ElvenSword

Volume 1 of The Tapestry of Life

BRIDGETOWN (8)

It is possible to scry in a mirror, the surface of a highly polished stone or in water. There are few convincing theories about the process actually taking place. One is that the mirror or stone is simply a focussing device for the inborn visionary powers of the mind, and any adept can learn to do it, as soon as they have properly mastered their mind. Another is that an out-of-body experience occurs, and this is facilitated by the mirror in a way similar to that suggested by the first theory. This would imply that the user could be at risk, if for any reason the life cord were to be cut. The third theory points out that some mirrors and basins seem to have their own magical properties, guaranteeing true vision. All – or none – of these hypotheses may explain the many well-documented instances of this phenomenon.

Count Icbodo ys Dalrim

I

Bridgetown was situated on the river Thannon, at the first ford inland from the estuary and the sea. The country around was hilly and heavily wooded, with forests of falc, beech, oak, larch, pine, and evergreen zhuca¹. Within a couple of miles, the hills started rising steadily into the great mountain range that Steppan had seen from afar. The town was in the valley, and on a prominent hill just outside the town was a large sandstone villa, in the modern style, which Fluin later learnt was where Nefta lived. In the clear late autumn air, the snow-capped mountains, the forested foothills, and the charming timbered houses were indescribably beautiful. But when they got closer, Fluin could see the crumbling plaster, discoloured patches of damp, beggars and whores lurking in foetid alleyways, piles of horse-shit, heaps of refuse.

Before they came close to the town, Steppan and Fluin dismounted. Steppan said, “Just in case anybody is looking for us, we ought to separate. They will be looking for two men, or a man and a boy. So I will go in first, leading my horse. Wait a few minutes and then follow me with yours. Don’t join me once you are through the gates. You see the villa, over there. It’s on the far side of the town. I’ll meet you there, as if by chance, just outside the town gate on the other side of town. Don’t worry, it’ll be safe enough – I’ll be watching you, even if you are not aware of it.”

“I’m not worried,” said Fluin. He’d faced worse dangers when he was on is own. He felt completely safe with Steppan, who was so tough and ruthless and competent.

A thick defensive stone wall surrounded the town. The road passed through this wall via a large turreted stone gateway with solid oak gates, which stood open. Fluin watched Steppan go through the gate, and followed after a few minutes. The gatekeeper, in the manner of petty officialdom everywhere, decided to harry him.

“Where’s tha ma, striplin’?”

“She’n makin’ a spell to dry oop tha vitals, bu’ she foun’ tha didna ha’ any, tha ould fooil. Art tha goin’ to le’ me in, ould man?” Steppan would have been surprised how well Fluin could speak dialect, after the upper-class accent and words he had been using. Fluin was enjoying himself.

“I won’ le’ thee in, tha yoong skelm. Didna tha ma teach thee to be poli’ to oulder folk?”

“Ah, doun’t be li’ tha’, ould man. She’n gi’ me hell ifn I doun’t get the thangs she’n sen’ me for. I’ll tell her no’ to dry oop tha vitals, if tha lettest me in. Bu’ she’n coom arter thee, ifn tha doun’t.” Fluin entreated him, pretending to give in. Having made his point, the old geezer let him in, with some further grumbling about “yoong skelms”. Fluin satisfied his feelings by skelling out the old man in Elvish: “Slushe darsha zaddata²”. But the old man was half deaf. He didn’t even notice. Fluin could see Steppan loitering just inside the gate, pretending to examine his horse’s hoof, obviously worried about Fluin’s delay. Fluin winked at him and, trying to look like a gormless country boy in the big town for a day, sauntered after him.

The town straddled the river, and there were steep slopes down to the river valley. On the seaward side of the bridge across the river, there was a little harbour, with a few small sailing ships at anchor. On the far side of the river, there was a middling sized cobbled square, with the burgomaster’s office on one side, the Weaver Temple on the other, and inns and shops on the other two. A mass of covered stalls filled most of the square. A broad, cobbled road ran uphill out of the square to the villa, which lay just beyond the town walls. Fluin went up to Steppan, and said:

“Dost tha know where villa be?” For an instant, Steppan looked at him as if he was demented, then caught the twinkle in his eyes.

“Aye, there it be, la’.”

Shambling like two country yokels, they went through the gate out of the town, which was open, before leading their horses the short way to the villa, which was set on the sunny north-facing slope of the hill. The villa had two storeys, each with numerous glass-paned windows, which demonstrated the owner’s wealth, and a large wooden panelled door opening onto the courtyard on the ground floor. There was a large paved yard, enclosed by high stone walls, covered with espaliered pear and peach trees, and a carriage gate from the road into the yard, as well as a smaller door.

Waiting for them at the top of the steps going down from the main door onto the enclosed yard was a woman, who greeted them with a “Welcome! Welcome! At last!” Steppan surprised Fluin by handing him the reins of his horse and running over to the figure and hugging her closely for several minutes.

What Fluin took to be a servant appeared next to his mistress, and Steppan greeted him, too, with affection, hugging him and shaking his hand, and saying, “You are looking well, Harith.”

“You too, my lord Steppan”.

Steppan raised his eyebrows at Harith, and smiled broadly at him. “Tiresome man,” he said with deep affection, making a pretend punch at Harith’s shoulder. He shook his head with mock sadness. Wondering at the rapport between the two, Fluin watched these exchanges with curiosity.

Then Steppan took his elbow, and introduced him to Nefta. “This is my friend and apprentice, Fluin ys Byon – Fluin, this is my old colleague and teacher, Nefta ys Kastar. And this is Harith ys Stilloth, her . . . .”

Harith interrupted him. “I’ll take the horses now.” He took the reins and led them away.

“Still the same,” said Steppan, looking after Harith, and shaking his head.

“Did you expect him to change?” asked Nefta dryly.

Nefta had the sort of presence and the aura of power that made Fluin feel that he ought to bow, and he did.

The Duchess had been frightening, because she had seemed cold-blooded as well as slightly demented. Nefta was awe-inspiring for very different reasons. Fluin could feel her authority and charisma, her grace and power. In her presence, he could not help feeling humble and respectful, as if he were in the presence of a great queen. Yet her face was kind, though there was a hardness, even an arrogance there. She inspected him with sharp and perceptive bluish-green eyes, which seemed to look into his heart and soul, and he was a little afraid of what she might see there – there was much about himself that he preferred others not to know. Old – as old as Magda – and slightly stooped, she had the lingering remnants of great beauty. Her grey hair, streaked with faded copper threads, was tied up in a knot. Even now, her facial bones were beautiful, and her skin, though wrinkled, was soft and unblemished.

“Well,” she said, turning away from him, “obviously you’d like a bath, and then we can talk.”

“That bad, is it?” grinned Steppan.

“My dear!” said Nefta with a wicked smile. “But first your rooms – this way. Join me when you’ve finished,” said Nefta, showing them the bath, and left.

They stepped down into the blissfully warm sweet-smelling water, immersed themselves up to their chins and lay still, feeling all the knots and aches of travel melting. Eventually, Steppan sighed and said,

“I suppose we’d better get out.” There were warm towels next to the stove, and he dried himself.

“Come on, hurry up, I need you to oil my back. Nefta doesn’t keep any servants. We’ll have to do each other.” He was briskly rubbing scented almond oil onto his skin. He turned round and Fluin oiled his back in silence. But when Steppan offered to do Fluin’s back, he declined, embarrassed at such physical intimacy, afraid that his body might betray what he really felt.

Fluin found clean clothes laid out on the large four-poster bed in his room, with its embroidered canopy. He was overwhelmed – he’d always slept on a straw pallet next to the fire, at the cottage, while Magda slept in a small annex off the main room. The bed at the Duchess’s keep had been bigger than most, but he’d had to share it with Steppan. But this monster was for him alone.

There were logs crackling in a corner fireplace. He got dressed, enjoying the soft warm comfort and cleanness of the clothes, which were too big for him, not that that mattered. Then he went looking for Steppan.

Fluin found Steppan and Nefta in another warm, brightly lit room, just off the hall where they’d come in. They were drinking wine out of crystal and silver cups, and when Fluin came in, Nefta immediately rose and offered him one. This wine was even better than the liquor the Duchess had given them. It was sweet and warm and dark red, with hints of forest berries and rare spices.

“Steppan tells me that the woman who had cared for you all your life died a little while ago. I’m so sorry. All I can say is that the grief does eventually fade, though it never vanishes completely. It must be a great sadness to you.”

Her lovely blue-green eyes were filled with a genuine compassion and concern. Fluin could see that she meant what she was saying. From someone so powerful and aristocratic and awe-inspiring, it was unexpectedly moving. To his immense shame, he felt his eyes fill with tears. He couldn’t speak, so he just nodded, with a lump in his throat, and the tears welled and trickled unheeded down his cheeks. He suddenly thought of how much Magda would have enjoyed coming to this villa, and how much she would have liked the bath and the bed and the wine. For the first time he realised what she gave up when she left Cappor to take him away and bring him up in that obscure village. Cappor was said to have a population of a half a million, and this town was perhaps only few thousand. How much greater must the establishments and pleasures of the capital be? He could no longer be angry with her for not telling him the truth about himself.

“My Lady, I’m sorry,” he said wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

“There is no shame in grief. And please – just call me ‘Nefta’ or ‘Nef’, as all my friends do,” said with Nefta. Fluin felt that that would be extremely presumptuous. But he was too in awe of her to disobey.

“Yes, my La . . . . Nefta”

“While you are here, please consider this your home. We don’t stand on any ceremony.”

Of course you don’t! thought Fluin, a measure of his cynicism returning.

“Come,” she said, “the meal is ready. Let us eat.”

They went over to a table at one end of the room, covered by a rich linen tablecloth, and set with crystal glasses, fine silver plates and cutlery, and bowls of food. Harith served them and then sat down at the table with them. Fluin marked well which knife and fork Steppan used, and how he ate, and copied him. After the meal, Harith and Fluin cleared away the residue, and they moved to sofas and couches in front of the fire. Harith went off to do some errand in the kitchen, and when he returned, he poured himself some wine and sat down with them.

It seemed an odd way for a servant to behave, with so haughty a mistress. Yet, Steppan smiled at him in affection and approval, and Nefta just gave him an unreadable look. It took a few moments for Fluin to realise that of course they were much more than mistress and servant. He was glad that Magda’s upbringing had ensured that he had been courteous to Harith, so that he had not offended his hostess. Magda had expected him to be polite to everyone, even the humblest beggar.

Nefta turned to Steppan. “Now tell me about your trip from Cappor.”

“Uneventful, until a couple of days ride from here, when Fluin and I crossed paths. Then . . . . .” Steppan shrugged “ . . . filled with incident. First we were captured by one of the Duchess of Carnia’s patrols. She’s deep in something, Nef. She wanted me to persuade you to . . . . you know” He paused and gave her a wry grin. “You stubborn old woman.” Fluin could sense the profound love and affection in his voice. He felt sad that he had no-one now who cared about him like that.

After a moment, Steppan continued, “We took a minor road through the forest. We came upon a deserted hamlet, where we spent the night, in a Weaver chapel. During the night I had a dream – a knight carrying a sword, which he then placed on the altar.” Again, he stopped, this time staring into the fire, which Nefta did also.

It seemed to Fluin that they were avoiding each others’ eyes. “In the morning, Fluin touched the altar, the stone dissolved, and we found an old sword, hidden in the altar. Elvish, I’d say.” Once more, Steppan and Nefta looked at each other in silence. Fluin got the strongest feeling that there were two conversations taking place. Harith was watching Nefta and Steppan intently.

Nefta stirred, and said, “You say ‘we’ – was it Fluin who took the sword out of its hiding place?”

Steppan nodded. “And then Fluin put it back and I concealed it.”

“Well, that is quite fascinating. Now, tell me, how is Ilya? And whatever happened to your friend Aroth?” Fluin knew perfectly well that Nefta did not want these topics to be discussed in public. She would have a private talk with Steppan later. They chatted of other things, Steppan detailing all the gossip from Cappor. It was all about people that Fluin didn’t know, and he found himself going to sleep.

“Ai! Look at this poor young man. Worn out and tired! Come!” Nefta shepherded Fluin to his sleeping chambers, wished him good night, prayed that the Weavers would keep him while he slept, and left.

Fluin stripped to his drawers and slipped under the down covers of the enormous bed, and was asleep in a moment, warm and tipsy from the wine, exhausted by the journeying, tired by the wonder of all the new things he’d seen.

In the small hours of the morning, with the sky dark and the stars pricking the dome of heaven, he awoke suddenly. He had been dreaming of the sword. It seemed as if it spoke to him, in a warm and tender voice. Come to me! I have been lonely. It is time for action. Your enemies are getting stronger. Do not delay. Its hilt glistened and gleamed, the extraordinary jewels shone. He lay for a while after `he woke from this seductive but also frightening dream, but he couldn’t get back to sleep. At last he got up, put on the gown from the bath earlier, and padded silently down the passage to the drawing room. He could hear voices coming through the closed door. Without thinking, he stopped to listen, even though Magda had brought him up not to do that. “You might,” she used to say, “hear things you don’t want to.”

“It’s all wrong,” Steppan was saying, continuing a conversation that had obviously been going on for some time, probably since Fluin had gone to bed, “Only one of the conditions of the prophecy have been fulfilled. Why? Why?”

“It’s the most important, I would have thought. The prophecy could be incomplete, or misunderstood.”

“A mage-king! You know how likely that is! But over and above that, you know as well as I do why it’s wrong. Yet so much else fits.”

Fluin was dying to know more. He pressed his ear to the panel of the door. There was silence , then Nefta’s in a slightly raised voice spoke, “You’d better come in, young man.”

He wondered what spell or secret knowledge had let her know he was there. Shamefaced, he pushed open the door. Nefta gave him an ironic look.

“I’m sorry, I woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep.” Magda’s words came back to him with renewed force. He coloured with humiliation, and stared fixedly at the floor.

Only Steppan and Nefta were in the room – Harith had evidently gone to bed. Fluin shuffled across to the nearest chair.

“Steppan says that he thinks you have the Power. What do you think?” Nefta was staring at Fluin with such interest that he was discomfited, her eyes sharp, sparkling with power and intelligence.

“I don’t know, my Lady – Nefta – but I can’t explain what happened.”

“What did you feel when that man was flung against the wall?”

“I was angry. And frightened. But as to more than that . . . . ” He shrugged.

“Come, let’s try an experiment. Scrying in a stone or mirror is the easiest of tricks if you are in control of your mind. It is one of the first learnt by apprentice wizards. Let’s see what you can do.” She stood up, and fetched a beautiful dark polished stone from a chest of drawers in the corner. “Sit here, comfortably, look into the stone, and think of nothing. You are peaceful and relaxed. You have no worries or concerns. Look into the reflection of your own eyes. Let them blur. Feel the peace, feel the timelessness, feel the oneness.” Nefta said these things again and again and began to fall into a sing-song chant. Fluin felt her voice begin to disappear. The surface of the mirror expanded to fill his vision, then cleared.

He was looking at a forest track in the snow. Four riders approached. As they came closer he could see that it was he and Steppan and Nefta and Harith. He knew, without thinking it through, that it was something from the future. Then the vision changed and he saw a great city, which was as much stone as wood and whitewashed mudbrick. The public buildings and most of the grander private buildings were built of a pale sand-coloured stone, the roofs were of red tile and everywhere he looked he saw window boxes and urns and tubs filled with brightly coloured flowers. The city was built in a circular valley, with whitewashed houses falling in a tumble right to the water’s edge. Then the vision shifted again, and he saw a stone keep built on the side of a mountain, with an extensive terrace running the full length of the front. At regular intervals there were stone urns, each filled with flowers. As he watched, he saw Steppan, himself and a handsome dark-skinned stranger come out of the front door of the villa, and walk over to the edge of the terrace wall, where they stood and looked out over the plain. They were conversing, but Fluin couldn’t hear what was said.

The vision shifted again and he saw a black-garbed figure working in a room filled with apparatus and books. There were dark noxious vapours rising from around the figure. He suddenly froze and slowly swivelled his head to stare at Fluin. Fluin felt a rush of terror. The figure smiled knowingly, cruelly, and stretched out his arm towards him. Fluin began to feel a terrible power pulling him into the shiny surface of the stone towards the dark, evil figure.

“No!” he cried.

In an instant the vision was gone and he came to himself, collapsed on the floor, with Steppan and Nefta holding his head.

“What happened?” asked Steppan, his face filled with worry and alarm.

“I saw us, riding in the forest. It was in the future, I know; then a beautiful city – Cappor, I suppose – then a castle where you and I and a stranger stood on a broad terrace, and then …” his voice faltered, and he felt again the vile power of the figure in black, “…and then, a figure in black robes – he looked up and saw me, and tried to pull me towards him.”

Nefta and Steppan exchanged glances, then Nefta spoke.

“I didn’t think there’d be any danger from such a simple procedure – safe for the newest novice. Well, that little experiment certainly answers one question, even though it raises a whole lot more. You were right to be afraid of the figure. I suspect it was a dark wizard, perhaps one of the most evil and terrible, if not Waigath himself. Only one with such power could be able to intervene in a scrying, and try to take control of the scryer. It is quite clear that you have the power – and equally clear that you will put yourself and others in danger if you do not learn to use it. You must start your tuition immediately, to learn some basic protection skills. And we, ” she looked at Steppan, “ must use as little magic as possible.”

“Perhaps what Patrika saw in the mirror of truth is involved,” said Steppan.

Nefta looked at him in silence, then said, “Perhaps.”

“What is a necromancer? And who is Patrika? And what did she see?” asked Fluin.

“One answer at a time. A necromancer is a wizard who has turned to the dark side of the magical power. He uses pain and suffering to extend his magic. Most necromancers worship the death god, Nefron, instead of the Great Spirit and Her helpers, the Weavers. These evil forces have great power but the power eventually corrupts and eats them up until they become little more than spirits, half in and half out of this world. Their pleasure is to see suffering and they wish to enslave all within their range – let us hope that that was all he wished to do with you, Fluin, and that he did not detect who you are, or desire you or your powers for some other purpose.” Both Steppan and Nefta were grimly silent as they contemplated the other purposes to which young, beautiful, mage-touched people could be put. Fluin felt a shiver of pure terror run through him. Nefta continued, “Patrika is the head of our order, and one of the most accomplished wizards in the land. As for your third question, I want to think before I answer it.”

“What am I?”

“We don’t know for sure. But we –“ she looked at Steppan, “– must trust you with this, for your safety and ours and for the safety of the world.” She sighed, and Fluin could see the weariness brought by the burdens of knowledge and power. “The sword you found is not simply a sword. It is also a powerful magical artefact. All the writings say that it can only be touched or wielded by the rightful heir of Fanuiloth. He was a king from two and a half centuries ago, a great and noble king who put together this empire, and brought peace and justice and prosperity to half the world. When he died his sword disappeared, and repeated prophecies have stated that when the need is there, the sword will reappear. This is the important part: only the rightful heir to Fanuiloth may use the sword. The fact that you found it and touched it without grave harm suggests that you are the heir. And believe me – if you were not permitted to touch it you would have found it hard to see and quite impossible to pick up.”

Fluin was silent. He had half-suspected something like this. The sword had spoken to him. Yet the matter of being heir to a great king was unwelcome news.

Nefta was still speaking. “Yet there are four points – three cogent points, and one less compelling – that suggest that you are not the heir, despite being unharmed when you touched the sword. Firstly, you don’t appear to be from the royal kindred – though of course, perhaps your mother and father were other than what you were told.” Fluin made an angry gesture, but Nefta raised her hand, and smiled at him. “I’m not trying to insult you or your guardian. Perhaps the truth was withheld to protect you.” She halted for a moment.

“The second factor is that you have the power – and, I suspect, with proper training and discipline, will one day be a fine, perhaps even a great wizard. Both Steppan and I can feel it in you. You shine with the capacity for magic. However, there has never been a mage-king in the empire. Would any wizard-Emperor be acceptable to the Senate and the people? Somehow I doubt it – his supremacy would be too great – and great power often leads to great abuse. It would probably end in civil war and terrible chaos.” Nefta was silent. She looked at Steppan. Steppan looked at her. Neither spoke. Then, breaking the tension, she said, almost sadly, “You tell him,” to Steppan.

“I have already,” said Steppan. “He knows.”

Nefta was surprised. She exchanged a quick glance with Steppan. Fluin and Steppan were closer to each other than she had thought.

“What?” asked Fluin, concerned, “Tell me what?”

“That you are half-Elvish,” said Steppan, grinning at him with affection.

“Yes. I’m still not sure I believe you,” muttered Fluin.

“Well, I saw it at once,” said Nefta. “Believe us – you are Elf-kindred.”

“I don’t feel Elvish,” said Fluin, stubbornly. The other two laughed.

“How do elves feel?” asked Steppan.

“I don’t know. Noble and wise and superior.” Fluin felt foolish. He realised how silly that sounded. “You said that there were four things,” he urged Nefta.

“Well,” she said, “that’s the third. Half-elves can’t be panthrones.”

“And the fourth?”

“The one we seek is called Vordath. And your name is Fluin.”

“Obviously, then, I am not the next panthron. Easy!” Fluin was relieved that he wouldn’t have to be king.

“Except that, you could see and touch and use the sword. And that is more important than anything else.”

“Let’s get this straight. A king has to do everything in the interests of his people, right? He had no life of his own. He has to go and fight battles where he might be killed. He has to marry whomever his counsellors reckon is suitable. He has to be polite to blackhearts and rump-sniffers and hypocrites and liars and all the poxy toadies and slimegrimers who cross his path. Right?”

The others looked at him, wry smiles on their faces.

“Quite so!” said Nefta, drily. “You understand the nature of kingship perfectly.”

“I don’t want to be a king. It’s simple.” Fluin shook his head stubbornly.

“You may have no choice. A king is responsible for his people. Would you reject your responsibility if it meant the collapse of the empire, what’s left of it, into civil war and chaos?” asked Nefta.

“I don’t know all the millions that I am supposed to be saving.” Unsaid was the implication that he didn’t care either.

“Ordinary folk rely on us, the great and the powerful, to keep the world on an even keel. Would you do it for Magda?”

Fluin thought about this for a while, then sighed. “Yes.” For the first time he admitted his duty.

There was a silence, then Fluin rose and bade them all a good night’s sleep.

Fluin threw himself on his bed and lay staring at the ceiling turning over all the unanswered questions in his mind. Who was he? Who was Magda? Why had it all been hidden from him? He didn’t know, and was afraid of the answers. He fell asleep and dreamed of Stor again. But this time, the sword was silent, and it eluded him, always slipping away out of his reach.

II

The salon in Patrika’s villa was warm, and fire-lit. Outside, torrential rain fell, and gales rattled the casements. Varda came in wearing a thick woollen cloak, glistening like some rare, precious pelt, clasped with a apple-green jewel, which perfectly matched her emerald eyes. She shook off the water like an otter. Patrika thought the admirer who had given her the jewel had been the Duke of Grell, but in fact it was paste, given Varda by an actor she had loved, its worth purely sentimental. Varda never spoke of it. He had died a few seasons before, of the coughing sickness, and if he had not, things might have been very different. Now, she felt that her black cynicism and profound grief had been tempered by, had even found a useful outlet in being a spy. Just occasionally, she felt that she had a surrogate family, with Patrika and Steppan, but she knew his heart was too damaged to be a good brother, and hers too dedicated to saving the realm to be much good as a substitute mother.

“Disgusting creature!” she said, accepting a glass of mulled wine. Patrika assumed she was talking about the Panthron’s sister, the Panthraska. “Odious, inbred, supercilious, stinking sow!”

“But I thought you liked her!” said Patrika, her eyes wide, her voice ironic. She was fond of all her spies. They were closer to her in many ways than the wizards, although she was nominally in charge of the three or four score wizards in Cappor and its surrounds. Perhaps it was because there were so few of them, perhaps because they were from the fringes of society, or because they were all damaged or hurt in some way.

Varda gave her a look, irony in her glance showing she’d understood the joke. She was extraordinarily beautiful tonight. The cold and wet had heightened the colour in her cheeks, and made her eyes sparkle. The dark felt of the cloak, and the jewelled clasp set off her eyes and hair flawlessly.

“She’s up to something. She thought she was being very clever, but couldn’t help herself. Stupid biczha³ made lots of hints. I think that poor old Nyal is not long for this world.”

“She said that openly?”

“No, just broad insinuations of an impending change in status. She is much taken with me.” She sighed. “I’ll try and get some more out of her tonight. We are to visit the theatre. You had better give me some more of that stuff we used last night. I might need it to keep her sweet. I’ll meet you at the Vintners’ fountain at the ninth hour tomorrow to tell you more. The worst of it is that that distasteful creature isn’t even good in bed, and she smells rank.”

Patrika made a moue of distaste, and then smiled. “I think I’ll organise for you get danger pay. And perhaps a holiday, in a comfortable keep in the mountains, with somebody young and beautiful to keep you company. Lots of snow and warm log-fires and thick down bedcovers. I know the very man.” She tried to keep the conversation light, because she knew that Varda had been unhappy in love, and was very bleak and cynical about it still. She knew that this was a deeply repugnant situation for her. “My dear . . . ,” she began, wondering whether she should release her from her task.

“Sounds perfect,” interrupted Varda, perfunctorily. “Till tomorrow!” and she left. For a long time after she had gone, Patrika sat thinking, turning her glass round and round in her hands. Sometimes she hated what she had to do, even when she knew that it was unquestionably necessary. She wondered again whether the price the few had to pay to save the many was worth it.

© 2010 Nigel Puerasch. All rights reserved.

Romantic m2m novels and short stories

www.nigelpuerasch.com

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