“Would he?” he asked, taking another step. “Would you?”
Cerelinde shrank from his approach.
“You see.” He felt his lips move in a grim smile. “Limits, always limits. You would forgive us, if we kept to our place. Ah, my Lady. I did keep to my place, once upon a time. I was Tanaros Caveros, Commander of the King’s Guard in Altoria. I honored my liege-lord and served him well; I honored my wife and loved her well.” He opened his arms. “You see, do you not, what it earned me?”
She did not answer, only looked at his spread hands and trembled.
He had throttled his wife with those hands.
“So be it.” Gathering himself, Tanaros executed one last bow, crisp and correct. “Lady, you will be well cared for in my absence. I have sworn it so. I bid you farewell.” Spinning on his heel, he took his leave of her. No matter that her luminous eyes haunted him; it was satisfying, hearing the door slam upon his departure.
She did not know.
She did not understand.
Cerelinde was Haomane’s Child, Shaped of rational thought. She would never understand the passion with which he had loved his wife and his liege-lord alike, and how deeply their betrayal had wounded him. No more could she comprehend Lord Satoris, who had dared defy his Elder Brother in order that his Gift should not be wrested from Men, that thought should not be forever uncoupled from desire.
Things were not always as simple as they seemed.
But Haomane’s Children could not think in shades of grey.
Even now, with the old rage still simmering in his heart, it grieved Tanaros to think upon all he had lost, all he had cast aside. How much more so, he wondered, must it grieve his Lordship? And yet Cerelinde refused to see it.
Though he wished that she would.
With an effort, he thrust the thought away. A door closed; well and good. Nothing left, then, but what lay ahead. It had come down to it. All the variables, the plans within plans; what were they to him? Nothing. There was a war. War, he understood. At every corner, Tanaros passed sentries standing guard. Hulking shadows, armed to the eyetusks. They saluted him, each and every one, acknowledging the Commander General of Darkhaven.
Yes. These were his people.
“Admit no one,” he told the Fjel on guard outside his door. “I will rest.”
In his quarters, everything was immaculate. The lamps had been trimmed, the bed-linens were crisp and clean. There were madlings who never left the laundry, taking a remorseless joy in toiling over boiling vats of suds and water, expunging filth. His armor of carbon-blackened steel was arrayed on its stand, each piece polished to a menacing gleam. Buckles and straps had been oiled and replaced. It waited for him to fill it, an empty suit, a warrior of shadows. In the corner, the black sword rested propped in its scabbard. Not even a madling would touch it without permission.
His blood, thought Tanaros, my Lord’s blood.
There was a tray laid unasked-for on the table, steam seeping beneath the covered dish-domes. Peering under one, he found a pair of quail in a honey glaze; another held wild rice, and yet another a mess of stewed greens. For dessert, a plate of cheeses and grapes sat uncovered. Candlelight danced over the table, illuminating the soft, misty bloom on the purple grapes.
Drawing up a chair, Tanaros sat and ate, and tried not to think how lonely, how terribly lonely, his quarters were. He missed Fetch, but the raven was gone, the half-frozen fledgling grown into a full-fledged bird, another daring scout in Ushahin Dreamspinner’s strange army. Digging into his pocket, he found Hyrgolf’s rhios and set it on the table. The sight of it soothed him, the river sprite’s face laughing from its rounded curves.
“Is it to your liking, my Lord General?”
Tanaros started at the soft, unfamiliar voice, rising from his chair and half-drawing his dagger. Seeing Meara, he eased. “How did you get in here?”
The madling sidled toward the table, tangled hair hiding her face as she nodded toward his bathing-chamber. “This is Darkhaven. There are ways and ways, Lord General. Is the meal to your liking?”
“Yes,” he said gently, pushing away the plate of picked quail bones. “Meara, you should not be here. Is it not our Lord’s wish that you attend the Lady Cerelinde?”
“The Lady Cerelinde:” Meara sidled closer, her features contorting in a whimper.”It hurts to serve her. She pities us, Lord General. And she grieves, in the manner of the Ellylon. She turns her face to the wall, and orders us away. It was never my wish to leave you, Lord Tanaros. Do you not know it?”
Close, so close! In a paroxysm of courage, she reached him.
Touched him, descended on him.
He could smell the heat of her flesh, of her womanhood. Her hands were on him, beneath the collar of his tunic, sliding against the hard flesh of his chest, the raised ridges of his brand. Tanaros gritted his teeth as her weight straddled him. “Meara …”
“Oh, my lord, my lord!” Her face, so close to his, eyes wide.
“Meara, no.”
“He was the Sower, once.” Wide eyes, pupils fixed. Her breath was warm against his skin, unexpectedly sweet. “Do you not wonder, Tanaros, do you not know? It was his Gift, when he had one!”
Her mouth touched his, her teeth nipping at his underlip, the tip of her tongue probing. Her weight, warm and welcome, encompassing him. Jolted by desire, he stood upright, his hands encircling her waist to dump her unceremoniously onto the floor, her skull jolting at the impact.
“Meara, no!”
She laughed, then. Limbs akimbo, she laughed, bitter and shrill. “General Tanaros Blacksword! Some hero, some man you are, Tanaros Wifeslayer! Did you offer your wife so little satisfaction? No wonder she found cold comfort in your bed! No wonder she turned to the Altorus to quicken her womb!”
“ENOUGH!” Stooping, unthinking, he struck her across the face.
She whimpered.
“Meara, forgive me.” Filled with remorse, Tanaros knelt at her side, dabbing with the hem of his overtunic at a trickle of blood in the corner of her mouth. “Forgive me, I am sorry, I did not mean to hurt you.”
“Poor General.” Her eyes were curiously limpid, as if the blow had cleared her wits. She touched his hand with gentle fingers, cupping it against her bruised cheek, caressing his knuckles. “Poor Tanaros. Does it hurt so much, even still?”
Her skin was warm and soft and the pity in her eyes terrified him. Withdrawing from her, he straightened. “You should go now.”
Gathering her skirts around her, she stood. Not beautiful, no. A woman, not yet old, with tangled hair and skin sallow for lack of sunlight. She would have been pretty, once, in an ordinary, mortal way. Pity in her gaze, and a terrible knowledge. “I warned you, my lord,” she said softly. “You should have heeded me. She will break your heart. She will break all our hearts.”
“My heart.” He shook his head, touching his branded chest. “No, Meara. That lesson, I learned too well. My heart is dedicated to Lord Satoris’ service. No other.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I know.”
Haomane’s allies arrived early.
Something had happened. The scouting-packs of Were yearlings who were to report on their movements had failed. If not for Calandor’s warning, Beshtanag would have been caught unready. As it was, Lilias had closed the last breach in the wall in haste, sealing Beshtanag against invasion, and themselves within it.
Her Ward Commander Gergon brought her bits of gossip, gleaned by soldiers shouting back and forth over the granite expanse of the wall. A siege, after all, was a tiresome thing and some few had friends and cousins on the other side.