by Anne Leonard
“Most of it,” she answered.
“You didn’t lose your reputation, did you, being out so long?”
“Perhaps. No one saw me come back. They saw me get up, so I’m safe that way. I don’t care, you needed me.” A pause, then that twist to mischief that he loved. “I think I have a credible witness in your father.”
“I don’t deserve you,” he said. He realized he was sliding the dress off her shoulder, and he made himself pull it up. She caught his hand and pulled it down to her breast. He kissed her, pushing her down to lie on the bed. She did not resist. Her hands were at his waist.
Then he heard a motion outside the curtain and footsteps. He pulled them both to a stand and jerked his chin toward the door.
By the time Aram entered they were standing a discreet distance apart. The king had the air of a man who had been up and about for some time, and Corin felt slightly less worried. Then Aram glanced at Tam. Corin’s heart thudded.
She said, “He’s all yours, my lord, have at him,” bent her head, and backed away.
“No,” Corin said. “Wait.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said, and was gone. The curtain fell neatly into place behind her.
“She,” Aram said, “is one of the most sensible persons I have ever met. Far more than you. You should listen to her.”
“I know that, my lord,” he replied with lowered eyes and a lighter spirit. That was high praise from his father.
“Do you want to tell me what you were thinking?”
He had heard those words before, many times, though not for years. Aram wanted an answer, too; admitting guilt and accepting punishment did not suffice. He had to go point by point through his own folly. The words made him feel like a boy, but he supposed that was how he had acted. He was long past the age of being chastised by his parents, but he still was not the equal of the king.
Without much hope of convincing Aram of anything, he said, “Do you remember when your dog attacked me, sir?”
“Yes.”
“I know why now, sir.”
“Why?”
“The dragons.” He stumbled over the word.
His father said, not sternly, “Look at me, Corin.” No title, which was a good sign.
He raised his eyes.
Aram said, “I have been expecting this for a long time.”
“You have been expecting me to turn violent and act like a madman?”
The king’s lips twitched. “Not exactly. Sit down, we have to talk. Briefly. I need you at the council in an hour, and not dressed like that.”
Apparently he had been forgiven. He sat and picked up the coffee, still hot. Suddenly he was shaky.
Aram took a moment to settle himself, then said, “When you were very small, a few weeks at most, a dragonrider came with a birth-gift from Hadon. He looked at you for a long time, then looked up at me and said, The dragons will choose him. Keep him warm. That was all he would say. I had no idea what it meant—I still don’t—but I knew you would step into that world sometime. I have been wondering if it was happening since you came back. If that was why the dragons were watching you.”
He felt adrift, uncertain. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What would be the use?” Aram asked. “So you could spend your time chewing over it incessantly, wondering why the dragons wanted you, when it would happen, all those questions? You didn’t need to think about that. You needed to be an able and honorable man.”
Grudgingly, Corin admitted the truth of that to himself. He would have worried over it like a loose tooth, grown angry when nothing happened.
“I could have told you in the past few years,” Aram added. “But as you get older you’ll find, if you don’t already know, that the longer you don’t talk about something the harder it is to break the silence.”
“That’s why you wanted me to ride the dragon. Why you put Kelvan there.”
“It’s one reason I put him there. Not the only one.” He smiled ruefully. “As for the riding, I suppose I was trying to hurry things along, so we would know and be done with that part before war started. I might not have done it if I still trusted Hadon.”
“I’m the reason for the war,” Corin said flatly. “If you sent my dead body to Hadon, you would see Tyrekh fall almost immediately. Sarian troops would never make it through Argondy. He’s not just abandoning us, he’s using them to destroy me. You might as well kill me and save all the misery and blood.”
He paused, prepared himself. “When I was north, a dragonrider came to me and said the dragons had chosen me to free them from their slavery and that they would give me their powers. Firekeepers, he called them. He said Hadon knew it already and was starting the war because of it. He made me drink something, which I think now was dragon blood. And he said I would forget it all until the change had finished. Sika knew. Last night—last night I remembered. Look.” He extended his arm, palm upward. Fire danced above it, bending the air. He had known he could do it as he knew that he could close his eyes. “It was too much to bear last night.” Even saying that was hard, more than he was ready to face.
“I see,” Aram said, and Corin knew he did. He put down the cup, nearly empty, then once again put his face in his hands. His father did not touch him, which was the only thing that kept him steady.
After a bit he lowered his hands and said, “Now what?”
“You will make reparations to the man you hit out of your own funds. We’ll forget about the rest of it.”
“Yes, my lord,” he said, rising. It was more generous than he deserved or expected.
Aram stood. “I want you to be careful, Corin. No more jaunts outside the grounds without a good reason and a dozen men. If you really are a target, he might do anything.”
Rain, and men on horseback. Blood-dust. “I know. I will.”
“A message came in about an hour ago. There are ten thousand Imperial troops on boats headed for Dele. I’m going to need you all day.”
“Why is he only sending ten thousand troops?” Corin asked, puzzled. “That’s not enough no matter whom he intends to fight, us or the Sarians.”
“He’ll occupy the city and claim it is defense against the Sarians. Then we’ll have to decide whether to move against him or accept it. Either way we’re damned, or would be if I weren’t better at waiting. He’ll make a mistake.”
“Does he know yet that we don’t trust him?”
“He must have known when Kelvan returned with no message.” The king sighed. “No one has come from Tai’s husband yet, which concerns me. I sent a man at dawn.”
“Will you tell the lords about Tai now?”
“No. I think most of them have their doubts about Hadon’s fidelity—they can see the same things you and I do—but I need the time. We can’t confront him directly until she’s free.”
“So how are you going to convince them the ten thousand troops are enemies? They’ll think he’s keeping his promise to defend us.”
“I don’t need to convince them of anything now,” Aram said. “We have our men going. If we decide to fight, they’ll be there.”
“You can’t keep it secret forever, Father. Sooner or later they have to know for sure.”
Aram smiled coldly. “Yes,” he said, “but I’ll make Hadon blink first.”
Corin didn’t like it. There was no reason for his apprehension. His father was right, their choices were few regardless of what the council knew. The marshal was aware and planning. Hadon lacked Aram’s will. All the same, he was deeply uneasy. It was the same sense he had had since the north of slippage, error.
He had to be honest. “I don’t think we should wait,” he said. “I think we should move now. We’re giving him too much time. There’s no advantage in delay if he knows we don’t trust him.”
“What would you do? I can’t get either his men
or ours to Dele any faster.”
The hard truth was that he had no answer to that. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve nothing rational to offer. It feels like a mistake, that’s all. I should be going now, to do whatever it is the dragons want.” If Aram asked him where he would go, he had no answer to that either.
“It’s not time yet, Corin,” Aram said. “The dragons have waited centuries, they can wait a few more days until we have your sister. Don’t go rushing into this. You might trigger something else.”
“I’m not rushing. I’m being pulled.”
“You’re a man, not a slave. Not even to the dragons. Wait. I need you yet.”
So I’m your slave? he thought, and then was bitterly ashamed of himself. He knew better. He took a few deep breaths. He swallowed and spoke the most painful words he ever had. “You can’t let Caithen fall just to save my life. Or hers.”
He saw the grief on Aram’s face. Then his father said softly, “It wouldn’t work, Corin. Even if I gave you to him he wouldn’t send the men we need. He has his own sons to fend off. I won’t sacrifice my children for nothing.”
And that was the truth of it. Hadon sent ten thousand troops because he had no more if he wanted to keep his throne. That was why he was using Tyrekh.
“Yes,” he said. “Of course I’ll wait.”
“Thank you.” The king put a hand lightly on Corin’s forearm. He could not tell if it was for restraint or steadiness. “I don’t know how you found her,” Aram said, “but you would be a fool to lose her. Don’t do anything stupid. Use your own judgment about what to tell her.” He turned, looked back. “And for God’s sake be on time this morning.”
Corin was barely aware of leaving the room. He felt as though he had just been handed a grail.
The low evening sun slanted across the table, reddening the white cloth and putting a glow on the glasses and plates. Corin poured wine for both of them, then sat down. He was acutely aware of the delicacy of the situation. This room was both softer and more sumptuous than the Terrace Room, and though the door was open and guarded with a busy corridor outside, he felt he was exposing Tam as much as he would have in his bedroom. There were soft burgundy and gold hangings on the walls, and a long low velvet-covered divan that he had no trouble imagining uses for. Her dress did not help matters; the cut was entirely respectable, but the shimmering gold of the silk brought out the blue of her eyes even more and warmed her skin tone. She looked soft and touchable and splendidly elegant all at once. Her hair was wound around her head in a sleek braid.
She sipped and said, “I don’t merit the costly wine tonight?”
“How did you find out about that?”
“Apparently it made an impression on the wine steward.”
He should have expected that. It probably had been one of the most scintillating pieces of gossip in months. “I’ll cut out his tongue. I pushed my luck serving it to you once, I don’t dare do it again for months. You’ll have to be satisfied with the nectar of mere mortals.”
She raised her cup to him and said, “I would drink swill if it was you serving it to me,” and immediately reddened. He loved that about her. He lifted her hand and kissed it, then started as her foot caressed the side of his calf.
It was amazing. He knew she would not have been that forward with anyone else, perhaps not even if she’d been married to the man for ten years; she was perfectly decorous, and had all the manners of an accomplished young lady. None of that seemed to matter when it came to him. It made him think no less of her. He burned for her, and she for him, and it was as unstoppable as rain in spring.
Which did not mean he could not think about what the world saw, so here they were, with an open door and two guards doing duty as chaperones. Not even caring what was on his plate, he forked a mushroom and ate it, his eyes on her the entire time.
They talked in low voices. He had to force himself to be interesting; it had been a long day of talking over things and deciding very little. Once she fed him a bit of fruit directly from her fingers. He distracted himself with thoughts of tax rolls and salt measures. When they were done they left the table and she went immediately to the divan.
“Don’t sit there,” he said, biting his lip.
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t stand it.”
She leaned back on one elbow, reclining like an odalisque, then sat up and moved to a chair. His mouth was dry. He returned to the table, far enough away that she could not touch him, and drank hastily.
He finished the glass and poured himself another. He stared at it. Rich purple, almost black, but if he moved it into the light it would be clear as a gem. It was time. He admitted to himself that he did not want to tell Tam about the dragons, the memory, his father’s story. Hadon’s enmity. He did not want her to think him anything other than an ordinary man.
If he loved her, he owed her the truth, no matter how hard. He said, “I suppose the story about me making an ass of myself has spread everywhere by now.”
“Actually it hasn’t.” He must have looked surprised, because she said, “It was late, there were only a few people who saw, and they were all soldiers. They aren’t talking. You weren’t drunk, Corin, it was obvious there was something wrong.”
He swirled the wine in his glass. He imagined how it must have been for her to tell him about Cade’s death. The moths. She had had that courage. She was the bravest person he knew. “I had better start with the north,” he said. Then he told her almost everything there was left to tell, about the war, about Hadon, about himself. He told her what the dragonriders had said in the north and at his birth, about the cold and dark he had felt on the steps, about Liko, about the Myceneans at the docks. To his relief he no longer stumbled over words. He kept back only Tai’s captivity. He kept his head down, face away from her, for most of it. She asked few questions.
He finished. She came over and bent to kiss his cheek. He gripped her hand hard.
“Corin,” she said at last.
“What?”
“I’m still here.”
It was almost unbearable. He stood up and put his arms around her. Neither of them moved or spoke. She kissed him. All their kisses had been different, and so was this one. Confident, but not enticing.
Finally she stepped back. “What happened after I left you this morning? Were you flayed alive?”
“Not at all.” He had not had much opportunity to think about how to tell her. She would not want to hear it. “Did you tell my father anything about last night?”
She looked uncomfortable. “I shouldn’t have said it, I couldn’t help myself. I was too worried. He asked what happened to you and I told him you had seen the dragon in the mirror. He asked if I had and I said yes. That was all. Why?”
Not much, but enough. She probably did not even realize how fearless she had been to say those things. Aram would have, though.
“I think you softened him up,” he said.
“I did?” Her tone was truly surprised.
“He was much kinder than I deserved, which has to have been for your sake, not mine.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You kept your head, Tam, instead of falling to pieces. He respects that.”
She fidgeted with a decorative button on her skirt. He realized she wasn’t going to say anything else about it. “Should you have told me everything you did?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I need your thoughts.”
“You want me to feel useful.”
“Trusted.”
“I know you trust me, Corin,” she said. She walked to the window. The light of the sun made her dress shine and showed the soft hairs escaping from the braid. “You have shown that abundantly. This is different. It’s not my place to advise you.”
It struck him in the heart. He went to her. “Tam,” he said. “Tam W
arin. Look at me.”
Slowly, reluctantly, she turned. He put his hand on her cheek. “Your place is with me as long as you want it. Entirely.”
“How can I tell you what to do? You can’t make me privy to state secrets.”
“I can.”
“Your father . . .”
If he gave her the bald truth, exactly what Aram had said, it would be too much for her. She was confident and strong and not fooled by pomp, but she respected power. Carefully, gently, he kissed her. “He said I could tell you whatever I wished, Tam. I’m not spilling things I should not be spilling. I’m not asking you to do anything you shouldn’t.”
“He trusts you not to be fooled by my wiles?”
It was jokingly said, but he heard the worry behind it. “Tam,” he said. “It’s not that he trusts me not to be fooled, but that he trusts you not to be fooling me. Don’t doubt you have his favor. He told me not to lose you, do you understand?”
She stepped back, her hand over her mouth. “I can’t—Corin, what does that mean?”
“It means what we want it to mean,” he said softly. Except for the one unalterable condition.
Tears sprang to her eyes. They glistened. He wanted to touch her but she had to come through this herself. She swallowed. Then, as he had seen her do before, she drew herself together.
“In that case I want the better wine,” she said.
“You little devil,” he said, relieved. If she had to make a jest of it to keep her footing, he didn’t mind. It was better than running. How hard it must be for her to push her way through the thickets of the court only to find herself in the center of them with him.
He took her hand. “Will you walk with me?”
“Where?” she asked.
To my bedroom, he thought. “About.”
“The garden?”
She sounded anxious. It would be the most public he had been with her. He knew he was challenging her.
“No,” he said. “I’m not that much of a fool. The only woman here I could walk alone with in the garden after dark is my mother. And the insects can be bad this time of year. But I can show you the palace. Bring you to the places no visitor is allowed. I warn you though that most of them are dull and look like one another. Say no if you don’t want to, Tam, we can stay here. But I haven’t the time to take you anywhere in town.”