Part V, Chapter 8

The following passage is a chapter from an unwritten novel, The Legend of Sir Anduir, from Part V. For my own use, here's a prospectus for the chapters in Part V:

1. In Ganx Gemen
2. Tarl
3. Old Magic
4. The Siege of Thaplin
5. The Streets of Poyn
6. The Duke of Trelaninth
7. The Fair
8. A Love Story
9. The Jazan Hordes are Riding
10. The Madness of the King
11. The Fall of Tuvel
12. Nightfall

Those chapters may multiply and will almost surely change names. Whether I'll ever finish is anyone's guess... it seems unlikely. Probably I'm foolish to write it at all, but sometimes my imagination is so overflowing with this or that scene that I have to get it down. What follows is a draft of Chapter 8, "A Love Story."

The wedding took place on the last day of the fair, and brought its festive atmosphere to a climax. The ceremony was kept short because there was not room for the guests in the small sanctuary of Trelaninth Castle, but after that the castle and its grounds were given up to feasting and drinking and dancing and music the likes of which Trelaninth had not seen in thirty years, if indeed it had ever seen it before, which went on late into the night before the great and happy company started to disperse. There were guests by the hundreds, of whom the bulk were merchant's or Drannon's own peasants, but which included more exotic figures, Tuvelain patricians, grizzled huntsmen of the north, and a handful of gentry who represented the first sign of a thaw in Drannon's ostracism among the class in which he had gained a place, the Poynese aristocracy. In the courtyard minstrels played and dancing ladies were whirled and lifted and dipped by their partners. In the great hall a bard led a chorus of drunken soldiers in gay songs of war as the wine and beer flowed. On the walls lovers promenaded beneath the moonlight, and some stole away, beyond the walls, to sit in the grass and enjoy the late summer's air and the touch of one another's hands. Drannon's was not the only match made that day. And through it all, like the very spirit of revelry made flesh, moved Drannon himself, the great jolly host and patron of the grand affair, laughing and tell stories, making introductions, renewing old acquaintances and striking up new ones, welcoming, praising, teasing with goodwill, promising the same next year and the year after that, proposing toasts, but never staying long, for there were always so many more guests to attend to. A few foreigners from more remote parts aside, about half the guests spoke Poynese and half spoke Tuvelain; some had fought one another but two years before; and there were a few tensions. Yet miraculously few. Of course, Drannon's own vassal townsmen, of the new mongrel bordertown of Trelaninth over which Drannon had come to preside, had learned the art of amicable relations between different races and tongues, and their influence, and Drannon's own, prevailed. Tensions gave way to good feeling and curiosity. In the great hall, so it was said, a few Tuvelain legionaries even sang along to a marching song, "The Blade of Dagorlil."

Amidst the merriment Drannon's bride was thinking, in confused excitement and a little fear, of what was about to happen to her... or was it? Of course she understood that just below the surface of all this revelry important commercial diplomacy was underway, that the success of this night would bring back traders in the future and guarantee the future prosperity of the Trelaninth Fairs and therefore of Trelaninth itself... yet as important as it was, she was surprised that he would have time even for that on his wedding night. And when she was looking so beautiful! That she knew well enough, and the impression that her radiant figure made on the face of every man who passed her confirmed it, and some made bold to say so, she was almost drunk with the flowery chivalrous compliments that kept meeting her at every turn, and yet in her suspense and confusion she could not enjoy herself. Where was he? she would be wondering, and then he would appear, laughing and red with wine and next to some colleague or visitor, and he would introduce her to Titus Pasha, proconsul of Brecchium or Garhaldy Maven the merchant-steward and financier and tavern-keeper of Ravensgate in Little Poyn or Dax Bristol the huntsman-explorer who had traveled on foot to the northern seas of mist and ice and sailed with the thwaedyrim-- and she was glad enough of the introductions to meet the owners of these renowned names-- and how grand it felt to be introduced, again and again, as "Duchess of Trelaninth," she would never tire of it!-- but then he would go away again, with a compliment or an unconsciously comical bow of respect. She, too, mingled, played hostess, spoke with the ladies, made conversation, thanked, praised, inquired, but with difficulty, for her thoughts were on him. And then, around nine o'clock, he appeared again, alone this time, and speaking to her softly... Now... now... her mind whispered, and her heart began to race, but he said:

"Darling, I'm worried about Jamail. I'm afraid he'll be afraid, alone in a new room, and in such a big place... You should go to him, will you?"

She paused, taken aback. "All right..." she murmured. 

Drannon gazed at her and murmured, almost as if to himself, "You're wonderful... a joy to behold you..." and a blissful smile lit up his face, but then he dashed away again, and was gone.

She had, in fact, been worried about Jamail, she had been wanting to check on him all evening, and though her reason had told her that more important things were at stake tonight than a child's loneliness, now at once she almost ran in search of him. It only occurred to her later, and slowly, that in doing so she had been the perfect model of a wife's obedience to a husband, and that that had even been her reason for doing it, and how natural and right it had felt to obey him. She raced through the dark corridors of the castle which were still a maze to her, past torchlit tapestries and one scurrying rat-- That will need to be dealt with, she thought, making a mental note-- till she reached the high and heavy door of carved oak that incongruously guarded the room of her dear little child.

"Mommy!" cried Jamail with eyes shining with joy-- Had she ever heard a sweeter sound?-- as he recognized her face out of the shadows of the corridor. She ran to him, fell to her knees, embraced him, and kissed him, as if they had been parted for a year instead of a few hours, and he embraced and kissed her in return and laughed with delight. "Mommy, you were sooooo beauuuu-tiful," Jamail murmured caressingly, drawing out the words in an ecstasy of pride and delight. But when she looked at his face she saw in it the stains of fears, even though to him they were already forgotten. He had been afraid of the dark corridors through which some silent old servant-woman must have led him; but more than that, he had feared losing her, had feared she would love him the less now that she had a man. And how long had he been there by himself, thinking he had lost her, lost her this night at least-- and a night can seem like forever to a child-- lost her forever perhaps at least a little bit, and yet-- bless his angelic little heart!-- he had prepared no words of jealousy or reproach, but had thought about how she had looked, and had wanted only to praise her. And if I had not returned here to see him tonight, she thought, I would have never heard those words-- "Mommy, you were sooooo beauuuu-tiful!"-- the words which now seemed like the crown of all her joys-- and they would have died unsaid in his dear heart, and left a seed of sadness there that I would never have understood, instead of blossoming into joy as they are now. And that might-have-been seemed so sad to her that her face even grew wet with tears as she held Jamail in her arms, though they were happy tears because it was only a might-have-been, for she had come to him and all was as it should be, and yet... But for him, I wouldn't have come. And I was even dismayed that he was sending me away, I was worrying about something... And so she fell into confusion, but her joy was none the less for that.

Embraces must end, and at last they drew apart, and Jamail, to dispel the traces of trouble he perceived in his mother's face, spoke.

"It's so big here," he murmured in a tone of awe, almost a whisper.

"Yes," agreed Dessa, "it will take some getting used to."

After a pause: "But we don't have to be afraid anymore," said Jamail.

"What do you mean, afraid?"

"About money, about not having enough to eat."

"Were we afraid of that?" asked Dessa, laughing.

"You were afraid," said Jamail. "You worried about it lot."

"Did I? I'm sorry," said Dessa, inwardly wondering, not for the first time, at the child's wisdom. She had tried to hide those fears from him, but he had known her too well. "But you're right, we don't need to be afraid of that now, or ever again, I think."

"Because Drannon is rich?" asked Jamail, grinning.

"Not just because he is rich," said Dessa, "but because he has a head for business. Even if he lost all his money somehow he would know how to make more. He's smart that way."

"He's a good man, isn't he?" said Jamail.

"Yes."

"Is that why you let him marry you?"

"I don't think I knew when I agreed to marry him that he was such a good man as I think he is now. I guessed it, maybe. It was a lucky guess."

"Because you're smart too, Mommy," said Jamail. He grinned again, but a moment later, for some reason, he became shy at having made this compliment, and blushed, and hugged his mother again in order to hide his face in her dress. Dessa laughed.

A few minutes later she moved to go, but Jamail called out, "Don't go, Mommy, tell me a story!" And because something in her was reluctant to leave the warmth of the candlelight and love which filled that room, she agreed. She stayed, and sat by the bed, and told the story of Minxkin the peddler's son who had a magic ring that made him two inches tall and how he could ride on the back of a dragonfly, and Jamail kept asking her for details, even trying to trip her up and make her contradict herself, and also to draw out the story, putting off the moment when, Minxkin's magic and cunning having saved his father from a gang of bandits, the happy ending of the story would be the signal for her to go away. And when she was done, on an impulse, she lay down beside him for a moment...

... And the next thing she knew the light of morning was pouring in the window, and she was still there. She felt a sense of sweet restfulness and peace, but she didn't remember where she was or why for what seemed like a long time. When she did, she was frightened. What will he think of me? she thought, her heart in a panic. He'll be disappointed, offended, and angry. He'll think I've cheated him, cheated him of his wedding night... She got up quickly, outwardly calm but full of nervous haste, and noticed that the door of the room was already open.  A powerful scent of bacon wafted through the corridor and she followed it and found herself in the great hall, and at the other end of it, sitting at a table set for more than themselves, a man and a boy were talking and laughing and eating.  It was Drannon and Jamail, of course, but it took her a second to recognize them because they seemed so natural together, so like father and son.

"Good morning, fair maiden!" cried Drannon. "The sun in the sky rose long ago but the sun of this house rises only now.  And I woke at cockcrow to hasten the delight of seeing you.  But it's well worth the wait, I'd have waited a hundred years if it were needed!..." Despite all these gallantries, Drannon made no move to embrace her or touch her as she approached the table.  "But this boy of yours-- have you been feeding him?  Where did he get such an appetite?"  And Jamail was, indeed, stuffing his mouth with bacon so that the grease dribbled down his chin.

"Good morning," she murmured to Drannon in confusion, and turning to Jamail and wiping his face with a cloth, she said, "Don't be uncouth, dear..." And looking at him, she began quietly, "I'm sorry, I..."

Interrupting her, Drannon cleared his throat, and said in a commanding tone, "Well, now, down to business..." and began to discuss the clean-up after the fair, and new plans for building, because of which he had to spend the day in town, but first of all, how "I need to fit you out to be duchess," at which point he produced several heavy keys: "this is to the winecellars... the stables... the treasury... the tower... the main gate..." and then he said he should prepare contracts for two merchants who had asked to rent lodgings from him in town on a long-term basis, "before they change their minds," and, with a quick bow, he dashed off to his study.  Again, she thought, now is he annoyed? but what could she have done-- for she couldn't apologize... properly... in front of the boy.  He returned just as they finished their breakfast-- and how delicious it was, the bacon and some sort of pudding and exotic fruits brought from fresh from the desert kingdoms south of Varannon, she had seen them in Tuvel but could never afford them, how her palate rejoiced!-- and led them on a tour of the castle, at every turn seeking her opinion, inviting her to make suggestions and offer improvements, which he sometimes questioned but usually approved, then immediately spun into plans: "so we'll get new drapes for this window..." or "A fishpond... it would be very pleasant to sit by... I wonder how much we would save on supplies for the kitchen..." or "A carpet for this hallway might not be too expensive..."  And he would ask her if she remembered it all, and ask her who to talk to, and authorize her to make the arrangements, and soon she began to feel that she really was the mistress of Trelaninth Castle.  Sometimes Drannon spoke to Jamail, inviting him to praise something.  When they came to the courtyard, Drannon suddenly stopped when he came to a place where the grass was thin:

"Look," said Drannon. He fell to his haunches and tore up a bit of the sparse grass and took a handful of sand. "You see this?"

"Yes."

"Sand," observed Drannon. "But you wouldn't expect sand here, on the ridge, now, would you? Everywhere else in this courtyard there's dirt. Right down the center, from there--" Drannon pointed along a long stretch running from the portcullis at the far side of the courtyard to the stone steps leading up to high oak doors at the other-- "to there, there's a strip of sand. Can you guess why?"

Jamail stared in suspense. "Why?"

"Because in the old days, when they had tournaments here, this is where the knights would joust. Do you know about jousting? Imagine a rider on a huge horse, dressed in armor, there, and another one, there--" Drannon indicated the far ends of the courtyard--"and each one has a long lance, about twenty feet long, two or three times as long as his horse, which he carries on one arm." And there and there--" now he indicated the east and west walls of the courtyard-- "there would be high bleachers, and they would be crowded with knights and pages, jesters, high dignitaries, and ladies, very beautiful ladies some of them, though none of them as beautiful as your mother, and in every tournament one or two of them would see the champion of her heart and fall in love. I used to sit--" he searched the imaginary bleachers for his customary spot--"there. Sometimes the lances would be painted, usually with stripes of white and red or white and light blue, and the knight's coat of arms would be painted on a banner and attached to the lance, so that as the horses ran faster and faster the colors of the lance would blur together and the banner would wave in the wind, and their armor flashed in the sun..." Drannon was on his feet now, and his face lit up with the drama of the tournament. "The trumpet would blow from that tower"-- he pointed, and they squinted up at the tower, which was silhouetted against the sun-- "and then the horses would begin to gallop, and the knights would lower their lances and--" Drannon's hands moved together to imitate the acceleration of the horses--"and... and CRASH!!! and one knight would be thrown off his horse, and the other would be the victor. Or sometimes the lances would hit each other and both would end up in splinters. The sand is here so that the knights who fell wouldn't be hurt too badly. It doesn't occur naturally on the ridge, so some peasants long ago must have spent days hauling it up here from the riverbank in wagons or wheelbarrows. But the dukes would spare no expense for their tournaments. My father knew all about that. After he married into the family the dukes were always asking to borrow huge sums from him for their tournaments, and they never paid any of it back. That's why my father started forbidding me to attend. Once I did it anyway, on the sly." He sighed. "I wish I'd done it more often. I thought there would always be another chance, but then suddenly, they were no more."

"Wow..." whispered Jamail, awestruck.

"If you want to see a tournament, I'll take to one sometime. They have big ones in Poyn every year."

"Why do they do them? Are they just for sport?"

"No!" bellowed Drannon, as if affronted by this charge of frivolity against the chivalry of the realm. "They are where knights are made, trained, where men of war test their skills and their courage. They spur the efforts of men to become great and brave, and inspire lesser men to emulate the champions. Those knights, the same ones who jousted in this courtyard, many of them, not long afterwards, lowered their lances to charge against the legions of Tuvel. They laid down their own lives, but they made the emperor's armies turn back." He said this nobly, but then added in more jovial tone, "But there's no harm, when one is doing what's necessary, to enjoy it as well. That's the art of living: to do what is needful, yet always to regard it as a sport or an adventure. The wise man understands that there is no contradiction between practicality and romance. If I were a wiser man, I might understand that myself."

"Will there be tournaments here again, now?"

"Ah..." said Drannon, as if expressing appreciation for the astute question. "That depends on your uncle Anduir."

"My uncle Anduir?" asked Jamail.

"Yes," said Drannon, and explained: "You see, these fighters are a... a proud lot in their way. The greatest knights in the realm wouldn't accept an invitation to a tournament from just anyone. They came to the tournaments of Duke Neorm and Duke Calillus because the House of Trelaninth was one of the most illustrious knightly families in the kingdom, with an old name and all that, comrades-in-arms of King Donbold and so on, and because they were still known to be as accomplished in feats of arms, as bold and as foolhardy, as any in Poyn, or in the world, for that matter. It was an honor to attend a tournament with them presiding. And these knights will do anything for honor, that's all they think about. Your uncle Anduir is a little like that too, though he's... a little different... Of course, I'm of the House of Trelaninth to, sort of, I mean, by blood, but I'm in a... I'm in rather a bad odor with them, with great knights I mean. And anyway, I'm not a fighting man myself, and that's essential if you want to host a tournament unless you're the king. But if your uncle Anduir decides he wants to come and live with us here, and if he decides to host a tournament, then the great fighting men would be sure to come. Since he's always dashing off on one quest or another-- and the rumor I heard at the fair, for it would hardly occur to him to send me a letter, were that he's off to slay a dragon somewhere in Kyliand-- I don't know that that's ever likely to happen, but we can hope."

That, however, did not answer Jamail's question. "My uncle Anduir?" he asked.

"Oh..." Drannon said, understanding. "I've been getting ahead of myself. I made a mistake. There's something I want to talk to you about. It's very serious and very important, and we're going to have to ask for your mother's permission before we do it, but first I want to ask you. Do you know what 'adopt' means?"

"Like when a baby's parents die and someone else takes care of it?"

"Yes, a little bit like that, but it doesn't have to be a baby, and the parents don't have to be dead. I mean, you can't adopt a baby if both of his parents are living and taking care of him. But if one parent is dead, or is gone away and you don't know where he is, someone else might come to take his place. The reason I asked is that, now that your mother..." Drannon blushed, "I mean..." He faltered.

"Now that you and Mommy got married," assisted Jamail.

"Yes," said Drannon, recovering, "now that your mother has done me the honor of becoming my wife--" now he grinned proudly-- "because of that... I thought that you should become my son, if you want to. Then Anduir really would be your uncle, because he's my nephew-- well, my relation, he's really a first-cousin-once-removed, but never mind that-- and if you were my son, that would make him... well, kind of like an uncle. But I can't make you my son if you don't me to. You have to decide for yourself. You can take some time to think about it. It's a very important choice. You see, once you're my son, that's forever: you'll be my son for the rest of your life. And there's another thing too. When I die, Anduir will become duke of Trelaninth. If he's alive. Of course, I don't want to invite bad luck by thinking the worst, but we have to take precautions. Anduir might die, and he doesn't have any sons, and then, if I didn't have any sons either, well, there'd be no one to be duke. If you become my son, that means you might be duke. And that's a big job. It can be dangerous, for one thing, because if you're going to be a good duke, you have to be ready to muster some knights and fight for the kingdom if there's a war. And you have to be just to your vassals-- those are the people who work the land, the people under you, who look to you for protection-- and you always have to think of their interests first and your own second. So this is a big decision. You don't have to make up your mind now, or even this year. Take as long as you need to. I just thought you should know about that."

Jamail did not need to take time to think about. He knew whom he trusted in a matter like this. "Mommy, should I do it?"

Dessa had been standing to one side as the man and the boy-- soon to be father and son-- had talked to one another, Drannon on his haunches to speak to Jamail face to face. Now they both looked at her and saw that her face was wet with tears of gratitude and joy. "Yes, yes!"

"Yes," echoed Jamail, smiling, and looking Drannon in the face.

"Very good!" said Drannon, his face shining. Then, after a moment, something occurred to him that made him a little sad. "Did you know," he said, "it's not the first time I've adopted a boy. The other one was a few years older than you. They say I did a bad job with it, and... well, I suppose I'm inclined to agree, at least that I made a lot of mistakes... yet everyone seems to think he turned out well. Of course he was never my son, not even by adoption, he didn't need a new father, he had a much better father than me, even in death. And I had so many affairs to attend to, and we were very different. All that bravery and high sentiment that have made him so famous, I had nothing to do with that, that was his father, and... and the other things that happened to him. But I should have paid him more attention. I realized it later how much I missed him when he was gone. And even so I... Well, never mind about that. Thank you, and I'll try to be worthy of it."

That evening Drannon returned late. Dessa waited for him near the main gate, planning to confront him when he arrived, to resolve the burning issue. But, as she was to learn in due course, Trelaninth Castle had many doors. Late in the night, after she had waited two hours in the silent, torchlit front hall, looming shadows all around, she suddenly began to hear footsteps far off... were they near the stables? was it a groom?... no, but it must be him, she even thought she could recognize his very tread now, and she followed the noise of it through the dark corridors, treading softly like a thief, stopping to listen... was he climbing a staircase? and why hadn't she waited at his bedroom door, after all?... and now she went to his chambers, but the door was shut, and locked, and already, within, she thought she could hear him snoring softly.

And so it was, day after day, as a week passed. They were somehow never alone together. Though he managed never to make it seem that he was purposely avoiding her, she could hardly doubt that it was intentional. It was always the three of them, she, Drannon, and Jamail, or the three of them and others-- there was always business going on in Trelaninth, it seemed, always one important and interesting visitor or another-- and the conversation was always either about this or that enterprise-- roads and bridges, new crops to introduce, irrigation, swamps to dredge, an indoor market for winter, plans, plans, plans-- or else he would speak in tones of grace and chivalry which seemed only half-serious yet strangely charming... but he never gave her a chance to discuss certain private, practical matters. 

Of course, the explanation of this mystery was hidden in plain sight. He had said it quite frankly: "Don't think of me like a... like you used to think of your clients, I'm not looking for that at all, and of course I don't imagine that such a girl as you could love a man like me, that wouldn't make any sense..." And she had laughed, and he had laughed. And perhaps it really was because he had said that that she had accepted him. She didn't really know, since she had been surprised herself when she said 'yes,' and as she could have spun a dozen theories now as to why she had but she would never know which of them, if any, was true, it might well be, as far as she knew, that she had agreed just because he had asked so little of her... she had been touched by it, if only by his humility, so different from most men...

But still.  A man would say anything to get a woman, and Drannon had, and good for him if he had chosen his words well, the game was fairly played, and now, whatever words of wild magnanimous renunciation might have been spoken to win her, it was fully within his rights to possess her physically.  Surely from the beginning, whatever he said, whatever wild words of renunciation he might have uttered, he could hardly have doubted that he would have his way with her in due course. Or, even if he really had meant what he said then-- which would be an unaccountable departure from his usual common sense-- the daily torment of unsatisfied desire would be too much for him to stand, particularly when the law entitled him to the very object towards which the agonies of temptation must be goading him, and he would have to yield to his natural impulses soon enough, so why delay it?  Not that she wanted him sexually... or, well, very little... A woman of twenty-eight could hardly feel much desire for a man of over fifty, after all... And after that she could hardly imagine ever desiring a man again, that part of her had been, she felt, spoiled forever; men held no mystery for her, no magic, they were mere machines as far as that went...  Certainly she had regarded that part of the arrangement as a cost, not a benefit... but still, she wanted to get it over with, and also, she wanted to earn her keep.  The absurdity of this prolonged unconsummation sometimes exasperated her, sometimes seemed terribly amusing.  But if, as she began to fear, he did regard his renunciation as a real promise, and was trying, in the face of ever-growing inner torment, to keep it, it was her task to make it clear to him herself that such a promise could not be binding, that she absolved him of it, and that she was, after all, fully his.  

It was two weeks after the wedding that he began to let his guard down and she found her opening.  Late in the evening, with Jamail asleep, she put on a red gown, a soft curtain of silk fire that lay close to her skin, blissfully soft to touch... irresistible, she well knew.  She put it on quietly in Jamail's room, so as not to wake him-- it would not be right, she felt, for the boy to see his mother in that dress-- as his even breathing caressed the pillow.  It was a hundred paces through the darkness to Drannon's chambers.  She rounded a corner and heard him singing to himself as he prepared for bed.  The door was ajar and a shaft of light fell across the floor.  The candles in his room were enclosed in red stained-glass, so the light that fell on the stones of the corridor was a warm red glow.  She approached on tiptoe, like a thief, her heart pounding with suspense, and at last materialized in the doorway.  He heard the door move and turned.  He was dressed in a bathrobe, his thinning hair was just beginning to dry after his bath.  And now-- now-- she stood in front of him, her face lightly painted, her hair and her neck doused with perfume, along in the night with him, lithe and beautiful and willing.  But suddenly she felt terribly unsure of herself... what she was reading in his face was not was she had counted on... trying to stifle the growing panic in her heart she tried to remember what she had planned to say, but said only "My lord..." The words offered herself to him, as she had intended, yet they sounded almost like an apology, a plea for forgiveness.

Dessa was not a woman to blush to stand before a man naked.  Nakedness had been to her, in that time, a professional costume.  She had put it on a thousand times, for a thousand pairs of eyes.  It had concealed her like a garment, nay, like a mask.  Her body, reduced to the instrument of her trade, had blinded men with lust to her soul, her self, which remained hidden and alone in a private place deep within her as the waves of a cruel world crashed over her.  Now, standing before Drannon, she was not naked, but she blushed.  The way he was looking at her-- what did it mean?  He looked straight into her eyes, deep into her eyes, for a long time, he saw that private place within her where her self was hidden.  The silk fire and the paint and perfume invite him to lay bare her body, but it was her soul that his eyes stripped naked.  She realized then-- what a fool she had been not to anticipate it!-- that she had shown him more than she meant to.  All the skills of her old trade were evident now in her every feature, curve, expression, stance. He saw her as she had been and perhaps still was-- can the soul lose that stain?-- he was reading the history of her life... and she stood in terror of seeing horror and disgust in his eyes, but she did not. What she saw was pity.  Shame filled her.

"My lord," she repeated, but her voice was thin and hopeless now, "if you want me..."

He made no answer but only kept looking.  She felt she was being judged, felt terribly shy, wanted to run away, yet another part of her felt she had never been so close to him and was glad of it, she wanted him to know her, wanted that searching gaze never to let her go... in short, all was confusion in her heart.

At last he reached for her, touched her shoulders, then pulled her to him, folded her in his arms, and turned to blow the candle.  She felt relief that he hadn't sent her away.  And now it would begin, and she vowed to herself with all the strength left in her trembling soul to make it good for him, her heart and mind were in a panic trying to remember her skills, she had to use them, yet be more subtle about it now, she must not let him feel that he was making love to a mere whore, make him feel the pleasure without understanding it, and, better still, would credit it to himself...  But no, it did not begin.  He took her by the shoulders, he kissed her forehead in the darkness, he led her to the bed and lay her down, he lay down beside her, he turned her so that she faced away from him and then folded her in his arms from behind, and she was enveloped in the warmth of his body, and now he kissed the back of her neck, but that was all.  They lay together, she waited, and presently it seemed that he'd fallen asleep.  A whirlwind of contradictory emotions filled her: relief, indignation, frustration, wonder, gratitude, happiness, self-doubt, fear.  The skin of her neck burned with the memory of her neck, and she throbbed with gentle excitement.  This won't work she thought with irritation.  I can't sleep like this.  It's too hot under these blankets, and if I move to get comfortable I'll wake him.  I can't sleep and I can't leave, am I suppose to lie here all night?...  But gradually the warmth from his body began to fill her with a sense of peace, dissolving her complex anxieties, disconnecting one thought from another, leaving them to float away on a river of dreams.

In her dreams that night she was again in Tazraj, on her old street, where she used to try to catch the eyes of sailors and soldiers, only now it was more bleak and joyless than it had ever really been, as if it were the skeleton of its former self. It was a night without stars, and the windows looked like ice, and even the lamplight was somehow cold. She was standing in the center of the street. That would have been dangerous in the real, live Tazraj where horses and carriages were always rumbling by, but in the dream-Tazraj there was neither man, woman, nor child in the world but herself: the street was deserted, except for the dogs. There were (in reality) many stray dogs in Tazraj, and they were a menace for streetwalkers who spent so much time out of doors at night. People beat these dogs and threw stones at them, and that turned them into abject, vicious creatures. They would rarely attack, and might run away if menaced with a rock; but they were less afraid of women than men, and they would attack even strong men, it was said, if they were hungry enough. Some of the dogs had tasted human flesh before-- plague and starvation stalked the slums, and the corpses of the poor, who lacked money for burial, were sometimes left in the street; that fate might have been in store for Dessa and her sisters at the worst times-- and had liked it perhaps, and anyway knew that it could ease the pangs of hunger. Now (in the dream) to left and right there were hundreds of these dogs, some tall and wolflike, some wounded and cripppled, whimpering, growling, barking, baring their teeth, some hanging their heads or stalking aimlessly, but some glaring, leaning forward on their haunches, ready to spring. When her eyes focused on any of them, she would see that they had human faces, or rather, dead human features juxtaposed on faces in which only a dumb, doglike life lingered, and they were the features of men she knew, men who had bought her or wanted to buy her. She was in an agony of fear. She wanted desperately to run, but knew they would outrun her; she knew that dogs could smell fear; she had to act confident and brave if she were to have any hope of survival; and if she let slip for one moment they would leap and tear her limb from limb and devour her alive. Through this horror she walked, a desperate promenade down the desolate straight street in a starless night between lamps of ice amidst the howling dogs, straining every nerve to bottle her fear inside and thereby redoubling it... until, suddenly, she realized that she was not walking, but he was carrying her (she did not see his face, but she felt his arms beneath her and the warmth of his body seep through her) and all at once, her fear vanished. For she knew (dream-knew) that they could not touch him. In his presence, their fierce faces softened, their barking quieted a little, they retreated a few steps towards the shadows. Then the horizon lightened and the sun began to rise. And as so often happens, though that was the only scene from the dream that she could afterwards reconstruct, she knew the dream had gone on and on, all danger forgotten now, the lights of heaven restored, sunlight or moonlight or starlight in alternation as the scenes changed, and he carried her over hills and valleys, through mighty forests where shafts of sunlight fell upon fallen leaves, by the edges of babbling brooks, up high mountains where they looked out over the earth stretching out beneath them in unspeakable grandeur, and sometimes it seemed that they were flying, and at other times that they had shrunk to two inches tall like Minxkin the peddler's son and walk along the arches of ferns, but always beauty surrounded them and wonder filled her, and she was safe, and he was carrying her, though she could never see his face but only felt his arms and the warmth of his body, and sometimes, with a quickening of joy, felt his breath.

She awoke alone. That should have surprised her, and eventually it did, but it took her a long time fully to regain full self-awareness. During that long transition from sleep to waking, she fancied that she was a mermaid, floating in a shallow sunlit sea. A gentle ocean was washing over her, washing her, and she felt deliciously clean, and light, weightless, with no burdens or cares in the world. When finally she did get up, no sooner had she wondered where Drannon was, than she saw a note penned in his hand lying on his pillow.

"Must go to Ravensgate on business, will be back in a couple of weeks. Look after the castle and all affairs for me in the meantime. And Jamail. Good luck! Yours, Drannon."

How strange, she thought. He's afraid to see me now. But no, it's too absurd...  She walked briskly out of the room and found the kitchen maid, who was making breakfast. 

"Where is Dr-- his Excellency, the Duke, where is he?"

The maid look at her in surprise. "He left this morning, ma'am," she said. "You don't mean to say that he left without telling ye?"

"He left for Ravensgate? On business?"

"So he did tell ye, then. I thought he must have done. Yes, he left at the crack of dawn. I'd have made him breakfast but he said no, he had to be off."

Well, all right then, there was business to attend to. She found Jamail already dressed and made him study-- Drannon had arranged a course of study for him, he had to spend three hours a day with his books-- and then went to her usual work of fixing up the castle, talking to workmen, planning, judging. The work failed to absorb all her attention. Her good mood lasted through the entire morning, but then began gradually to grow shallow. She was trying to understand the situation. She came up with different theories, and the theories, the strands of thought, took on lives of their own, debating with one another in her mind.  This debate was terribly tedious and slow, repeating the same points over and over again, lapsing into silence and then resuming with exactly the same subjects under discussion.  A summary will inevitably make it seem much quicker and therefore more interesting than it was in Dessa's mind, but must be done if we are to understand the change in Dessa's mood between about eleven o'clock and four in the afternoon of that day.

"So that's it then," said one strand of her thoughts, which we may as well call Malcontent. "He's really planning never to sleep with his own wife."

It may be pointed out here that Malcontent's phraseology was imprecise, for he had, strictly speaking, slept with her, and she had enjoyed it wonderfully, it was something else that he hadn't done. Unfortunately such a standard of accuracy was not often observed in this inner debate.

"Are you... disappointed?" asked another strand of thought, call it Innuendo.

"Well, no, not in the sense you mean," retorted Malcontent. "One could hardly want it. Still, it's peculiar. One doesn't know what to expect. That would make things normal."  What Malcontent meant by the last word is perhaps not quite clear.  For that matter, does any of us really know what we mean when we say that word?

"You remember those men in Tazraj who only bought boys?" said Innuendo. "Maybe he's like that. His tastes run the other way."

"But there's no mystery about it," objected a strand of thoughts we may call Sense. "He's a businessman. He made a deal and he's keeping his end of it." Unfortunately, this discussant's contributions to the inner debate were rather scarce and ineffectual hereafter.

The others ignored this, as a thought named Lawyer suggested another theory: "The issue is that he doesn't want to produce another heir. As it is, he's just a caretaker duke, he'll die in due course and Anduir will inherit. But if he gives us a son, that son would be heir to Trelaninth. But everyone wants Anduir to inherit Trelaninth. Poynese high society is willing-- just-- to tolerate a Tuvelain whore as a duke's concubine, but they'd crucify him if he really elevated a Tuvelain whore's son to duke instead of their beloved Anduir."  It is worth noting here, as an indication of the downward drift of the conversation, that Lawyer's use of the word concubine was still more inaccurate and tendentious than Malcontent's sleep with.

"That's all wishful thinking," said another thought, Shame, till then silent but always a presence in the conversation. "It's clear that he's just disgusted with us. He knows what we were, and he holds us in contempt. That's why he won't do it."  Sense muttered an objection to the effect that that seemed inconsistent with the fact that Drannon had made Dessa his wife and duchess, but no one heard the remark.

"Oh yes, of course that's the reason," Malcontent agreed. "The trouble is that sex is the only thing that could really bind him, or any man. We women are weak. We need support, protection, defense. We need them to help us. But they are always dashing about and forgetting, they're as changeable as the wind, and if there isn't something to tie them down they'll leave us in the lurch. That's why they have to be kept half-mad with desire, chained by it, so that they won't run off, they'll do their jobs. It's not that we want him. It's that if he doesn't want us, then we can't trust him."

Here Lawyer, coming to Malcontent's aid, made an important point. "Yes, exactly-- and that's why this isn't just a matter of a husband's and wife's desires at a given moment, it's the law. It isn't even a marriage unless it's consummated. As long as he doesn't do it, we're not bound by it, we're free to walk away at any moment."

"We must!" said Shame. "We can't bear to live under a roof with a man who despises us so!"

"Well, that's hardly sensible," counseled a new voice, we'll call her Worldly. "We have security here, wealth, position. Do we want to go back to the streets? Where could we go?"

"Might a certain... compensation be due to us, if we do choose to leave? After all, we made a certain degree of sacrifice for his sake, and it's not fault that he refused to..."

"If so, that might change the balance of considerations, I grant you," assented Worldly.

Here was where her thoughts kept running into a wall. For even if she justified within herself a claim to some compensation for Drannon's injury-- alas, the conviction that he had done her both an insult and an injury and that she was entitled, morally if not legally, to some compensation, had come to seem to her indubitable-- it was clear that she couldn't possibly expect to bring a lawsuit against him and win. She had only the dimmest notion of how to appeal to courts of law, and she had the idea that Poynese courts would have a prejudice against her. It was a long time before the logic of the interminable debate came to completion. She sensed it coming for a long time. It was as if she would not, could not, consider doing that, yet she had a premonition that she must, after all, sooner or later entertain the thought. A barrier held her back from even thinking it, but that barrier grew thinner and thinner. It lurked like a buried tiger, and her thoughts were digging towards it, and it growls grew louder and louder, and at last it sprang out.

She could take the money. She knew where the vaults were. He had given her the key. She could empty the treasure chests, pack a few mules with bags of gold, and ride, ride... for Tuvel. The last seven years vanished like a dream. She was in her prime again, in her pride and glory, with a thousand lovers. Only now with money, with the luxury to tease and refuse. Never again would she suffer the cold streets. She would leave Jamail here to comfort Drannon, and soon, in Tuvel, she would dwell in a great mansion, with slaves by the dozens, waiting upon her day and night, and her lovers would give her not a few coins but access to the loftiest heights of power. She would be a great lady of intrigue, like Mithyrl, for whose sake the proconsul had evicted her father to build his pleasure palace. Her lovers would be the greatest of the great, they would shower her with presents, and she would make them beg... She had concived all these dreams long ago, on cold and fearful nights in Tazraj; but then they had been only the bitter, gnawing covetousness of a street prostitute for her high-born counterparts; and now, suddenly-- she could hardly believe it-- they were hers to take-- hers by right, the thought danced in her head, for a woman of this profession is entitled to whatever rich fools let fall into her hands-- but it was strange that now all the veils of rationalization disappeared. It was as if all the thoughts she had been thinking all day, all the justifications and bending of scruples, turned out, after all, to be beside the point. What mattered was the opportunity. Not one in a thousand women had such a chance! She could wait a hundred years and not see it come again! Trelaninth castle, built of rough stones, with its cold stone floors, now seemed drab and dingy compared to the pleasure palaces she imagined for herself. The debate was over; it seemed even that there could not possibly be any doubt about the matter; that she hadn't done it hours ago was inexplicable. Her heart burned with a frenzy of greed for Drannon's gold that would make her mistress of her days at last...

Somewhere within her a tiny shaft of light stood defiant. Bereft of hope, bereft of argument, its back against a wall, it nonetheless said no, and that no became a sword in its hand. It hardly believed even that it had the power to command her body, but it fought to regain it. It began with the feints of merely practical objections. Would it be easy to leave the castle, to ride through Trelaninth unseen? Wouldn't she be a victim of robbers on the road? But that was only playing for time. Now the sword of sanity struck harder: what was being contemplated was evil, it was the blackest ingratitude against a man-- the only man she had ever known perhaps-- who had ever shown there anything but kindness. How they would shake their heads and condemn her; how she would prove right every contemptuous word that had ever been uttered about whores! And now, suddenly, she was victorious, and Dessa the Whore, that monstrous thing that she had caged within herself and tried to forget all these six years, lay at her feet, a smoldering ruin, hideous in the glamor and ugliness of its evil, like a slain dragon.  But the dragon she had slain was herself.