“No. I will not sleep tonight in darkness. Let me sit here beside your fire. Sybel—”
“What?”
He looked up at her. “Are you afraid of nothing? What are you that Rommalb itself comes obedient to your call?”
“I am afraid of some things. I was afraid for you, then. I am afraid for Tam. But I never thought to be afraid of Rommalb.” She knelt to clean the spilled soup, and he watched the firelight pass glittering among the white strands of her hair until they blurred together and he fell asleep.
She found him in the morning still sitting beside the fire, with Gules Lyon at his feet. The snow had stopped; the world was moon-colored beyond the ice-barred windows. A loaf of bread sat half-eaten on the table; the wine was gone. He smiled at her, his eyes red-rimmed, and she said gently,
“You did not sleep well?”
“I woke, and you had gone, so I did not sleep. Cyrin talked with me awhile; he told me tales.”
“I hope that is all he told you.”
“He told me of Prince Lud, who could have had any flower in the world he wanted, but he wanted only the flaming rose that grew on the Black Peak of Fyrbolg. And he got what he wanted and was content. So I still hope.”
Color rose about her eyes. “I do not think any of this is Cyrin’s business. Besides, you said yourself I am no flaming rose, but an ice flower, growing in a lifeless world. You belong in the world of the living, and there, I think, you will find your rose.”
He sighed. “And you said, sometimes I am a fool. I think I am the one who has been living until now in a lifeless world. Sybel… last night I dreamed of Norrel. Always—always before, when I dreamed of him, I never saw him as he was alive, but only as he lay dying, alone, feeling the death wound in him, seeing Drede turn away from him, trying to call, with no voice to call, no one to hear him—I see him call me in my dreams, and he does not see me, and I cannot come to him. But last night, I fell asleep watching you clean the floor, and I dreamed of Norrel as he was alive, when we would talk together late at night. He was talking to me of Rianna, of his love for her. And I was smiling, listening, nodding, because I understood how he felt, what he was saying. I woke, still hearing his voice, and in the moment of my waking, I thought of Drede and I felt pity for him, because he could not have what Norrel had… Sybel, he is only an old, frightened man, with no one to love him but Tamlorn. And I thought he was like Rommalb, a death giver..”
“Do you still want him dead?”
“I think—I am tired of thinking about him.” He rose, came to her, stood before her without touching her. “I love you. When you need me again I will come.”
“No, Coren,” she said helplessly, and found she had reached out to touch him. “I am not good at loving. In all my life, I have only loved Maelga, Tam and Ogam, even though he was not very good at loving either. Stay in Sirle, where there are women who—who can give you what you require. I belong here.”
“I require you,” he said simply. He turned to get his cloak. “When the Prince Rurin pursued the witch Glower for turning all his servants into pigs, she—”
“I know. She thrust a great mountain of glass in his path that he could neither ride over or around. So he returned, defeated.”
“So,” Coren said, and bent to kiss her unresponsive face farewell. “What is the difference between glass and ice?”
“Oh, go home,” she said crossly, then laughed in spite of herself. She went to the gates with him to let him out. She stood shivering in the soundless morning, watching him ride down the mountain. The Boar Cyrin came to stand beside her, his warm breath blossoming in and out of the air. She looked down at him.
“That was a great chance you took,” she said soberly. The silver-bristled Boar grunted his private note of laughter. He used with her, for the first time, his bell-sweet voice.
“One wise fool knows another.”
Tam came to visit her a few days later. She looked up from her reading to hear Ter’s voice and see him circling her domed roof. She threw her cloak over her shoulders and hurried out, and he came to rest on her shoulder, just as Tam rode up to her gates with five men behind him. He slipped off his horse and shouted to her, and she saw his heavy, fur-lined cloak trimmed with gold thread and his soft boots and gloves with cuffs of fur. She opened the gates and he flung himself at her, laughing.
“Sybel, Sybel, Sybel—” He hugged her tightly, then whirled away. “Look at my horse. My father chose him for me—storm-gray, velvet-gray—his name is Drede. He was afraid to let me come, but I begged and begged—I cannot stay long, though—”
“Oh, my Tam, I am glad to see you— Come in.” She looked into Ter’s glittering eyes and asked, Is he well?
The King is kind to him.
Tam walked beside her, his footsteps deep in the snow, his face bright. “Sybel, I am so happy to see you. Drede’s palace is so big—there are people everywhere— Sybel, they are so courteous to me, because I am Drede’s son. And I have such rich clothes. But I miss Gules Lyon and Nyl.”
“Is he good to you?”
“Of course. I am his protection against the Sirle Lords.”
She glanced at him, startled. He smiled, his eyes clear.
“You have grown a little, I think,” she said.
“Drede says I am like you. But Sybel, he is very kind to me, and I am happy; when we are alone together, sometimes, doing simple things—then sometimes he laughs.” He opened the door. Moriah came to meet him, purring. He knelt down and rubbed his chilled face along her fur, then reached for Gules Lyon’s mane and stared into the golden eyes. “Gules,” he whispered, “Gules,” and the deep throat rumbled. “Do you know what I miss, too, Sybel? Your green fire. It is so beautiful.” He shook snow from his cloak. She touched his pale, wet hair.
“You are growing,” she said wonderingly, and he laughed, his voice deepening.
“I know. Sybel, he wanted me to bring you back with me, but I said I would only ask you—I would not beg. I have asked you, and now we can talk about other things. Are the animals well?”
A smile trembled in her eyes. “Very well,” she said, and went to sit with him beside the hearth. “Tell me now what you do every day.”
“Oh—Sybel, I have never dreamed of so many people! We rode through the city on market day, and the people shouted my father’s name—and Sybel, they shouted mine, too—Tamlorn—and I was so surprised that my father laughed at me. I like to see him laugh.”
She let his voice run over her in a pleasant stream, soothing, comforting; she sat back, watching him, smiling, half listening. His face, bones forming, firming beneath it, lit and changed as he spoke, laughing, sobering, smiling again a clear, curious smile with a hint of secrecy behind it. Her thoughts melted apart; she let them lay strengthless as she had not done for days, and rested content in the warm green fire, and the white walls, and Tam beside her, long-boned, scratching the space between Moriah’s black ears as he talked. Then something rippled, minute, distant, unbidden in the deep part of her mind. Tam touched her and she started.
“You are not listening. Sybel, I brought you a gift—a cloak of white wool with blue flowers woven on it. Drede had some women make it for you.” He paused a moment. “What is the matter?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. I am a little tired. A cloak? Tam, thank him for me. Is Ter behaving? I was afraid he might eat someone.”
“Oh, no. We go hunting on still days. He is very polite with Drede’s falcons, but he will let only me take him. Sybel—”
She did not answer him, feeling again the movement in her mind, faint and swift as the movement of a star through the midnight sky. Her hands tightened slowly on the arms of her chair.
“Sybel,” Tam said. His brows flicked together. “Do you hurt somewhere? You should talk to Maelga.”