Read Online Moving Water by Sylvia Kelso - Free Book Online Page A

compete with a hero like that.”
    â€œDa says,” Zam announced before I could retaliate, “that there are no heroes. Just dead clowns and lucky ones.”
    â€œDa,” replied my guest with feeling, “is right. When you get your first command, Zam, remember it.”
    Their eyes met across the table, in equality, harmony, perfect understanding. Then Zam said, so quietly I knew he meant it, “Yes, sir. I will.”
    â€œYou’ve had your supper.” Apparently unable to tolerate even this minor apostasy, Callissa used the tone that meant no appeals. “Now you’ll come to bed.”
    Meekly they left their chairs, came for my goodnight hug, went out, hanging back from her hands for a last look. He watched the door close. He did not have to tell me he would have given his magic, probably his former kingdom, for just one son of his own.
    Before I could hide my pity he had turned and was smiling, so quickly I wondered if I had imagined the rest. “Well, Fylghjos?” A brow cocked. “That’s what the escort call you, you know. Granite-eyes.” Mischievously he let me consider its present delicious inappropriateness, until Callissa returned, and he was all formality again.
    â€œYou got on so well with them,” she said as we all sat down. “Quite surprising, really.”
    I tried not to gasp. Inept in noble company she might be, insecure enough to boast about her husband, but this was clean out of character.
    He replied with perfect courtesy, covering the lapse, negating the spite.
    â€œI’m sure anyone who took the trouble would get on with them, ma’am. Their manners are a credit to you.”
    â€œOh, that’s Alkir. I just bandage the knees and patch the pants.” She donned her social voice. “Are you married, my lord?”
    His face shut like a door. He said, “Once.”
    I tried to kick her under the table, and missed. Brightly, she charged on. “Then you’ve no children of your own?”
    If you are unlucky, you may see such a face in battle, as your spear strikes home. He said in a low voice, “No.”
    â€œOh, such a pity. I’m sure you’d be good with them. . . .”
    How, I thought in furious unbelief, can she have missed it, can she go on trampling over what even I can tell was not just a pity but stark tragedy? Wildly I sought words, something to drop, to overset. But my brain was numb, the table cleared. Callissa was prattling still. “Children make your life I always feel, they’re troublesome at times, but all the same. . . .”
    In a moment she would be pitying his wife. He took a breath I heard. Then, looking full at her, he said, “She has—had—children afterwards. Not . . . mine.”
    I could no longer offer so much as the paltry aid of keeping rank, pretending to see nothing wrong. Kicking the chair back, I said, “Let me show you your room.
    â€œYou can see clear to the harbor.” I shoved the window wide in some fuzzy idea of comfort, amends, knowing his silence for the voice of the unsealed wound.
    He came to lean on the sill. I blurted, “She’s never like that. I don’t know what’s got into her.”
    â€œMothers.” The sadness held no grudge. “She doesn’t know what I am. She doesn’t have to. She just feels I’m dangerous to them.”
    What could make amends for that? And the full sense of that last cruel confession, its sequel in questions no man could possibly ask, was still racketing round my head. She had children later. . . . There is no more terrible way to be maimed. In my extremity I actually hoped that he would read my thoughts and extract the speech I could not muster, for the solace nothing could give.
    â€œJust sterile. Not impotent.” He not only read my thoughts, with paralyzing candor he answered the question I could not ask. “Don’t upset yourself, Fylghjos. After