apart from them holding the lock of pale hair. The hair felt strangely alive, coiling round his fingers in a soft caress.
It was his fault, of course. He should never have permitted Ehlana to come to Tamuli. It went further than that, though. Ehlana had been in danger all her life, and it had all been because of him â because of the fact that he was Anakha. Xanetia had said that Anakha was invincible, but she was wrong. Anakha was as vulnerable as
any
married man. By marrying Ehlana, he had immediately put her at risk, a risk that would last for as long as she lived.
He should never have married her. He loved her, of course, but was it an act of love to put her in danger? He silently cursed the weakness that had led him to even consider the ridiculous notion when she had first raised it. He was a soldier, and soldiers should never marry â particularly not scarred, battered old veterans with too many years and too many battles behind them and too many enemies still about. Was he some selfish old fool? Some disgusting, half-senile lecher eager to take advantage of a foolish young girlâs infatuation? Ehlana had extravagantly declared that she would die if he refused her, but he knew better than that. People die from a sword in the belly, or from old age, but theydo not die from love. He should have laughed in her face and rejected her absurd command. Then he could have arranged a proper marriage for her, a marriage to some handsome young nobleman with good manners and a safe occupation. If he had, she would still be safely back in Cimmura instead of in the hands of madmen, degenerate sorcerers and alien Gods to whom her life meant nothing at all.
And still they talked on and on and on. Why were they wasting all their breath? There wasnât any choice in the matter. Sparhawk would obey the instructions because Ehlanaâs life depended on it. The others were certain to argue with him about it, and the arguments would only irritate him. The best thing would probably be just to take the Bhelliom and Khalad and slip out of Matherion without giving them the chance to drive him mad with their meaningless babble.
It was the touch of a springlike breeze on his cheek and a soft nuzzling on his hand that roused him from his gloomy reverie.
âIt was not mine intent to disturb thy thought, Sir Knight,â the white deer apologized, âbut my mistress would have words with thee.â
Sparhawk jerked his head round in astonishment. He no longer sat in the blue-draped room in Matherion, and the voices of the others had faded away to be replaced by the sound of the gentle lapping of waves upon a golden strand. His chair now sat on the marble floor of Aphraelâs temple on the small verdant island that rose gem-like from the sea. The breeze was soft under the rainbow-colored sky, and the ancient oaks around the alabaster temple rustled softly.
âThou hast forgotten me,â the gentle white hind reproached him, her liquid eyes touched with sorrow.
âNever,â he replied. âI shall remember thee always, dear creature, for I do love thee, even as I did whenfirst we met.â The extravagant expression came to his lips unbidden.
The white deer sighed happily and laid her snowy head in his lap. He stroked her arched white neck and looked around.
The Child Goddess Aphrael, gowned in white and surrounded by a glowing nimbus, sat calmly on a branch of one of the nearby oaks. She lifted her many-chambered pipes and blew an almost mocking little trill.
âWhat are you up to now, Aphrael?â he called up to her, deliberately forcing away the flowery words that jumped to his lips.
âI thought you might want to talk,â she replied, lowering the pipes. âDid you want some more time for self-mortification? Would you like a whip so that you can flog yourself with it? Take as much time as you want, Father. This particular instant will last for as long as I want it to.â She
It was his fault, of course. He should never have permitted Ehlana to come to Tamuli. It went further than that, though. Ehlana had been in danger all her life, and it had all been because of him â because of the fact that he was Anakha. Xanetia had said that Anakha was invincible, but she was wrong. Anakha was as vulnerable as
any
married man. By marrying Ehlana, he had immediately put her at risk, a risk that would last for as long as she lived.
He should never have married her. He loved her, of course, but was it an act of love to put her in danger? He silently cursed the weakness that had led him to even consider the ridiculous notion when she had first raised it. He was a soldier, and soldiers should never marry â particularly not scarred, battered old veterans with too many years and too many battles behind them and too many enemies still about. Was he some selfish old fool? Some disgusting, half-senile lecher eager to take advantage of a foolish young girlâs infatuation? Ehlana had extravagantly declared that she would die if he refused her, but he knew better than that. People die from a sword in the belly, or from old age, but theydo not die from love. He should have laughed in her face and rejected her absurd command. Then he could have arranged a proper marriage for her, a marriage to some handsome young nobleman with good manners and a safe occupation. If he had, she would still be safely back in Cimmura instead of in the hands of madmen, degenerate sorcerers and alien Gods to whom her life meant nothing at all.
And still they talked on and on and on. Why were they wasting all their breath? There wasnât any choice in the matter. Sparhawk would obey the instructions because Ehlanaâs life depended on it. The others were certain to argue with him about it, and the arguments would only irritate him. The best thing would probably be just to take the Bhelliom and Khalad and slip out of Matherion without giving them the chance to drive him mad with their meaningless babble.
It was the touch of a springlike breeze on his cheek and a soft nuzzling on his hand that roused him from his gloomy reverie.
âIt was not mine intent to disturb thy thought, Sir Knight,â the white deer apologized, âbut my mistress would have words with thee.â
Sparhawk jerked his head round in astonishment. He no longer sat in the blue-draped room in Matherion, and the voices of the others had faded away to be replaced by the sound of the gentle lapping of waves upon a golden strand. His chair now sat on the marble floor of Aphraelâs temple on the small verdant island that rose gem-like from the sea. The breeze was soft under the rainbow-colored sky, and the ancient oaks around the alabaster temple rustled softly.
âThou hast forgotten me,â the gentle white hind reproached him, her liquid eyes touched with sorrow.
âNever,â he replied. âI shall remember thee always, dear creature, for I do love thee, even as I did whenfirst we met.â The extravagant expression came to his lips unbidden.
The white deer sighed happily and laid her snowy head in his lap. He stroked her arched white neck and looked around.
The Child Goddess Aphrael, gowned in white and surrounded by a glowing nimbus, sat calmly on a branch of one of the nearby oaks. She lifted her many-chambered pipes and blew an almost mocking little trill.
âWhat are you up to now, Aphrael?â he called up to her, deliberately forcing away the flowery words that jumped to his lips.
âI thought you might want to talk,â she replied, lowering the pipes. âDid you want some more time for self-mortification? Would you like a whip so that you can flog yourself with it? Take as much time as you want, Father. This particular instant will last for as long as I want it to.â She
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