Hunted (Book 3) (37 page)

I am the Ilch. The Chalaine is married. There is a war brewing. I love the Chalaine. I love Mirelle. We might all be dead in a month. I don’t deserve either one. They would be happier with someone else. I would be miserable without them.

Nothing stuck. One thought could not claw its way to preeminence over the others. Mirelle, politely, had not pressed him further for an answer, though she certainly had not retired her affectionate attentions from him. While he knew she did this out of love and a need for companionship, he doubted she realized how addicted he had become to stolen kisses and warm embraces. The need for them ran through him like a sickly sweet drink that he hadn’t quite identified as a poison or an elixir. Perhaps it was both, but he knew the difference between love of the heart and pleasures of passion, and he would not let the pleasures have a voice in his decision.

Frustrated, he went in search of a book that held a poem that had teased his memory all day with the ending stanza. At length he found it in a collection of writings preserved from the Second Mikkikian War, author unknown.

A black tower rises into the night,

And there sit I, gazing down on your dance,

The torches, like flowers of flickering light,

Unveil to my mind the tombs of the past.

I see the smiles of those who danced before

And lost in lovers’ arms laughed to cheer

Who but for looking in eyes they adore

Would have seen the darkness circling near.

But blind to the threat, cares smothered by lips,

They dance in the torchlight, by distraction brave.

From behind comes death; from the dance they trip,

Ears for the music stopped up by the grave.

So decide to dance, but choose not to love,

For the torches burn out, and the shadows come
.

He snapped the book shut and leaned back.
Choose not to love.
If love was a choice, he could not remember consciously making it. Vainly he willed the sun to halt in the sky to give him more time, but time skipped along, heedless of his wishes.

A servant entered the room. “Milord, it is time. Mirelle awaits you outside her apartments.”

“Thank you. I will come shortly.”

The servant left and Gen rose. From this day forward he would live with regret, and all of his supposed wisdom only stared back at him with a silly grin and shrugged its shoulders. Replacing the book, he put on the coat of his dress uniform and left.

Mirelle waited patiently for him, dressed, as always, to erase any thoughts but those of her. She smiled, but noting the gravity in Gen’s countenance, tempered her affectionate greeting. Gen extended his arm to her and she took it.

“Cadaen, would you mind walking ahead?” Gen requested. “I wish to speak to the First Mother privately.”

Cadaen said, “If she wills it.”

“I do, Cadaen. We shall be along by and by.”

Cadaen bowed and left, and Gen walked forward slowly, breathing in Mirelle’s inebriating scent. They crossed from the antechamber of the Chalaine and into the hallways beneath the Great Hall.

“Is all in order for the march tomorrow?” Mirelle asked tentatively.

“Hmm? Oh yes. Yes, it is. Will you please demote me?”

Mirelle laughed, breaking the tension. “Of course not! You have done too well, as I knew you would. The generals are astonished at how expertly you have handled your new position. I think Tern Kildan would claim you for a son if he could.”

“He has been very helpful.” Gen pulled her to a halt. “Listen to me. When you split with General Torunne at Echo Road, please take Kildan’s counsel over Harband’s. Harband is a capable commander, I’m sure, but he enjoys the killing a little too much. Also, do not ride at the front of your army or dress in a remarkable way. Uyumaak archers are trained to search out leadership and strike there first. Keep close to Cadaen, and keep capable soldiers with you at all times. If you’re forced to run, do not wait for cover of night. Dark is more of a disadvantage to you than to Uyumaak. I should have taken time to teach you the knife. . .”

She smiled and put her hand on his cheek. “Gen, I will be fine. You’re the one taking the most risk. Does that mind of yours ever stop turning? You looked so preoccupied and severe just now.” Gen smoothed his features. “Oh, no you don’t!” Mirelle objected. “None of Torbrand Khairn’s soul-smothering training today, Lord Gen.”

Gen grinned and kissed her.

“That was nice,” she complimented him, smiling. “At last you kiss me. Things have been feeling a bit one-sided.”

“I am sorry,” Gen apologized.

“For the kiss?”

“Of course not. How could I regret that? How could anyone? I apologize for the seeming one-sided nature of things. I do love you, Mirelle.”

Before he could say more, she put her arms around him and buried her head in his shoulder. He pulled her close as she trembled, tears sliding down her cheeks. “You have no idea how long I have waited to be loved, and how long I have hoped you would love me. While any man’s sincere love would be a blessing, to have yours, the best man that I know, is a joy beyond any dream or hope I could ever have.”

“Surely you must see that loving me is utter recklessness.”

“No more than loving me,” she returned, pulling herself away and wiping her eyes. “You must know that you will never get your way.”

“Please, Mirelle. Be serious. You know what I am. You know what we face.”

Mirelle ignored him, pulling him around and resuming their course down the hall.

“You know, I have called you ‘Lord Gen’ for weeks now, and it simply does not seem right. It has no weight.”

“I need one of those impressive last names all those aristocrats seem to have. Alas, I have no family line I wish to claim, and, tragically, I am no longer Lord of Blackshire.”

“What a coincidence. I need a last name, too! This whole First Mother business is nearly at an end, and Queen Mirelle won’t do. What do you say we invent a last name together, and we can share it?”

“That was a clever segue,” he chuckled.

“And you fell for it. I’ve always thought names that end in ‘dor’ carried a certain weight, like Erindor or Fillindor. What do you think?”

“You can’t be serious. ‘Mirelle Fillindor’? Ridiculous.”

“Come up with a better one, then!”

“Short names carry more power, like ‘Black’, or ‘Stone’ or ‘Loris’.”

“
Black
and
Stone
?” she mocked. “How unoriginal. And really, would you want to be called Lord Loris for the rest of your life? Lord Fillindor is clearly better, whatever you may say.”

“Come now. Who would ever cross a Lord and Lady Black?”

Mirelle’s laugh mingled with the happy sounds of celebration that crescendoed as they neared the Great Hall. “I do look forward to watching Torbrand Khairn lead his daughter to the marriage altar. The dead collection of Shadans may just rise up from the grave to prevent it. This will be a spectacle.”

As they neared the doors, the Chamberlain bowed and turned to announce them, but Mirelle held him back. “Not tonight, Hurney.”

They slipped in unannounced, but not unnoticed, and in moments they enjoyed the warmth and cheer of friends, old and new. Leaving Mirelle with Lord Kildan, Gen crossed to Mena and Gerand, who were all smiles. Gen hugged them both warmly.

“I see that Volney’s surprise has not arrived yet,” Gen commented to his Tolnorian friend upon noticing their young companion sitting quietly in a corner.

Gerand glanced at their mutual friend. “I believe the steward is busy finding some piece of finery for Lena to wear that is fit for a company such as this. I hope Volney doesn’t kill us. He will be mightily embarrassed.”

“Probably,” Gen said, “but he’ll get over it rather quickly, I think. Look, there she is.”

“Ahh!” Gerand exclaimed. “Yes, he will get over it. He might actually thank us before the year is out.”

“She’s adorable,” Mena agreed. “But we’re all rather plain compared to the First Mother. Perhaps, Gen, you could tell her she is quite beautiful enough and need not outshine us all so thoroughly. But I mean no disrespect, of course. I was only jesting. Please don’t tell her I said anything. Why did my father let me grow up so outspoken? I suppose it is time she could look for a suitor.”

“I think the search is over,” Gerand smirked, nudging Gen.

“Really?” Mena said.

“Oh, yes. But watch. Lena is nearly upon him.”

Lena, clearly nervous, had wound her way toward the unsuspecting Volney, touching him lightly on the arm. At first he didn’t seem to recognize the young woman, but after a few moments he shot to his feet, face turning several shades of red before settling on sanguine. They chuckled as he desperately searched for some proper way to show his delight, resolving at last to kiss her hand.

Mirelle arrived at Gen’s side. “I see all went according to plan. Gerand, Mena, are you ready to begin?”

Both bowed. Gerand said, “Yes, First Mother. Again we thank you. . .”

“None of that, Gerand. Go speak with your respective fathers, and all of you meet with the Chamberlain. I’ll find the Pureman and send him over so he can dispense with his wisdom and final instructions.”

“Yes, First Mother.”

Mirelle said to Gen, “Now come, Lord Fillindor, we must find that Pureman.”

“As you wish, Lady Black.”

“And will he be leaving early this evening or very late?”

The scales in Gen’s mind teetered both ways. Reason, wisdom, passion, and emotion collided so violently within his heart that he scarcely knew what came out of his own mouth. But when the repressed words finally found the freedom of the open air, they sounded right, and he knew it was the answer he had intended to give all along.

Be sure to catch the entire Trysmoon Saga!

Trysmoon Book One: Ascension

Trysmoon Book Two: Duty

Trysmoon Book Three: Hunted

Trysmoon Book Four: Sacrifice

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