Sybel turned away softly. She went back to Lynette’s room, where she found Lynette, her clothes, a tray of food, and five children to watch her eat.
Rok married them that evening in the hall lit with candles held by the children of the sons of Sirle. In the semidarkness the fire billowed and crackled, the only sound in the great room besides Rok’s deep, polished voice. Sybel, dressed in flame-red, her hair coiled and braided into a crown of silver by Lynette, stood beside Coren, watching the firelight catch in the strands of gold in Rok’s hair, twine through the gold chain on his breast. Rok’s voice mingled like a deep forest wind with the breath of the fire; and as he spoke, Sybel’s thoughts melted backward to Maelga’s house where she had stood in front of Maelga’s fire two nights before, her hand in Coren’s, in the great heart of the mountain’s silence, listening to an ancient binding Maelga spoke, her ringed hands on their hands:
“This bond I draw between you: that though you are parted in mind or in body, there will be a call in the core of you, one to the other, that nothing, no one else will answer to. By the secrets of earth and water, this bond is woven, unbreakable, irrevocable; by the law that created fire and wind this call is set in you, in life and beyond life…”
And later that night, before they had left for Sirle, she had lain beside Coren watching the scattering of stars burn beyond the domed roof, listening to Coren’s breathing. And curved against him, she had felt the day’s darkness drain out of her, felt the weariness deep in her bones flow away. Finally she had slept, deeply, dreamlessly.
“Now,” Rok said. “Give your names to each other.” “Coren.”
She looked up at him and saw in the red-gold wash that lit his face a deep flame of laughter that had not been there before in his eyes. She smiled slowly, though she were accepting the challenge of it.
“Sybel.”
EIGHT
When the snow had melted from the warming earth, Rok spoke of building a garden at Sirle for Sybel’s animals. She drew plans for him one morning, pictures of Gyld’s cave, of the Black Swan’s lake, of the white marble hall itself with its great dome, and Ceneth’s son, Rok’s daughters crowded around her, listening to the tales of them.
“Gyld requires darkness and silence; the Swan of course must have water. Gules Lyon and Moriah must have a walled place, warm in winter, where they will not frighten people and animals. I do not know how they will like being around people—they have all been hunted by men, especially Cyrin. In the Mountain they were secluded. But I cannot leave them alone there, prey to men and to their own impulses. You know how Coren was hurt by Gyld. That may happen easily again to someone less forgiving, and that would be dangerous, both for men and animals. Men may try to trap them, or kill them. I do not want them troubled.”
“You care much for them,” Rok murmured and she nodded.
“So you would, if you could speak with them. They are all powerful, lordly, experienced. I am very grateful for your help, Rok, and for letting them come here. I hoped for it, but I did not expect it.”
“It is a collection worthy of a king’s dream,” he said, his gold-brown eyes regarding her equivocally. “I am not so loath to make Drede a little afraid.”
Her eyes dropped. “I did not think so,” she said softly, and he shifted.
“But we will not speak of such matters. There is a large, walled garden between the inner and outer walls that has run wild since the death of our mother. It was built as a place of quiet for her, away from her noisy sons. It has an inner gate, and an outer one beside the keep, opening to the fields. The children rarely play there; our wives have smaller private gardens. It will hold a small lake, many trees, a cave and a fountain for the dragon, but I do not know how to build a crystal dome for you.”
She laughed. “If you can do all that for me, I will not ask for a crystal dome. I only need a place for my books, and those I can store in a room. They are very valuable. I should go back to Eld Mountain soon to get them, but I am so comfortable here it is hard to think of a journey.”
“I am glad you are happy here.” He was silent a moment, while Lara climbed on the back of his chair. “Truthfully, I never expected to see you here. I knew how you felt about Tamlorn, and how Coren felt about Drede; I did not think you could reconcile your loves and hates.”
She glanced at him, sketching idly in the margin of her paper. “I have no great love for Drede. Only he is more use to Tam alive than dead. And Coren—I know he has reconciled himself to Norrel’s death. But I know, too, he is a man of Sirle, and if you began another war he would fight, not against Drede, but for his brothers, as he fought for Norrel.”
“But though we plot and scheme, I see no prospect of war. No doubt you and Coren will lead peaceful lives in Sirle, at least while Drede is alive.”
Her pen stilled. “And then what?”
Rok rose, moving to the fire, with Lara clinging to one powerful leg. “If he dies while Tam is young there will be enough scavengers lying in wait for that young boy’s kingdom,” he said bluntly. “This is not a quiet world you came down to; Tam must be learning that now, too. If he is shrewd, he may be able to learn to juggle power, giving and taking it. Drede will teach him, so he will not be helpless when Sirle begins to nibble at his kingdom one day.”
Her black eyes were lowered, hidden from him. “You are indeed a house of restless lions…”
“Yes, but we cannot spring; we have no support, we exhausted arms and men at Terbrec, and we are crippled by the memory.” He smiled, disengaging Lara and lifting her to his shoulder, where she sat clinging to his hair. “But this is not something I should be talking about with you. I am sorry.”
“There is no need to be sorry. I am interested.”
The door to Rok’s chamber opened, and Coren looked in. His eyes flicked between their faces.
“What are you doing with my brother?” he asked Sybel wistfully. “You are tired of me. You hate my red hair. You want someone old, gnarled, lined—”
“Coren, Rok is going to build me a garden. Look, we have been drawing plans. This is Gyld’s cave, this is the swan lake—”
“And this is the Liralen,” he said, touching the graceful lines of her sketch. “Where will you keep that?”
“What is a Liralen?” Rok asked.
“A beautiful white bird, whose wings trail behind it like a wake in the sky. Very few people have ever caught it. Prince Neth did, just before he died. What is it?” he said to Sybel, whose brows had drawn in a vague frown.
“Something Mithran said about the Liralen. He said—he said once he had wept, like I wept that day, because he knew that he could never have power over it, even though he might have power over anything else… I wonder how be knew; I wonder why he could not take it.”
“Perhaps the Liralen was more powerful than he was.”
“But how? It is an animal, like Gules, like Cyrin—”
“Perhaps it is more like Rommalb.”
“Even Rommalb can be called.”
Coren shook his head, running his fingers down her long hair. “I think Rommalb goes where it wills, when it wills. It chose to come to you, to be bound to you, because it looked into the bottom of the black wells of your eyes and saw nothing there of fear.”
“What is Rommalb?” Rok asked. “We have made no plans for it.”
Coren smiled. He sat down on the table, pulled the plans toward him. Rommalb is a Thing I met on Sybel’s hearth one day. I do not think you would care for it at Sirle. It goes its own way, mostly at night.”
Rok’s brows lifted. “I am beginning to think some of the tales you have been telling us for nearly thirty years may be true.”
“I have always told you the truth,” Coren said simply. He laughed at Rok’s expression. “There are more dangerous things in Eldwold than troublesome kings.”