was, she could rest in his warmth and be deeply content.
HISTORICAL NOVELS BY JUDITH TARR
Lord of the Two Lands
Throne of Isis
The Eagle’s Daughter
Pillar of Fire
King and Goddess
Queen of Swords
White Mare’s Daughter
The Shepherd Kings
Lady of Horses
Daughter of Lir
Tides of Darkness
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
TIDES OF DARKNESS
Copyright © 2002 by Judith Tarr
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
Edited by Beth Meacham
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
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Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
eISBN 9781429981514
First eBook Edition : May 2011
First Edition: October 2002