twins, and the signs of a storm.
He looked. "No storm today or tomorrow," he said.
"But there'll be a storm all the same. Hart's blood, but I wish that it would come."
He turned and looked at her, wondering if she wished for the storm or the baby growing in her. Her hands were folded across the gravid mound beneath the blankets of her bed, but she was gazing neither at the window nor at her belly. When the child came, his life would quickly end, he knew. But surely he would live to see his child. Surely his future would not forbid him that.
At last, near noon, she wearied of him.
"Go now," she whispered. "I need to sleep."
He started for the door with triumph singing in his heart. She needed to sleep indeed. That was
his doing, and it would be a long time before she slept well, if he had his way.
But she stopped him at the door. "Come to me again," she said. "Tomorrow, at the same time."
"Yes, my lady," Orem answered.
"I've used you badly, haven't I?" she said.
"No," he lied.
"The gods are restless," she said. "They don't bide well under discipline. Do you?"
Orem did not understand. "Am I under discipline?"
"I only noticed it today. You look like him."
"Who?"
"Him," she said. "Him." Then she turned her face away from him to sleep, and he left.
Orem did not understand it, and I did not tell him, but you know, don't you, Palicrovol? She began to love him then. And part of why she loved him was because he looked like you. Does it make you laugh? Three hundred years of torturing you, and her hate for you had twisted into love. Not that she meant to free you. Never that. But still it ought to flatter you. You're the sort of enemy your enemy must love.
This is the way the paths of our lives entwine and cross and go apart: If she had sent for him the day before, even then he might have loved her. But she did not send for him until she was afraid; she was not afraid until he undid her work; he did not undo her work until he was past loving her. If only we could stand outside our lives and look at what we do, we might repair so many injuries before they're done.
was not afraid until he undid her work; he did not undo her work until he was past loving her. If only we could stand outside our lives and look at what we do, we might repair so many injuries before they're done. 2
The Birth of Youth
The tale of the birth of Orem's son, Beauty's son, the bastard grandchild of King Palicrovol, in all the world no child more beautiful and bright.
The Burning Ring
Orem's war with the Queen made him almost frenetic during the days, as if he had to work off some of the power he stole from her. As she neared the time of delivery, he harried her more and more, so that she spent her days exhausted after battling futilely all night. Orem, however, spent his days in ever more active games. Timias and Belfeva were surprised, but gladly joined him, even when he indulged in madness like racing horses with the cavalry on the parade ground or competing with Timias to see which of them could throw a javelin the farthest. Timias was not the sort to let Orem win, and so Orem, untrained in any of the manly arts, invariably lost. But he kept at it furiously, and gradually improved.
When Beauty went into labor for the birth of Orem's son, he was climbing up a wall of the Palace, racing to the top with Timias. This was one competition where agility and endurance counted for more than brute strength and long practice, and Orem was holding his own. He was nearly to the top, in fact, when he noticed a sharp pain like a candle flame on his leftmost finger. He looked, and saw that his ruby ring was glowing hot. He could not take it off, not without falling a hundred feet or so. Instead he endured it, climbed the rest of the way to the top, and only then tried to pry it off his finger. He could not.
Weasel and Belfeva were there, watching. "Help me," Orem said.
"You can't take it off," Weasel said. "The ruby ring will burn till the child is born. It isn't really burning you. Anyway, you should be glad