waiting for his offered communication to have effect. At last he said, "If need be, I will sit here for as many days as it takes, until you speak."
Her gaze held his, and he was reminded again that though she was able to maintain her beauty and fascination, she was indeed a witch and might have been millennia old, for the black eyes that stared at him had that memory of the beginnings of time that snakes do, and they were as cold.
When Mortis finally spoke, it seemed to come from deep within her. "My Prince, there is a secret which I should not tell you, for you must know it yourself."
"Then speak it, if you have decided to—"
She sighed, and as swiftly as it had come over her face, the reptile coldness and age was gone, and the Prince found himself thinking of the days when he had asked her why there were not magic cookie jars that never ran empty, or when she had quietly helped him through the forms of the Never-Voiced Declension when Golias had assigned him more than he could master. "My Prince, the reason I should not is close to the reason that you now have a foot. We will all pass from you at one time or another, but you will not necessarily gain by it if we do not follow the rules. Would you run the risk that it might be for nothing?"
He nodded. "Of course not. Then do not tell me. Did you want me only to know that there was such a secret?"
Again, her age rolled back from the old times of his boyhood to the old times before the youth of the world, and the cold face of the reptile stared at him . . . but then softened again. "My Prince," she said, finally, "my Prince, the sun will set soon, and you should be to dinner with your father."
"I've notes to write as well," he said, but made no effort to move. The dungeons were much darker and colder than the rest of the castle, but though Mortis's dress was of some thin stuff, she seemed not to be cold at all, while the Prince's winter clothes barely kept the clammy chill out of him. "You ought to come up to the sun and bask," he said, before realizing that the comparison might be unflattering.
She laughed—or did she strangle on a sob? "Time was the advice would have been good."
After they sat a long time longer she said, "You do need to go, my Prince, and I will not grow worse because you do. Truly I am grateful that you came down to see me."
As Amatus stood, he decided to broach the difficult subject. "The Twisted Man said that of the four of you, you liked Golias best."
She nodded, as if in dull shock. "That is true. Psyche could not really know or understand him at all, nor he her. And the Twisted Man was forever closed to the things that stood nearest Golias's heart, and Golias from those things the Twisted Man holds fealty to, because what was strength in one would be weakness in the other. So Psyche could not like what Golias did, and the Twisted Man could not understand what Golias was . . . but I, my Prince, I knew Golias for what he was, always, and though my love would not have been a good thing for him, though there was necessarily separation between us, yet I loved him in my way, and for the things we had in common."
"And . . . er, you survivors—"
Cold black ice stared in her eyes. "Our feelings for each other are none of your business." And then a little warm water seemed to well under it. "Yet I will say this much: that the Twisted Man sometimes suffers, just a little, because Psyche cannot feel what he wishes she could. Are you happier for knowing that there is that much more pain in the world?"
Amatus inclined his head. "I understand now, lady. I was wrong to have asked, and you were right to demonstrate to me the sort of thing I might learn by asking."
"You think, then, that I told you for your benefit?"
"I believe my Companions work to my good, yes."
She rose. "The sun will be down soon. Go."
He went. At his apartment he sat down at his desk and swiftly scrawled out letters of abject apology to Duke Wassant and Sir John Slitgizzard,
Her gaze held his, and he was reminded again that though she was able to maintain her beauty and fascination, she was indeed a witch and might have been millennia old, for the black eyes that stared at him had that memory of the beginnings of time that snakes do, and they were as cold.
When Mortis finally spoke, it seemed to come from deep within her. "My Prince, there is a secret which I should not tell you, for you must know it yourself."
"Then speak it, if you have decided to—"
She sighed, and as swiftly as it had come over her face, the reptile coldness and age was gone, and the Prince found himself thinking of the days when he had asked her why there were not magic cookie jars that never ran empty, or when she had quietly helped him through the forms of the Never-Voiced Declension when Golias had assigned him more than he could master. "My Prince, the reason I should not is close to the reason that you now have a foot. We will all pass from you at one time or another, but you will not necessarily gain by it if we do not follow the rules. Would you run the risk that it might be for nothing?"
He nodded. "Of course not. Then do not tell me. Did you want me only to know that there was such a secret?"
Again, her age rolled back from the old times of his boyhood to the old times before the youth of the world, and the cold face of the reptile stared at him . . . but then softened again. "My Prince," she said, finally, "my Prince, the sun will set soon, and you should be to dinner with your father."
"I've notes to write as well," he said, but made no effort to move. The dungeons were much darker and colder than the rest of the castle, but though Mortis's dress was of some thin stuff, she seemed not to be cold at all, while the Prince's winter clothes barely kept the clammy chill out of him. "You ought to come up to the sun and bask," he said, before realizing that the comparison might be unflattering.
She laughed—or did she strangle on a sob? "Time was the advice would have been good."
After they sat a long time longer she said, "You do need to go, my Prince, and I will not grow worse because you do. Truly I am grateful that you came down to see me."
As Amatus stood, he decided to broach the difficult subject. "The Twisted Man said that of the four of you, you liked Golias best."
She nodded, as if in dull shock. "That is true. Psyche could not really know or understand him at all, nor he her. And the Twisted Man was forever closed to the things that stood nearest Golias's heart, and Golias from those things the Twisted Man holds fealty to, because what was strength in one would be weakness in the other. So Psyche could not like what Golias did, and the Twisted Man could not understand what Golias was . . . but I, my Prince, I knew Golias for what he was, always, and though my love would not have been a good thing for him, though there was necessarily separation between us, yet I loved him in my way, and for the things we had in common."
"And . . . er, you survivors—"
Cold black ice stared in her eyes. "Our feelings for each other are none of your business." And then a little warm water seemed to well under it. "Yet I will say this much: that the Twisted Man sometimes suffers, just a little, because Psyche cannot feel what he wishes she could. Are you happier for knowing that there is that much more pain in the world?"
Amatus inclined his head. "I understand now, lady. I was wrong to have asked, and you were right to demonstrate to me the sort of thing I might learn by asking."
"You think, then, that I told you for your benefit?"
"I believe my Companions work to my good, yes."
She rose. "The sun will be down soon. Go."
He went. At his apartment he sat down at his desk and swiftly scrawled out letters of abject apology to Duke Wassant and Sir John Slitgizzard,
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