Fall of Angels

XXXVIII

SILLEK GESTURES TO the chair closest to the broadleaf fern that screens the pair of wooden armchairs from the remainder of the courtyard and from Zeldyan’s family and retainers.

“You are most kind, Lord Sillek,” murmurs Zeldyan as she sits, leaning forward, the husky bell-like tones of her voice just loud enough to be heard over the splashing of the fountain.

“No,” says Sillek. “I am not kind. I am fortunate. You are intelligent and beautiful, and …” He shrugs, not wishing to voice what he thinks. Despite the apparently secluded setting of the chairs and low table between them, he understands that all he says could be returned to Gethen.

“Your words are kind.”

“I try to make my actions kind,” he answers as he seats himself and turns in the chair to face her directly.

“Necessity does not always permit kindness.” The blond looks at Sillek directly for the first time. “Necessity may be kind to you.”

“You speak honestly, lady, as though I were a duty. There is someone else who has courted you?”

Zeldyan laughs. “Many have paid court, but none, I think, to me. Rather they have courted my father through me.”

“I would like to say that I am sorry.”

“You are more honest than most, and more comely.” Her hand touches the silver and black hairband briefly, and a sad smile plays across her lips. “Have you not courted others?”

“I am afraid you have the advantage on me, lady, for I have neither courted, nor been courted-until now.”

“Why might that be?” She leans forward ever so slightly.

“Because”-he shrugs-“I did not wish to be forced intoa union of necessity.” He laughs once, not trying to hide the slightly bitter undertone.

“You are too honest to be a lord, ser. For that, I fear you will pay dearly.” Zeldyan’s tone is sprightly.

“Perhaps you could help me.”

“To be dishonest?” She raises her eyebrows.

“Only if dishonesty is to learn to love honestly.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Ser Sillek.” Her eyes drop toward the polished brown stone tiles of the courtyard.

Sillek reaches out and takes her right hand in his left. “Hard it may be, Zeldyan, but honest, and I hope you will understand that is what I would give you.” Another short and bitter laugh follows, then several moments of silence. “I would not deceive you with flowery words, though you are beautiful and know that you are. But comeliness and beauty vanish quickly enough in our hard world, especially when courted for the wrong reasons.”

“You are far too honest, Sillek. Far too honest. Honesty is dangerous to a ruler.”

“It is, but to be less than honest is often more dangerous.” Sillek frowns, then pauses. “Is it so evil to try to be honest with the lady I wish to join?”

“You might ask her if that is her wish.”

The Lord of Lornth takes a deep breath. “I did not ask, not because I do not care, but because I had thought it was not your wish. I have appeared in your life from nowhere, and there must be many who have known and loved both your visage and your soul.” He laughs softly. “I had not meant to be poetic, here, but my tongue betrayed me.”

Zeldyan’s eyes moisten for an instant, but only for an instant, before she turns her head toward the broadleaf fern.

Sillek waits, the lack of words punctuated by the splashing of the fountain. His eyes flick toward the end of the courtyard where he knows Gethen and Fornal make small talk about crops and hunting while they wait, and where, in another room, the lady Erenthla also waits.

When Zeldyan faces Sillek again, her face is calm. “What would say your lady mother?”

“Nothing.” Sillek wets his lips. “Her thoughts are yet another thing. A fine match, she would think. She would say to me that the Lord of Gethen Groves has lands, and his support will strengthen Lornth and your patrimony, Sillek.”

“You court strangely, My Lord.”

“So I do. Say also that I court honestly.” He offers her a head bow. “Would you be my consort, lady?”

“Yes. And I will say more, Lord. Your honesty is welcome. May it always be so.” Zeldyan bows her head in return, then smiles ironically. “Would you wish my company when you deliver my consent to my father?”

Sillek stands. “I would not press, but I had thought we both might speak with your father, and then with your mother.”

“She would like that.”

Sillek extends his hand, and Zeldyan takes it, though she scarcely needs it to aid her from the chair. Their hands remain together as they walk past the fountain and back toward the far end of the courtyard.