dropping his hand from his cheek. He was appalled, not that Azhure had hit him, but that she been forced to hit him. Rape – sexual force of any kind – was a concept almost totally alien to the Icarii people. All of them loved the chase and the seduction, but no Icarii ever pursued one who was unsure or unwilling.
StarDrifter took a deep breath. He would apologise. But his desire for Azhure was driving him crazy. He had never felt like this about anyone, not even Rivkah during the height of their passion. Why? StarDrifter asked himself. There were more beautiful women than her about, and surely more willing than her. But he felt driven to possess her by a force so deep within him that he did not, could not, understand it.
He looked up to the gallery, hoping Azhure had not left. But the woman standing there was not Azhure.
Rivkah stood with her hands resting lightly on the gallery rail. She looked calm and cool, elegant in a sky-blue gown, her silver and golden-streaked hair left free to trail down her back. “We need to talk, StarDrifter,” she said quietly. “And I would appreciate it if you could join me up here.”
Oh Stars! StarDrifter thought helplessly, his face, every entire muscle of his body, showing his tenseness.
Rivkah waited until he joined her, then touched his face. “This must end,” she said, her eyes inexpressibly sad.
“I do not know what came over me, I will not do it again,” StarDrifter began, but Rivkah cut him off.
“No. Our marriage must end while we still respect each other. StarDrifter, it is time we talked plainly.”
StarDrifter’s face stilled, his pale-blue eyes narrowing. “Very well. Let us talk.”
A slight tremor belied Rivkah’s calm exterior.
“StarDrifter. We both know that in past years we have been slowly but inexorably drifting apart. We had a grand passion, we loved each other dearly, we both sacrificed dearly for that love and passion. But we must now face the reality that our marriage is no longer viable.”
“Rivkah –” He reached out, but Rivkah stepped back.
“No. Let me finish. You are Icarii and I am human. You have, potentially, another four hundred years of life, StarDrifter. Already I grow old. I will not become an object of pity in your eyes. I must end this marriage while there is still respect – perhaps even a little love – left between us.” She paused. “Now I know why the Ferryman thought that resuming the name Rivkah would be a high price for me to pay. GoldFeather may have belonged here, StarDrifter, but Rivkah does not. After Beltide I will return to Achar.”
“Rivkah!” StarDrifter reached for her again, and this time she did not attempt to resist. For a long time they stood, holding each other, StarDrifter gently stroking the golden streak through her hair. Despite what she had implied, Rivkah still loved him deeply, but she wanted to walk away from their marriage while she knew that StarDrifter still enjoyed their intimate relationship.
Eventually she pulled back. “StarDrifter,” she whispered, grateful for the unforced tears of regret in his eyes, “don’t let your consuming need for Azhure destroy her life. Don’t make her go through what I am now going through. She is human too, and in another twenty or thirty years I don’t want her to be standing here ending her marriage to you because your eye has been caught by a woman younger and more vital than her. Let her go. Respect her enough for that. Find an Icarii woman who will be with you for the rest of your life.”
“Azhure was not at fault for what just happened.” StarDrifter knew how deep the friendship was between the two women.
“I know.” Rivkah forced a smile. “I admire her resistance. If I remember correctly I conceded at a single smile from you. I do not blame her … nor you, really. I want us to go to RavenCrest and formally break the marriage.” Soon, she thought bleakly, while I still have the strength for this.
“What will you do?” StarDrifter asked. “Where will you go?”
“I will return to my people, StarDrifter. I will find myself a home among them.”
“Are You True?” Asketh the Bridge
“See?” Jack said, pointing his hand. “Do you see?
Belial, Magariz and Arne stood at his shoulder at the western window of Sigholt’s spacious map-room. Behind them Reinald sat comfortably by the fire, sipping some spiced wine.
“There was a lake there, once,” Jack said, a little impatient with the three men. “A beautiful lake. Do you not see?”
“Yes, Jack,” Belial finally responded, wondering what all this had to do with why the Skraelings seemed to be keeping their distance from Sigholt. “But why is it important?”
“If Jack’s going to give us lessons in geological curiosities,” Magariz grumbled, “then let us at least fortify ourselves with some of that wine before Reinald drinks it all.”
Belial had led his command into Sigholt almost four weeks ago. He, like Magariz, had been stunned to find the garrison both undamaged and deserted, except for Jack and the retired cook. Reinald had grinned toothlessly at his amazement and explained that once word reached Sigholt that Gorkenfort had fallen, the majority of Borneheld’s men stationed there had retreated south. Once Hsingard fell, and it seemed that the Skraelings were only a day or two away from Sigholt, the rest had fled in the middle of the night in a mad and cowardly dash that had left three men trampled to death in the gateway of the garrison.
But the Skraelings had never attacked. The day after the last of the garrison fled, leaving only Jack and Reinald to inhabit the huge Keep (“And I would have fled too,” Reinald confessed, “save that my arthritis was so bad that week I was bed-bound”), a band of hungry Skraelings had appeared at some distance from Sigholt, sniffing around the perimeters of the old lake bed. But they’d approached no closer, and Jack and Reinald had been bothered no more by the wraiths.
Jack had apparently never been concerned that the Skraelings would attack, and to Reinald’s dismay he’d even refused to lock the garrison’s gates at night. After two or three weeks of peace, Reinald had relaxed as well, enjoying the company of this strange man who’d sought refuge at the gates of Sigholt during the first week of the new year.
So it was that Sigholt lay waiting for Belial and his three thousand men. They had settled in quickly. The garrison complex – the ancient Keep, its kitchens, orchards, barracks, stables, courtyards, cellars and sundry storage and outbuildings – held easily all the men and their horses. The garrison Borneheld had maintained here had been almost as large, and when his men fled they’d taken their horses but not much else, leaving enough supplies to keep Belial’s men fed for some months.
As yet no-one had received an adequate explanation from Jack about why the Skraelings had left Sigholt alone after destroying Hsingard, which was a hundred times the size of Sigholt. In fact, two days after their arrival Jack had disappeared for over three weeks, returning only some four or five days ago. Despite Sigholt’s apparent safety, Belial had spent some sleepless nights, wondering if the Skraelings had left the garrison alone only to mass for a surprise attack. But Belial had gradually relaxed, supervising the daily training routines of
