Lynn Flewelling - The Oracle's Queen

She sighed and covered one of his hands with her own. Her fingers were very cold.

Ki unclasped the brooch at his throat and draped his cloak around her shoulders, over her own.

Tamír gave him a wry smile. “You’re as bad as Nari.”

“She’s not here, so it’s up to me to look after you.” He chafed her arms to warm her. “There, that’s better.”

She pulled away and just stood there, eyes downcast. “You—that is—I appreciate—” She faltered to a halt, and he suspected she was blushing.

There’d been too many of these moments of sudden shyness between them these past few months. She needed him. Not caring who might see, Ki pulled her into a rough hug.

Her cheek was cold and smooth against his. He tightened the embrace, wishing he could give her his warmth. It felt good, holding his friend like this again. Her hair was softer than he remembered, under his hand.

Tamír sighed and wrapped her arms around his waist. His heart swelled and tears stung his eyes. Swallowing hard, he whispered, “I’ll always be here for you, Tob.”

He’d hardly realized his mistake before she jerked away and strode back toward the guesthouse.

“Tamír, Tamír, I’m sorry. I forgot! It doesn’t mean anything. Come back!”

The door slammed firmly behind her, leaving him there in the cold starlight, confused by feelings he wasn’t ready to claim and calling himself nine kinds of fool.

An ominous feeling weighed on Arkoniel’s heart as he and Iya sat waiting in Tamír’s little chamber. Iya would say nothing, and he was left to unhappy imaginings.

When she came in at last, the look on her face made his heart sink even further. Tamír glanced at Iya, then crossed her arms and fixed a hard look on Arkoniel. “I want you to tell me what really happened to my brother. What made him the way he is?”

And there it was, the question he’d dreaded for so long. Even before he opened his mouth, Arkoniel could feel the fragile new trust between them tearing like worn silk. How could he justify to her what had been done in the Lightbearer’s name, when in his heart he’d never forgiven himself for his part in her misery?

Before he could find the words, a dank chill like marsh fog closed in around them. Brother appeared at Tamír’s side, glaring at Iya. The demon looked very much as he had the few other times Arkoniel had seen him; a thin, evil, wraithlike mockery of Tobin, grown to young manhood. They looked much less alike now, and Arkoniel took strange comfort in that, though the anger in those eyes made them twins again.

“Well?” Tamír demanded. “If I am truly your queen, and not just a puppet you play with, then tell me the truth.”

Iya still said nothing.

Arkoniel felt as if a part of him was dying as he forced the words out. “Your infant brother was sacrificed to protect you.”

“Sacrificed? Murdered, you mean! That’s why he became a demon?”

“Yes,” said Iya. “What has he told you?”

“Nothing, except that you would tell me, Arkoniel. And the Oracle showed me—” She turned slowly back to Iya. “You. ‘Two children, one queen,’ the Oracle said to you, and I saw the dead baby you held. You killed him!”

“I didn’t take his life, but I was most certainly the instrument of his death. What you saw is what I was shown. You and your brother were still safe in your mother’s womb then. But you were already the one ordained to save Skala. You had to be protected, especially from Niryn’s magic. I could think of only one sure way to do that.”

Brother crept toward Iya, and Arkoniel was horrified by the dark joy on that unnatural face.

Tamír stayed the demon with a look. “What did you do, Iya?”

Iya met her gaze levelly. “I found Lhel. I know the kind of magic her kind practices. Only a witch could accomplish what had to be done. So I brought her to Ero and into your mother’s house the night you were born. You were the firstborn, Tamír, and you were beautiful. Perfect. You would have grown into a strong, dark-haired girl with too much of your mother’s looks ever to be hidden away from prying eyes. While you lay in your nurse’s arms, Lhel brought your brother from your mother’s womb. She meant to smother him before he drew breath. That’s the secret, you see, the thing she knew how to do. If that little body had remained empty of breath, there would have been no killing and this abomination you call Brother would never have been. But there was an interruption, and you know the rest.” She shook her head sadly. “So it was necessary.”

Tamír was trembling. “By the Four! That room, at the top of the stairs. He tried to show me—”

Brother pressed close to Tamír and whispered, “Sister, our father stood by and watched.”

She recoiled from him so fast she slammed into the wall behind her. “No! Father would never do that. You’re lying!”

“I wish he were,” said Arkoniel. After all these years of silence, the words finally tumbled out like water from a burst dam. “Your father didn’t want to do such a thing, but he had no choice. It was to be a quick, merciful act. We promised him that, but we failed.”

Tamír covered her face with shaking hands. “What happened?”

“Your uncle arrived with Niryn and a pack of swordsmen just as he was born,” Arkoniel said softly. The memory had been burned into his mind, every detail knife-edge sharp, and with it all the horror of that night. “The noise startled Lhel, distracting her at the critical moment. The child drew breath and his spirit was sealed in flesh.”

The demon’s face twisted in a cold snarl. Arkoniel braced, expecting an attack, but to his amazement, Tamír turned to him and said something in a low voice. The demon remained at her side, his face resolving back into a blank mask, all but the eyes. The eyes still burned with hate and desire.

“Your mother was never meant to know,” Iya told her. “I drugged her, to spare her that, but somehow she knew. It destroyed her.”

Tamír wrapped her arms around her thin chest, looking as if she was in physical pain. “My brother. Mother—The Oracle was right again. I am ‘the seed watered with blood.’ ”

Iya nodded sadly. “Yes, but not for spite or evil. You had to survive, and rule. To do that, you had to live and claim your true form. And so you have.”

Tamír wiped a stray tear from her cheek and drew herself up. “So it was by your will that my brother died?”

“Yes.”

“Lhel killed Brother and worked the magic, but it was you who made it happen?”

“I alone bear the responsibility. That’s why he has always hated me so bitterly. I see it in him still, the desire for my death. Something holds him back. You, perhaps?” She bowed low, hand on her heart. “My work will be done, Majesty, when the Sword of Ghërilain is in your hand. I ask for no mercy after that.”

“And you, Arkoniel?” Tamír’s eyes were almost pleading now. “You said you were there that night.”

“He was only my pupil then. He had no say—” Iya began.

“I claim no absolution,” said Arkoniel. “I knew the prophecy and I believed in it. I stood by while Lhel worked her magic.”

“Yet Brother doesn’t attack you. He hates you, but no more than most. Not the way he hates Iya.”

“He wept for me,” Brother whispered. “His tears fell on my grave and I tasted them.”

“He cannot love,” Iya said sadly. “He can only not hate. He doesn’t hate you, Tamír, or Arkoniel. He didn’t hate your mother, or Nari.”

“Nari, too?” Tamír whispered as the grief sank deeper.

“Hated Father!” Brother snarled. “Hated Uncle! Mother hated and feared him! I knew her fear in the womb, and the night of my birth. She hates and fears him still. You forgot to hate, Sister, but we don’t. Not ever.”