“That’s because you’re stupid,” she told him matter-of-factly. “You’re crying because you love me, and you have to leave.”
He nodded, letting his hands run through her hair while he took deep breaths. She smelled like spring, or at least what he thought spring should smell like, clean and fresh.
“Say it, Daniel.”
“I love you,” he uttered without resistance.
“I love you too,” she answered.
“You shouldn’t have done this,” he told her.
She shifted slightly, letting him sit up while being careful not to put too much pressure on certain parts of him. “Perhaps you weren’t aware,” she replied, “but I don’t give a damn.”
“Does Seth know about this?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?” he asked.
She had both hands on the sides of his head while she studied his features. “He wasn’t happy. He knows I still love you, but he couldn’t stop me. He loves you too, although his feelings are considerably more conflicted than mine.”
His arms held her while she continued to sit on him, wrapped around him without the slightest sign of shame. His voice was even deeper when he spoke again, eyeing her bodice, “You think he will forgive you for this?” Tyrion had one hand on the back of her neck while the other held her firmly at the waist.
“I’m married, Daniel. My heart is yours, but I won’t break my vow, not today anyway,” she told him sadly. “I just wanted to make sure you knew exactly how I felt before you left.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re touched in the head,” he replied, fighting to restrain himself. “You’re in love with a violent killer, and you’ve just put yourself completely in his power.”
“Seth will forgive me the kiss,” she answered. “Aside from that, I have no fear of you, Daniel Tennick.”
He raised an eyebrow, “Really?” Sitting forward he pushed her over, so that she was now on her back while he looked down on her. Her dress had shifted far beyond the bounds of modesty, and he knew she didn’t have the strength to fight him, not that she would—if he used his power.
Her heart was racing, and her breathing caused her chest to move enticingly. Her aura showed him how she felt, no matter what she might have said. It also held a strange quality that seemed at odds with her passion, something he could only call resolve.
“I know you won’t force it, Daniel, and as much as I love you, I won’t submit any other way,” she told him.
He pinned her arms above her head and kissed her neck before whispering in her ear, “You might have made a mistake.”
“No,” she replied. “I know you better than that, and I want you to live.”
“What?” he asked, pulling back to look at her face.
“I want you to live,” she repeated.
He frowned, “That has to be one of the least sexy things I’ve heard a woman say at this point.”
She growled, “That’s because none of them loved you.”
An image of Amarah passed through his mind for a moment, making him wince, but he decided it wasn’t a good point to bring up. “What are you trying to tell me?”
She rolled, pushing him to the side to give herself more room. “I know you think you’re going back to die, and you might,” she began, “but I don’t want you to give up. If you have to fight again, do your damnedest to win. There may be sources of help you haven’t considered.”
He propped his head up on one hand while tracing the line of her thigh with his other hand, “She told me that there was no chance of victory. If you want me, this is your last chance.”
Kate pushed his hand away from her hip, “If you survive the next fight, will you have to fight again?”
Tyrion sat up, staring at her, “It hardly matters. I won’t be coming back here again.”
“It does matter! You’d be alive.”
He sighed, “My life, for the past five years, has not been one worth living. Surviving to live another five, without hope or love, friendship or family, isn’t worth it.”
“Look at me, Daniel,” she said fiercely. “I don’t care. You do whatever it takes—even if that means surviving only to suffer. Do it for me, even if you don’t care about yourself.” Her eyes were brimming over.
“Survive to suffer?” he replied, smiling mildly. “That doesn’t sound quite right. Mother always told me that when you loved someone you should want what’s best for them.”
“I’m not your mother, Daniel. She’s a better woman than I am. Mine may be a twisted form of love, but it’s all I’ve got to offer. You live and suffer, and do it so that I won’t be miserable thinking you’re dead.”
He started laughing. Their situation was so miserable, warped, and hopeless that he couldn’t help but laugh. “Fine,” he told her, “I’ll take the high road and try to survive, just for your sake.”
“Don’t try, do it!” She poked him hard in the chest.
“So what were these sources of help you mentioned?”
“The woman, Lyra…, whatever her name was, the one who loves you,” said Kate.
“Lyralliantha,” he corrected absently. “She doesn’t love me, Kate. They aren’t capable of it.”
“Why did she arrange this visit for you then?” she countered.
“I’m not really sure,” he mused, “but knowing her kind, it was probably just another experiment.”
“You said she wasn’t happy about you having to fight when you return,” she reminded him.
“That’s true,” he admitted.
“Well for whatever reason it is, if she has some cause to want you alive, she may help you,” said Kate. “You just need to make sure you take advantage of it.”
“I have to fight alone.”
She let out an exasperated growl, “Uhhhrrrggg! Men! There are more ways to help you than fighting beside you! She’s one of them, she has resources and knowledge. What if she could give you a better weapon, or teach you something? What about information; anything that might improve your chances.”
“Well, that may be…”
“Don’t forget!” she insisted. “Talk to her, ask her for help. If she’s as cold as you say, she might not think to offer. Get whatever help you can.”
“You realize I’ll be winning just so she can keep me as a pet?” he asked.
“I don’t care,” she said, standing now and smoothing her skirt. She had a collection of grass and leaves in her hair and stuck to her clothing.
He took to his feet as well, “I don’t want to go.”
“Then don’t.”
“If I stay, they’ll kill me. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, but I can’t escape it,” he touched the necklace at his throat.
“Then go back and win,” she told him. “Live for me, and if you ever get to come back again, I won’t tell you no, even if I’m ninety.”
“What if Seth is still alive at ninety?” he asked, grinning.
“He’d just have to deal with it,” she answered. “…though I’d probably still feel bad about it.”
“Don’t,” said Daniel.
“Why not?”
“Because he has you. He’s had you these past few years, and he’s got you for all the years to come. I will only ever have these few minutes—and maybe those five or ten minutes at age ninety,” although his words ended in a joke, there was no laughter in his eyes.
They held each other then, a long embrace in the morning sun, while his horse cropped the grass by the edge of the river. Neither of them wanted to let go, and they kissed once more before parting. There were no more words, other than ‘farewell’, and they were both loathe to say it.
Silence, but for the rustling of leaves in the wind, was their only goodbye as they walked, each alone on their separate paths.
Chapter 43
No one tried to interfere with his return. Unlike his first ride into the deep woods, he wasn’t pursued or harassed, although one of the wardens did follow him at a respectful distance.
He rode to Ellentrea first, returning the horse before taking the few things he had packed into its saddlebags and heading back to the place that was now his only home.
It was almost an hour’s walk to get there from Ellentrea, but he didn’t mind. A calm had come over him when he first stepped into the shadows of the deep woods. The great trees on either side seemed to watch him as he passed, but he was used to that feeling.
His life was complete, and he had come full circle. There was much that could have gone better regarding his trip to see his family, but that was past now. He had made his goodbyes and said his farewells. Seth and Kate had each other, and his parents would survive, perhaps even prosper now that they had a grandchild to raise.
One more fight, and then I can rest, he thought.
“Live for me,” came the memory of Kate’s words.
“Easier said than done,” he told the ghost in his heart.
Lyralliantha was there when he got back to the platform that served as his dwelling. She said nothing at first, but he detected a hint of something in her aura. Impatience? Anxiety? How long has she been waiting for me here, wondered Tyrion.
“You look—the same,” he told her honestly. It was the truth, but it didn’t encompass the reality. Lyralliantha did indeed look the same, which meant she was stunning. Seeing her after a short separation sharpened his awareness of just how breathtakingly beautiful the cool She’Har woman was. Delicate features, blue eyes, and silver hair only served to highlight the bewitching shape that moved beneath her gown.
And inside that chest beats a heart colder than ice. She was the living opposite of Catherine Sayer. Where Kate was full of fire and passion, Lyralliantha was cold reason and cruel beauty.
Fire and ice, he observed mentally. What a perfect metaphor for the two of them.
Her aura reflected disappointment at his words, but it was followed quickly by a flare of interest and curiosity. “You look different. Your hair is changed,” she replied.
“Mother gave me a haircut,” he replied.
“She is the one you were dancing with?”
The question took him by surprise. Dancing? Then he remembered the first vision he had shown her was of his family when his mother had taught him to dance while his father played for them. She doesn’t forget much, he noted.
“Yes,” he agreed, “She’s the one who was teaching me to dance.”
“How did she receive you? Were you taught anything new?” continued Lyralliantha.
“Nothing that will keep me alive,” he said shortly.
A faint crease appeared in her forehead. “You are angry.” It was a statement, not a question.
Tyrion took a deep breath, “I’m frustrated, but it isn’t you. Things didn’t go as well as I thought they would.”
“Was the man, your father, was he still there?”
“Yes, he was there, and still healthy—well mostly healthy,” he answered, remembering the beating.
“Will you show me?” She had moved closer to his gear, and her hand touched the cittern.
“I don’t need to play music to show you,” he responded.
Lyralliantha tilted her head slightly, as if that would make his statement easier to understand. The gesture reminded him of Lacy, and he was forced to stifle a laugh.
“I don’t want to see just the images,” she said slowly. “When you played music, your emotions were clearer. I want to see and feel what you felt while you were with them.”
“No,” he said, refusing. “I’m tired of being studied.” He might be a slave, but she couldn’t have that, not by force or command anyway. “Don’t make your choices out of fear,” his father had said.
“I only wish to understand,” she said quietly.
He had no doubt she was sincere, but he wasn’t feeling particularly charitable, then an idea struck him. “How long until I have to fight?”
“It could be as soon as next week,” she replied, “unless you need more time.”
“You can delay it?” He hadn’t realized that was a possibility.
“I could ask for a month, perhaps,” she answered, “if you wish to stay with me a while beforehand.” Her aura showed a strange sense of longing.
What does she want? He wondered. More time to study me, I suppose. “I will take that month, and I will share the memory and the feelings of my visit, if you will give me something in return,” he told her.
“If it is in my power to give,” she said without reservation.
“Teach me how to spellweave,” he said immediately. “Then I might have a chance against this Krytek they want me to fight.”
Her face registered surprise, “It is not possible to teach. A human cannot learn it.”
“You’ve told me that you are human, mostly, and yet you can,” he countered.
She shook her head, “It is something built within the seed mind. The genes for magic are part of the human body, but the mechanism for creating spellweaving is within the seed mind.”
“Mechanism?” he said. Was she implying that she had some sort of machine inside her?
“Yes. The desire and the aythar come from my human body, but it must pass through the seed mind, there it is formalized into what we call a ‘spellweaving’,” she told him.
“Show me,” he said.
“It will do you no good. Why do you wish to see this?”
“I want to win. Any knowledge or understanding of how your magic works might improve my chances,” he replied.
“You cannot win,” she reaffirmed.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he said irritably. “What else would you do with me for a month anyway?”
Lyralliantha opened her mouth, but paused before replying. After a second she said, “You will play for me, and show me your memories?”
“Yes.”
“You will play every day?” she insisted.
“Every evening for an hour,” he clarified, “but you in turn will spend part of each day showing me how your spellweaving works.”
“Agreed,” she said.
“Can we start now?” he asked.
“If you wish,” she replied. “What do you wish to know first?”
Tyrion thought for a moment. “Could you create something first; something simple and persistent, so that I can examine it at length?”
“All spellweavings are persistent. They endure independent of the passage of time,” she answered, and then her fingers moved, trailing complex figures of pure aythar. Tendril-like lines of power extended and shot upward, intertwining and weaving in and out. They met fifteen feet above their heads and then moved out and down to the corners of Tyrion’s platform before rising again.
They continued to weave, back and forth until a dome shaped canopy had formed above them, supported by four pillars that had the appearance of vine-wrapped saplings. The roof of the canopy itself was an intricate structure of leaves and branches. When she finished, the entire thing looked solid and real, although his magesight told him it was composed of nothing but pure aythar.
“This is what you consider simple?” he questioned.
Lyralliantha tilted her head before replying, “Spellweaving is simple for us to accomplish. I merely provide the aythar and the command, and the seed-mind produces that which is desired.” A normal human might have shrugged before giving that answer, but as usual her non-verbal cues were off-kilter.
Tyrion refined his focus, trying to see what the spellweaving was composed of. In his magesight it appeared to be an impossibly complex snarl of lines, but as he looked closer, he realized that those lines consisted of something yet smaller. Tiny hexagons, linked and folded together, formed long strands of aythar that were then spun together to form the actual shapes that she had wanted.
The intricacy of it took his breath away. How could anyone create such a tangled conglomerate of tiny shapes while at the same time spinning them out into tangled vines to form such an object? It’s impossible. He knew then, with a sinking feeling in his s
tomach, that her words had been true. No human could accomplish this. It was beyond the scope of what a living mind could do.
“It’s made of incredibly tiny six-sided figures,” he muttered aloud. “All touching each other and forming still larger shapes.”
Lyralliantha raised an eyebrow, “You can see that?”
“Yes, but it isn’t easy. They’re smaller than dust, smaller than…” he stopped. He couldn’t think of anything that he could see with his physical eyesight that was that small. Tyrion felt her watching him then, studying him with new intensity. That roused his attention, and he refocused, turning his thoughts back to her. “You can’t see it,” he said with sudden intuition.
“No one can,” she replied. “We know that the structure is composed of linked hexagons only because we are born with the knowledge.”
That made no sense to him. How can they create something they can’t fully perceive? He mulled it over for a minute but was unable to come to any reasonable conclusion, so he shelved that question for the present and asked a different question. “Why did you make it like this?”
“In the past I’ve observed you forming your temporary shields when it rains. I thought you might find this useful, though I will remove it if you prefer,” she answered.
“It will be handy,” he observed. “How long will it last?”
“Until I dismantle it.”
She hadn’t understood his question properly. “No, I mean, if you just leave it alone, how long will it last?”
“Forever,” she said.
“Do you mean months or years? Surely it couldn’t be longer than that.”
“I meant what I said, Tyrion. It will last until it is taken apart or destroyed. Left undisturbed, it will outlast the world itself,” she explained.
He realized his mouth had fallen open. Tyrion had thought that magic was temporary by its very nature. Nothing he had created lasted more than a few hours. Using lines and shapes to strengthen his visualization sometimes enabled one of his constructions to last longer, but there was still nothing remotely permanent about his magic.