Part 33 (2/2)
”Please, Lord Trickster-”
”Oh, must we progress to the pleading so soon? Let's sit. Chat. Reminisce about old times.”
He flicked a forefinger at some fallen leaves, which arranged themselves into a neat bed between two of the heart-oak's roots. He sprawled full-length, propping himself up on one elbow, and patted a spot in front of him. Griane chose a root out of reach.
”This reminds me of our time together in the Summerlands. You perched primly on your rock. I, lounging at your feet. You were wearing fewer clothes then.”
After fifteen years, he still had the unerring power to make her blush. As his gaze roved over her, she resisted the urge to tuck her skirt around her ankles.
”Do you miss the Summerlands?”
She nodded. It was the most beautiful, magical place she had ever known. But she had abandoned it eagerly for the chance to return to the world, little knowing that Struath and Yeorna were already dead, and Darak and Cuillon in Chaos.
”Is Rowan still there? And the other tree-folk?”
”Of course.”
”Are they . . . different?”
”How do you mean?”
”More human?”
”That supposes they're changing from trees to humans and not the other way around.”
”Aren't they?” she asked, surprised.
”Actually, they are. But that transformation occurs over thousands of years. To your eyes, Rowan would look just the same.”
”And to yours?”
”Even to my eyes, the changes are barely perceptible. The slightest softening of the bark. The tiniest hint of eyelashes.”
”Do you ever change?”
”You just saw me.”
She'd forgotten how difficult he could be. She must remember to phrase her questions more precisely or she would surely end up being tricked by the bargain she made with him. If she made a bargain.
”I meant-”
”I don't age as you do.” The golden gaze drifted to her hair. ”All the colors of fox fur now. Just as I predicted all those years ago. Did you curse him for leaving you again after you arrived home?”
Her hand had reached self-consciously to smooth the white streak in her hair. Now she let it drop back to her lap. ”I thought you wanted to reminisce about happy times.”
”I wanted to reminisce.”
His voice was as pleasant as ever, his manner casual. But the threat-however veiled-was always present when you dealt with the Trickster: I establish the rules for the game. Obey them or the game ends.
Heart pounding, she said, ”I don't want to talk about that.” And waited to see how he would respond to such a deliberate violation of the unspoken rule.
”All right. What shall we talk about? The weather? It's been warm this spring. The barley? Looks like a fine crop. Your health? You have shadows under your eyes because you haven't been sleeping. Your tunic hangs on you because you haven't been eating. You dream of him at night and wake, gasping his name. During the day, you keep busy so you won't notice how frightened you are, but the fear is always there-stalking you like a predator-and when it pounces, you cry. You hate giving in to tears, so you either hug the children too hard or snap at them for pestering you with questions you can't answer. And then you curse your Darak. Whose face is the first thing your eyes seek when they open in the morning. Whose hands are the last thing your body seeks as you drift into sleep at night. Darak, whom you chivvy and chide and scold in the vain hope that he won't realize how desperately you need him.”
”Stop. Please.”
”You curse him-just as you did all those years ago when he left you to return to the First Forest barely a moon after you healed his body and gave him the will to live and finally, finally brought him home safe. I've missed our little chats, haven't you?”
Griane pressed her lips together tightly. At least she could be proud that she had surrendered without a tear. ”I didn't curse him.”
”Young love is so beautiful. So you forgave. If not forgot.”
”Aye.”
”And never spoke of it after?”
”Nay.”
”Yet you wondered, didn't you? Every time he went back to the grove of the First Forest. You kissed him farewell and watched him walking across the fields and wondered if it was the last time you would ever see him.”
”He gave me his oath.”
”Men are fond of giving oaths. They're also notorious for breaking them.”
”Not Darak. He never would have left me. Not after . . .”
”Not after Keirith was born.” Fellgair's voice was very gentle. ”You're right, of course. He would never leave then-no matter how much he longed to. It's ironic, isn't it? That the child who guaranteed he would remain is the same one who took him away from you in the end. Do you hate him?”
”Darak?”
”Keirith. For taking your Darak away.”
It's not his fault. It was the raiders. Or fate. Or ill fortune. Darak's fault for leaving him. Urkiat's for not fighting harder. Mine for not insisting that he come with us when his father ordered him to. Why didn't he listen? If he had, none of this would have happened. Keirith would be safe at home and Darak . . .
Lying on the altar stone. His heart clutched between the b.l.o.o.d.y fingers of a priest.
She stumbled to her feet, gagging. Blindly, she reached out a hand for the heart-oak. Fellgair's fingers closed around hers. She whirled around, flailing at him with her fist, hating him for his truths, hating him for hurting her.
Effortlessly, he swept her into his arms and sat, cradling her against his chest as if she were a child. She slumped against him, breathing in the sharp animal reek that mingled with the sweet aroma of honeysuckle. So perfect for him, that improbable combination of scents. She'd never realized that until now. But for a being in whom order and chaos combined, everything about him was a combination of opposites: cold and warmth, cruelty and kindness, viciousness and charm.
His fur tickled her nose and she sneezed. Hastily, she slid off his lap and blew her nose on the hem of her tunic.
”I made you cry.” His voice held wonder rather than regret.
”You've made me cry before.”
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