“Where are you going?”
“To find the Lion of Sirle.”
She went with him, hurrying to keep up with his swift, furious strides. They found Rok at a table in the empty hall, with Ceneth sitting hunched beside him, a cup in his hand. Rok watched Coren, his eyes brilliant, chill-blue in his flushed face, come toward him unmoved; when Coren’s fists pounded sharply on the wood in front of him, and Ceneth jumped, Rok said simply,
“I know.”
“If you know, then why? Then why?”
“You must know why.” He paused a moment. A weariness loosened his smooth voice. “A woman came to me and offered me money and power for the destruction of the man who killed Norrel, who sent Sirle to its knees at Terbrec. I did not think of her; I did not think of you. I simply accepted what I have wanted, day and night, for thirteen years. I have done what I have done. What will you do now? You, too, have wanted this war.”
“Not this way!”
“War is war. What is it you want, Coren? To let Drede go unpunished for the wrong he has done your wife?”
Coren’s fists shifted, taut, shaking, on the table. “I would have gone to Mondor alone, unarmed, to kill him with my bare hands if she had told me then. But she went to you. And now I stand a man outside a circle of secrecy, looking into it for the first time, not knowing how to name what I see. Where are your eyes, Rok of Sirle? Could you not see that step by step, moment by moment, you were watching my wife destroy herself in lies, in bitterness, in hatred? And you watched her with your calm eyes and said nothing! Nothing! You used her as she used you; now what is left in either of you? I know that endless road she has taken—you know it, too. Yet you did not lift a hand to stop her, did not drop one word to me so I could!”
Rok lifted a hand, drew his fingers wearily across his eyes. Ceneth, hunched over his wine, lifted his head.
“What are you going to do, Coren? You could kill us all—except Herne and Eorth; they knew nothing. Or you could refuse to fight. Or you could try to forget that your pride is hurt, accept what is inevitable—”
“Is it inevitable?” He straightened, turned so suddenly that Sybel started. He looked at her out of stranger’s eyes. “Is it?”
Her shoulders slumped wearily. “Coren. I love you. But I cannot stop this thing.”
He gripped her. Sybel,” he whispered. “Once—I gave up for you something like this—gave up a dream of revenge, a nightmare of grief that was like a long sickness. Now I will ask you. Give this thing up. If not for me, then for Tam.”
She looked at him. “Please,” she whispered. His hands slid slowly away from her, dropped.
“You want it that badly. So. You have learned what you were afraid Tam would learn—the taste of power. Well, I will give you your war. But I do not know what you will have left when it is over.”
He turned and left them. Sybel watched him move away from her wordlessly. When she could not see him, she moved to the table, sat down abruptly. The two men watched her, waited for her to cry. When she simply sat unmoving, Ceneth poured wine, pushed the cup to her. She touched it without drinking, her eyes empty. At last she took a sip that stirred a faint color in her face. Ceneth ran his hands through his black hair.
“I am sorry. I am so sorry. To babble it all in the stable like a pair of children—I have seen a man wounded with that look on his face, but never a man standing healthy on his two feet. What woman alive does not scheme a little behind her husband’s back?”
“So I am like any other woman. That is comforting, but Coren is not like any other man.” She pressed her cold fingers a moment against her eyes. “I do not want to talk of it. Please. Let us make a swift end to all this. When will Derth of Niccon be ready with his boats?”
“In a week perhaps. He needs time to gather his men.”
She drew a breath, loosed it. “Well. Then I will have to learn to look into Coren’s eyes. I suppose I should be thankful I do not have to look into Tam’s.”
Rok reached across the table, held her hand. “We could finish without you, now that we have Hilt and Niccon.”
“No.” She smiled a little, her eyes black, mirthless. “No. I still have a King to catch. We are going to suffer together, Drede and I… and afterward—I do not know.” Her head bowed, dropped onto her outstretched arm. “I do not know,” she whispered.
“Sybel. He will forgive you. He will realize how terribly you were used, and he will forgive you.”
“The only thing he has to forgive her for,” Ceneth said, “is not allowing him to be angry with Drede himself, to revenge his own wife.”
She made a sudden, impatient gesture. “I did not marry him because he had a swift temper and a restless sword.”
“But, Sybel, if he loves you, he expects to know these things. You hurt his pride badly.”
“I hurt deeper than that. He thinks I do not love him. Which may be so. I do not know. I do not know anymore what love is. I am merciless to those two I love most, Tam and Coren, and I cannot stop this thing for their sakes… it must drag on and on, heavy and wearisome, until it comes to an irreversible end.”
“He loves you deeply,” Rok said gently, “and you will have long years afterward to learn to live with one another.”
“Or without.” She stirred restlessly. “I came for some food for Maelga. She will not come in the house, but she is resting in the gardens.” She rose. She stood a moment in silence, her face colorless, her hand taut on the table as though she could not move. Rok touched her, and she looked down at him as though she had forgotten him.
“You are not terrible,” he said softly, “and I think you do love him, or you would not be so grieved. Be patient. It will soon be over.”
“Soon is such a long word,” she whispered.
She went down to the kitchens, took soft bread, fresh cheeses, fruit, meat and wine for Maelga, and carried them to the garden. She stopped before the open gate, looked through the trees, but saw only the great Cats playing a silent, sinuous game, and Cyrin Boar sleeping in the sunlight. She caught the mind of the Black Swan.
Where is Maelga?
Sybel, the witch woke and left, the Swan answered. She said the world was too large for her.
Sybel’s brows tugged together anxiously. She went to Cyrin, woke him.
Did Maelga say why she left?
No, said the Boar. But when the Lord of Dorn entered the dark house of the Riddle Master, he—
“I know, I know.” She finished wearily, “He ate neither food nor wine, nor did he sleep through the night—Cyrin, Rok’s food is quite harmless.” She stared down at the food until it seemed like something unfamiliar, of another world. Then, wielding the tray with both hands, she wheeled and flung it through the trees, so that grape, meat and bread fell through the leaves in a soft shower, and the heavy silver tray traced an arc of slow-turning circles in the air and fell ringing on its side beside the Cats. They stared at her, surprised motionless at their play. She stared back at them moment, almost as startled. Then she whirled and left.
Sybel sat at her window, embroidering a battle design on Coren’s cloak, watching the slow gathering of night above the Sirle forests. She saw Coren at last, riding across the fields, dark beneath the blue-black sky; heard, in the quiet air, his faint shout to the gatehouse, and the boom of the lowered bridge. Later, she heard his steps in the hall. Her hands stilled, dropped in her lap; her face turned toward the closed door. He opened it, paused a little when he saw her. Then he came in, closed the door.