The Lion of Farside tlof-1

by John Dalmas

  Sarulin had already decided to escape and start a rebel movement, and with her powers, she'd known almost as soon as it happened that she'd conceived. So she'd undertaken to manipulate the microscopic creature in her uterus to produce a multiple birth, something that had never been tried before, and she'd succeeded. Then she'd run away with her master's discontented son, also very gifted.

  Or so the story went, and the truth might well have been something like that.

  Varia wondered again what A'duaill's questions had been. Had he learned how fertile her clone was? That among the Sisterhood, multiple births were a learned skill? Had he learned how it was done? Was that why she'd been brought here?

  She had her audience with him that afternoon, and didn't ask any of those questions. Perhaps later, but just now… Her loyalty to the Sisterhood had been battered since her kidnapping from Farside. But on the other hand, while clearly the ylver were not an evil race, they had their Quaies in high places. Thus she didn't want them learning to do what Sisters routinely did-produce litters.

  If A'duaill hadn't learned about this already, to ask would result in another interrogation. Then he'd surely know.

  So she asked instead how such interrogations were done. When the person was deeply enough in trance, he said, they'd answer any question, if it was skillfully put. The trick was to ask the right questions. This he did by reading the aura. A skilled questioner could see and interpret its responses to questions, and use them, along with the answers, to guide further questioning.

  "And what will the result be of our session together?" Varia asked. "What is my status here now?"

  "My lady, you are still the Cyncaidh's honored guest. Beyond that, you'll have to ask him."

  "Honored guest? I'd thought of myself as his well-treated prisoner."

  A'duaill seemed honestly pained at that; troubled at least. "I can see why you might think so, my lady. Let me suggest that you speak with Lady Mariil about it. The Cyncaidh is involved for the rest of the day, and I know that Lady Mariil hoped to talk with you after supper, her strength permitting. She's resting just now; sleeping I suspect. The day has taxed her quite severely."

  Varia returned to Cyncaidh's study looking forward to the evening. It seemed to her she was getting close to learning what she needed to know. The trick would be to make an ally of Mariil. Perhaps they'd agree to let her go through and bring Curtis back with her. To the empire. If they wanted her as a brood mare, maybe they'd be interested in another unusually fertile blood line-fertile by the standards of ylver and the Sisterhood. She'd promise it, if necessary. But what she and Curtis decided when they were together again might be another matter.

  The book she pulled from a shelf was The Western Empire, from the Reign of Braighn the Red to the Time of Troubles. She found it fascinating, not least to learn that among this raven-haired people there'd been redheads well before Sarulin and her captor, notably Braighn the First. Who was fascinating, although the ylver he ruled might have used another adjective. If Sarulin was of Braighn's lineage, it would explain her ruthless strength as well as her red hair.

  From time to time, Varia encountered something in its pages that brought her own situation to mind. Affairs and jealousies had played significant roles in ylvin politics then. Probably they still did. And apparently, Cyncaidh wanted, intended, to make her his mistress. Apparently Mariil knew it-apparently the household staff did too-and approved. Certainly the family Cyncaidh would want an heir, preferably male, and preferably of fertile lineage, with demonstrated talent. From what she'd read these last two days, adoption was often resorted to, though historically, adopted sons were less readily accepted in matters of political power.

  What would the Cyncaidh and Mariil think of Curtis Macurdy as a sire to adoptive children? Unfortunately, Curtis showed no clear ylvin traits, aside from his untrained talent and minimal body hair. Her tentative optimism of earlier that day looked-unwarranted-given what she'd just read.

  Still she'd present the idea, and see what the response was.

  She wasn't good company for Ardain at supper. Being company for Ardain isn't your job, she reminded herself, then wondered what was. When they'd finished dessert and she still hadn't heard from Mariil, she decided to have a hot bath, and dismissed Ardain for the day. When she'd finished bathing, she dressed in her uniform again, and was sitting on her balcony appreciating the sunset, when someone rapped. The steward this time.

  "Lady Varia," he said, "the Lady Mariil would be pleased to have your company in her suite. In twenty minutes, if that's suitable."

  Why not now? she asked herself. As if I haven't waited long enough already. She shook the thought off irritatedly. Don't be petty, Varia Macurdy. She gave you the twenty minutes so you could be ready without hurrying.

  "Thank you. Do I go myself, or-?"

  "Annith will come for you, if that's all right my lady."

  "That'll be fine."

  He turned and left. Twenty minutes. Her eyes lit on the dress that had been hung for her that morning; she'd had Ardain leave it out. That, she thought. I'll wear it. Dressed as a soldier, I invite orders. Let her see me as a woman like herself.

  She took off her uniform, then her underclothes, and looked at herself in the mirror. She'd grown up among Sisters where youth seemed almost eternal. But among them, on the onset of decline, a Sister was removed from the community, sent to spend her remaining five to ten years at a retreat "in the south," where no one visited. A practice that grew out of Sarkia's unwillingness to confront the loss of vigor and life, Varia thought wryly. At least the ylver honored their elderly.

  As for herself-her critical eyes could find no fault with what she saw. Mother of forty-three, wife of two, and abused repeatedly by a squad of Tigers for how many months. The correct ylvin genes, unhindered by counter-beliefs, healed most wounds short of mutilation or death. You still look twenty, she told herself. Except for the eyes and aura, I suppose, and most don't confront the one or see the other. So here you are, coveted as a brood mare by an ylvin high noble.

  She dressed and looked again. It wasn't a formal gown, but a dinner frock. Still, she'd never had so nice a dress in her life before, not even for her first wedding. She didn't pirouette in it though, just looked. God, she thought, I'm beautiful after all. Truly beautiful, except for that wretched short hair. Curtis, oh Curtis, I wish you could see me in this.

  She felt the damned tears begin to well, and would have changed back into her uniform, except for the knock at her door.

  "Come," she said. Mariil's nurse opened it, and Varia left with her, to the east wing and Lady Cyncaidh's suite. Mariil looked up when they entered, and her expression softened visibly when she saw Varia in the frock. She didn't stand, but motioned Varia to a chair in front of hers. "You are truly beautiful," she said softly. "More beautiful than I realized."

  "You wanted to talk to me."

  Mariil nodded. "To you, with you, about you. I've read the transcript of your interrogation, and there was much personal history in it. You are-even more remarkable than I'd appreciated. Even stronger. Raien had already told me what he knew of you-how he found you after your flight through the wilderness; of your assault on him when he wouldn't free you to find your Curtis; and of your swim. I was impressed. But the things we learned through A'duaill…"

  "I trust there was more to it than my life history."

  "Much more. Much of use to Raien in planning."

  "Planning?"

  Mariil shook her head. "We could talk about that for days. And will, I hope. Just now I want to talk about you and Raien."

  "Your husband."

  "My husband. The man I've loved since I first saw him when he was what he looks now to be: a youth in his early twenties." She smiled at Varia then. "I was seventy-two, and quite lovely. At least I thought so, and I'd been hearing it all my life. My first husband was a pleasant and thoughtful man, if a bit careless with the maids, but Raien-And Erig was in decline.

  "Raien, it seemed, w
as as smitten with me as I with him. I was much older, of course, and we knew that barring violence or accident, the time would come…" She gestured to herself. "The time would come that has."

  Varia kept aloof, as best she could. "And you've produced no heir in those thirty or so years."

  "Twenty-nine years last equinox."

  "You've had the man you love for twenty-nine years. I had mine for a few weeks."

  The reply seemed to shrink Mariil, and for a long moment she didn't answer, then nodded. "But it wouldn't work," she said, "even if you could reach him. Your Dynast knows only that you fled. And where to? To Curtis Macurdy or your death." Again Mariil paused. "Your Dynast is ancient and unrelenting. She doesn't easily give up what she thinks of as hers. She'd send someone after you. Idri perhaps."

  The thought jarred Varia. She'd recognized the possibility once, then pushed it away out of sight. Oregon. Suppose they went to Oregon. Could Idri sniff her out so far? Could a tracker?

  "Your Dynast still has allies," Mariil was saying. "She'll have sent Idri to Oz, with a strong escort from some friendly king, probably Gurtho of Tekalos. With a request to hold you, if you showed up. But not to Ferny Cove; that would be too dangerous."

  Mariil's expression was bleak, grim. "Then Idri would go through the Oz Gate with three or four guardsmen to hunt you, and if you'd gotten through, you'd be taken, you and your Curtis. Unless he fought. Then he'd be killed."

  Unless he fought. And he would. But he wasn't trained to it; and probably they'd catch him with no weapon. Varia felt herself taut, vibrating like a fiddle string.

  "The Cyncaidh could take me there," she said. The words tumbled out of her more rapidly than she'd intended. "With a company of soldiers. Let me get Curtis and bring him through. Then we could live here-you could let us have a servant's cottage-and produce sons and daughters for you. You could choose one of them to adopt. Or more than one."

  Mariil shook her head slowly. The discussion and emotions had taxed her strength. "It wouldn't work," she said. "Not for the Cyncaidh, and not for you. It was possible for him to slip around in the Rude Lands with a few half-ylver who could pass as locals. But to ride in with a company-they'd hardly come back alive, certainly not from Ferny Cove. Your captured Sisters weren't the only ones savaged there. The fighting was fierce, and Quaie took no prisoners. Vertorus was quartered, and his body thrown to the dogs. His sole surviving son, Keltorus, has sworn his enmity forever, though being an ill-tongued drunkard of a short-lived family, his forever might be shorter than he thinks. He's ordered that no Sister be allowed within the borders of Kormehr, and any trespass be referred to him for punishment. I can guess what it would be-death, but not quick."

  Frowning, Varia gnawed a lip. "And you want me for a brood mare, for Cyncaidh himself to sire his sons on."

  "We want you to be Lady Cyncaidh."

  Varia stared. "His wife?"

  "His wife. I'm in the process of dying, as you see. And he needs more than heirs. To have a blood heir is desirable, but Raien wants and deserves more than that, believe me."

  She paused, seeming to gather strength. "Besides, my dear, he loves you." Again she paused. "I'm an old soul, Varia, with many earlier lifetimes whispering to me. Wisps of wisdom, when I manage to hear and recognize them. And I have no doubt you were born to this. I'll be dead within months. I've been declining for more than seven years now, and am very near the end. The Cyncaidh, on the other hand, is fifty-three, and his line tends to longer lives than most."

  She paused, looking piercingly at Varia. "Not that I'm useless yet; certainly not to you. I'm a healer of the spirit, and yours has cruel wounds, not healed, just scarred over." She waved a hand as if impatient with herself. "Back to the issue. Like myself, the Emperor's Chief Counselor has reached his decline, though he may continue in office for another year or three. And the Cyncaidh is likeliest to replace him, for when Paedhrig was Chief Counselor, and Raien his aide, they were haft and blade, two parts of one instrument.

  "Our Emperor is eighty-four himself now, and the Diet most often elects the Chief Counselor to the throne, if he's served well. But meanwhile, as Chief Counselor, Raien would start a healing. More than a healing: the spread of trade and learning and peace in the Rude Lands-something made more difficult by that lunatic Quaie. Peace even with the Sisterhood; Sarkia can't live forever. And closer at hand, he'd promote civility within the empire."

  Varia shook her head, not disagreeing but overwhelmed-this was too much too fast.

  "Meanwhile he's taken no mistress during my decline, though I've suggested it to him. Until he knew you, there was none he wanted." Mariil got laboriously to her feet. "Come, Varia. I'm tired. Even talking tires me these days. And a go-between should take such matters only so far. Let him ask you himself."

  As if hypnotized again, Varia stood. "There is something else I must tell you," Mariil said. "Something he cannot and would not. That he is a very good man: kind, considerate, and loving. He is still loving to me. Not in bed of course, bag of bones that I am. Let him remember what I was like in bed in decades past: smooth and supple and full of life." She put her hand on the door handle. "Hmh! I ramble."

  Together they walked down the hall to the Cyncaidh's private apartment, and Mariil knocked.

  "Come!"

  Before she touched the handle, she turned and kissed Varia's cheek, a quick dry touch. "I hope you'll be happy, whatever you decide." Then she opened, turned away, and left Varia standing there alone. The Cyncaidh had gotten to his feet and started to the door. He too had exchanged his uniform for less formal wear.

  He stopped in his tracks. "God," he breathed. "Varia, you're beautiful!"

  She looked down at herself, then at him.

  "Come in! Come in!" he said. She did, and he closed the door behind her. "Mariil's told you what I want?"

  "Yes."

  "That I want you as my wife, when she's gone? And as my mistress now?"

  "The first, yes. The latter she implied."

  Reaching, he touched her cheek. "I fell in love with you when I first saw you on that mountain pass, deep inside the Rude Lands."

  Varia's voice was quiet, almost emotionless. "There are beautiful ylvin women who'd bring a dowry of wealth and connections."

  "I know. Since Mariil's decline became known, a few have courted me, or their fathers or brothers have. But it's you I want to spend my life with. I have no doubt it's our destiny, for I wanted you before I really knew you." He chuckled. "I wanted you when your face and clothes were grimy, and your hair only this long." He indicated half an inch.

  Varia failed to smile. "Before you really knew me. Do you know me yet? Really?"

  He sobered. "I think I do. I've been on the trail with you. Seen you under stress, seen your aura, and read the transcript of A'duaill's interrogation. And beyond that, there's a knowing that goes deeper than seeing."

  "You know I love someone else."

  "I do know, and I'm content with it. He must be good, for you to love him."

  Good and innocent. But I wonder how Curtis would feel to share me with you. Though I've been overshared already, if not of my own will.

  The Cyncaidh put a hand on her waist then, and gently but firmly drew her close. She did not resist. "It is my wish," he said, "to love you so long as we both shall live."

  So long as we both shall live. She'd heard those words before, in English. Had said them. Tears began to flow, silent as always. Cyncaidh kissed first them, then her lips, and she responded the way she'd feared she might.

  She did not return to her room that night, nor on any night thereafter.

  16: Reflections in a Prenuptial Bed

  " ^ "

  General Lord Raien Cyncaidh lay on his side, staring motionless at the glowing coals in his fireplace. This far north, a night fire was usual in summer, and rather often, when he was at home, he let watching it lull him to sleep.

  Tonight, though, he felt no sleepiness at all, despite more than an hour of love-making. Go
od love-making, it seemed to him. It had gripped him, lifted him, held him aloft, then spent him. Twice. The first time it hadn't worked for Varia, though it had started well; Curtis Macurdy had gotten in the way. But the second time she'd climaxed despite herself, with urgent movements and sharp cries, her strong clutching fingers digging hard in his back.

  Then his joy had turned to dismay, for her climax ended in tears and bitter sobbing. "Curtis," she'd wept, "oh Curtis, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Over and over, till she'd run down and slept.

  Earlier, when they'd stood in his parlor and kissed, when they'd come into this room and undressed, and gazed at each other, and when he'd caressed her and she'd begun to move beneath his hands, it had promised to be one of the most beautiful, fulfilling nights of his life. And when at last they'd merged in climax, it seemed the promise had been met.

  He hadn't imagined it might affect her as it did. He'd thought that once she'd consented, everything would be beautiful. And she did love him; over the weeks, he'd seen it in her aura. But not tonight; tonight there'd been first despair, then yielding, participation, and at length passion. But not love. And afterward-afterward guilt and grief. Obviously, as she saw it, she'd betrayed not only her husband on Farside, but her dreams and her sense of loyalty.

  They'd caught her between them, he and Mariil, in a sense had trapped her, then worked on her from both sides. They'd broken her dream of reaching Curtis Macurdy, taken away her hope, then had set himself before her as her only option.

  Even Mariil hadn't foreseen the result, he was sure.

  After all that had happened to her-imprisonment, fists, knife tips, raped nightly for months-they hadn't imagined that this evening with him, whom she loved, would cause her grief. But in the Tiger barracks, helpless and brutalized, she'd withheld herself in mind and spirit. While tonight she'd given herself: body and soul. That was the difference, he had no doubt. It was giving herself that spawned remorse and grief.