Read Online Lies of Light by Philip Athans - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Philip Athans
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stop,” she said when their lips finally parted. “If you demand my obedience, you’ll have it. If you want me as your wife, your harlot, your slave, or your mistress, you will have me. I will remake myself to whatever standards you impose. I will erase myself if that’s what you wish. I’ll cut myself. I’ll kill myself. I’ll-“
“Do none of those things,” he said into the skin of her neck. “You don’t need to do anything to satisfy me, the same way I’ll never do anything simply to satisfy you.”
Tears streamed from her eyes.
“I can’t have you, can I?” she asked.
“Not the way you mean,” was his answer.
She cried while he held her for a little while, and she only stopped when she realized that in that time, she hadn’t heard one of the voices, or seen a single apparition. She hadn’t wanted to hurt herself, though she’d offered to.
“I have to destroy you,” she told him even as she let him carry her to her bed. “This world is too small for you.”
He moved to kiss her again, but she stopped him.
“There are people who are trying to stop you,” she told him, though he must have already known. “They’ll succeed, too, because it’s easy to do what they do. It’s the easiest thing in the world to tear a man down, to pick at his flesh till there’s nothing left of him but bones. I can’t watch that happen. Do you understand me?”
He smiled in a way that made Phyrea’s heart seem to stop in her chest.
“I won’t let you live to be so degraded,” she whispered as he finished undressing her. “Not by them.”
Those were the last words either of them spoke that night, and the ghosts didn’t come back until Devorast finally left.
14
5Kythorn, the Year of the Sword (1365 DR) Second Quarter, Innarlith
]\Iarek Rymiit couldn’t see the ghosts that haunted Phyrea, but he knew they were there. Though he was no necromancerenchantments were more his cup of teahe knew enough of the ways of the undead. He knew their power and their sharply delineated limitations. Over the past few tendays he’d learned more and more about the spirits that had taken up residence in that poor little rich girl, that tortured daughter of a wealthy idiot, and he found himself inventing more and more excuses to see her.
“My apologies, gentlesir,” Phyrea said to Marek’s oldest friend, “please help me to pronounce your name.”
“ln-sith-riU-ax,” the black dragon said, enunciating each syllable with great care. In the guise of a human, he smiled at her without the barest sliver of interest.
“Insithryllax,” the girl repeated. “It’s an imposing name. To look at you I would have to say you are Chondathan, but that doesn’t sound like a Chondathan name.”
“I suppose,” the disguised dragon replied, “that I’m more Mulhorandi than Chondathan, but the name is … a very old one.”
Marek caught the twinkle in Phyrea’s eyes that told him she might have been close to figuring out that Insithryllax was no more Mulhorandi than Marek was a field mouse.
“How are you enjoying the tea, my love?” Marek asked her, returning the twinkle.
She did her best not to look him in the eye when she answered, “I’ve never been one for tea, Master Rymiit, but I’m sure it’s wonderful.”
“The leaves are harvested on Midsummer’s eve from the slopes of one particular mountain high in the Spine of the World,” he told her, inventing every word of the preposterous tale as he went along. “Ore slaves carry them whole to a shop in the heart of fair Silverymoon, where they are purified with spells granted by the grace of Chauntea. One must have a signed writ from the Lady Alustriel herself to buy it.”
Phyrea laughed and said, “Somehow I doubt you possess such a writ, Master Rymiit.”
“You wound me with the truth, my darling girl,” he responded with an entirely false chuckle. “The owner of the tea shop knows someone who knows someone who knows someone.”
Phyrea
“Do none of those things,” he said into the skin of her neck. “You don’t need to do anything to satisfy me, the same way I’ll never do anything simply to satisfy you.”
Tears streamed from her eyes.
“I can’t have you, can I?” she asked.
“Not the way you mean,” was his answer.
She cried while he held her for a little while, and she only stopped when she realized that in that time, she hadn’t heard one of the voices, or seen a single apparition. She hadn’t wanted to hurt herself, though she’d offered to.
“I have to destroy you,” she told him even as she let him carry her to her bed. “This world is too small for you.”
He moved to kiss her again, but she stopped him.
“There are people who are trying to stop you,” she told him, though he must have already known. “They’ll succeed, too, because it’s easy to do what they do. It’s the easiest thing in the world to tear a man down, to pick at his flesh till there’s nothing left of him but bones. I can’t watch that happen. Do you understand me?”
He smiled in a way that made Phyrea’s heart seem to stop in her chest.
“I won’t let you live to be so degraded,” she whispered as he finished undressing her. “Not by them.”
Those were the last words either of them spoke that night, and the ghosts didn’t come back until Devorast finally left.
14
5Kythorn, the Year of the Sword (1365 DR) Second Quarter, Innarlith
]\Iarek Rymiit couldn’t see the ghosts that haunted Phyrea, but he knew they were there. Though he was no necromancerenchantments were more his cup of teahe knew enough of the ways of the undead. He knew their power and their sharply delineated limitations. Over the past few tendays he’d learned more and more about the spirits that had taken up residence in that poor little rich girl, that tortured daughter of a wealthy idiot, and he found himself inventing more and more excuses to see her.
“My apologies, gentlesir,” Phyrea said to Marek’s oldest friend, “please help me to pronounce your name.”
“ln-sith-riU-ax,” the black dragon said, enunciating each syllable with great care. In the guise of a human, he smiled at her without the barest sliver of interest.
“Insithryllax,” the girl repeated. “It’s an imposing name. To look at you I would have to say you are Chondathan, but that doesn’t sound like a Chondathan name.”
“I suppose,” the disguised dragon replied, “that I’m more Mulhorandi than Chondathan, but the name is … a very old one.”
Marek caught the twinkle in Phyrea’s eyes that told him she might have been close to figuring out that Insithryllax was no more Mulhorandi than Marek was a field mouse.
“How are you enjoying the tea, my love?” Marek asked her, returning the twinkle.
She did her best not to look him in the eye when she answered, “I’ve never been one for tea, Master Rymiit, but I’m sure it’s wonderful.”
“The leaves are harvested on Midsummer’s eve from the slopes of one particular mountain high in the Spine of the World,” he told her, inventing every word of the preposterous tale as he went along. “Ore slaves carry them whole to a shop in the heart of fair Silverymoon, where they are purified with spells granted by the grace of Chauntea. One must have a signed writ from the Lady Alustriel herself to buy it.”
Phyrea laughed and said, “Somehow I doubt you possess such a writ, Master Rymiit.”
“You wound me with the truth, my darling girl,” he responded with an entirely false chuckle. “The owner of the tea shop knows someone who knows someone who knows someone.”
Phyrea
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