For a moment he forgot what it was, what price the original had demanded of his family, and could only whisper, “It’s beautiful. Just beautiful.” He reached out to touch it but then drew back, wary of the memories such contact might conjure.
“It’s all right,” she prompted. “It’s strong enough.”
He forced himself to reach out and touch the slender figures. The metal was cold, surprisingly lifeless. What had he expected? It was only an ornament-half-finished at that-whose place in history was assured by its power as a symbol, not some intrinsic malignance. Why then did he shiver as he touched it?
“Have you thought about the armor?” the silversmith asked him, when he finally turned away from the worktable. When he didn’t answer, the man pressed, “Whether you’ll want to wear it?”
He hesitated. The truth was, he didn’t know how to answer. Calesta hadn’t responded to his appeal for information on the matter, leaving him to guess at the demon’s intentions. “I’d guess I should have that option,” he dared. “Is it too much trouble?”
“Not at all. I just need to check the waist length, to see that the peplum sits properly. Your drawings were geared toward a taller man ... which doesn’t mean there’s a problem, necessarily. Figure types vary in proportion as well as height.”
It came to him suddenly, unwelcome knowledge that brought panic in its wake. They wanted him to try it on. Here. Now. In front of the girl, he despaired, as the gray-haired man lifted up the heavy armor and offered it to him. He couldn’t. Could he?
For a moment he couldn’t seem to make himself move. The strap of his leather pack seemed to burn into his shoulder, reminding him of the hateful thing inside it. Then, stiffly, he released it and let it slide to the floor. The girl caught it up and for one mad moment he wanted to grab it away from her, lest that thing somehow contaminate her as well. He forced himself not to move, to draw in a deep breath, then to step forward and let metal plates be fitted around his body. Cold, so cold. The weight of it was heavy on his shoulders and it crushed his velveteen jacket against his body; even as Gresham Alder explained the nature of the garments he should wear beneath it he felt himself struggling for breath, trying not to be overcome by the suggestive power of this fitting.
“Fine,” the armorer murmured, as he turned Andrys with steady hands. A tug at the waist, a pull at the arm-hole. “It’ll be fine.” And then he was facing the man and looking up into his eyes, and the smith asked, “Would you like to see it?” And he nodded, because he knew there was no other acceptable response.
The girl had brought a mirror, and now she held it before him. Trembling, he placed himself so that he could see his reflection. At first there was only a blur of gray, as if his eyes were unwilling to acknowledge what was before him ... and then it came into focus suddenly, all of it, and it was too much. Too much! Gold sun splayed across his chest, gold wires coiling about its rays, pectoral and abdominal muscles sculpted like living flesh. Bold in its artwork, perfect in its craftsmanship, and oh, so familiar! Hateful, terrifying relic! He felt the metal burning where it touched him, hot through his clothing, acid-sharp; his armor, brought back to life by the power of gold and craftsmanship. But even that wasn’t the worst of it. It was when he looked at the whole image, from top to toe, from the shaggy long hair to the black leather boots to die breastplate with the sun in between, that golden sun so like and unlike Earth’s, that face so like a killer’s—
The sickness rose up in him with numbling force, too fast and too hard for him to fight it; helplessly, he fell to his knees, hot bile welling up in his throat as his body fought to shake off the power of that hated image. Then the horror of it was too much at last, and his body convulsed, spewing out the bile and the terror and the bitter exhaustion in one wretched flood of vomit. Seconds only, but it seemed an eternity. He brought his hand up to his mouth quickly, hiding behind it as he wiped his mouth clean with the silk cuff of his shirt sleeve; his cheeks burned hot with shame. He could sense the girl standing behind him, and her proximity increased his humiliation a thousandfold. How could he ever face these people again? How could he ever face her?
It was Gresham Alder who knelt by his side, muttering words meant to bridge that awkward moment. Andrys heard himself apologizing profusely, offering to clean up, insisting ... but his offers were set aside, politely but firmly. Of course, he thought bitterly. They don’t want me around here any longer than I have to be. As the smith helped him to his feet, he dared to meet the girl’s eyes-just for an instant—and the pity he saw in them made his shame burn even hotter. No hope of getting to know her now, not after a fiasco like this. That knowledge hurt worse than all the fear and shame combined.
Somehow he pulled himself together. Saying the necessary words as he wrested the cursed breastplate from his torso, making the requisite excuses ... somehow he managed to take up his bag again and get out of the shop without further catastrophe. He didn’t even check to see that the rolled-up painting was still in it, but took off at a run down the narrow street. Feet pounding on cobblestones, shame pounding in his temples. When he reached the Hotel Paradisic, the doorman wouldn’t let him in, so wild-eyed and disarrayed did he appear; he had to search through his bag with shaking hands to produce his key as proof of residency, and even then the doorman insisted on escorting him to the door of his suite. Taking care to steer him clear of the other guests. What did it matter? What did anything matter? He fell to his knees as the door slammed shut behind him, hot tears flowing down his cheeks. God in heaven, how long could he go on like this?
“What do you want?” he begged aloud. Willing Calesta to hear him, to answer. “What’s the point of this? Tell me!” But there was no response. At last he struggled to his feet and staggered over to his bureau, where a flask of Jaggonath brandy awaited him. Disdaining glasses, he upended it and drank directly from its narrow neck, feeling the powerful liquid burn its way down his throat. Not enough. Not enough. Stumbling over to the table at his bedside, he caught up a small glass vial; black pills winked at him from within, promising the ultimate forgetfulness. It was dangerous to drink and then take these, too, he knew that. But what did it matter? Did he really want to live another day? Did he dare to face her again?
Choking with shame, he spilled out a small handful of pills, enough for an evening’s oblivion. With a quick motion he tossed them all into his mouth and used the brandy to wash them down. Fast. Before he could have second thoughts. If it killed him, then it killed him. At least this torture would be over with.
“What’s the armor for?” he begged. The demon didn’t answer him, which raised new doubts. What if Calesta didn’t just hate Gerald Tarrant, after all, but all the Tarrant clan? Him included? What if this was just some complex game the demon had concocted to torture them all—
No, he didn’t dare think that, he didn’t dare—
Too much torture, too much too much!
“Calesta,” he gasped. “Please. Help me.”
But there was only darkness, and silence.
“That boy,” Gresham said, “has real problems.”
She wrung out the rag in the sink, not saying anything. She didn’t trust herself to speak.
“Nari.”
Slowly she turned to him, laying the rag aside. The floor was clean. The armor was clean. Her hands had finally stopped shaking.
“Nari. He’s trouble.”
She didn’t dare look at him. She knew how well he could read her.
“You’re stuck on him, aren’t you?” His voice was gentle but the disapproval was clear. “Couldn’t you have picked a sane one, this time? There are a few around, you know.