“Ceralt. I shall say what I must say before she returns,” I heard, no humor to the tone of the male warrior. “I know not what has occurred between the two of you, but I tell you now that should you continue to treat her so, she shall soon grow to hate the very sight of you.”
A brief silence passed after the words of Telion, and then Ceralt spoke, quietly and with a great weariness. “She has already grown to hate me,” he said quite simply, “and that is exactly what I wish her to do.”
“But, why, man?” Telion burst out, with a bewilderment to match my own. “She had begun to feel love for you, a love I thought would match yours for her! Why do you now seek her hate?”
“It is all rather simple,” Ceralt replied, and I felt that he held his voice even only through effort. “Lialt has searched the Snows many times since my return from Ranistard, and each time he searches, the more convinced he becomes—there is almost no chance of my living to return from Sigurr’s Altar, yet Jalav will live—and continue to thrive. Had I allowed her love to grow as I so achingly wished to do, she would have been left to mourn and grieve for me—and even, perhaps, to seek vengeance for my death—and that I will not have. I now humiliate and shame her in every way I might so that pleasure will come to her at my death, not pain. Such an end is worth the price I pay.”
“This cannot be so!” Telion protested, and I heard the sound of movement. “And even should it be true, it makes no sense! What if you should live after all? And what is to become of the wench should you die?”
“Both questions have already been seen to,” Ceralt replied with a short laugh. “If I live, I will then attempt to make some sort of reparation for the difficulty I have given her. If reviving her love proves impossible, I will then do what I have charged Lialt to do in the event of my death—find a man who is capable of giving her kindness she can accept, and a life which will be gentle for her. I will not have her returning to her former life of blood and battle, and my cruelty will have one beneficial aspect—she will soon yearn desperately for a kind word or look, and will cling to any man who gives her that. In such a way will she accept the man chosen for her.”
I could not believe the words I heard, and I stood numb in the growing wind, knowing not which way to turn my thoughts. I had never felt this—“love”—for Ceralt, yet—Ceralt was to die? And I was not to be allowed to mourn or avenge him? The shame he had given me was deliberate, his actions to a purpose, for he was to die?
“Ceralt,” began Telion slowly, “there are things which you do not know, and therefore cannot have taken into account. You must change your tactics with the wench, for I now understand why she sought to goad me into destroying her.”
“Destroying her?” Ceralt barked, and sounds of sharp movement came. “What do you speak of?”
“Gently,” Telion soothed, and again there were soft sounds. “You know well enough that I would not harm her, yet she caused a madness in me that nearly took her life. I shall not speak of that which she used to produce the madness, yet you have my word that the action was deliberate. She desperately sought not the kindness you spoke of, but the death we both know she was pressed to seek once before.”
“Death,” Ceralt echoed, an illness clear in his voice. “Why in the name of the Serene Oneness must she seek death rather than kindness?”
“Perhaps because she has been led to believe that kindness does not exist,” Telion replied heavily. “You asked me once of the lashing she had at the hands of Galiose, and I turned the talk to other things rather than speak of the matter, yet now I feel the time has come to speak of it. Ceralt, she was given twenty-five strokes of the heavy lash, and then she was given to a Captain of the Palace Guard named Nolthis, a man known to all save Galiose as one who broke women to his will, one who took great delight in shattering them. It was Inala who freed her from Nolthis, and even now it sickens me to recall Inala’s words of how he kept our black-haired wench. Should I ever again lay eyes upon this Nolthis, I will speak to him with swords of my feeling for him.”
“Galiose,” Ceralt choked, and a dull, heavy thud came. “Galiose and Galiose and Galiose! The thing between us grows larger and larger with each new thing I learn! Twenty-five blows of the heavy lash! Given to a Guardsman who delighted in her torture! Ah, Jalav mine, how did such a thing come to be?”
“And then she became yours,” Telion continued, remorselessly. “I know not how she came to obey you; however I do know that she sought death at my hands. She once had trust in me, looked upon me as a brother warrior despite my being-male, yet now, in her eyes, I am no other thing than male, a thing to be hated and distrusted. How well have your plans gone, brother? Once free of you, she will never mourn any male, no matter what kindness he shows her. She will spit upon his kindness and his lifeless corpse as well.”
A sound came from Ceralt, a sound I could not put name to, yet a sound which most often came with the thrusting of one’s sword into another’s belly. I turned from the sound and the tent and the males, and made my way back to the tree near which the lanthay were tied, and crouched down beside the tree, resting my shoulder upon it. No more than a small part of the sky remained light, and the wind sought to open my garments to the caress of the cold, yet I crouched in the darkness, huddled into my fur, and fought to clear my mind.
Ceralt was to die. This, above all things, stood out so clearly, though I knew not why it should. I hated the male, hated the very thought of him, so why did I not rejoice at the thought of his death? He had shamed me and humiliated me many times over, had stolen the vows which made me his slave, had denied to me all that had ever had meaning, and yet thought of his death did not bring me joy. This, then was the loss Lialt had once spoken of, the loss which Ceralt had laughed at. Ceralt was to die, and Lialt already mourned, and I was to rejoice at my coming freedom, then gladly embrace the male of Lialt’s choice. My hands in my fur gloves turned to fists, and I pounded upon my knees in voiceless fury. How I hated the male Ceralt for seeking to send me to another, how I hated him for the shame he had so deliberately heaped upon me—and how deeply I mourned the loss which was destined to be. My head bowed low as my arms went about my middle, and I knew not what in the wide world to do.
Some short while after the fall of full darkness, various of the males appeared to tend to the feeding of the lanthay, and also to the setting of guard posts. I remained crouched beside the tree, seeing the flames within boxes which the males carried to the lanthay, and still I knew not what there was to be done. Was I to speak of that which I had learned, or keep silent? If I chose to speak of it, to whom would I speak? These questions and others filled all of my mind, and were put aside only upon hearing the crunch of snow beside me. I looked up from where I crouched to see Lialt, who gazed down upon me with something of disapproval.
“Has it taken you all this time merely to tie the lanthay?” he demanded, the wind playing with his words. “Why have you not come to the tent?”
“I was told I was also to feed the lanthay,” I replied, not wishing to discuss my thoughts with this male who so often disapproved of me. I stood straight to face him, and the darkness about us howled with the cold.
“I will feed the lanthay,” said he, narrowing his eyes somewhat. “Ceralt wishes you within the tent before the cold sucks the life from you. Get you there now and do not dawdle.”
I met his eyes as he spoke, and though I said no words in return, the knowledge came to him that it was not he who was to be obeyed, for anger touched him as I turned away. He did not call after me as I walked toward the tent, and this seemed strange as I could not walk quickly upon my left leg, yet I dismissed the thought as I reached the tent and entered.