I banished such thoughts from my head by looking again at his letter, tracing some of the words with my fingers. “Oh, Jarik,” I whispered, “you shouldn’t have done this.” Silently I continued, Perhaps it was an error to turn your back on Kasha, but you are human, and people make mistakes! I would never have condemned you for this. I love you so much, my sweet Champion. Why must you judge yourself so harshly? Nobody else does. Keshaerlan is a weaker nation without you, my love.
“My Jarik.”
I cuddled the pillow as though it were him with me, as he had held me in bed at the cottage. For a moment, I almost felt his arms around me. I could almost feel his warmth, catch his scent, and hear his breath. Then the brief sensation passed, and I wept alone.
* * *
Though I still cried for him in the days thereafter, it was more because I missed him than out of depression. By the end of the month of mourning, I was even able to speak of him at times without shedding tears.
After the mourning period, Kurit took on the task of collecting Jarik’s things and cleaning out his chambers. I offered to help, but I was still weak at times, and Kurit wouldn’t hear of it. I think perhaps he also wished to be alone in his cousin’s chambers, to say goodbye in his own way.
Late in the day, Kurit came to my receiving chamber where I sat quietly alone with my thoughts. I could tell that he had been weeping, and I smiled sadly at him. He sat beside me and held me after setting a small box upon the table nearby.
Eventually I asked, “What is in the box?”
Kurit pulled out of the embrace, kissing my cheek softly as he went. “It is something I found in Jarik’s drawer. I think …” Tears welled up in his eyes, and he gulped to continue speaking. “I think you may wish to keep it as a memory of him.”
Kurit reached to the table and handed the small wooden box to me. It had a small brass latch, but there was no lock upon it. I lifted the latch and gently pulled open the hinged lid.
There, lying couched in deep blue velvet, was a dried flower with a green hair ribbon tied around it. My breath was knocked from me as I realized it was the silly little “prize” I had given Jarik on my wedding day when he won the right to be my Champion. This great warrior, a strong man of armour and weapons, had tenderly preserved and kept my little gift.
“I can’t believe he kept it,” Kurit said. “He was always so unconcerned with mementos and such frivolities. He didn’t even save the love letters that he received from the women he bedded. I remember him telling me once that all objects lose their meaning once the moment attached to them has passed.”
“And yet, he kept my silly little gift as though it was his most prized possession,” I said through my tears.
Kurit whispered in a voice rough with sadness, “Probably because it was, because the moment never passed.”
Chapter 27
TODAY AS I FINISH these writings, I have beside me on my desk Jarik’s box with the flower and ribbon. I do not open the box often these days, as I fear the flower shall turn to dust if I let the air at it too much. But I keep the box near me a great deal and frequently wonder how often Jarik opened it. Did he look at that flower every night? Or perhaps only when he particularly longed for me? Or when he was sad for my pains?
It has been four years since he died. There has not been a day gone by that I have not thought of him at least once. I know it sounds self-centred, but I wish that I could tell him of every little part of my day. I want him to know when I laugh and when I weep. Sometimes I believe that he does, but mostly I feel only his absence.
Though I recovered from the stabbing and poisoning, the illness and possibly the ensuing sadness have left me physically weaker than I once was. I surely could not carry trays full of ale in a crowded inn today. My left arm does not function properly. I can move it but can lift it no higher than almost parallel to the ground. My left hand is quite weak, and I learned quickly that it was unwise to trust it to carry anything that might break.
The scar of Kasha’s blade is a line over the scar that was already there from the crossbow bolt, so long ago. I also of course have a small, sunken scar on my lower throat, though I can speak and eat perfectly well. All my dresses cover my scars, and Kurit kindly pretends he does not see them when I am naked in his arms.
We re-initiated our intimacy several months after Jarik’s death. I shall never forget that night. Kurit had Leiset find the nightdress I had worn on our wedding night. I put it on, knowing something romantic was afoot. Sure enough, when he came to my bedchamber, he bade me close my eyes as he led me into his.
When he said that I could open them, I did so and found that he had lit candles all over his room, just as he had at the cottage on our wedding night. I was moved to tears by the gesture—tears which he gently kissed away before kissing my lips tenderly and taking me to his bed.
We have shared a bed almost every night since and made love quite often. Of course, our renewed intimacy has led to the births of our other two children.
Raelik, now seven years of age, must have been affected in his young life by the tragic events around him, for although he is bright and usually cheery, at times he becomes pensive and worries a great deal about the people that matter to him. He is very sensitive to arguments, and though he has the wit to hold his own in a debate, the process wears him down and it is clear he’d rather avoid confrontation. Kurit says he’s like his grandfather in that.
Our red-haired little daughter Kaelinna is now three years old and very much the opposite of her older brother. She is a fiery child—neither mean nor cruel, I have seen to that, but she has a terrible temper. For such a small child, she has an amazing sense of order and efficiency and so regularly reorganizes her toys that her nurse has rarely had to clean up after her. She becomes indignant at disorder, and I worry that she is not enough of a child to enjoy life before it is time to really worry about such things. She is extremely overprotective of Raelik, stamping her little feet when she sees him in one of his sombre moods. She has no time for cuddling and other parental affections, yet she has an acute need for approval from her parents.
Then there is you, little Jarik, for whom I write this tale. You’re only now beginning to walk your first steps, and already you are so like the man for whom you were named. You have a sweet little smile and such strong little arms. I worry that you’ll pull yourself up over a wall if I turn my back on you for a moment! And you cannot stand to see me upset for any reason. Oh, how you howled your little heart out when I stumbled from fatigue last month and twisted my ankle!
Seeing you like that, my little son, I suspect even further that Leiset’s fanciful notion of my Champion’s soul living on in me must be wrong, for some part of him clearly lives in you. I see his love in your eyes, and at times I am moved to tears by it. I know, however, that I must learn to control this, for it makes you cry yourself, and that breaks my heart.
When we registered your name with the palace scribes, I was horrified to learn that the only official record of my Champion was a birth record, the date he was sent to live in the palace, and the date and cause of his death. There was no mention of what a wonderful human being he was, how he touched so many lives with his kindness and devotion to his principles. There was not even mention of him as my Champion—an oversight that had me in a foul temper indeed. I could not bear the idea that you might not know that you are in this world because this good man saved my life and soul.
I hope to tell you these things when you are old enough to understand them, that Jarik’s story may inspire you to reach for nobility in your own life and inspire your brother and sister as well. But I cannot take the chance that I might not live long enough to do so. There is no way to tell how damaged I am beneath the surface, nor whether or not my persistent fatigue and weakness is the only long term effect of the poisoning, nor if I might die an early death because of a future complication.
So, my dear son Jarik, I write this to you, that you will know the full story of the man after
whom you are named. I have endeavoured to write without bias and sincerely hope my blunt honesty in both the sensual and tragic parts of the tale do not offend you. I wanted to be forthright in everything so you would understand what motivated us in our choices, even if many of those choices were ill-made. I suspect reading of your mother’s desires may be difficult, but I thought it necessary that you understand that I foolishly let those desires dictate my behaviour.
I also hope you do not condemn your father for his early failings, for he has never once to my knowledge gone back on his words of love and promise. I have learned that he prayed to the Gods when he thought me to be dying. He bargained that if I lived, he would never ingest so much as a drop of alcohol for the rest of his life. When a new servant unwittingly poured wine in his dinner cup last year and he inadvertently put it to his lips, he stood quickly in horror, dropping the cup and its contents on the table.
Kurit was furious, though he had not actually taken any of the drink into his mouth. For weeks after, he followed me around at every moment, desperately afraid that the Gods would punish him by having me drop dead or be snatched away again.
He has worked very hard to be an honourable man in all things, and he has, in my opinion, succeeded. He is a good husband, father, and King, and if the people ever knew of his transgressions they seem not to care. In time, I told him further details of what had happened between Jarik and I, including how my Champion had brought me to ecstasy by the lake. He was upset that Jarik had spoken around that incident in their last conversation, and he was jealous for a time that Jarik had indeed pleased me. But he did not throw a fit, nor did he utter harsh words at me. He soon let the matter fall into the past, where it belongs.
Also in time and despite my protests, Kurit demanded that I be assigned a new Champion. A tournament was held, but I could not bear to attend. This time, being a little older and more skilled, the young man who had come to blows with Jarik for the title won the tournament. Kurit brought Zajen to me, and the good fellow knelt before me abjectly. He apologized to me, and when I asked what he was sorry for, he explained that he knew I still mourned the loss of the great warrior Jarik who had been my Champion and that he knew also I had not wanted a replacement.
His head bowed, Zajen told me that he revered me and respected my feelings in this. He offered to not take the title of Queen’s Champion, but to serve without title to protect me from harm, if I approved.
I told him that the title was rightly his, and his kindness warmed my heart. I asked only that he understand that I myself could not use the word Champion to mean anyone other than Jarik. He nodded and thanked me.
Since then, he has proven himself to be worthy of the title, though I still do not speak it myself. He is as watchful and attentive as Jarik ever was, though he keeps a respectful emotional distance. I have found him to be a very good and kind man. Though I often feel guilty for not calling him by his rightful title or even allowing him to be a close friend, I know that it is best to not push myself into acts and emotions that would undoubtedly cause me pain. Furthermore, I am fairly certain that Zajen is happiest knowing that he serves well and without causing me heartache.
When the weather is suitable and I am feeling well, Zajen escorts me to the marketplace. I often bring Raelik with me, that he might maintain a connection with the people outside of the palace. That is still of great importance to me. Though the marketplace in and of itself has not cured all poverty in Endren, it is a modest economic success, and Cael is already planning a similar project in Staelorn.
Though my life is now a happy one, with a loving husband and three wonderful children, I still feel an empty space where Jarik ought to be. I have not stopped loving him, nor do I imagine that I ever shall. I muse often on how bards sing of great loves between two people and never sing of love between three. For I know now that I loved both Jarik and Kurit equally, and I still do. I know also that they both love me, and, despite the terrible words exchanged in those unpleasant times, I know they loved each other as well.
I often grow wistful when I think of Jarik and miss him. I have observed the same at times in Kurit’s eyes as well. I have many times pondered why it is that love is said to be the most wonderful emotion, yet the sorrows of adoration are the deepest pains that one can experience.
But then when I see the joy in my children’s eyes, or feel the warm embrace of my beloved Kurit, I understand that these sorrows run so deep because they are so far removed from and yet entwined with the elation of love.
Though I shall never fully recover from the pain of losing my beloved Champion, I know that some part of him lives on. It is in you, my son. You shall grow to be your own man, but a piece of your heart was once part of the soul of another, and he lives with your every breath.
I know in my heart that the rest of Jarik’s soul stands on the path to the Everafter, watching over me as attentively as he ever did whilst alive. I pray nightly that when it is my time to join him there, I shall be allowed to fall into his loving arms. And when Kurit joins us as well, I pray that we might all shed the constrictions of social bonds and propriety and all exist freely in love and delight with one another for all of eternity.
~ The End ~
Special Thanks
To Richard McAteer and Tim Chew for their help and advice regarding armour and weaponry;
To Margaret Plumbo and www.parentsplace.com for information on childbirth and the early days of an infant’s life;
To Dr. Ian Davis for medical information on tracheotomies;
To the denizens of rec.humor.oracle.d and alt.pub.kacees for their interest and support back in the days of usenet when this was first published;
To Susan Kerbel, Anne Kerbel, Matt Kerbel, and Corran Webster for reading the manuscript and giving me their honest opinions about the story as well as finding embarrassing typos;
To Nathalie Moore, who designed the cover for the original printing and graciously gave me rights to reuse it before she passed away;
And to my excellent editor Karen Babcock for her work on this when it was originally published and for reformatting it for this re-release.
Jason Truitt has wealth and power but for over a century hasn’t been able to locate the one woman he believes shares his immortality. Unsure of her real name, he thinks of her as Gaia because of her ability to grow plants by thought alone. Finding her, however, is only the beginning: decades of loss, isolation, abduction, and unspeakable torture have left her unsure of who, what, or when she is. Read their story:
Finding Gaia
Chapter 1
“THANK YOU, JUDY,” Jason said as his secretary set the tea tray on his desk and left the room.
He put his digital reader down and rubbed his eyes. He missed real paper, but he’d been much advised years before that it simply didn’t do for the owner of one of the world’s largest environmental conglomerates to be seen reading newspapers and magazines anymore. Thus, he’d instituted a company-wide policy against printed reports and distributed the readers to all staff; true comfort came only at home every evening when he indulged in the texture and scent of his old books.
He picked up his cup and sipped without prior inspection, knowing Judy would have made it to his exacting specifications. When he’d insisted on putting “Must be able to make a proper cup of tea” in the job description after Mrs. Carron had retired the previous year, Trish had told him it was sexist. He’d argued that what was sexist was Victorian ladies stealing the idea of manly tea away by wrapping it in lace and putting ridiculously small sandwiches on the side. He told Trish it always took far too long to train Americans on how to make it right, and he didn’t want to have to go through it all again. He also said he didn’t care if a man got the job so long as he could take care of the myriad tasks required of a modern secretary and get the damned tea made as well.
Jason leaned back in his chair with a smug little grin. He liked it when he was right and Trish was wrong. Judy had worked out perfectly, as did th
e tea, and life was as good as could be expected.
On his third sip, his office door burst open. The shock would have made most spill their tea, but Jason’s hands had acquired unnatural steadiness over the centuries.
“Bloody hell, Don,” he muttered. “It’s 3:34.”
“Jason! You won’t believe it!”
“I believe that it is tea time and you ought to know better.”
Don shut the door behind him and hurried to Jason’s desk, where he plopped his old, beloved workhorse computer down as he asked, “Better about what?”
Jason pointed to the clock.
Don looked at it in confusion for a moment and then shook his head. “This is better than tea time. I’ve found her! I think.”
Jason glared. “Trish? She’s back from her meeting and in her office. Go bother her there. Leave me alone until 3:45.”
Don pulled a chair up. “No, not Trish. Gaia.”
That name did make Jason’s hands shake for a second. He set his tea down. “That’s not a subject to be joked about,” he said darkly.
“When have I ever told a joke at work? Successfully?”
Jason continued to glare at him, but the scientist paid no heed to his wrath, as was often the case. He kept tapping at his keyboard frenetically while explaining, “I was going over some stuff from one of the west coast biotech labs, and something was not right, so I checked it out and …” Don trailed off mid-thought, which also happened frequently.
“Don,” Jason prompted.
“What? Right, sorry. I’m still piecing it together, but I think I’ve found her, or someone like her, or something. I’m not sure. Well, sure enough to come tell you but not sure enough to be really sure.”
Sorrows of Adoration Page 53