Crown of Shadows (16 page)

He led them to a restaurant. It didn’t surprise her that he knew such a place, a shadowed hideaway where lovers might whisper sweet endearments in the privacy of high-walled booths. Doubtless he had brought women here before, for more blatantly amorous purposes. The hostess gave them a table near the rear of the restaurant, in a section that was all but deserted. In such a place one might comfortably court a lover, she thought. Or share terrible secrets. Or both.

They ordered drinks, a house wine, and braised fillets of a local fish. They made small talk over sauteed dumplings, frothy mousse, steamed coffee. He asked about her work, and seemed to be genuinely interested in the details of her art. Was that real enthusiasm, or a prelude to seduction, rehearsed so many times with so many women that it now seemed natural to him? How could one hope to tell them apart? In return, she asked him about his journey to Jaggonath. She discovered that he had never traveled out of his region before this, but she could not get him to tell her why he had done so now. And through it all she waited, watching as he tried to build up his courage, drawing strength from rituals of courtship so familiar to him that he probably could have played them with his eyes closed. Sensing the darkness that was within him, not knowing how to address it.

At last he pushed his coffee away with a sigh and shut his eyes. It seemed to her that he was in pain—or remembering pain, perhaps. Finally he dared, “The other day ...” It was clearly meant as a beginning, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. After a minute, hoping to help him, she urged, “At the shop?”

He nodded stiffly, then looked away. “God, this is so awkward. I just want to explain....”

When he faltered once more she prompted softly, “Go on.” Her hand rested upon his, a gentle reassurance. “I’m listening.”

At last, with great effort, he managed, “What do you know about Merentha?”

“Not much,” she admitted. “A few basics from history class, and from seismics. Very little, really.”

“My family’s lived there for nearly ten centuries. They ... you might say we founded the place. Thrived there. It was a well established family, highly respected, active in civil service through most of its generations. Its founder ...” He faltered then, and shook his head as if rejecting that line of disclosure. “I was the youngest of the main line, but there were others. So many others ...” She could feel his hand trembling now beneath her own. “Five years ago ... I was out all night....” He lowered his head, his shoulders trembling, and raised up his other hand as if to shield his face; clearly he was remembering that time, reliving some secret pain. “Just like any other night,” he whispered. “Or so it seemed. I came home ... I had no idea anything was wrong, you see, no reason to expect it.... I came home.” He looked up at her, but his eyes were focused upon another time, another plane. “They were dead,” he whispered, his voice shaking as he relived the past. “Murdered. All of them. The floor was covered with their blood....”

He lowered his head once more, overwhelmed by the memory. She longed to comfort him, to seek out some gentle words which would bring him back to the present, but the shock of his revelation had left her momentarily speechless. Because she
knew
about this tragedy. She remembered it. And the family name which had seemed vaguely familiar to her now sharpened into clear and horrible focus.

“That was you,” she breathed. Remembering the headlines. Bloody details splayed across local newspaper headings for months, exploitive articles that dwelled on every horrific aspect of the crime. And on every perceived weakness of the one survivor.
“You.”

He managed to look up at her. “I was wondering how long it would take you,” he said bitterly.
“The murder of the century,
they called it. It must have made all the papers.”

Stunned, she whispered, “They thought you did it.”

He nodded tightly. “They wanted to punish someone, and I was the obvious candidate. The youngest son of the Tarrant line, selfish, undisciplined, the black sheep of the clan ... it was no great secret that the family and I fought a lot, usually about money. And it was likewise no secret that the slaughter of every other Tarrant had guaranteed me an inheritance that many men would kill for. As you can see,” he said bitterly, indicating his person: the rich clothes, the fine jewelry, the air of easy wealth. “Only I would never have killed for that. Not my own family! I could never....”

She tightened her hand about his, and it seemed to her that his pain flowed through the contact. Maybe it did. Maybe the fae was so stirred by his emotion that it allowed her to glimpse the very core of his despair, unmasked by social repartee, unfettered by the bonds of language. The sheer intensity of it left her breathless. She could only hope that the same faeborn link would allow her to give something of herself in return, if only a shadow of emotional support. Even that little, she sensed, was more than he’d had in years.

“Of course not,” she whispered.

He took a deep drink of wine; it seemed to lend him strength. “The trial lasted over a year,” he told her. “It seemed like forever. A year of having to relive that dreadful night over and over again, so that strangers could pick it apart for incriminating details. I thought I’d go crazy. I nearly did. There are whole segments of time I don’t remember now, parts of the trial I’ve blocked. I was so close to the edge back then. Once I even tried to give up all the money, to sign away my inheritance in the hope that they would take that for proof of my innocence. I guess it seemed the only way, at the time. My lawyers stopped me. Thank God.” He laughed bitterly; his hand tightened into a fist beneath her grasp. “What did I know about earning a living? What did I understand of poverty?
They
knew. They gave me meaningless forms to sign, and didn’t tell me the truth until the fit had passed. Thank God for them. Thank God.”

She made her voice as gentle as it could become. “So what happened?”

“The state let me go, in the end. Not because it judged me innocent, but because it considered me incompetent. I was a wastrel, a freeloader, a waste of human life ... but I wasn’t a murderer. Wasn’t
capable
of murder.” He drew in a deep breath. “They had that right, at least. Maybe all of it. I don’t know.”

“Don‘t,” she whispered. “Don’t think that.”

He lowered his head again, trembling. “I didn’t want to tell you. God knows, I didn’t want to tell anyone. But when I tried on the armor at your shop ... it all came back to me, then. All of it at once, all the blood and the fear and the hopelessness....”

“Why?” she asked him. Trying to understand the connection. When he didn’t answer for several long seconds, she pressed him gently. “What does the armor have to do with all this?”

In answer he disentangled his hand from hers—reluctantly, she thought—and reached across the table. The canvas roll had been tied shut with a slender cord; unknotting it, he set the string aside. He made room to spread the canvas out on the table, then did so. Handling it gently but firmly, hands trembling as he unrolled it. It was an old piece which had been torn and repaired more than once; stripes of tape had yellowed across its back, eating into the linen canvas. As he unrolled it, she saw aged paint, a webwork of fine cracks, the edges of a piece that had been hastily and carelessly hacked from a larger painting—

And then it was laid out before her, and she saw.

“Oh, my gods,” she whispered. Stunned.

The painting was part of a formal portrait, and it was marked with several parallel slashes where a knife had scored the canvas. The object of the portrait was a young man, and even this tattered remnant of a larger painting conveyed the power of his presence, the beauty of his person. Tall, slender, he wore a breastplate emblazoned with a golden sun and a coronet decorated with mythological figures.
That
breastplate.
That
coronet. Fine golden-brown hair flowed down about his shoulders, tousled by an unseen wind. Gray eyes, cool and dominant, met the viewer’s own as if there were some living will behind them. Sardonic, seductive. Seeing him rendered thus, Narilka felt herself tremble. Because there there was no mistaking the portrait’s subject. And no denying that she knew him all too intimately.

The Hunter.

“Who is it?” she managed. Finding her voice at last.

“Gerald Tarrant. Founder of my family line, first Neocount of Merentha.” He hesitated; when he spoke again she sensed him picking his way through his words carefully, perhaps choosing which facets of the story to reveal to her. “In his day ... he slaughtered all his kin. All but one. His son returned home to find ... what I found ... it was he who did this.” He indicated the slash marks in the canvas, their edges cracked and yellowing.
“That’s
what I saw when I looked in the mirror. Do you understand? Not my face, but his. A man who could murder his entire family....”

“Shh. It’s over now.” She took his hands in hers, warming them gently. “The armor’s just a piece of metal. And the coronet. No more.” It hurt her inside, to know what the next words had to be—her artist’s soul rebelled at the thought—but she knew they had to be said. “If they cause you pain, then destroy them. Unmake them. Commission something else, which has a better meaning for you.”

The green eyes were fixed on her, their surface glistening; were those tears gathering in the comers? “I could never destroy your work,” he whispered.

“It’s only metal,” she assured him. Trying to make the words come easily, so that he wouldn’t sense how much this was costing her. “We can melt it down and make something worthwhile out of it. Something equally beautiful, that doesn’t have memories attached.”

He managed a wry smile. “Your boss would hardly approve of that.”

“Some things are more important than Gresham’s approval,” she assured him.

And for a moment, in his eyes, it seemed that she could see into the core of him. Sensing a frightened young man who had thought that the world would always indulge his pleasures, now forced into a hellish maturity of fear and isolation. All that, masked to perfection by this practiced persona: gambler, seducer, carefree aristocrat. Where was the real Andrys Tarrant, balanced between those extremes? How did one begin to seek him out?

“I could never destroy your work,” he repeated. His hand turned over beneath hers, catching her fingers in a warm embrace. “And having these pieces restored ... it’s part of my healing. Supposed to be, anyway.” He shook his head. “I don’t really understand it. But someone I ...” He hesitated, as if seeking the proper word. “Someone I
trust
advised me to have these things made, and I believe in him. Enough to try it.” He laughed sadly. “Even if I can’t for the life of me see how it’s supposed to help.”

His hand folded tightly over hers: warm contact, hungry touch. She could sense the need in him, not just for communion of the spirit but a far more substantive interaction. Passion and intimacy were allied within him; it was hard for him to seek out one without the other.

“Thank you,” he said at last. “Thank you for listening. For giving me a chance.”

“I wish I could do more,” she said quietly. Knowing the words for the opening they were. Not even sure of how she meant them. “To help.”

The bright eyes glittered, viridescent in the darkness. “You’ve done more than any woman has for years. Or any man, for that matter.”

“Even your lawyers?” she chided gently. Aware that her heart was pounding anew, in response to words not even being said.

“In a way,” he said softly. He drew up her hand to his lips, and kissed it gently. Soft touch, gently erotic; she felt fire spreading up her arm, fanning out from the contact.

“Come,” he whispered. “It’s getting late. I’ll walk you home.”

He made no move to call for the check, but laid a handful of coins on the table that would have paid for such a meal three times over. Then he helped her out of the booth, his touch warm upon her arm, his manner at once protective and possessive. The waiters did not question his leaving before a bill had been rendered, which meant that he had done this many, many times before. With how many women? she wondered. Had they all trembled like she did at his touch, or were they veterans of the same game, who knew what words and special gestures might be employed to maintain control of each move?

It was a long walk to her apartment, for which she was grateful. She needed the long dark streets, half-abandoned, quiet. She needed time to pull herself together. He walked by her side companionably enough, but she could sense the tension in him. Pain. Uncertainty. Desire. She could feel his warmth near her arm as their steps brought them close to each other, as his hand
almost—almost—
reached out and took hers. So very close. Her skin tingled with the nearness of him, but she was afraid to initiate any contact. What would such an act signify in his world, in that endless round of courtship and flirtation which was his normal venue? How did one approach a man like this, without giving him license to claim one’s soul?

And then: Her building. Her stairs. Two flights of them, wide and well-lit. A landing, with four doors. He let her lead the way, to the third door in line. Keys. They were somewhere. She fumbled for them, fearing to look at him. Afraid she would get lost in his eyes forever if she did. Afraid she might wake up in the morning to find him beside her and never know how he had gotten there, or if he would ever leave. Or if she ever
wanted
him to leave.

Then he took her face gently in one hand—ever so gently, a butterfly’s touch could not have been lighter—and tipped her head back until she was looking right at him. Warm eyes, living eyes, not like the Hunter’s at all. And yet the two men were linked, not just in appearance but in essence. The Hunter’s passion had sired this man; the Hunter’s blood ran in his veins. How could she look at Andrys Tarrant and not feel the power of his forebear’s presence?