Dewar watched, something tightening in his chest, as Prospero brushed fresh tears from her cheeks and kissed her eyes.
“Poor Puss, thy eyes are weary o’ weeping. Ban these tears. An oath’s an oath, my girl, and that the Emperor hath falsely sworn shall be to his injury in the end. All know’t, but he believeth himself above truth and honor and other human constraints. He that liveth faithlessly shall die the same, and ’twill be a glad day for the earth when his foot weighs no more on’t. Aye, I must hold to my word. Greater ill—’tis scarce conceivable—worser things should come of my breaking vow than keeping it. I have done what I could to protect thee, dearest of mine heart.”
“I don’t want you to give up sorcery,” Freia whispered. “It’s everything. You shouldn’t have to give up everything.”
“Well, I shall learn new tricks to fill my days,” Prospero said hollowly. “Puss, I cannot think on’t much, else it preys on my thought and devoureth it. Prithee speak not of’t. I cannot be unsworn. Mine oath is made in blood and fire and shall endure until all the world be unmade around us. I shall aid thee in governance of thy city and live as other men.”
“I don’t want a city! You know that. I never wanted a city.”
“No tears, no sighs. Hush. We shall all have things we do not want, Freia, burthens of undesirability unsurpassed. Thine be lighter than many others’. And canst not deny; ’tis sealed and entered in the Titles of Landuc. Bribery put it there, but nothing can remove it. No tears, I say; hast courage enough to fare into a wilderness, and must have courage to face what thou hast found.” He kissed her eyes again.
“Oh, Papa.” Freia hugged him around the neck. Dewar shifted his gaze to the fire’s dull coals, for a tear glittered on Prospero’s beard, and it was not hers.
“There’s my true brave maid, my nimble-footed huntress,” Prospero said, patting her back.
Freia sniffed once and sat back, half on his lap still. “Let’s go home,” she said.
“Needs must, Puss,” he said gravely. “There’s much I must do yet to fulfill my word.” He laid his hand on her cheek. “How came you here? Afoot?”
“Horses. Epona and Torrent. We half-killed them, poor creatures. I was walking them,” she recalled, and brushed her hair back.
“Find them—Hurricane’s got ’em, no doubt—bring ’em here. We’ll walk homeward some ways. There’s better resting places beyond this waste for man and beast alike.”
She nodded, rose, and went into the dark. They heard her whistling for the horses.
Prospero regarded Dewar by the ebbing coal-light. “I know not what to make of thee, boy.”
Dewar’s mouth twitched; he lifted an eyebrow. “I could take offense, sir.”
“Better, then: I know not what to make of thee, son.”
Dewar glanced after Freia, back to Prospero’s steel-colored gaze: less of steel than cloud in his eyes now. He sought words, but they slipped apart and would not connect to meanings. “You threw a war,” Dewar said.
“I’d not put it so,” said Prospero gruffly. “I’d say, a man doth not squander what be most precious—life’s-blood. Even in another’s body.”
“Would you have killed me?”
“Aye. Could have done, three times. Thou’rt unseasoned for the task thou hadst elected. I misliked to murder a promising fellow, at first, and learned more of thee as I could, and then bespoke thee. My kindness goes beyond my kin. I’d no stomach to oppose thee, that final day, to break thee and bind thee, and my honor had liever I defeat my enemies with a prince’s weapons and not a sorcerer’s. Belike canst not compass that, being wholly a sorcerer in thy nurture.”
“I have tried to be a gentleman as well,” Dewar said.
“Hast been more than gentle to thy sister, and my thanks to thee for’t. Hers she tenders slowly, o’er a lifetime. Forgets naught, returns tenfold any boon.”
“A lady,” Dewar said, smiling a little.
“She’ll deny the name hotly. What’s thy setting now? May ask?”
“I thought I’d go back with you,” Dewar said.
Prospero was silent.
“If you didn’t mind.”
Silence still.
“It seems to me that there may be some who seek to take advantage of what may look like a sudden opportunity,” Dewar tried to fill the silence, “and if they know I’m about, an adept, they’ll think twice. I know little of you, sir—of your enemies, your feuds—but I don’t engage in trade, and in the past I think I have served those whose causes I supported well, or well enough …” He lost the words, and they frittered away in the dark. A horse neighed.
Prospero’s eyes were fixed upon Dewar’s face. “A bond of friendship sufficed for thee when thou wert aside Ottaviano,” he said. “Thou’rt indeed a gentleman—and a sorcerer. An thou’lt be my son and my daughter’s brother, must accept that bonds of blood are weightier betimes than friendship’s golden links. My daughter’s my daughter, for all our life. So should be my son.”
“Family,” Dewar said, and he bit his lip.
“Or canst go from here on thy own course with all our due affection.”
“And leave you alone hereafter.”
The other countered gently, “Nay. But join us now, and—and ’twould mean much to me. For thou hast right, that there be harpies and vultures with old cuts to salve with fresh blood, and I fear for her safety in their frenzy more than for mine own. Bloodkin need not be a curse, e’en to a sorcerer. And to a gentleman, well—would any with sense be averse to claim even a prince o’er-thrown for parent?” Prospero’s voice was wry, his face near-invisible in the poor light.
Dewar heard horses thumping on the dry, hard ground, coming near from the other side of the fire. “A prince is a prince all his life,” he said, “even as a son is. I will go with you, the latter to the former.”
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Also by Elizabeth Willey
The Well-Favored Man (1993)
A Sorcerer and a Gentleman (1995)
The Price of Blood and Honor (1996)
Acknowledgements
The author is grateful to:
Mary Hopkins, Delia Sherman, Betsy Perry, Greer Gilman, Eluki bes Shahar, and Deborah Manning, whose warm friendship was not cooled by the drafts vented upon them;
Valerie Smith, for sometimes counsel and sometimes tea;
The National Science Foundation, the Office of Naval Research, the Sloan Foundation, the Department of Brain and Cognitive Sciences, and others who provided funding to the quondam Center for Biological Information Processing at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, enabling the author to eat and live indoors;
and most fundamentally, her husband.
To the Reader
Elizabeth Willey (1960- )
Elizabeth Willey was nominated for the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer in 1994 after the 1993 publication of The Well-Favored Man, her first novel. Using her collection of vintage guidebooks, she travels in real and imaginary places.
Copyright
A Gollancz eBook
Copyright © Elizabeth Willey 1995
All rights reserved.
The right of Elizabeth Willey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This eBook first published in 2018 by
Gollancz
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978 1 473 22469 8
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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