The king commented that they had not yet determined what story she needed to hear, and that it was possible they might have to give her every story they knew in order to find it. It could take a long, long time.
Without hesitation, Leodora answered, “Then I’ll stay here until the discovery is made.”
This shocked Diverus. It was impossible she could feel that way.
The king took Leodora by the hand and led her and Diverus back into the forest of columns, turning to the side in the midst of them, emerging in front of a row of cerulean curtains. He parted the curtain directly before them. Behind it was a small chamber, the floor of it a thickly padded mat covered in blankets and pillows. A brazier to the side burned with a sweet, intoxicating incense.
“Here,” said the king, “you and your consort may retire at any time.”
“I’m not her consort,” protested Diverus.
“As you say,” the king agreed, though his tone suggested anything but agreement.
“Why do you think I’m her consort?”
Leodora tugged at his arm. “Diverus,” she entreated.
“You must remember, I’ve seen your true self, revealed by the waters of our pool. You could not take your eyes from her. She was everything in your sight, she was your world, your intoxication. You displayed love of the greatest depth. Whether you wish to acknowledge it or not is of no consequence to me, but it ought to be of appreciable interest to you.”
“Your pool was a trick, a magic.”
“A magic that plucked upon your heartstrings. Not all tricks are necessarily lies.”
Leodora curled up on the bed and pulled a pillow to her belly. “Diverus can pluck the heartstrings, too,” she mumbled.
“Certainly yours,” the king said. “Now rest awhile, and we’ll continue.”
Leodora only murmured, but Diverus met the king’s genial red gaze defiantly. “What has to be done to learn the reason why we were directed here?”
“I assure you, it’s a story you need, but I cannot tell you which one.”
“Cannot or will not?”
The king smiled tolerantly. “Perhaps, when she awakes,” he said, “we can take steps to identify it. I know, young man, that you think me scheming against you both. Please don’t deny it. I knew it when first I met you, and the episode of the pool supports your suspicions. I cannot deny what took place. We have our scripts to live by as you have yours. Ours is a retreat from the world, and we must by nature try to draw visitors in. We thrive upon them. Had you both welcomed the nepenthe offered by our waters, we would not now be speaking thus, and you would be contented, happy, and at peace forever.”
“But at the cost of our will?”
“Which you would not have missed.” The king smiled. “Sleep now. You can doubt me more ably once you’ve rested.” He stepped back and let the curtain fall.
Leodora was already soundly asleep. Diverus knelt, then lay down at her side. The brass pendant was draped across the pillow she clutched. He stared at it, wondering what it might tell him, and whether it would respond to questions that he wanted answered.
He sighed. Without awaking, Leodora reached over and put her arm over him. In her embrace, Diverus lay beside her but could not fall asleep. Her touch galvanized him. He stared instead at the pendant and resisted the desire to clutch her to him, sleep, and wake in the darkness of early morning, to make love. It was what her “consort” would do.
Had she entered the pool with him, even now he would be living out that desire, but it would all be a lie, and he didn’t want her if it was a lie. It seemed to be the nature of this place—this Pons Asinorum or Epama Epam or whatever they called it—that every truth encompassed an untruth. Misdirection defined their nature, and what should he have expected of a world where the sea became the sky, flowing forever overhead? He needed one reliable answer—to know the nature of the cached lie underpinning all that had been explained. It would not come from the king or his people. They would act according to their script, just as the king had intimated—which Diverus took as another truth cloaking another lie. Leodora had fallen under the spell of stories and would petition to remain until the essential story had been told, assuming there was one. How long might they keep her here,