other well. I’ve been wondering . . .”
“Yes?”
Aloê said slowly, “Since he became a vocate, Jordel has never chosen Baran as attendant.”
“They’re brothers. There would be difficulties—that hint of patronage.”
“Yes. But he has chosen him now, to come here.”
Naevros nodded. “There is a chance, Aloê, that we may face danger here in the north. Illion thinks so, at any rate, and he is a fair judge. And this is bad news, of course. But for thains every danger is an opportunity.”
“So you have all brought your particular protégés,” Aloê observed. “Except Illion.”
Naevros smiled briefly in turn. “In a sense, Illion’s protégé is far north of here already.”
“You don’t mean Earno?”
There was no light except starlight in the room; the window faced south, away from the major moons. But, turning to look at Naevros as they talked, she could see his face harden at the mention of the summoner. “No,” he said. “But Earno’s attendant was commended to him by Illion. You bore him the message, you know.”
“Was that it? I didn’t read it, you know.”
“Oh. Well, Earno’s attendant is young Ambrosius.”
“Young Ambrosius,” Aloê repeated. She could not imagine Earno having an Ambrosius as his attendant. And Merlin was supposed to have been the last of them, anyway.
“The one they call Morlock syr Theorn.”
“That mushroom.”
Naevros laughed, understanding her private slang without trouble.
“But,” said Aloê, “I made my first tour of A Thousand Towers with him. He never said a word as the senior thain took us by Ambrose. Surely it belongs to him now.”
“Ah, so you were particular friends.”
“Oh, no. But we were stationed at A Thousand Towers at the same time a few years ago.”
“I remember. I almost thought to sponsor him at one time.”
“You’re joking?”
“By no means. It would have given Earno something to think about. But he never had . . . your subtlety, your instinct for situations. He will never be a great swordsman, either.”
“Neither will I.”
“For different reasons. He . . . well, you knew him.”
“They call him Crookback.”
“Not you, I hope.”
“No. Why does Illion favor him?”
“Oh, he’s by no means stupid. They say he is already a gifted maker. I suppose we both remember a few times when he displayed power as a seer. And . . . the very thing I mentioned, that may look different to some. Such an inability resembles a kind of integrity.”
That gave her something to think about. If the absence of an ability resembled integrity, then the presence of the ability might indicate lack of integrity . . . at least to “some.” Was Naevros warning her that Illion had reservations about her character? Or . . . Naevros’ statements, however simple in themselves, often carried implications that were intolerably complex.
As she thought, she twisted her fingers idly in her hair. She was about to turn and look back out into the night when she noticed that he was unnaturally still. With her intense understanding of his nature, she realized that he was giving rapt and unguarded attention to her fingers moving in her hair. In turn, of course, he recognized that she had noted his attention. But he went on watching as if he could not help it.
Her breathing quickened. She knew, of course, that Naevros thought she was beautiful, nor was he the only one. She, in turn, found him attractive: he was tall, dark-haired, deliberate and graceful. She supposed he knew how she felt. The mutual attraction was a powerful element—perhaps the essential element, the sustaining one—in their rapport.
But one of the reasons that Naevros appealed to her so strongly was that he could recognize and acknowledge her beauty with a certain subtlety. He noticed everything and she knew it, but he did not clutter his conversation with compliments. He had the courage not to express the inexpressible, knowing she would understand. This implicit understanding was precious to her.
Still . . . love (was this love?) had to move from implicit understanding to explicit acts. And she hated men like that, the way they looked at you, their faces greasy with anticipation. If Naevros turned to her that way, what would she do? Then again, he might never turn to her. What would she do then? Would it make a difference? Did she need a man to become who she was meant to be? She didn’t see why. But need and want were different things. . . .
The silence, the stillness, had gone on too long. No one was turning toward or away from anyone here.