Part 37 (1/2)
”I see.” She smiled, pretending that his incoherence didn't frighten her.
”I had to go under and not come up. I don't remember why.”
”It's all right now. You're back. You're safe.”
The puzzlement in his eyes faded. He smiled at her. ”Elandra.”
She smiled back. ”Yes. You know me now. Are you hungry?”
He shook his head. ”He can't hurt me.”
”Who?”
”He can't. I was so afraid of him, but he is only memory.”
”You're not making much sense, you know.”
He smiled again. ”It is strange to be here. You look tired. Has something happened? Your father?”
He tried to sit up, but she pressed him back. ”Father is much better. Practically well, and he won't stay in bed. Everyone is afraid of him because he recovered so suddenly. They think he is enspelled.” The lilt in her voice dropped, and she pressed her lips to Caelan's hand. ”Thank you,” she whispered brokenly. ”I know it cost you too much. But thank you.”
He stroked her hair and didn't answer. Whatever had worried him before seemed gone. There was something dreamy and far away in his eyes, an unconcern that worried her anew. He ate a little under her persuasion; then his eyes closed.
She watched him sleep, watched rest restore color to his face and take away the purple smudges beneath his eyes. She could never tire of looking at him. She wanted to memorize every line and feature of his face, for last night she had lain awake, unable to bring him into her mind. It had frightened her, not to be able to recall him with more clarity. She did not want that to happen to her again.
Alti knocked on the door. She went to it and looked out at the guard.
”Lord Albain, Majesty,” he whispered. ”He has sent for you.”
”Is he still at council?” she whispered back.
”Yes, Majesty.”
She glanced over her shoulder and saw that their voices had awakened Caelan. He sat up, running his hands through his long hair, and she sighed.
”Let my father know I will come shortly.”
”Yes, Majesty.”
She closed the door and faced Caelan. ”I'm sorry.”
He flexed his shoulders, stretching until his rib cage arched above the concave ribbing of his stomach. Her own body grew warm, wanting him. But not with her father waiting for her.
Fighting for breath, she said, ”Do you feel well enough to face him?”
”Albain?”
”Yes.”
An insolent grin slowly spread across his face. He knew what she had been thinking, and that knowledge in his eyes made her blush.
”Caelan, no,” she said shyly. ”Not now.”
”Come here.”
She went to him, loving the circle of his arms. If only they were free, if only they had just themselves, then she could stay in his arms all she wanted.
He kissed her long and deeply, robbing her of breath and thought, melting her to her very bones. When she finally came up for air, her mind was buzzing and foolish. She clung to him and barely managed to say, ”Stop. My father is waiting.”
”Your father,” Caelan said with regret.
She pulled free of his grasp, and he sighed. ”It's time we met, I suppose.”
”Yes, it is.”
He shrugged. ”Send our regrets, and let us think only of ourselves.”
”Certainly not,” she said primly, although an inner spirit of rebellion longed to do exactly as Caelan urged. ”Here is clothing. Please hurry.”
He groaned and stood up. ”The efficient woman.”
”Hurry,” she told him, refusing to relent.
When she bent over to pick up a garment, Caelan grabbed her from behind and spun her around. ”You could say I have a raging fever.”
Laughing, she had to fight her way free. She pushed the tunic into his hands to keep them occupied and backed out of reach. ”I will not,” she said, still battling to keep a smile off her face. ”They are waiting-”
”Who is waiting?”
”The entire war council.”
He pulled on the linen tunic and held up the mail s.h.i.+rt. ”What is this?”
”Armor.”
”Not likely.”
”Now who is more closed-minded, the Gialtans or you?” she teased him. ”You can wear protection without looking like a turtle.”
He frowned. ”A what?”
”A turtle. A creature that lives in a sh.e.l.l. This gives you more freedom of movement. It is more modern.”
Caelan pulled it on and moved his arms experimentally. ”It's too tight.”
”On you, everything is too tight,” she said, handing him a sur-coat of dark green. ”It will do for today. You can discuss a better fit with the armorer later.”
The leggings and boots fit him well enough. The surcoat hung to his knees, and made him look even taller and more imposing than before. He buckled on his sword belt, swept back his hair with both hands, and faced her.