Soul of Fire (52 page)

Nigel frowned at him. “You sound very reluctant, even as you offer.”

“No, I—” Peter said, and stopped. He realized he’d sounded reluctant indeed. The thought that Nigel would be going to Africa and there meeting his ex-wife, Emily, and Kitwana, her new husband, intruded out of his confused emotions. And such was his state of mind, he couldn’t help blurting, “Are you afraid to see her again? Emily?”

“Who?” Nigel said, then smiled, to show he’d been joking. “No,” he said. “At least I don’t think I am. I mean . . .” He shrugged. “I might have been in love with her once. At least, I thought it was love at the time, and so did she, else she’d never have married me. But you know . . . I don’t think it was love. I think true love is something else very different altogether.

“Mind you, if our adventure hadn’t happened, if we hadn’t been forced to quest for Heart of Light, Emily and I were close enough to each other, and suited well enough, that we might have rubbed along together very tolerably for forty or so years. Raised a few brats. Yes, I daresay it would have been fine.”

“And yet you don’t resent Kitwana?”

“No. Because even if we’d lived together in friendship and charity for forty years, Emily and I would never have had what she has with Kitwana. What we’d have had was habit. What they have is true love—an insane emotion that constrains one to take up the oddest sacrifices for his loved one and which will stop at nothing but happiness . . . for the one you love.

“I think it must be very rare for people to love so. And since Emily and Kitwana did, I couldn’t stand between them.”

“But then . . .” Peter said. And realized he was speaking to himself more than to Nigel. But then, that was how he had felt for Sofie. And how did she feel toward him? He remembered her sacrifice. Had she done it to cleanse the stone that he might fulfill his mission. Or had she done it for the world? Was there a chance she
loved
him? Love. How rare was it. And if she loved him—however unlikely, however ill-advised—would she be happy without him?

He should take Nigel to Africa, then go back to India as soon as possible. He
must
find out how Sofie was. Her wound, though healed, might have reopened. The thought that she was ill and suffering and longing for him made him twitch.

“There was someone,” he said, entirely without meaning to. “In India.”

“Someone?” Nigel said. Then, with sudden comprehension, “A woman?”

“The most wonderful woman in the world, Nigel. Full of such courage . . .” He sighed. “I left her wounded, and I wonder how she’s doing.” He shook his head. “Right, we shall take you to Africa, and by then perhaps I’ll have gotten over my need to find out.”

But Nigel grinned at him, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Farewell, you are a great fool. What do you mean have gotten over it? If you love her and if she is, as you say, the most wonderful woman in the world, shouldn’t you give in to your wish to see her?”

“I am,” Peter said, sternly, feeling the need to remind Nigel, “a dragon.”

Nigel picked up a tasteless pink oval cake and nibbled it with every appearance of enjoyment. “So you are. And what does that mean?”

“Nigel! I wouldn’t inflict on any woman my—”

“Oh, there’s worse things you could inflict,” his friend said. “Remember my brother, Carew, and how much delight he took in abusing us when we were young and in boarding school? Imagine a woman being given a choice between you and him? Which one do you think would make her the better husband?”

“Neither.”

“Yes, but—”

“Oh, all right, myself. I’ve suspected lately that if I truly loved the woman, I wouldn’t . . . you know, flame her in the heat of passion.”

Nigel grinned. “I’m sure your ladylove will appreciate that. What is her name, by the way?”

“Sofie,” Peter said, and he put all of his longing into the name, which came back all whisper and half sigh.

“I see,” Nigel said, standing up and straightening his coat and his tie. “Then I would advise you to go to her now. Go to her as soon as may be. You’re not so far from India here as you’ll be deep in Africa. Just go now. Take the shorter route. Don’t make her wait.”

“But . . . I can help you. Restoring the ruby is our joint mission.”

“No. Finding it was our joint mission. As long as the rubies get back, I don’t think they care how. And there is a carpetship leaving in a couple of hours that will take me to southwestern Africa. From which a very few days will see me to our destination.”

“But . . .” Peter said, miserably, “I can wait a few days. . . .”

“I don’t think you can. Not if you’re that worried about her. Not if there’s any chance at all she’ll slip through your fingers. I see from your narrowed eyes there is. Go to her, Peter. Accept your own desires for once. Not all impulses are bad impulses. Learn to find out which aren’t.”

THE GARDEN AGAIN

William had taken months to recover. He’d wakened
in this paradise among verdant trees, with the first rains of the monsoon washing down the leaf-and-branch roof of a rustic cabin. He was laying on a pile of leaves, roughly covered with what appeared to be an old sari. Moving hurt. Thinking hurt. And when he saw Bhishma come in the door of the cabin, he knew he was dreaming.

But it turned out he wasn’t. “I couldn’t stay behind, you see,” Bhishma had told him. “The sepoys we freed suspected you and I were . . . that you and I were involved.”

“But I thought . . .” William had protested. “Your culture is not as . . . disapproving of . . . of love between men as mine is, is it?”

And Bhishma had looked at him puzzled for a moment, then his eyes had danced with secret amusement. “Oh, not for that, but . . . But you see, it was not
what
I did, it was
with whom.
You are a no-caste.” His smile made him suddenly look very young. “I am defiled.”

It wasn’t a very good joke—now, months later, William wondered if it had been a joke at all—but they’d laughed until they cried.

William had nothing to go back for, any more than Bhishma did. By then the letter would’ve been sent, and his parents had gotten it, saying their son had died heroically in a quickly thwarted uprising. They had grieved, he was sure, but nothing could be served by his coming back from the dead now. He suspected if he did, there would be the matter of the freed sepoys. Treason. Betrayal of Queen and Country. No, better not come back to life just so that his parents could watch him die, dishonored in the gallows.

So he, who had never been very sure of paradise, embraced his afterlife in its fullness. It wasn’t a bad life. As soon as he was fully healed—which should be any day now—he would be able to hunt with Gyan. They had long since become Gyan and William—here, away from the world, being called Bhishma and Sahib seemed like foolishness—and until then he could fish and trap. He was fishing, at that moment, leaning against a tree, by a stream, using an improvised rod and a line Gyan had procured from who knew where.

William was thinking how convenient it was that villagers hereabouts near-worshipped weres, or at least respected them enough not to think too much of what was going on here, between these two men. You never knew with primitive cultures, and these people in the wilds of the Himalayas were very primitive indeed. Gyan swore some were even cannibals. But none bothered them. Instead, they were respectful, and even traded with Gyan and William—cloth and pottery and simple furniture, in exchange for the fish and meat they caught.

He heard Gyan coming through the trees, whistling tunelessly as he did when he had been lucky at his hunt.

And it was as close to paradise as William wanted to get.

BRIDE’S VISIT

Mrs. McCleod had left Sofie alone with Lalita, happy
that Sofie had a visitor. She was a gentle soul, Aimee McCleod, and it would never occur to her to question the friendship between a maid and her former mistress, or to think it strange the two of them should sit there, smiling in the still-bearable sunlight of spring.

“So you’re married,” Sofie said. “Which of them?”

“Oh, Hanuman,” Lalita said, smiling. “It was always Hanuman. And you? When will you be married?”

Sofie sighed, feeling again the cold emptiness she’d first experienced when she’d awakened and he was gone. Aimee was sure he would come back, but Sofie knew better. He would think he was defiling her, and he would die rather than return.

“I don’t think I’m going to be. At least, there is no one who wants to marry me. And I once told . . . I once told St. Maur that I would only marry for the greatest love. And, you see . . . that can’t happen, because . . . he doesn’t wish to marry me. And I can’t stay with Aimee much longer, though she’s been good to me. But I don’t want to go back to my mother and father, either. So, well . . . Perhaps I will join a mission. Or find work as nanny or something. And then . . . well . . . maybe someday I’ll find someone to love. Or maybe when I’m very old, like . . . like forty or something, I won’t mind so much not loving, and I will marry for companionship.”

She was aware her voice sounded thin and pathetic, but she didn’t expect the shock in Lalita’s eyes. “You must have been hurt very badly, indeed,” Lalita said. “The Sofie I knew would never have just let him leave. Not if she loved him. The Sofie I knew would get a flying rug and make him realize what he was throwing away.”

“I would, but . . . I don’t have the slightest idea where he might be.”

“Your friend Mrs. McCleod says he left his luggage behind. Did he?”

“Yes, he was gone immediately, with just the ruby. He didn’t want me to wake while he was still nearby.”