like the peel, curling away from him.
She took his hand in her own and they slid a bit, slick with juice. The lynanyn piece was firm—too firm, but he raised it to his mouth and bit. For just a breath the river sang and voices hummed around him.
“Thank you,” he said when he had eaten. “I did not take much lynanyn with me, only what I carried in both hands. But the journey was very long.”
“And you didn’t eat for most of it, by the looks of you.” She touched his hair, said, “Tell me about this journey, Nellyn.”
He spoke until his throat was dry. She gave him lynanyn juice in a cup and he spoke again. The words of past were echoes, shadows of what had been, and he was amazed at their distance and their strength. The wise ones’ faces turned away from the rail of the ship where he stood and could not move. Maarenn’s face, shining with tears, and her hand raised to him in a farewell for which she had no word. The village huts disappearing, the last flashes of silver from the lynanyn trees. Sleeplessness and fear. A kind Queenswoman who had led him from the boat to a caravan of merchants bound for Luhr. A desert with no river. Spires that looked like cacti from a distance he could not guess at; closer, closer still, and they were impossibly tall, their tips lost in cloud. Voices speaking languages he did not know; noises, creatures, stones he did not know. The palace, and her name, and an endless flight of stairs. Falling and darkness.
“And now you’re here,” she said when he fell silent. “With me.”
“With you,” he said, and felt a sudden, different fear. He had not thought of arrival. He had thought of her as she had been by his river, but not of her as she might be in her own place. The chill of a future that could not be known swept through him, and he looked away from her.
He heard a rustling of cloth, and the bed moved beneath him. She said his name. Her fingers brushed his cheek, his neck, the line of his shoulder, under his tunic. He shivered and closed his eyes, and she stroked his eyelids with her thumbs until he opened them again. She was on her side next to him, leaning on one elbow. The candlelight swam over her skin.
He raised his own fingers to her lips, and she smiled a new smile. Moments stilled and passed and stilled again, and he was dizzy but not afraid when she drew him up to her.
For a time Nellyn was giddy with strength. Lanara led him through the marketplace, and he looked about in wonder, and laughed, and squeezed her hand when she took his. Tents, flags, baskets, food, sleeping mats, ribbons, fur, scales, gems, wood, water: colours burned his eyes, but he blinked until he could see them and did not look away. He cried out questions to her above the din of music and voices, and when she answered him, her lips brushed his ear and then his neck.
She took him into the streets of the city, where Queensfolk gathered around wells and in doorways, and children sailed tiny wooden boats in fountains. Nellyn watched the children, and for a moment he felt a quiet settling upon him—but then they called to each other, and their strange names and voices shook him back to the cobbled square, and Lanara’s fingers laced with his.
They ate in shaded courtyards with many tables, on cushions in the marketplace, on the top step of the staircase outside her door. “Now try this,” she would say, leaning forward to watch his face as he chewed or drank. At first he needed lynanyn as well, before and after the rest. Very soon he did not. He ate her food only and felt his flesh stretching away from his bones, taking a shape that was larger.
He hardly slept. Once, she woke and turned to him and murmured, “Nellyn, you must sleep sometime—at night when I do, or during the day if that’s what you need still. But you must.”
“Why? I am not tired. See?” And he covered her waking, laughing mouth with his.
He lay beside her while she slept, or he sat at the table looking at the
She took his hand in her own and they slid a bit, slick with juice. The lynanyn piece was firm—too firm, but he raised it to his mouth and bit. For just a breath the river sang and voices hummed around him.
“Thank you,” he said when he had eaten. “I did not take much lynanyn with me, only what I carried in both hands. But the journey was very long.”
“And you didn’t eat for most of it, by the looks of you.” She touched his hair, said, “Tell me about this journey, Nellyn.”
He spoke until his throat was dry. She gave him lynanyn juice in a cup and he spoke again. The words of past were echoes, shadows of what had been, and he was amazed at their distance and their strength. The wise ones’ faces turned away from the rail of the ship where he stood and could not move. Maarenn’s face, shining with tears, and her hand raised to him in a farewell for which she had no word. The village huts disappearing, the last flashes of silver from the lynanyn trees. Sleeplessness and fear. A kind Queenswoman who had led him from the boat to a caravan of merchants bound for Luhr. A desert with no river. Spires that looked like cacti from a distance he could not guess at; closer, closer still, and they were impossibly tall, their tips lost in cloud. Voices speaking languages he did not know; noises, creatures, stones he did not know. The palace, and her name, and an endless flight of stairs. Falling and darkness.
“And now you’re here,” she said when he fell silent. “With me.”
“With you,” he said, and felt a sudden, different fear. He had not thought of arrival. He had thought of her as she had been by his river, but not of her as she might be in her own place. The chill of a future that could not be known swept through him, and he looked away from her.
He heard a rustling of cloth, and the bed moved beneath him. She said his name. Her fingers brushed his cheek, his neck, the line of his shoulder, under his tunic. He shivered and closed his eyes, and she stroked his eyelids with her thumbs until he opened them again. She was on her side next to him, leaning on one elbow. The candlelight swam over her skin.
He raised his own fingers to her lips, and she smiled a new smile. Moments stilled and passed and stilled again, and he was dizzy but not afraid when she drew him up to her.
For a time Nellyn was giddy with strength. Lanara led him through the marketplace, and he looked about in wonder, and laughed, and squeezed her hand when she took his. Tents, flags, baskets, food, sleeping mats, ribbons, fur, scales, gems, wood, water: colours burned his eyes, but he blinked until he could see them and did not look away. He cried out questions to her above the din of music and voices, and when she answered him, her lips brushed his ear and then his neck.
She took him into the streets of the city, where Queensfolk gathered around wells and in doorways, and children sailed tiny wooden boats in fountains. Nellyn watched the children, and for a moment he felt a quiet settling upon him—but then they called to each other, and their strange names and voices shook him back to the cobbled square, and Lanara’s fingers laced with his.
They ate in shaded courtyards with many tables, on cushions in the marketplace, on the top step of the staircase outside her door. “Now try this,” she would say, leaning forward to watch his face as he chewed or drank. At first he needed lynanyn as well, before and after the rest. Very soon he did not. He ate her food only and felt his flesh stretching away from his bones, taking a shape that was larger.
He hardly slept. Once, she woke and turned to him and murmured, “Nellyn, you must sleep sometime—at night when I do, or during the day if that’s what you need still. But you must.”
“Why? I am not tired. See?” And he covered her waking, laughing mouth with his.
He lay beside her while she slept, or he sat at the table looking at the
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