Tree Of Life Part 23

"Do you care very much for her?" Magenta asked at length. He saw her eyes fall to where the jewel lay hidden near his heart. Drawing it out he nodded solemnly.

"Very much."

Her hopes suddenly shrank and sank down. So lost in thought it seemed he was unaware of his surroundings, Deacon fondled the jewel between his fingers, and she saw a kind of pained tenderness cross his features. She smiled a faint painful smile, as if he had unwittingly hurt her. She felt cast aside. It was difficult to draw breath.

"It was to be my mother's." A frown creased his brow and the strong muscle in his jaw tightened. "But she died before I gave it to her."

The tumult of emotion struck Magenta mute, then scarcely above a whisper, she uttered, "It is beautiful."

"I'm certain the elves would find it less that faultless," he said, s.n.a.t.c.hing it up and tucking it back into its place with a look that alerted her that he had most likely crafted the jewel himself.

"You made this?" she asked in marvelment, gently laying her fingertips upon his chest, as though she were touching the precious jewel itself. The gesture made his entire frame shudder.

"The evenings are growing cold," he said, as if desiring to turn the conversation to a more general one.

"Tell me about her," Magenta pursued gently. "Your mother. What was she like?"

Deacon recalled her memory with a faint, tender smile. "True-hearted. Kind. The sort of woman any honorable man would lay his life down for."

It was a while before Magenta ventured to ask more. "And your father?" she asked cautiously, not wishing to push him further than he was willing.

Deacon compressed his lips tightly, resting his chin on his chest, which was habitual of him when distressed. "What can be said of a man who pledges himself to a woman, then through no fault of her own, abandons her and his child?" he said bitterly.

Staying very quiet, Magenta waited in vain for him to say more. His mind was full of bitter memories, his face pale and impa.s.sive. He sneered inwardly at the disgrace of his father's course and could not escape the sense of his own insufficiencies.

"Any good there is in me I got from her." His words came out nothing more than a quiet murmur.

"There is a great deal of good in you," said Magenta. He was so intensely aware of her nearness that there was no surprise in her gentle touch upon his arm.

"How can you be so certain?" he asked, glancing at her darkly. She looked into his eyes, and it seemed she could see into a soul deeper than that of any human.

"Most make the mistake of believing the eyes to be merely an organ of sight, part of our form," she said. "But they are so much more. They allow insight into one's soul, and yours is one of true benevolence."

Though he felt unworthy of such regard, her words somehow comforted and sustained him. He turned fully to face her, his gaze falling to her slender form that was visible beneath her light shift. The touch of his hand brushing down the length of her bare arm gave her unutterable pleasure, made all the greater by contrast with his former indifference. Far from blushing or even averting her eyes, she leaned nearer to him. She had a deep longing for him to embrace her.

Arrested with love and pure adoration, he moved nearer her. "You cannot know what good you have done me tonight," he said in a voice pitched to a lower tone and with a softer note. Every sharp angle of his handsome face had softened to the sincerest tenderness, and he had drawn so near she could feel the warmth of his breath upon her cheek. For the moment it seemed as if he might kiss her, but he stood frozen within himself, as if standing at some closed door unable to enter. He turned his face aside, but did not withdraw.

For some time he was torn pitilessly in this conflict, when he felt the warmth of her hand at the nape of his neck, drawing him down, and her lips tenderly pressed to his. Submissively he closed his eyes, adrift in her kiss, and felt a complete breakdown of his resolve. He had avoided her touch for so long, now that he had allowed it he could not, it seemed, get enough. Having utterly lost his self-command, he let his arm steal round her, and with the ardour of pa.s.sion drew her into him, kissing her with all the fervor of one long denied.

Holding her thoroughly embraced, he seemed to lift her nearer to himself, closer and closer, his heart crushed in a pa.s.sionate grip. As though obeying some sudden impulse he lifted her upon the smooth rock behind her. His lips and caresses increased in their demand until it appeared he might consume her. Though he could not doubt her willingness, he, with a great effort of will, smothered and subdued his pa.s.sion.

Clinging still, he could not yet force himself to let go. The fever-hot face that rested upon her own was restless, and with an effort painful to see, he released her. "There is nothing to be said in my defence," he breathed apologetically, drawing back from her entirely. He knew if he stood there longer he must yield.

Presently she came to stand before him. His face was taut, the pulse in his throat the only indication of what he might be feeling, his breath coming in great heaves. Gently she took his arm and drew it round her waist, pressing against him, and he felt what little command he had on his senses slipping away.

"Magenta ..." His tone was desperate, pleading. He looked so distressed that she took pity on him and drew back a little. Turning half from her, his body grew very still. His eyes were downcast. It was evident a severe conflict was going on in his mind. She stroked his hair and he accepted her touch, but pa.s.sively, without responsive warmth.

"You seem so alone in the world," she said caressively. Deacon appeared to cringe inwardly. For him, her kindness was full of cruelty, her gentle touch causing suffering even as it promised to ease it. Magenta tried to urge him to soften to her, only to meet a refusal, stubborn and sorrowful.

Finally he said, in his usual dispa.s.sionate tones, "The way you looked at me, I thought you had seen into my soul, but I perceive now that you have not, or you would not wish to be so near me. You might as well love a shadow as me." He glanced at her darkly.

There in his eyes she saw a reason for his refusal that was not unfavourable to her. There was a darkness in him. She could not be deceived, even by her love. It distressed her keenly that he should harbour a purpose that disturbed his conscience and kept him from her, yet he would not abandon it. She clasped the hand that hung by his side, but he left it hanging lifeless, without returning pressure.

"What keeps you from me?" she asked, with her eyes fastened on his face, as was her instinctive custom when she sought to discover more than his words would reveal. But he closed his eyes on the answer she sought.

He soon relapsed into dismal silence. She held his hand as though it were the very object to keep him bound to her forever, but he would not soften, struggling with the utter impossibility of unburdening himself to her. He could feel her gaze heavily on him. He would glance at her, but she could not hold his eyes. They fell beneath hers each time. For an instant it appeared as if he might confide the insupportable grief he was utterly weary of holding onto, but he said nothing and averted his face further.

"I wish you would speak the words that lie on your lips," she said, brushing a strand of black hair from his eyes. She seemed to press so heavily upon him, he felt she was suffocating him. "Have you nothing to say?" she asked despairingly. Both his heart and his eyes were closed to her. He shook his head, clearly unable to say what was in his heart. Her lashes dropped to her delicate cheek. Deacon felt her disappointment and groaned inwardly with annoyance and exasperation.

"Why must you press me to uncover every detail of my character?" he said. "I feel as though, by the foolishness of some impulse, I have found myself in a cage with you."

Magenta instantly grew pale, whether with hurt or anger he could not tell. She felt as though a shard of poisoned ice had pierced her breast. The words immediately burned his tongue, and he regretted having said them. He quickly tried to recover but she would hear none of it.

As she turned to leave, he took a step so as to bar her way. She spoke in hurt but even tones. "I leave at your bidding; why do you prevent me?" She looked almost ill, but he saw the indomitable spirit looking out from her clear-seeing eyes. Gradually a heavy frown contracted his brow.

"Keep your heart until you find someone worthy to receive it."

"A woman's heart does not belong to her but to the one who wrenches it from her, and as it happens, he is often the one who does not wish to keep it." As she brushed past him, his eyes involuntarily closed, and he felt a hollowing pain, as though she had taken part of his soul with her. He subdued the urge to clutch her and force her to stay. Feeling shattered and destroyed, he sat down by the water. His usually concentrated eyes had become as vacant and blind as the eyes of a man who is dead.

Chapter37.

Sandrine -he afternoon sun diminished behind green hills. Resting in a lush valley spread before them was the charming city of Sandrine. Along the road they came upon a wayside inn. It was a pleasant, homely place with comfortable old tables and chairs and a large barrel of spiced wine in the corner. A pleasant, demure woman, came up from the cellar to greet them. "May I offer you an evening meal or a bed? I have only two rooms available, but they are both lovely and very comfortable. I'm certain they will be to your satisfaction."

Cedrik said, "We'll have the two rooms and something hot to eat."

The three young men took one room. Magenta had the other to herself. Before settling in for the evening, they sat in the commonroom in the warm glow of the fire, awaiting their hostess. The woman returned with a jug filled with spiced wine and a tray with hot bread. Setting them down, she then darted off to retrieve the rest of their supper. She smiled and apologized, as she slipped past another customer.

"This seems one of the few places where everything and everyone is friendly," said Cedrik, waiting while Magenta was cutting a slice of bread for him.

"Yes, it's nice," said Derek between sips of wine; "it's away from everything, though. Only farms and streams and trees."

Cedrik rubbed his nose and looked down. He did not want to tempt her away from her decision, or interfere with what was not his business. Next to him Deacon was silent with submission, like fate.

A pleasant quiet was in the room as they dined. The gentle conversation rarely lifted beyond a murmur. Derek took his last mouthful and stretched comfortably in his chair. Looking at Magenta he leaned forward on the table. "It's not too late to change your mind," he said, "if you want to return to the Imperial with us. I have a sister you would adore."

"It is a good thing to think about," said Cedrik.

At the suggestion of her leaving with them, Deacon blinked but did not raise his face. He waited for her answer.

"I am grateful you have been so kind, but I will find my own way. Here shall be the place to start." Her tone was indisputable, and rising to avoid further discussion, she bade them a farewell. Cedrik rose quickly to his feet, and reaching over the table, offered her his hand.

"We will bid you a proper farewell when we rise in the morning," he said. She placed her hand in his, and he brought it to his lips, with the gentleness and reverence in which he knew he would always hold her. Taking his brother's lead, Derek rose and did likewise. Half overcome, Magenta was unable to speak, and inclined her head graciously. Drawing away, she removed herself and swept up the wooden stairs.

Without looking after her Deacon raised the wine to his lips but placed it down again untasted.

The young men soon retired to their own room. It was cosy and smelled of fresh linen, with a double and single bed. The brothers shared the double, while Deacon took the single. After returning from checking on the horses for the night, Cedrik stripped off his shirt and pulled back the bedcovers. Derek was already sound asleep. Cedrik was grateful he had remained on his own side, for now at least. On the other side of the room, Deacon lay on his back, his eyes closed.

"You don't want her to stay here, do you?" said Cedrik in a quiet voice.

"No," he admitted. He didn't open his eyes.

"If you can convince her, I'll take her to the Imperial with me. We'll start off tomorrow, and you can continue on alone."

"She won't," was all he said.

The night waned away in sleeplessness. Deacon looked up through the dark. The room was pleasant, the bed comfortable, yet his body was unsettled, restless. What would become of her when he left her all alone in a world among strangers? These thoughts among others ate away at him, till finally he decided he would convince her to go with Cedrik. With a sudden sense of urgency, he flipped back his covers and ventured out to seek Magenta. Along the narrow hall he contrived what he would say to her. As he came to her door, he felt the grief in his chest again. He raised a knuckle hesitantly, then tapped lightly. There was no answer. He said in low tones, "I know you're awake. Will you let me come in?"

There was still no response, and he was gripped momentarily with a tight fear. He forced the lock and slowly pushed open the door. Magenta stood with her back to him. Her face down, she looked into the flickering flame of a candle. Deacon softly closed the door behind him and waited a moment. In his chest was a heavy beating.

"Why do you not answer me?" he said with some reproof. He saw her stir and finally turn to face him. Her countenance was wan, yet she met his eye with such a strange, unwavering gaze that he was completely discomposed and could not find a word to say. He stood before her mute. It occurred to him that she might feel his coming an impertinence.

"Why are you here?" she asked in a toneless voice. There followed a deep silence to which all the torment that had gone before was nothing. He wanted to tell her to go with Cedrik, but he dared not a.s.sert himself.

"I wanted to speak with you," he said, speaking more calmly than his look would have indicated. "Why will you not go to the Imperial with Cedrik?" he suddenly asked, despairing. "I fear to leave you alone."

"I cannot conceive why you should care," she said, with the slightest touch of contempt. He fell quiet, conscious of a throb deep in his heart. It was with timidity and grief that he sought to convince her, but her refusal was so final that, short of physically forcing her to go with Cedrik, he perceived there was nothing to be done. With pained resignation he slipped the chain from round his neck. The jewel appeared as if transparent, filled with soft luminance.

"Here. Take this," he said. "It is worth a considerable amount, I should imagine." He held it out to her. When she refused, he shook it and said, "Take it-I have no use for it." But she would not take it from him. Leaning past her, he placed it on the bedside table behind her. "I no longer want it pressing against my heart." He didn't draw back but paused near her. "It will fetch a fair price," he repeated, feeling useless, then said hesitantly, "or you may keep it, if that is your wish."

At the hopeless misery of it all, her eyes became veiled with tears, which she endeavoured to conceal by tilting her face from him. He felt a choke rise in his own throat. He could look nowhere except to her. Her firmness finally gave way, tears filled her eyes and stole freely down her cheek, exhausted of hope.

"Magenta ..." He stood with helpless hands. "I would rather shed drops of my own blood, than have you shed tears for me." But his words only made the tears flow afresh, even as her eyes closed against them. She had born the strain so long and continually, that she was unable to cease the flow now that it was released. He didn't know where to place his hands and helplessly touched her arm. He felt on the verge of tears himself. "Please don't," he said weakly.

It was in a diminished voice that she uttered, "What would you have me do? I have tried to bear everything else-" She was checked with something like a low sob. In that moment he saw utter defeat in her eyes and it nearly tore out his heart. He stood mute. He was so deeply distressed by her sudden giving way that he would have, at this point, promised anything. In his helplessness he knew not what else to do. Brushing aside her hair he stooped and approached his lips to hers, but she turned her face and put his hands from her.

"The poorest of souls may well be content with the poorest of love," she said quietly, scarcely moving her lips. Emotion would suffer her to say no more. She turned her back to him. He remained standing apart. Something in him broke, and he knew he could not endure being separated from her anymore. The necessity was admitted, and his forbearance was obliterated, all strength and desire to resist were gone.

Magenta watched the flame flicker. She could not feel him. Quietly he drew close behind her, and gradually his presence made itself felt. She was aware of his chest close upon her back. She felt his hands sweep her hair back from her neck. At his first touch something in her stirred and responded out of the darkness, and her wounded heart filled silently with yearning.

He set the jewel round her throat and murmured close to her ear. "I would have you come with me, if I thought I had not destroyed any hope of it." Very gently, very sadly, he urged her to face him. "Be with me always." His look setting no bounds to his meaning, he put his arms round her and pressed his breast to her breast, which somehow felt bruised and hurt, so that she thought she could weep from the gentle pressure of his embrace.

They were silent, hid against each other. Lifting his face he found her mouth with soft, caressive lips. Then he paused as if he awaited some a.s.surance of forgiveness, pressed against her very close. He had a frightened sense of her irreparable loss of love for him. She had returned his kiss faintly, but was tight and closed against him. Her heart was bound tightly in sorrow, so wounded it cringed upon itself. His heart sank in bitter despair. He stopped her hand from reaching and unclasping the necklace. "In my heart I have belonged to you all the time," he murmured, broken. "My happiness lies in yours; they cannot be parted."

At his words she gave way. Clinging to him, she fell into quiet sobbing, and cried with bitter cries, hoping that his nearness was not merely a departing vision. When her pa.s.sion of anguish at last subsided, and she was quiet, he whispered to her a few faint words, which inevitably drew shuddering, sharp intakes of breath at short intervals; the only trace of her previous grief.

Here, in the nearness of answering feeling, they became profoundly still, his face pressed into her hair. In the depths of their silence the two were most intimately connected, with that pure affection which unites spirits.

"Don't make me sleep alone," he murmured, faltering, like a man when he supplicates some request which he desires intensely but fears to be denied. A reverent silence answered him, and with an unspoken consent they resumed with long, anguished kisses. The cruel feeling of separation drifted away and oneness came in the dark still aura of his love.

With a trembling heart, she stole her arms round his neck and pressed herself into the absorbing flow of his kiss. His will slackened and relaxed, no longer sharp and immovable, but full of human feeling and warmth. With a quiet gesture he extinguished the lamp, and she was in darkness, abandoned to him.

Never had she felt his eyes more upon her as she did now in the darkness, where she could not see, but only feel him, his touch so vivid and certain. Together they lay, breathing the still dark atmosphere. It gathered softly round them, and all outside thoughts dissolved into it. All her love, all her pain, came up and all her consciousness slipped and pa.s.sed away, so there was only him. She was given to him and he to her. They were together, complete, eternal.

Before the night was ended they were quiet together in the dark. He lay against her bare skin, half upon her, caressing her with his mouth, loving her into a sense of herself. He clasped both her upraised hands in his and breathed into her ear his devotion. In this moment with her, he was free from the pressing of time. Together they spoke with low-toned tenderness. When she turned on her side he ran his fingers over her naked back, upon which he discovered the marks of evil deeds: strange, intricate patterns that had been inked deeply into the flesh. "What are these?" he murmured in his throat, with a frown.

"One for each offence," she answered, then turned to face him. She lay warm against him, feeling adored and enfolded; he felt so familiar, so safe. She told him of all the things that had hurt her, and afterwards became quiet, lying partly on top of him, drifting near sleep, lulled by the rising and falling of his life's breath beneath her. His body was relaxed, but his mind was going over all the things she had told him. The centre of him tightened with a sense of unjustness. She could feel that he was still awake and lifted her face. "Are you able to sleep?"

"I am," he murmured. He stroked her hair, and she settled down against him again, his hand locked in hers with instinctive, almost unconscious tenderness; she would not part with it even in sleep. While she slept in his arms, he had an urge to go into her mind to see all the things she had seen and feel all the things she had felt. He wanted to know all she had suffered.

Feeling this undeniable urge, he raised himself above her. He placed his hand on her brow. She stirred slightly, and he remained still, breathlessly, until he was certain she was again sound asleep. Slowly and un.o.btrusively he went into her mind in search of thoughts, memories, and feelings. He was poised over her while images and emotions were hastening upon him.

There were children, little villains, that shouted with vile tongues, trying to shame her, casting stones which cut and bruised. Ghastly, wasted trying to shame her, casting stones which cut and bruised. Ghastly, wasted hands grasped her, and she felt that some terrible violence lurked beneath hands grasped her, and she felt that some terrible violence lurked beneath their touch. The p.r.i.c.k of a thorn stung her. There was pain, fear, quivering, their touch. The p.r.i.c.k of a thorn stung her. There was pain, fear, quivering, shaking. She was lame and ill, deathly so, locked in darkness where living shaking. She was lame and ill, deathly so, locked in darkness where living cords snaked their way round her limbs, easily overcoming her frantic cords snaked their way round her limbs, easily overcoming her frantic struggles. Things, leech-like, were sucking on her flesh, drawing struggles. Things, leech-like, were sucking on her flesh, drawing on the venom, letting it from her blood, which had received too on the venom, letting it from her blood, which had received too much. much.

Not long had he been inside her thoughts when it was his desperate wish to leave. So overwhelming as it was, he wanted to abruptly break free of her mind, but forcing himself to do so, he slowly withdrew. In him was a degree of gratification, knowing he was the sole possessor of her most intimate thoughts.

Panting, he lay his head against her soft breast. It's often believed one likes to hear the beating of another's heart, a reminder of the security he felt in his mother's womb. He hated it. To him it was the sound of life wearing out, reminding him of the fragility of mortality. He shifted his face higher on her bosom, away from the ceaseless beating, and sank down into the comfort of her. It was such utter peace to just lie with her with no thought or will. In the softness of coming sleep, he felt the world pa.s.s away from him, and there was only her.

Morning found them much the same way. He had slept very deeply, so that he felt strangely revived. Leaning over her, he brushed his lips over her sleeping brow. Outside the morning was pleasantly chill. He came to find Cedrik out by the stables, already preparing the horses. "Our course is still the same?" Cedrik asked when Deacon joined him.

"Yes," came the brief answer, as if it needn't have been asked. Deacon secured his bag to his horse, and without turning round, said, "But I don't go alone."

Cedrik made no comment. He had presumed as much, having noted Deacon did not return to his bed the previous night.

Chapter38.

Confession -eaconpushed back the canvas flap and ducked into his tent. In the darkness he took off his shirt with quick, quiet movements and lay alongside the softly breathing form. Beneath the blankets his hands sought her, quietly and un.o.btrusively, her body hushed and peaceful in sleep. He brushed silent lips against her throat. She stirred and lay looking up into the eyes that were bent to hers; his body heavy and warm and soft. Their faces were so close they needed only to speak in murmurs. A tender frown crossed her brow. She touched his face and gently drew her finger along his cheek and over his mouth. He never knew what she saw when she looked at him with those eyes.

"Never before have my lips touched those of another, not my own mother even," she said, murmuring.

His eyes, warm with love, smiled into hers through the dark, and pa.s.sing a hand over her thigh affectionately, he sought her lips and clung to them, his mind straying soft and dark. Sinking into a kind of swoon, she allowed him to caress her with his mouth, turning her face aside so that his kisses might fall on her neck.

His arm folded her into him closer and closer, moving his mouth over her throat, but she could not prevent invasive thoughts; doubt filled her mind. She remembered the dark look in his eye, the guilt when he had expressed himself unworthy of her. There was some purpose he was bent upon, some ill-will driving him to Terium. All these thoughts worked in her mind. Her fears, gathering intensity, despite herself, prompted her to say softly through the dark, "Tell me why we travel to Terium?"

He became very still; his mouth still pressed against her throat. Her hand lingered at the base of his neck, waiting. All was very quiet. After a moment he sank back from her, but his eyes were on her. "Why do you ask?" It was a question he resented, and at such a time. Nevertheless, in his new humility, he did not become agitated or impatient but rather sought to set her mind at ease, though he knew such an objective, under the circ.u.mstances, could only be achieved through a lie.

"Is there something there you seek?" she asked. Her eyes had a way of demanding truth.

"Yes."

"Why do you conceal it from me; is it so terrible?"

"No, it's not so terrible," he said to her very gently, then explained to her, in the most deceiving tones, his false reasons. His words came as soothingly as his caresses over all her fears, but within himself he was ill. He was lying to her, and he hated himself. He rolled onto his back. Magenta settled against him. Her hand covered his, caressing it with the tenderest touch. His hands appeared different now that they had been upon her. She wanted to hold them and kiss them again and again.

"How did you come by this?" she asked, tracing the thin scar gently with her fingertips. Reflexively his hand closed into a fist, as if he didn't want her touching past hurts.

"A gift from my father," he said, showing in this remark the repressed suffering and hatred he had felt for so long.