The Lion of Farside

" ^ "

General Lord Raien Cyncaidh lay on his side, staring motionless at the glowing coals in his fireplace. This far north, a night fire was usual in summer, and rather often, when he was at home, he let watching it lull him to sleep.

Tonight, though, he felt no sleepiness at all, despite more than an hour of love-making. Good love-making, it seemed to him. It had gripped him, lifted him, held him aloft, then spent him. Twice. The first time it hadn't worked for Varia, though it had started well; Curtis Macurdy had gotten in the way. But the second time she'd climaxed despite herself, with urgent movements and sharp cries, her strong clutching fingers digging hard in his back.

Then his joy had turned to dismay, for her climax ended in tears and bitter sobbing. "Curtis," she'd wept, "oh Curtis, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Over and over, till she'd run down and slept.

Earlier, when they'd stood in his parlor and kissed, when they'd come into this room and undressed, and gazed at each other, and when he'd caressed her and she'd begun to move beneath his hands, it had promised to be one of the most beautiful, fulfilling nights of his life. And when at last they'd merged in climax, it seemed the promise had been met.

He hadn't imagined it might affect her as it did. He'd thought that once she'd consented, everything would be beautiful. And she did love him; over the weeks, he'd seen it in her aura. But not tonight; tonight there'd been first despair, then yielding, participation, and at length passion. But not love. And afterward-afterward guilt and grief. Obviously, as she saw it, she'd betrayed not only her husband on Farside, but her dreams and her sense of loyalty.

They'd caught her between them, he and Mariil, in a sense had trapped her, then worked on her from both sides. They'd broken her dream of reaching Curtis Macurdy, taken away her hope, then had set himself before her as her only option.

Even Mariil hadn't foreseen the result, he was sure.

After all that had happened to her-imprisonment, fists, knife tips, raped nightly for months-they hadn't imagined that this evening with him, whom she loved, would cause her grief. But in the Tiger barracks, helpless and brutalized, she'd withheld herself in mind and spirit. While tonight she'd given herself: body and soul. That was the difference, he had no doubt. It was giving herself that spawned remorse and grief.

He'd rushed things, overridden her uncertainty and scruples, taken advantage of her vulnerability and despair. Perhaps-hopefully-it had been for the best, but… He'd back off now, apologize honestly, let her evaluate and adjust. When she felt ready…

To a degree they'd lied to her, had exaggerated the hopelessness and danger. In part to keep her from harm, for in fact she could well be killed trying. Given Keltorus' hatred of the Sisterhood, she'd almost surely have been killed, brutally, if she'd continued alone to Ferny Cove. But their primary motive had been to convince her to stay and marry. The odds, he judged, would have been no worse than even-probably better-if he'd sent a squad riding with her to Oz, there to smuggle her to the gate. Volunteers wearing wadmal like tribesmen. He could have. He still could.

But he wasn't going to. Certainly not now.

He turned his attention from his thoughts to the lovely woman sleeping at his back. Listened to her quiet breathing, then carefully turned his head and looked at her. Her aura remained somewhat shrunken, though the colors had cleared a bit, pulsing lightly in dream. Apparently a healing dream. Resilient! She'd had to be to get through this past-what? Sixteen months. Looking at her, he felt love and compassion. And commitment.

In the morning he'd tell Mariil what had happened tonight. No one healed the spirit more skillfully than Mariil, and she admired Varia as much as he.

I love you, Varia, he thought to her, and I'll make you happy. I swear it. I won't try to make you forget your Curtis, but I'll do all I can to make you happy with me.

Her aura didn't react to his thought; she was too deep in dream, perhaps of Curtis Macurdy. He wondered what the Farside farmer was doing, after more than a year. How ironic-reasonable but ironic-if the man had settled down on his farm with a new wife. Had he known, really, what a remarkable-what an admirable woman he'd married?

PART 3: The Lion Grows Claws 17: Sword, Spear, and Bow