before, with the door open to sun and starlight.
“Lanara?” said another voice, and she answered, “Yes, Dornent, it’s me. You can go.”
The doctor stood with her for a moment, holding a bag of vials and pipes and herbs to his chest. “A little worse,” he whispered. “Send for me tonight, if you need to.”
“‘A little worse,’” her father growled as she sat down beside his bed. “The man says the same thing every day. Promise me. . . .” He paused, and she heard the breath whistling deep in his throat. “Promise me you will
not
send for him, this night or any other.”
She smiled as she dipped a cloth into the bowl by his head. She did not need light now to find these things; she knew this room by touch. He winced when she drew the cloth along his forehead, and she held it there, lightly, before she continued down his face. She could feel his fever. “I promise,” she said.
He muttered something she did not understand, and moaned and then was silent except for the whistling breath. She sat and thought of the darkness of the Sarhenna River
. “Ages ago,”
Ladhra had said. Lanara felt the rolling of the flatboat, and she heard the water and the gentle sound of the lynanyn on the wood.
If only
, she thought again, and dipped the cloth back into the bowl.
Lanara opened the windows and the door. She stood in the sunlight, blinking at the table and its clutter, the sandy tracks on the floor from her feet and the doctors’. She swept the sand over the stoop slowly and meticulously. The air from outside was almost unbearably fresh. She took shallow, fearful breaths. When there was nothing left to sweep, she set the broom against the wall and leaned her head beside it. The clay was already warm.
“Nara.” She lifted her head. Queen Galha was standing in the doorway, with no one but Malhan behind her. He remained by the door when the Queen stepped into the room. She was wearing no jewels, only a plain bronze cloak pin. There was a scarlet ribbon in her hair.
Mourning scarlet
, Lanara thought, and began to tremble.
“I came as quickly as I could,” Galha said. “I have told Ladhra that she must wait to see you. The Devotees will be here soon enough, and then you will have no quiet.” She held out her hand and Lanara took it lightly.
“Thank you,” she said in a voice that was not hers. “I know how busy you are, and I am honoured. . . .”
“Lanara.” The Queen’s other hand was beneath her chin, raising it so that Lanara was looking into her face and her golden-brown eyes. “You are like another daughter to me. You
are
my daughter, now that your own parents are gone.” Lanara began to cry, though she made no sound. Galha brushed at the tears with her thumb, very gently. “I have ordered your father to be placed in one of the tombs set aside for palace folk. We will go there together when the Devotees have finished preparing his body. And I will choose his tomb fountain from my own palace stock.” She paused. “I longed to do this for your mother, but it was not possible since we did not have her body. It pleases me that I can offer these things to you now.”
“Thank you,” Lanara tried to say again, and Galha squeezed her hand.
“Take me to him,” she said.
Lanara shook her head. “Please do not feel you must. He is . . . it is not. . . .”
The Queen walked with her to Creont’s bedroom door. Lanara opened it, and they looked together at the man on the bed. Galha said, “Oh, my dear,” and drew Lanara in, to flower-scented silk and warmth and the steady murmur of her heart.
“My darling Ladhra, I feel that I am going mad. You show me no special favour, though I have done nothing but praise and entreat you. Why? Why do you ignore my pleas and my devotion?”
Lanara laughed, her face turned up to the sky, so close atop this highest tower. The stone was warm against her back. Beside her, Ladhra blew out her breath. “You sound like a horse,” Lanara said.
“Lanara?” said another voice, and she answered, “Yes, Dornent, it’s me. You can go.”
The doctor stood with her for a moment, holding a bag of vials and pipes and herbs to his chest. “A little worse,” he whispered. “Send for me tonight, if you need to.”
“‘A little worse,’” her father growled as she sat down beside his bed. “The man says the same thing every day. Promise me. . . .” He paused, and she heard the breath whistling deep in his throat. “Promise me you will
not
send for him, this night or any other.”
She smiled as she dipped a cloth into the bowl by his head. She did not need light now to find these things; she knew this room by touch. He winced when she drew the cloth along his forehead, and she held it there, lightly, before she continued down his face. She could feel his fever. “I promise,” she said.
He muttered something she did not understand, and moaned and then was silent except for the whistling breath. She sat and thought of the darkness of the Sarhenna River
. “Ages ago,”
Ladhra had said. Lanara felt the rolling of the flatboat, and she heard the water and the gentle sound of the lynanyn on the wood.
If only
, she thought again, and dipped the cloth back into the bowl.
Lanara opened the windows and the door. She stood in the sunlight, blinking at the table and its clutter, the sandy tracks on the floor from her feet and the doctors’. She swept the sand over the stoop slowly and meticulously. The air from outside was almost unbearably fresh. She took shallow, fearful breaths. When there was nothing left to sweep, she set the broom against the wall and leaned her head beside it. The clay was already warm.
“Nara.” She lifted her head. Queen Galha was standing in the doorway, with no one but Malhan behind her. He remained by the door when the Queen stepped into the room. She was wearing no jewels, only a plain bronze cloak pin. There was a scarlet ribbon in her hair.
Mourning scarlet
, Lanara thought, and began to tremble.
“I came as quickly as I could,” Galha said. “I have told Ladhra that she must wait to see you. The Devotees will be here soon enough, and then you will have no quiet.” She held out her hand and Lanara took it lightly.
“Thank you,” she said in a voice that was not hers. “I know how busy you are, and I am honoured. . . .”
“Lanara.” The Queen’s other hand was beneath her chin, raising it so that Lanara was looking into her face and her golden-brown eyes. “You are like another daughter to me. You
are
my daughter, now that your own parents are gone.” Lanara began to cry, though she made no sound. Galha brushed at the tears with her thumb, very gently. “I have ordered your father to be placed in one of the tombs set aside for palace folk. We will go there together when the Devotees have finished preparing his body. And I will choose his tomb fountain from my own palace stock.” She paused. “I longed to do this for your mother, but it was not possible since we did not have her body. It pleases me that I can offer these things to you now.”
“Thank you,” Lanara tried to say again, and Galha squeezed her hand.
“Take me to him,” she said.
Lanara shook her head. “Please do not feel you must. He is . . . it is not. . . .”
The Queen walked with her to Creont’s bedroom door. Lanara opened it, and they looked together at the man on the bed. Galha said, “Oh, my dear,” and drew Lanara in, to flower-scented silk and warmth and the steady murmur of her heart.
“My darling Ladhra, I feel that I am going mad. You show me no special favour, though I have done nothing but praise and entreat you. Why? Why do you ignore my pleas and my devotion?”
Lanara laughed, her face turned up to the sky, so close atop this highest tower. The stone was warm against her back. Beside her, Ladhra blew out her breath. “You sound like a horse,” Lanara said.
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