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Authors: Judith Tarr

BOOK: Tides of Darkness
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The love of man and woman was an awkward and often ridiculous thing. Tanit, in teaching herself the ways of his body, the things that were subtly or not so subtly different, knew that she was putting off the inevitable. With Kare the king, it had been a thing she did out of duty. She lay as still as she could, and, did as he bade, and waited for it to be over. Then in a few months, either the blood and the pain came, or the child was born and drew a breath and died.
With this man who was not exactly a man, with his blue-black tongue and his predator's teeth, she caught herself thinking thoughts that she had never imagined she could think. Her maids did, and ladies of the court, too—their gossip was full of it, how this man's face or that man's eyes or another man's private parts made their bellies melt. She had never melted for anyone—until, so brief a time ago, this stranger from beyond the horizon lay unconscious at her feet.
He was fully conscious now, kneeling subject to her will, with a look about him that made it clear how great an effort it was to remain so still. He had mastered even
that
part of him. How she knew that it was force of will and not lack of desire, she could not tell; she only knew that it was so.
Her heart was beating hard. Her skin was now hot, now cold. Her belly—yes, her belly was melting as she looked at him, his beauty and strangeness. His eyes were as deep as the river. His lips tasted of honey, drowning her in sweetness.
His breast, his legs and arms, were lightly pelted with curling hair. She ran fingers through that on his breast. He quivered; then stilled. He was waking below. His will was weakening, or he had loosed its bonds.
She should cast off her gown and lie on the bed and let him get it over. But the fear in her would not let her do that—fear, and something else. Something that was inextricably a part of the melting in her middle. She wanted—she needed—
He rose in one long fluid movement, sweeping her up with such effortless strength that she laughed, borne as on a wave of the river. Her arms linked about his neck. She had gone from fear to a dizzy delight, a singing brightness in which nothing mattered, no darkness, no terror, only those eyes meeting hers and that body warm against her. For long moments she was not even certain which body was his, and which hers. They were all one, all woven together, flesh and manifold souls.
It was not as awkward as she had feared. Her body knew, after all, how to dance the dance. When it was ridiculous, he laughed as hard as she, rolling together in the banks of flowers.
He ended on his back, she sprawled along the length of him. He shifted; she stirred. She gasped. He was inside her, filling her, just on the edge of pain; until with a sigh she let the pain go. He had sobered. His eyes were softer than she had ever thought they could be. She kissed the lid of each, and found the long slow rhythm, the ebb and surge of the world.
When the release came, she cried out in astonishment. She had never—she could never—
It broke like the crest of the river in flood. She sank down and forever down, cradled in his arms, in a sweetness of crushed flowers. He was breathing lightly, as if he had been running. Skin slid on skin, slicked with sweat. She lifted a head that felt impossibly heavy. His eyes were shut, his head tilted back, but she could feel his awareness like a brush of fingers down her spine. Was this what it was to have magic?
“This is what it is to love a mage,” he said. He kissed the crown of her head. “Beautiful lady.”
“Splendid man.”
He laughed softly. Her heart was singing—and so, her bones knew, was his. They would raise the light, and break the darkness. She knew that, just then, in that night in which the shadows never came.
T
ELL ME OF YOUR WORLD,” SHE SAID.
They lay together in the long stretch of night before dawn. She had slept; he had rested in the quiet. Deep quiet, empty of enemies.
She had awakened in his arms, rumpled and beautiful. Her thoughts murmured inside of his. The words grew out of them. “What is it like? Is it like this?”
“A little,” he said. “The sky, the sun—they're very like. We have deserts and rivers and green country. Mountains; too, and seas, which are rivers that fill the world, and taste powerfully of salt.”
“We know of seas,” she said. “The river flows into one. They say it's green. Someday I mean to see it and know for myself.” And after a pause: “Tell me more.”
“There are two moons,” he said. “One is red, like blood, and so vast that in some seasons it seems to fill half the sky. The other is white and small and very bright. Long ago people believed that the red moon was the darkness' child, and the white moon was born of the light. Now we believe that darkness and light are twinned; that one cannot exist without the other.”
She sighed on his breast. “And you? You believe that?”
“I know that in my world it is true.”
“That is rather wonderful,” she said. “Fitting for a world full of gods.”
“There are men, too. And women.”
“But not you.”
“I was born,” he said, “of a line of divine madmen. The first of them was a renegade without a father, a priestess' son when priestesses were put to death for violating their vows of fidelity to the god. But she had lain with the god, or with a man who had been possessed by the god—no one ever truly doubted that, not once they knew him. He was … not as other men were. He won himself an empire, but saw his own heir turn against him, make alliance with the son of his great enemy and so cast him down. The two of them imprisoned him in a tower of magic and enchanted him into sleep, and so took him out of the world but not out of life. With that act they made a greater empire, and ruled it together. Their son inherited, and his son after him, and after him my father. Then I was born, and I was to be all that was most splendid in our world: mage, king, priest of Sun and Shadow.
“When I was twelve years old, a rebel killed my father. I destroyed the murderer, but nearly destroyed myself. It was long years before I was whole again. I was emperor for a mortal lifetime. I saw my son born, and I saw him die. I raised his daughter to be my heir, and she raised hers. When their time had come, I left the empire to them, and walked away.”
“Such tales,” she said. “Such brevity. I'll make you tell me the whole of every story.”
“Only if you promise to tell me yours.”
“Mine is nothing,” she said. “I come from a lordly family near the border of Ta-senet. My mother is the old priest's daughter and the high priest's sister. I was married in youth to the king. The king died; there was no one else to rule the city. Now I am queen, and the rest you know.”
“Such brevity,” he said. “This is why there are singers and poets: because we who live the tales have no gift for telling them.”
She laughed her rich bubbling laugh. “My singers will make a legend for you and spare you the trouble. May you be the son of a god and a goddess? Were they gloriously beautiful?”
“My mother was,” he said. “She was a chieftain's daughter of a wild tribe, a priestess of the dark goddess. My father saw her dancing by the fire one night as he tarried with the tribe during a hunt. He loved her then and ever after. It was a scandal in its day: he had resisted every marriage that anyone tried to make for him, and when at long last he did marry, he married for love.”
“Ah,” she sighed. “You can tell a tale after all. Will I be a scandal among the gods? Will they be horrified to discover that you gave yourself in marriage to a mortal woman?”
Estarion's lips twitched. One corner of his mouth turned irresistibly upward. “My heir will be absolutely appalled. She was as rebellious a child as a king should ever hope not to have. She chose her daughter's father for his beauty and lineage, used him like a fine bull, and sent him home to his wives when she had what she wanted of him. It was years before even I learned who had fathered her child. But then she found a noble consort, a man of perfect probity, and married him and adopted his son and became everything that she had formerly professed to despise. She's a better ruler than I ever was, and more truly suited to it, but a more humorless creature I've seldom known.”
“Humor is not a virtue in a ruler,” Tanit said.
“Isn't it? I do love that child, but if she learned to laugh, she might be happier.”
“Maybe someday you will teach her.”
“I'm afraid it's far too late,” he said wryly. “Her daughter, too—poor
things, they're children of grim duty from the cradle. They honor me as an ancestor, but it's been a relief to them that I've retreated from the field. I'm much too light-minded for the cares of empires.”
“Now you mock yourself,” she said. She folded her hands on his breast and propped her chin on them, and contemplated his face. It seemed to give her no little pleasure. “The gods have no humor—all the priests assure us of that. It seems to me your heirs are very proper goddesses, and you are a properly fallen god. The priests will not be reassured.”
“Should they be?”
“About this? Maybe not. They'll do well not to take you for granted.”
“Such a delicate balance,” he said, “between scandal and contempt.”
“You are not only light-minded,” she said, “you are wicked. What shall I do with you?”
“Love me,” he said.
Her smile bloomed, slow and wonderful, transforming her face from loveliness into breathtaking beauty. Dear gods, he loved her. He had not known such fullness of the heart since he had loved a priestess who was a commoner, long ago in the turning of the worlds. With her too it had been the matter of a moment: a glimpse, a glance, a word spoken.
They had not been lovers long, though they had remained friends until the day she died. This one was sworn to him by vows that he meant to keep.
As if she had followed his thoughts, she said, “You'll leave me in the end.”
“No,” he said. “No, I will not.”
“Of course you will.” She sounded undismayed. “Your blood and kin will call you, and you'll go. Only give me what you can, and help our kingdom as you may, and we'll all be content.”
“Even you?”
Her gaze was level under the strongly painted brows. “I never looked for this, never hoped or dreamed for it. Every moment that I have it is a
gift of the gods. When it ends, I'll weep. I'm not made of stone; but neither am I a crumbling reed. I'll carry on, my lord, and remember that I loved you.”
“I might surprise you,” he said, “and stay.”
“Don't make promises you can't keep,” she said. “You've given me yourself while you can. That's enough. Now love me, my lord, and be glad of these hours together. Long after they're gone, they'll hold us in memory.”
He shook his head, but he was not inclined to argue with her, not just then. The sun was coming. The shadow had let this world be for one blessed night. She was ready to be loved again, and he, he discovered, was ready to do the loving. He laughed for the simple of joy of that, and took her in his arms again, and kissed her as deep as either of them could bear.
She wrapped arms and legs about him and took him in her turn. She was no meek submissive woman; not she. He loved her for it, as for everything that she was or promised to be.
 
The shadow did not come back the next night, either, nor the next. People began to say that it was gone; that the god's coming, the walls of magic he had taught them to raise, the marriage he had made with their queen, had driven the enemy away. They would hardly lay aside years of fear and hiding, not in three days or four, but the young and reckless took it on themselves to go out at night, to see the stars; and there was festival in daylight, feasting and rejoicing, until between weariness and simple need to bake the bread and brew the beer, the festival ended and the people returned to their daily tasks.
When ten days had passed with no taint on the stars, even the most wary began to wonder if it were true—if the darkness had been driven away. It had become a game and a fashion to brave the night. At first it had been enough to ascend to the roofs, and the boldest slept there in the cool and the breezes. But youth was not to be outdone. Gatherings of young men walked beyond walls and wards, emboldened by an ample
ration of beer and palm wine. Then some headlong soul took it into his head to embark on the river with lamps and torches and a troupe of musicians as mad as he was, for a carousal that echoed over the water and sounded faintly within the palace.
Tanit was ready to call out the guard, but the Lord Seramon stopped her. “They're safe enough tonight,” he said.
“And tomorrow night? Will they be safe?”
“I don't know,” he said.
“You think it will come back.”
“I know it will,” he said.
She did not know why her heart should sink. She had had no illusions; she had not imagined that this was more than a respite. But her heart had persisted in hoping against hope.
She rose from their bed and clapped her hands for her maid. He lay for a while, watching her, but when Tisheri had come, he disentangled himself from the coverlets and vanished in the direction of his own chambers. He would be back. There was less need for words between them, the longer they were bound together.
Tisheri did not approve of what she clearly was going to do, but it was not a maid's place to gainsay her queen. She dressed Tanit and arranged her hair, and adorned her in some of the lesser jewels. Then, with paling face but determined expression, she accompanied her lady out into the night.
The royal boat was waiting, the boatmen yawning but steadfast, and the Lord Seramon standing at the steering-oar, a shadow on shadow with a gleam of golden eyes. At first she thought with a small shock that he had come out as naked as he had left his bed, but when he moved, the torchlight caught the folds of a dark kilt. She rebuked herself for the quiver of regret.
It was very dark, even with torches. The stars were small and far away. The moon hung low. The world was a strange place, so full of hidden things, and yet while he was there, her fear could not consume her. She could see beauty in this darkness, as she saw in him.
The revelers on the water were not too far gone in wine and beer to be astonished that the queen and her consort had joined them. The tone of their carousing muted sharply; they were suddenly, painfully constrained. Tanit had herself lifted into their boat; they hastened to find a seat for her, to offer drink and what little food there was, and to cover their naked drunken women as best they might.
She kept her amusement carefully veiled. As she had expected, once they were burdened with the task of entertaining her, they grew much less enamored of their exploit—particularly the ringleaders, whose fathers were lords of her council. One tried to hide; the other covered his embarrassment with bravado, and might have offered impertinence if her consort had not appeared at her side.
The Lord Seramon was even more terrifying in the dark than in the light. His presence dampened the last of their enthusiasm. But when they would have ordered their boatmen to turn toward the bank, the Lord Seramon said, “Oh, no. It's not so very far to dawn. We'll see the sun rise on the river. Isn't that what you had in mind?”
Tanit doubted that they had thought so far ahead, but they would hardly say so to him. They were all too neatly trapped, and had no choice but to give way to his whim.
He folded himself at her feet, smiling at the young idiots from the city. The musicians, less far gone in beer and perhaps wiser, too, began to play a softer tune than they had been playing heretofore. Their singer had a remarkably sweet voice. The sound of it in starlight, trilling out over the water, was like nothing Tanit had known.
In a strange way it made her angry. The night should be hers, just as the day was. The shadow had robbed her of that.
She would take it back for always, not just for what brief time this respite gave her. She would have the stars and the moon, and the river flowing black but aflicker with starlight. The night was glorious. She would claim it for her own, as she had claimed this child of gods who lay at her feet.

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