stile

"I don't want to talk about it now, Simon." She turned away, not liking herself, but unwilling to spill out her secret heart. She could hear him clamber onto his own bedroll, then a quiet curse as he realized he had not snuffed the torch. He crawled back across the shed. "Don't soak it," she said. "It will make it easier to light the next time we need it." "Indeed, my lady." Simon's voice was sour. There was a sizzle and the light was gone. After a few moments, she heard him return to his sleeping spot. "Good night, Simon." "Good night." He sounded angry. Miriamele lay in darkness and thought about what Simon had asked. Could she even explain to him? It would sound so foolish to someone else, wouldn't it? Her father was the one who had started this war—or rather, she felt sure, he had started it at Pryrates' urging—so how could she explain to Simon that she needed to see him, to talk to him? It wouldn't just sound foolish, she decided, it would sound like the worst and most reckless sort of madness. And maybe that's true, she thought gloomily. What if I am just fooling myself? I could be captured by Pryrates and never see my father at all. Then what would happen? That red-robed monster would have every secret of Josua's that I know. She shuddered. Why didn't she tell Simon what she planned? And more importantly, why hadn't she told Uncle Josua instead of just running away? Just the little bit she had told him had made him angry and suspicious ... but maybe he was right. Who was she, one young woman, to decide what was right and wrong for her uncle and all his followers? And wasn't that what she was doing, taking their lives into her hands to satisfy a whim? But it's not a whim. She felt herself divided into warring factions, like her father and uncle, two halves in conflict. She was coming apart. It's important. No one can stop this but my father, and only I know what started it. But I'm so frightened.... The magnitude of what she had done and what she planned to do came rising up, until she suddenly felt she might choke. And no one knew but her—no one! Something inside her seemed about to break beyond mending. She took in a great gulp of bream. "Miriamele? Miriamele, what's wrong?" Fighting to control herself, she did not reply. She could hear Simon moving nearby, the straw rustling. "Are you hurt? Are you having a bad dream?" His voice was closer, almost beside her ear. "No," she gasped, then sobbing took her voice away. Simon's hand touched her shoulder, then tentatively moved up to her face. "You're crying!" he said, surprised. "Oh ..." She struggled to speak. "I'm so ... I'm so ... lonely! I want t-to go h-h-home!" She sat up and bent forward, pressing her face into the damp cloak over her knees. Another great storm of weeping overtook her. At the same time, a part of her stood as though separate, watching her own performance with disgust. Weak, it told her spitefully. No wonder you won't get what you want. You 're weak. "... Home?" Simon said, wondering. "Do you want to go back to Josua and the others?" "No, you idiot!" Anger at her own stupidity momentarily cut through the sobs so that she could speak, "I want to go home!

I want things to be the way they used to be!" In the dark, Simon reached for her and pulled her close. Miriamele struggled for a moment, then let her head fall against his chest. Everything hurt. "I'll protect you," he said softly. There was a curious note in his voice, a sort of quiet exultation. "I'll take care of you, Miriamele." She pushed herself away from him. In the sliver of moonlight that leaked through the shed's doorway, she could see his tousle-haired silhouette. "I don't want to be protected! I'm not a child. I just want things to be right again." Simon sat unmoving for a long moment, then she felt his arm again around her shoulder. His voice was gentle when she expected to have her own anger returned. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm scared, too. I'm sorry." And as he spoke, she realized suddenly that this was Simon beside her, that he was not her enemy. She let herself sag back against his chest, craving for a moment the warmth and solidity of him. A fresh torrent of tears came rushing up and spilled out of her. "Please, Miri," he said helplessly. "Don't cry." He put his other arm around her and held her tightly. After a while the storm of weeping subsided. Miriamele could only lean against Simon, without strength. She felt his fingers run along her jaw, tracing the path of her tears. She pushed in closer, burrowing like a frightened animal, until she felt her face rub against his neck, his hidden blood pulsing against her cheek. "Oh, Simon," she said, her voice ragged. "I'm so sorry." "Miriamele," he began, then fell silent. She felt his hand on her chin, cupping it gently. He turned her face up to his, to his warm breath. He seemed about to say something. She could feel the words suspended between them, trembling, unspoken. Then she felt his lips upon hers, the gentle scratch of his beard around her mouth. For a moment, Miriamele felt herself floating in some unfixed place, in some unrecorded time. She sought a huddling place, somewhere to flee from the pain that seemed all around her like a storm. His mouth was soft, careful, but the hand that touched her face was shaking. She was shaking, too. She wanted to fall into him, to dive into him like a quiet pool. Unbidden, a picture came to her like a shred of dream: Earl Aspitis, his fine golden hair gleaming in lamplight, bending above her.

The arm around her was suddenly a confining claw. "No," she said, pulling away. "No, Simon, I can't." He let go of her quickly, like someone caught pilfering. "I didn't..." "Just leave me alone." She heard her own voice, flat and cold. It did not match the swirl of violent feelings inside her. "I'm ... I just ..." She, too, was at a loss for words. In the silence, there was a sudden noise. A long moment passed before Miriamele realized that it came from outside the shed. It was the horses, whinnying nervously. An instant later, a twig crackled just beyond the door. "There's someone out there!" she hissed. The confusion of the moment before fell away, replaced by the ice of fear. Simon fumbled for his sword; finding it, he stood and moved to the door. Miriamele followed. "Should I open it?" he asked. ' "We don't want to be caught in here," she whispered sharply. "We don't want to be trapped." Simon hesitated, then pushed the door outward. There was a flurry of movement outside. Someone was hurrying away, a shadow lurching toward the road through the misted moonlight. Simon kicked free of the cloak tangled about his legs, then sprang out the door after the fleeing shape. 5 Fire Dance Simon was filled with anger, a high, wild fury that pushed him on like a wind at his back. The figure running before him faltered and he drew closer. He felt as he thought Qantaqa must feel when she ran some small fleeing thing to ground. Spy on me! Spy on me, will you?! The shadowy form stumbled again. Simon lifted his sword, ready to hew the sneaking creature down in its tracks. Another few paces… "Simon!" Something caught at his shirt, tugging him off stride. "Don't!" He lowered his hand to regain his balance and his sword caught in the weedy grass and sprang from his fingers. He pawed at the ground, but could not find it in the deep brush, in the dark. He hesitated for a moment, but the dark shape before him had regained its stride and was pulling away. With a curse, Simon abandoned the sword and ran on. A dozen strong paces and he had caught up again. He wrapped his arms around his quarry's midsection and tumbled them both to the ground. "Oh, sweet Usires!" the thing beneath him shrieked. "Don't burn me! Don't burn me!" Simon grabbed the thrashing arms and held on. "What are you doing?!" Simon hissed. "Why have you been following us?" "Don't burn me!" the man quavered, struggling to keep his face turned away. He flailed his spindly limbs in seeming terror. "Weren't following no one!" Miriamele arrived, Simon's sword clutched in both hands. "Who is it?" Still angry, although even he was not quite sure why, Simon took the man's ear in his hand—as Rachel the Dragon had oftentimes done with a certain recalcitrant scullion—and twisted it until the face swung toward him.

His prisoner was an old man; Simon did not know him. The man's eyes were wide and blinking rapidly. "Didn't mean no harm, old Heanwig didn't'" he said. "Don't burn me!" "Burn you? What are you babbling about? Why were you following us?" Miriamele looked up suddenly. "Simon, we can't stay here shouting. Let's take him back." "Don't burn Heanwig!" "Nobody's burning anybody," Simon grunted. He dragged the old man onto his feet less gently than he might have, then marched him toward the shed. The intruder sniffled and pleaded for his life. Simon retained his hold on the old man while Miriamele tried to relight the torch. She eventually gave up and took another from her saddlebag. When it was burning, Simon let go of the prisoner and then sat with his back against the door so that the old man could not make another bolt for freedom. "He doesn't have any weapons," Simon said. "I felt his pockets." "No, masters, got no nothing." Heanwig seemed a little less frightened, but still pathetically eager not to offend. "Please, just let me go and I'll tell no one." Simon looked him over. The old man had the reddened cheeks and nose of a veteran tosspot, and his eyes were bleary. He was staring worriedly at the torch, as though it were now the greatest danger in the room. He certainly didn't seem much of a threat, but Simon had learned long ago from Doctor Morgenes' small-outside, large-inside chambers that things could be other than they appeared. "Why were you following us?" he demanded. "And why do you think we'd burn you?" "Don't need to burn no one," the old man said. "Old Heanwig means no harm. He won't tell nobody." "Answer my question. What are you doing here?" "Was just looking for place to sleep, masters." The old man chanced a quick survey of the shed. "Slept here before once or twice. Didn't want to be outside tonight, no, not tonight." "Were you following us in the forest? Did you come to our camp last night?" The old man looked at him with what seemed genuine surprise. "Forest? In Oldheart? Heanwig won't go there. Things and beasties and such—that's a bad place, masters. Don't you go to that Oldheart." "I think he's telling the truth," said Miriamele. "I think he was just coming here to sleep," She fished the water skin out of her saddlebag and gave it to the old man.