“Such a still land it is without its warlords… so confused and childlike. And the Sirle ladies sleep alone tonight, and the children sleep fatherless. Will they come back?”
“I do not know,” Sybel murmured. “I do not know anymore the minds of those great beasts. I cannot care. It seems I have heard a dream, except that—no dream could hurt so deeply or be so endless. Maelga, I am like weary earth after the killing, hardening winter… I do not know if anything green and living will grow from me again…”
“Be gentle with yourself, my white one. Come with me tomorrow through the forest; we will gather black mushrooms and herbs that, crushed against the fingers, give a magic smell. You will feel the sun on your hair and the rich earth beneath your feet, and the fresh winds scented with the spice of snow from the hidden places on Eld Mountain. Be patient, as you must always be patient with new pale seeds buried in the dark ground. When you are stronger, you can begin to think again. But now is the time to feel.”
Day and night slid together in a timeless quiet she did not measure until one day she woke to the motionless splash of light on her floor, the voiceless stones rising about her, and a little seed of restlessness woke with her. She wandered through the still house, the empty gardens, stopping at the edge of the swan lake to watch the wild birds feed in it. She circled the lake and went to Gyld’s cave where in her mind’s eye she saw him lying curled once more in the darkness, his mind-voice whispering into hers. The wet stones surrounded an emptiness that had no voice; she turned away from the silence, went back into the vagrant autumn winds that made their own bright paths across the mountain, leaving her behind.
She went back to the house, sat in the domed room. She began to search again, calling through Eldwold and beyond Eldwold for the Liralen. The hours passed; night winked above her dome, and she sat lost in her calling, feeling the power stir and strengthen in her mind. Near dawn, when the moon had set and the stars had begun to fray in the sky, she woke out of her calling, rose stiffly. She opened the door, stood at the threshold smelling the wet earth and the quiet trees scented and damp in the early morning. Then she saw beyond her open gates Coren dismount, lead his horse into her yard.
She straightened, her throat suddenly dry. He stopped when he saw her, his eyes still, waiting. She drew a breath and found her voice.
“Coren. I was calling the Liralen.”
“You called me.” He paused, still waiting, and she said,
“Please—come in.”
He put his horse in the side room, and came to join her beside her cold hearth. She lit candles in the dimness; the light between them traced the bones and hollows of his face. Memories began to stir in her; she looked away from him quickly.
“Are you hungry? You must have been riding all night. Or did you stay last night at Mondor?”
“No. I left Sirle yesterday afternoon.” His gaze, insistent on her face, forced her eyes upward finally, to meet his. His voice lost a little of its aloofness. “You are so thin. What have you been doing?”
“I do not know. Little things, I think—sewing, gardening, looking for herbs with Maelga… Then, yesterday, for the first time I began to hear how silent my house is, how empty. And so I began to call again. I did—I did not mean to disturb you.”
“I did not mean to be disturbed. When I woke that morning and found you gone, I did not think I would ever hear your voice tugging at me again. My brothers were angry with me for quarreling with you; they said that was why you left: because I was being unreasonable.”
“That was not why I ran.”
“I know.”
Her hands closed on the arms of her chair. She whispered, her eyes wide on his face, “What do you know?”
He looked away from her then, to the empty hearth. “I guessed,” he said wearily. “Not that morning, but later, in the slow, quiet days while I waited for my brothers to return. I heard reports of Drede’s strange, sudden death, of the warlords of Eldwold vanishing on their way to war. The land was buzzing of impossible things: of bright animals, ancient names, half-forgotten tales. The war had been taken away from us as easily as you take a game from a child. I remembered then the riddle Cyrin gave you the day he came to Sirle. It was the same riddle he gave to me before I saw Rommalb. I should have warned you, but I did not think then that there was any need for you to be afraid. And, remembering that, I knew what must have happened to you. You would not have given up that war for me, or for Tamlorn, or for anyone you loved. You would have had what you wanted, except you made one mistake: holding Rommalb, you neglected to give it what it required of you.”
She was silent a long moment. Then she whispered, her face lowered, half-hidden from him, “You are wise, Coren. I gave up everything in return for my life, and then I ran. I ran in my mind past the borders of it, because I had nowhere else to go. Tam came to find me. He woke me. If he had not came—I do not know what would have happened to me.” She lifted her head, looked at him as he stared, his face closed from her, into the hearth. She said wistfully, “If you are still angry with me, why did you come? You did not have to answer my lonely voice. I did not expect to see you again.”
He stirred. “I did not expect to come. But how could I know you were here in this empty house without Tam, or your animals, or even me, and not come? You did not need me before, and I do not know if you want me now, but I heard you and I had to come.”
Her brows drew together. She said softly, a little puzzledly, “If you heard the voice in me that calls you without my knowing, then you must know I need you.”
“You have told me you needed me before; it is easy to say. But that night, when Rommalb came to you in the darkness—you did not even need me then to hold you, as you held me once on this hearth, before you even loved me.”
She gazed at him, her lips parted. She smiled suddenly, and realized then how long it had been since she had laughed. She hid the smile like a precious secret, her head bent, and said gravely, “I wanted to wake you, but you seemed so far from me—”
“That is easy to say, too. You did not need me when Mithran called you, or when you plotted your revenge with Rok, or even when Rommalb threatened your life. You go your own way always, and I never know what you are thinking, what you are going to do. And now you are laughing at me. I did not come all this way from Sirle to have you laugh at me.”
She shook her hair back, the blood bright in her face. She slipped her hand over his and felt his fingers turn to close automatically around it. “I am sorry. But Coren, that is what I need you for now. I have fought for myself—and fought myself. But there is no joy in that. It is only when I am with you that I know, deep in me, how to laugh, and there is no one, no one who can teach me that but you.”
He gazed at her, his mouth crooked in the beginnings of a reluctant smile. “Is that all you need me for?”
She shook her head, the laughter fading. “No,” she whispered. “I need you to forgive me. And then perhaps I can begin to forgive myself. There is no one but you who can do that either.”
She heard the draw of his breath. “Sybel, I almost could not do that. I carried anger and pain like a stone in me: anger with you and Rok and even Drede, even after he died, because you had thought more about him those days than me. Then one night I saw my face in a dream: a dark, sour face with no love, no laughter in it, and I woke in the dark with my heart pounding against my ribs, because it was not my face but Drede’s.”
“No—you will never look like Drede.”
“Drede was young once, and he loved a woman. She hurt him and he never forgave her, so he died frightened and alone. It frightened me that I could so easily make that same mistake with you. Sybel, will you forgive me?”