“I promise—I promise—”
“No, listen to me. I have been—I have lived afraid always of those I hold in power. I have been threatened by my lords, betrayed by those I loved, until there is no one I can speak the truth to without being afraid. My own people, the ones I should trust, I look into their eyes, their secret, expressionless eyes, and I suspect them, I fear their treachery. I am alone. Tamlorn is the one thing in this world I trust and love. You, I could love, and perhaps trust, but I must be certain of you, Sybel.”
She said, her mouth dry, “You—cannot ever be certain of those you love—that they will not hurt you, even loving you. But to make me certain to love you, will be to take away any love I might give you freely. That white bird’s name is Sybel. If you kill it, I will die and a ghost will look out of my eyes. Trust me. Let me live, and trust me.”
His eyes closed, tightening. “I cannot—I trusted Rianna, and she betrayed me, smiling. She smiled at me, and kissed my palm, and betrayed me for a blue-eyed Sirle lordling. And you—you would marry me, and turn to Coren—”
“No!”
“But how could I be sure? How? One day he would walk smiling into your garden, and you would smile back, and all your promises to me would scatter like leaves on the wind.”
“No— You are talking of Rianna, not me—I have nothing to do with Rianna and Norrel! Let me go! Please let me go! I will go back to my white hall, and this wizard can put a wall around it that I will never cross. I will leave Eldwold! I will do anything—anything—”
His words came whispered through his teeth. “Sybel, I dream of you at nights, and I wake alone and weep. It will be done swiftly, and then you will be with Tamlorn—”
“No—”
He loosed her, rising, his hands clenched. “It will be done!”
“So,” she whispered, trembling, her eyes dry, unseeing. “I am never to love again. That is harsh, considering that I am the first of three wizards to learn how. I would like to kill myself, but I will not be permitted to make even that small choice. I hope you pay this wizard well, because this deed is without price and without parallel.”
He stood a moment wordless before her. Then he turned, and she heard the whisper of his steps across the sheepskin, and then the beat of them down stone steps. The door closed, the bolt shot, and at the sound she gave a frightened, hopeless cry.
“Get up, Sybel.”
She rose unsteadily. Mithran went to the table, poured wine. He gave her a cup and sat down, sipping, watching her across the rim of his goblet.
“Sit down.”
She sat. She whispered into the cup, “Give me a few minutes of freedom.”
“To take yourself out of this world forever? No, you are too valuable.”
“Leave one small place for freedom in my mind.”
“To love?”
She lifted her eyes. “To hate,” she whispered. Her fingers circled the cup, kneading the wrought silver. “In that one small corner I could breed such a hate that would tear Eldwold apart stone by stone, and leave a wasteland for the Sirle Lords to bicker over for centuries. I would bring that King to his knees as he brought me to mine.”
The green eyes watched her, unwavering. “And what of me? Do you hate me?”
Her eyes moved lifeless to his face. “You are beneath hatred.”
He leaned forward, the ring on his finger flashing darkly. His mouth tightened suddenly. “He is a fool, that King. More so than most men. Did you know that you stole a book from me once?”
She blinked. “No. I would remember you.”
“The spell book of the wizard Firnan. You thought the room was empty. A lonely, cold room in a small lord’s court near Fyrbolg. I was there. I watched you enter, silently, as though the air had formed you. You looked through my books, took that one, and left so silently… and I watched that place in midair for hours after you went. I did not know your name. I did not know even if you belonged to Eldwold. I only knew that you came before me like the answer to a dream that I had not even dared dream… So I began to listen, to ask a question here and there, and I began to learn of you…”
She stared at him wonderingly. “But why did you call me for Drede?”
“It is he who told me at last who to call. You see, I am no fool. If I had come to you in your mountain house, you could have said yes to me as easily as no. Today, though, I think there is only one answer you will give me. I want you. If I must take you by force, I will, though with such a choice that you face today, I doubt that you will argue. I am powerful; my knowledge is inexhaustible. I have both loved and hated, but for years I have found nothing worth either loving or hating until I saw you. I can share thoughts, experiences with you as I can with no one else. I loved a woman once for her beauty. I never thought I might want to again. It is as though—as though you were made for me.”
She stared at him numbly. She began to tremble again; she held herself, her fingers tight, cold on her arms. He said,
“Drink.”
She drank wine. She leaned forward, dropped her head on her arms. Mithran watched her, motionless.
“Well?”
“This is my fault, a little,” she whispered. “Maelga warned me.”
“Look at me.”
She raised her head, her eyes wide, mute on his face. His thin brows flickered a little, drawing together. “Does it require such thought?”
“I am not even thinking. There is only emptiness.”
“Sybel. Choose.”
“I do not care. I do not care! You choose! If you want me, then keep me—if not, give me to Drede. What do you want me to do? Thank you for giving me a place in the wasteland of your heart? Drede at least I understand, but you—you are colder than I am.”
“Am I so?” he breathed. He checked himself, his thin mouth tightening again at the corners. “White bird, you know I will never give you to that King. Nor will I break your mind to suit either him or me.”
“You have already broken it!” she cried. “White bird—white falcon on a silver thread, to come when you call—I would fear you until I died, you have such power over my slightest thought. So I do not care now what you do to me. Do you want me to beg you to save me from Drede? I will go down on my knees to you for that, but I can never give you thanks for it if I am shackled to you.”
“You could not—try to love me?”
“I love no one! I will never love anyone! So Drede will have me helpless and smiling, or you will have me helpless and afraid—which do you prefer?”
He sat silently a moment, a finger moving up and down his cup, while she watched him, her hands tight on the arms of her chair. He said softly, his words measured to the slow movement of his hand, “You will not always fear me, Sybel. I will show you ancient arts and spells even you have never dreamed of learning. I will give you wondrous things: the purple jewel the shape of an eye made by the witch woman Catha that sees into locked doors and boxes; the cloak made of the skins of the blue mountain cats of Lomar, soft as the whisper of breath, warm as the touch of a mouth…I will give you the locked, bound books of the wizard Erden, never opened since his death three centuries ago, and I will tell you how to open them…” His words formed like dreams in her mind; she felt herself lulled, her mind eased, darkened. “I will capture for you the winged gazelle of the Southern Deserts, with eyes like the luminous night… You will sleep in white wool and purple silk, and wear jewels the color of stars with red and blue fire in their midst…” As from far away she saw him rise slowly, shadow-silent, come toward her, his voice low, weaving visions for her that formed and rested in her numbed mind. She felt his fingers straying through her hair. “I will give you the silver-stringed harp of the Lord Thrace of Tol, that plays at command, sings lost tales of dead, glorious kings…” His breath whispered against her face. A cry rose in her somewhere, faint as a child’s cry in the night that faded, lost. She felt his hands at her throat, saw the silver circle of her brooch wink and tremble in the light. “I will give you the Cup of Fortune that was thrown by the Prince Verne into the Lost Lake because it foretold his death by water…” She felt cloth gathered, tense, in his fingers, heard the hiss of it, torn. She heard the breath shake, faintly between his lips. “I will give you all the treasures of the world, and all its secrets… Sybel, my white bird…” His head dropped. His lips touched her throat, brushed downward. And then she felt that in his quickening lust for one brief moment he lost her, and she whispered one word without hope, almost without thought.