The ease that had been Grizzin Farl’s gift was crumbling. Deep in the night, Feren rutted with Arathan amidst gasps and low cries that sounded oddly desperate; and she was not content with a single grapple. He had heard her wake the boy up more than once, and it was beginning to show in the dark smudges under Arathan’s eyes.
Raskan wondered when Draconus would intercede. Surely the Lord could see that something untoward was being forged between Feren and his son. She was twice his age, if not older. And Raskan thought he saw a weakness in her that had heretofore been well hidden. The veneer of professionalism was fraying in the Bordersword.
Nor was her brother oblivious of all this.
Tensions mounted.
Draconus reappeared. ‘Jheleck,’ he said, gesturing at the ruins behind him.
‘They struck here, Lord?’
‘All that they could carry, including the roof beams and slate tiles.’
Raskan frowned. ‘It must have been long ago, Lord. Was it Grizzin Farl who assured you that this place was still occupied? Clearly he did not come along this trail.’
Draconus studied him briefly, and then nodded. ‘As you say, sergeant. No matter. We shall make do, I am sure.’
‘Of course, Lord. Shall I attend to your horse?’
‘No, thank you. Leave me with something to do while supper is being prepared.’ Draconus seemed to hesitate, however, and seeing this Raskan edged closer.
‘Lord?’
‘A quiet word with you, sergeant.’
They walked off a way, round the faint mound on which stood the ruins. Raskan was startled to see an avenue carved into the slope on this side, marking the entrance to a barrow. But before he could enquire as to it, Draconus spoke.
‘The boy needs warning off.’
At once Raskan understood the Lord’s meaning, and so he nodded. ‘I fear so, Lord. It is natural zeal-’
‘Her zeal is anything but natural, sergeant.’
He had meant Arathan’s, but Draconus had cut to a deeper truth. ‘I think she is eager to beget a child from this union, Lord. But I do not think it is to hold a blade above House Dracons.’
‘No, I agree — that would be pointless.’
Raskan wondered at that comment, but knew no proper means of querying it. ‘She advances in years, perhaps-’
‘She is forty years of age, give or take a year. She can bear more children for decades to come, if not longer.’
‘It is the capacity for love for a child that withers among older women, Lord,’ said Raskan. ‘Few choose to give birth once past their first century. Tracks deepen to ruts. Independence is hoarded with avarice.’
‘This is not the source of her impatience, sergeant.’
He was not inclined to disagree with that assessment. He had ventured his observations in invitation to Draconus, that the Lord might choose them to mitigate his unease. But this man standing before him was not one to embrace delusions simply because they offered comfort. After a moment, Raskan said, ‘One might wonder, since we do not know, if she has never been a mother before. But to my eyes, Lord, hers is a body that has carried a child to term, and fed it at the breast.’
‘No doubt of that, sergeant.’
‘I would warn him, then, Lord. But he is only half the problem here.’
‘Yes.’
‘As her commander I can-’
‘No, sergeant. You show courage in assuming that burden, but it is not yours to bear. It is mine, and I will speak with her. Tonight, with darkness upon us. Take Arathan off, but away from this place here.’
‘Yes, Lord. Back along our trail, perhaps?’
‘That will do.’
Arathan could not take his eyes off her. She had become his vortex, around which he circled, tugged inward with a force against which he had no strength. Not that he struggled much. In her heated embrace he thought he could vanish, meld into her flesh, her bones. He thought that, one day, he might look out from her eyes, as if she had devoured him whole. He would not have resented the loss of his freedom, the abandonment of his future. Her drawn breath would be his; the taste in her mouth would be his taste, the supple movement of her limbs his own.
They would look for him, in the morning, and find no trace, and he would hide well behind her eyes and she in turn would give nothing away, content in a glutted, swollen way. He wondered if what he was feeling was the definition of love.
Unfurling his bedroll, Arathan collected up the weights and set them near his saddle. He had thoughts of Sagander, and how his tutor now fared. It would seem strange to be delivering gifts from a scholar who had been left behind, and all the knowledge the old man so desired would remain beyond his reach. Questions never asked, answers never offered — these remained somewhere ahead of Arathan, formless as a low cloud on the horizon. The weights, carefully stacked on the dusty ground, looked useless. Out here, nothing could be weighed, nothing could be measured out; out here, so far now beyond the borders of Kurald Galain, there was a kind of wildness, swirling through everyone.