Bronwyn’s face grew pale and thin in the following weeks, but she did not show any of the telltale signs of a child. She became despondent when Tristan stopped his nightly visits for dinner; she made crêpes several times after that but he never showed up. Her disappointment on these nights was almost painful for Enru to watch, knowing he had a part in breaking her heart for the first time.
Bronwyn, he said one morning, as she scrubbed the breakfast dishes, humming off-key a slow dirge. Is something the matter?
Bronwyn stopped scrubbing, and looked at her cat. “Is something the matter?” She laughed bitterly. “Oh yes, but it doesn’t matter because I’m not yet a woman able to make my own choices.” She resumed scrubbing furiously.
Meekly Enru said, You can make your own choices. We just think you should be…informed…before you make such momentous decisions.
“’Informed’?” spat Bronwyn. “About what?”
Enru was silent a moment. I cannot tell you. It is not my place. But I shall arrange it so that you are able to face Tristan.
Bronwyn stopped scrubbing again, but this time she embraced the cat with her wet soapy hands, much to his dismay. “You would really do that for me?” she asked.
Only if you let go of me, threatened the feline, but his voice was amused.
Enru was true to his word; he got Bèatrix to give permission for him to accompany Bronwyn on a ride through the forest one day in early spring. The air was almost balmy; a gentle breeze played in branches turning yellow with sap.
Bronwyn rode Trylla; the old mare seemed to have developed a fondness for the young woman, and the constant riding gave the horse much-needed exercise.
They left after the breakfast dishes were done and the laundry was finished; the sheets hung in the pale sunshine to dry. The path was muddy with the melting snow, making it treacherous for Trylla’s old ankles. Bronwyn had to dismount several times to lead her through the mire. But her heart was singing along with the chickadees that flocked around the trees lining the path.
Tristan sensed Bronwyn’s approach before he heard her arrival, whistling at the birds. He stood, swathed in thick white gauze to protect himself from the bees, and threw up a shield to block her path.
Bronwyn was plodding along the drier part of the path when all of a sudden Trylla stopped, stumbling as though she’d run into something. Immediately alert, she used her inner sight to scan the area and found the shield.
“Tristan?” she called softly. Enru slipped past the shield on ahead, investigating with his tail twitching. He returned moments later, trotting around the bend.
He’s beekeeping at the moment. He put up the shield to protect you so you wouldn’t get stung. He sat at Trylla’s feet patiently, squeezing his eyes as he basked in the sun.
Bronwyn waited several long minutes until the shield disappeared in a flash. She urged Trylla forward abruptly, and the horse nearly trod on Enru. He leapt out of the way with a yelp, switching his bushed tail angrily.
A little warning next time, he said irritably, following Trylla’s heels. Bronwyn ignored him as she saw Tristan, coming out of his cottage with a soft smile on his face.
“Bronwyn,” he said happily, and lifted her from her horse. She couldn’t resist a giggle as he swung her around, her red skirts billowing. “I haven’t seen you in several months. How have you been?”
Bronwyn’s face glowed despite herself. “You’d know how I’ve been if you hadn’t started sulking and avoiding me,” she said.
Tristan looked guilty as he set her down, his hands remaining firmly on her slender waist. “I know,” he said meekly. “I’m sorry.” He brightened. “But you came to see me. That has to mean something.”
Bronwyn narrowed her eyes at him. “Aye, it means something. It means that you and I have a problem.”
Tristan’s heart plummeted; the bright day seemed grayer all of a sudden. “What is it, Bronwyn?”
Bronwyn avoided his gaze. “I can’t stand not seeing you, but Bèatrix hates it so when you drop by.” She shuffled her feet, embarrassed.
“Well, Bèatrix will just have to get used to it because I intend to start eating your dinners.” Tristan smiled down at Bronwyn, lifting her chin with his finger. “Speaking of food, I shall make you lunch. I have fresh clover honey.” He turned toward the house, leading her in by the hand.
Bronwyn stayed until the shadows grew long and blue toward the east. “I’ll take you back to Willowood on Jethro,” decided Tristan, sitting up in bed and pulling on his trousers. He tossed Bronwyn her corset and motioned her to turn around. He laced and tied it quickly, expertly, and Bronwyn winced, thinking of all the other corsets he’d had to retie quickly. She pulled her dress over her head slowly as he padded into the kitchen, stirring up the fire to warm the room for her. Once dressed, she followed him, sitting in her customary place at the table.
“What’s on your mind?” asked Tristan, setting a cup of bitterroot tea with cream before each of their places and lighting his pipe.
“I just keep thinking about all the other girls you’ve had. How old are you, anyway?” she asked. Tristan shifted his gaze uncomfortably and mumbled something unintelligible. “What?” asked Bronwyn, leaning forward.
“Forty-seven,” he sighed. He took a long hit on his pipe, blowing the smoke out in puffy fat rings.
“Forty seven.” Bronwyn sat back, saying the word to herself. “And how many…No, don’t answer that.” She held up her hand. “I don’t want to know. I just won’t think of it anymore. I’ll pretend it’s just you and me.”
Tristan regarded her sadly. “It isn’t,” he said regretfully. “I need to tell you something; I’ve been putting it off all day, and Enru would be…displeased…if I didn’t tell you.” He sipped his bitterroot.
“Well, what is it?” asked Bronwyn impatiently. She watched him take another hit off the pipe.
“I’m a Warlock,” he said bluntly. Bronwyn’s expression didn’t change. “Oh, gods, don’t tell me Enru forgot that part of your training, too!” he exclaimed, slapping the table angrily. He regarded Bronwyn, the heat fading from his eyes. “A Warlock is the male equivalent of a Sorceress. They’re very rare; the men usually self-destruct long before they reach that level of training. Many of them become brilliant war generals; we’re very good at strategy. Unfortunately, most of the generals came to light fighting against another Warlock run amok.” He sighed heavily. “Your father was a Warlock,” he said after a pause. “His name was Deryan. He killed his familiar to be with your mother.”
Bronwyn recoiled in horror. “What? Why would he do that?” she cried out. Even thinking about Enru sick or hurt tore her apart inside; she couldn’t imagine intentionally killing him. “I can’t-"
“I’m not asking you to!” interrupted Tristan sharply. “Never would I ask that. It is a terrible, grievous sin. It marks you as a child born of blood sacrifice.”
Bronwyn began to shake, feeling cold all over. “Why…How…Why did he kill his familiar, though?” she asked. “What did that accomplish?”
“His familiar was a beautiful cougar named Nadua. Your mother-she was terrified of cats, and the cougar was too much. She wouldn’t have your father if the cougar was to be around, and a familiar will never leave its master. They serve you until they die.” Tristan’s voice was solemn.
“I guess it’s a good thing you don’t hate Enru,” she said after a while. “Because I would never, ever…” Her voice broke.
“I would not ask you to,” said Tristan. “I know the pain of losing your familiar.” Bronwyn looked at him, and he nodded, once. “Her name was Dharia, and she was a beautiful peregrine falcon.” His tone made the subject closed.
Bronwyn was afraid to pry; all these revelations about Tristan and his nature frightened her. He had powers; she’d known that, but it takes a lot of Ability to reach Sorceress-or Warlock-stage. She knew; every night after magical training she felt absolutely sucked dry. On the worst days, when she could barely summon the energy to breathe, she wondered if she really was Sorceress material, or if Enru and Bèatrix were trying to stretch her too far.
“Shall I take you home?” asked Tristan. Bronwyn glanced at him; the warmth was back in his face, the joy at seeing her.
“It’s my turn to cook for you,” she replied, smiling back at him.
No comments:
Post a Comment