The God-Touched Man

by Melissa McShane

  The tiny attic had only one window, a round starburst of iron with yellow glass wedges between the rays. Ayane stood in front of it, looking down at the soup the farmyard had become. “I could have done that,” she said without looking at him. “You’ve already worked hard tonight.”

  “I’m still wet. It made no sense for you to swim through the muck when I am already an expert at doing so.” He used a corner of the blanket to dry off the sword’s sheath, then drew the weapon and examined it. It seemed none the worse for its exposure to the rain.

  “Well, I would have, anyway,” Ayane said, and came to sit on the bed opposite his. “Will you speak with Miss Tedoratis tonight?”

  “I had thought to, yes, but since we have nothing new to communicate, I choose not to waste both our time. Her time, at any rate. I have nothing to do at the moment, so whether I waste my time or not seems a question for the philosophers.”

  “We’ll have to leave here in the morning, no matter the weather. Hodestis can’t be more than a few hours ahead of us now.”

  “I hope that’s true. It’s only been three days and I already feel as if I’ve done nothing in my life but follow him across Dalanine.”

  “I feel the same.”

  “At least we’ve been in good company.” Piercy smiled at her, but she only half-smiled and looked away toward the window again.

  “I wasn’t very good company at first, was I?” she said. “I’m sorry I was so awful to you.”

  “Well, in fairness, I did try to win your heart under false pretenses and then treated you like a helpless maiden, so you had some right to be miffed with me.”

  She laughed. “You’re right. You were a cad.”

  “I prefer to think of myself as misguidedly chivalrous. I’d certainly never met anyone like you before and had no idea how to behave. I offer that as my excuse, my lady.”

  Ayane stood and went back to the window. “You’re forgiven, sir.”

  Her voice sounded dull, without its usual warmth. “Is anything wrong?”

  “Aside from the three of us chasing after a homicidal magician who intends to resurrect the world’s most powerful madwoman, armed with only a knife, a stick, a possibly intelligent sword, and our native intelligence and cunning? Don’t you think that’s enough?”

  Piercy crossed the room to stand next to her and put his hand on her shoulder. “What happened to ‘I’ll chase him to the gates of hell if I have to’?”

  “That was before it started raining hard enough to wash the paint off this farmhouse, what’s left of it anyway. I’m tired, Piercy, I’m discouraged, and I can’t stop wishing I’d never told Jendaya she needed to take me with her to Matra. You need a magician, not a retired resistance fighter.”

  “You should sleep. Things won’t be so bleak in the morning.”

  “I don’t think that’s true.”

  Piercy put his hand on her other shoulder and turned her to face him. “It’s true, we’re probably not the ideal choices to handle this situation,” he said, “but we’re the only ones in a position to stop Hodestis, and…well, I shouldn’t speak for you, but I have given my word and I intend to do my utmost. Even though my utmost would be more impressive if I were a magician. And had you not come to Matra, I would never have met you, so I’m afraid I cannot join you in wishing the past otherwise. Particularly since I would have tumbled through the portal alone, accosted Hodestis alone, and been murdered gruesomely in my sleep.”

  “He wouldn’t have murdered you. He would still have needed you to steal the leash from the monastery.”

  “That was only successful because there were two of us. Piercy Faranter alone was a liability. So you see you were essential from the beginning.”

  “I suppose keeping you from a gruesome death gives me some purpose.”

  “That and preventing me from becoming complacent. And fighting alongside me when bandits attack. And carrying your share of the supplies. You’re actually quite indispensable.”

  She was looking up at him now, her eyes luminous in the yellow light from the window. “Am I?” she said. “Is that what I am?”

  A quick, casual reply died on his tongue and left him groping for a real response. Light outlined the curves of her face, the column of her throat, and he let out his breath, slowly, trying to ease the hammering of his heart. Now. “You are extraordinary,” he said, “and I would want this journey to go on forever, if it meant I might spend the rest of my life with you.”

  Astonishment flickered across Ayane’s face, and she blinked at him. “Piercy,” she said, breathlessly.

  “It’s true,” Piercy said. “I love you, Ayane, with everything this somewhat shopworn heart of mine has to offer, and I realize this is not the most salutary time or place for such a declaration, but given our circumstances, I think this is the best I can do.”

  Ayane just stared at him, so motionless he might have imagined her an ebony statue. “My dear,” he said, hearing his voice shake, “if you are going to destroy me, do it quickly. I prefer you strike cleanly than give me the slow death of your scorn.”

  The astonished look crossed her features again. “You think I—” she said, then put her arms around him and pressed her lips to his. He drew her close and kissed her, feeling her respond as if the abyss were trying to swallow her and he alone could free her. He slid his hands up her body to cradle her face and kissed her again, and again, forgetting entirely the thousands of meaningless kisses that had come before, forgetting every skill of seduction he’d ever known, conscious only of holding the only woman he’d ever truly loved.

  His body burned wherever it touched hers, burned brightest where their lips met, and he drew her even closer and heard her murmur something against his mouth. She repeated herself, more loudly but still unintelligible, and he was about to ask her what she’d said when she put her hands on his chest and shoved him away, hard.

  He staggered backward into the wall and caught himself with his hand, gasping from surprise. He pushed himself upright, fumbling for something to say, but no words came. Ayane stood with her hand pressed to her mouth, breathing heavily. “Don’t look like that,” she said.

  “I cannot imagine how I look,” he whispered, “but if it is anything resembling how I feel, I wonder that small children do not go running from me in terror.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Do not apologize. It was my misunderstanding.”

  “No,” Ayane said. “It’s my fault, and I don’t—Piercy, I love you, please forgive me!”

  Her words should have been a relief, but they only deepened his misery. “Do all Santerrans display their affection by shoving the object of it away, or is that your special quirk?”

  Ayane drew a deep, shuddering breath. “There’s just no point,” she said. “We can’t make a life together.”

  “Why not? Ayane, if you’re afraid you won’t be accepted in Dalanine, I can assure you society will welcome you with open arms.”

  “You think I’m the one who should leave her country?”

  “Then I will live in Santerre with you. I’m sure Miss Tedoratis could arrange for me to be attached to the embassy there. Ayane, these aren’t difficult obstacles to overcome.”

  “You don’t understand. I can’t marry you.”

  Realization struck him. “Is this because I’m Dalanese? A pale? By the Gods, Ayane, you cannot be so bigoted!”

  “It is not because you are Dalanese,” Ayane shouted. “It’s because you’re not a noble Santerran!”

  “I fail to see the difference.”

  Ayane pinched her cheek so fiercely it left a mark Piercy could see even in the dimness. “My skin,” she said. “Ebon-dark beauties, didn’t you say that’s what they called us in the old adventurers’ tales? I can trace my lineage all the way back to the Libekan conquest. The Sethembas have never intermarried with any family that wasn’t noble, and it shows on the skin. And I am the last of my family. If I marry anyone but another noble Santerran, our family’s
lineage will end.”

  “You would let that interfere with your happiness? With our happiness? Your father could not possibly wish that on you—”

  “My father is dead, Piercy.”

  That stopped him mid-sentence. “But you said—”

  “I lied. My father died three years ago, fighting the satraps for Santerran independence. Cyrah—Queen Cyrah—knew how demoralized her country would be if they knew Kinfe Sethemba had been killed. So I took his place. I carried out raids in his name, made him seem to be everywhere at once, a ghost in the night. Then the war was over, and Cyrah needed someone to root out the corruption lingering in her government. I became her spymaster in my father’s name. She depends on me, Piercy. If I marry a foreigner, I could never serve in the government again because Cyrah would always wonder whether she truly had my allegiance. Between that, and the end of the Sethemba line…it would mean giving up my whole life.”

  He was breathing too heavily now. “I see,” he said. “My love isn’t enough for you.”

  “Love doesn’t solve every problem. What happens a year or three down the road when it fades and we both start wondering what in Cath’s five hells we were thinking? What happens when one of us snaps under the strain of being a foreigner in an alien country? What about our children, torn between two nationalities? These are things we have to face, Piercy.”

  “Things we should face together. Love should make us better able to shoulder those burdens because we are acting as one. I’m willing to solve those problems as we come to them because I love you and I cannot bear the thought of living the rest of my life without you. Do you not feel the same?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t,” she said.

  It was like a blow to the chest. “I see,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. “You are correct—it is an impossible situation. Forgive me for burdening you with my importunities.”

  “Piercy, no. Please understand. I do love you—”

  “And I love you, but I think we both realize how little that matters.”

  He turned away so he wouldn’t have to look at her golden eyes and left the room, treading heavily down the stairs without caring that he was probably waking not only the house but every animal on the farm. He was almost out the back door when he realized he wasn’t wearing his boots. The idea of putting them on again wearied him, and he had just enough common sense left to realize he didn’t want to get his socks muddy and soaked, so he stood in the doorway and watched the rain fall and let misery fill him like molten iron.

  He was a Gods-cursed fool. This was why he’d never let himself fall in love, it was painful and heart-wrenching and pointless. Why did something intangible hurt so badly? He couldn’t decide if he was angry with her for caring more about her political and social position than about him, or angry with himself for even thinking that way. He had no business making this all her fault just because she’d rejected him. Just because she’d kept to her principles. That didn’t make it hurt less.

  He ought to be happy she loved him even if they couldn’t make a life together, and he was, but that feeling was overridden by sorrow and anger and the smallest bit of embarrassment that he, Piercy Faranter, had been turned down by a woman for the first time in his entire life and wasn’t handling it well. He remembered kissing her and cursed. He’d wanted her body, yes, but that was only part of what he loved about her, that and her vibrant spirit and laughing eyes and the way he could rely on her without question, almost as if they knew each other’s thoughts. Well, there was no point dwelling on what he couldn’t have.

  He wished he dared sleep in the barn, bed down next to the horses, but that would just leave him more miserable in the morning, and they needed to make an early start if they were to catch Hodestis before he entered the Underworld. This emotional turmoil would pass. Piercy Faranter never let his heart get caught up in the chase. He’d just experienced a temporary lapse in judgment. They’d defeat Hodestis, she’d return to Santerre, and he’d go back to his old life of wooing beautiful women without promising anything. He’d been a fool to think he deserved anything better.

  His whole body ached with exhaustion. Was there any graceful way to avoid sleeping in the attic? Dolobeka was sharing with two of the farmer’s sons, and of course the girls’ rooms were out of the question. He turned and went back up the stairs, this time as silently as he could, making himself focus on avoiding the creaks and squeals as a way of not thinking about his pain.

  He hesitated outside the door, afraid Ayane might be sitting up, waiting to continue their argument, then pushed the door open and found she was lying on her bed facing the wall. Piercy took off his frock coat and settled down on the other bed, turned his back on her, and tried to sleep. His mind wouldn’t stop replaying what they’d said to each other, interspersed with memories of holding her and kissing her he wished he could tear from his mind and stomp into jelly. He was never going to be stupid enough to fall in love again.

  Across the room, Ayane took in a shuddering breath, and he heard a soft choked sound that might have been a sob. Remorse stabbed at him, and he rolled over and was about to sit up when common sense overrode him again. He could go to her, comfort her, hold her close, kiss her tears away, but with the two of them alone in this very private attic room, that could lead nowhere but to more heartache.

  He rolled over again and put the flattened pillow over his head, trying to block the sound, trying not to feel guilt at shutting her out. He couldn’t share her life; this was all that was left to him.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The rain stopped falling sometime during the night, the cessation of noise waking Piercy briefly. He woke again just as dawn turned the raindrops clinging to the window’s frame into shining beads threaded on silk. Outside, the yard was gray, rutted from the carriage’s passage and crisscrossed with boot prints full of water. More prints crossed the wheel ruts, telling Piercy the farmer and his sons were already awake and at work. As he watched, the barn doors swung open and two burly men appeared, hauling the carriage. It was probably an inconvenience to the farmhands, and they should definitely be on their way.

  He turned away from the window to see Ayane sitting up and looking at him. Her face was so still, so lacking in its characteristic animation, that it made his heart ache again. “I think we should depart as quickly as possible,” he said.

  “Agreed,” she said.

  Neither of them moved. Finally, Ayane said, “I’ll see how Lord Dolobeka is doing. You should talk to the farmer’s wife. She might be willing to give us breakfast.” She slipped out of the room before he could say anything more. Not that he could think of anything to say.

  He couldn’t summon his usual charm, but the woman fed them a hearty breakfast anyway. Dolobeka tucked into his food with no indication he knew anything was wrong. Ayane ate lightly, as if she felt ill. Piercy made himself eat everything the farmer’s wife pressed on him, even though doing so made him feel ill.

  He distracted himself by hitching up the horses, who didn’t seem any the worse for their exertions in the rain the day before. The sky had a clear, sharp-edged quality to it, everything magnified by the millions of drops that clung to the eaves and the roof ridges, and Piercy took a deep breath of cool, damp air and wished it were enough to wash away the remnants of last night’s misery.

  He thanked the farmer’s wife, climbed up to the seat, and was surprised to see Ayane there. “I find it difficult to believe you want to share that seat with me,” he said.

  “You can’t guide this carriage alone without getting us lost. And I don’t want to sit with Lord Dolobeka because he keeps telling me what a terrible example of a Santerran noblewoman I am. You and I don’t have to talk.”

  “Very well,” Piercy said, and drove out of the yard, squelching through the mud that once more clung to the wheels and the horses’ legs. It felt as if the carriage was reluctant to press forward toward their goal, which was visible now that the rain and darkness were gone: a l
ine of trees in the near distance, still as sentinels guarding a hidden treasure.

  Telwyth Forest. It spread across northeastern Dalanine, untamed by man, the source of hundreds of stories and thousands of rumors of magic, darkness, and death. Piercy urged the horses onward nonetheless. Hodestis might already be inside, if he’d been able to cut across country the way they had.

  After a few awkward moments in which Piercy had to focus on the horses’ ears to stifle his awareness of the silent presence beside him, he said, “Are we still going in the direction Miss Tedoratis indicated?”

  “Angle more northward,” Ayane said, her voice still dull, and once again he had to stop himself from comforting her. There wasn’t any point in renewing last night’s argument. He steered the horses in the direction she indicated, and they continued in silence until she said, “I think we’ve gone seventeen miles now. Turn east.”

  He did so without comment, letting her count the distance, and divided his time between keeping the horses parallel to the forest and gazing at the forest itself. Their journey had brought them within about a hundred yards of the tree line, not quite close enough to make out the individual oaks that were the sole trees growing within Telwyth Forest. No wonder there were stories about its dark magic; there was no variation in its growth, and the trees sharply delineated the forest’s edge, as if someone had taken a razor and cut away everything beyond an invisible line. What did it look like from above, to the birds flying north for the summer? Or did birds avoid it as if that invisible line extended upward through the sky and beyond the clouds? How many other places of power might lie inside the forest that no one ever found because so few people dared venture into it?