“I want to… I want to be all yours.”
His hands tightened about her waist, but he did not move.
He said, very gently, “Darling, no. No risks.”
It seemed that it would be all right, but he was not sure. If the channels overloaded again… He could not bear to see her suffer that way. Not again.
She drew a long, deep breath of disappointment, but he knew she accepted his decision. When she raised her eyes to him again they were filled with tears, but she was smiling. I will cast no shadow on this wonderful day by asking for more, like a greedy child.
He put her riding cloak around her shoulders, for a sharp wind was blowing from the heights and it was cold. As he lifted her into the saddle he could see the field of flowers, now chill blue, without the golden shimmer that had been on them. The sky was darkening into a drizzle of rain. He lifted Callista into her saddle, and beyond her, as he mounted, could, see that on the other slope across the valley the horses were beginning to bunch up, moving restlessly, looking for shelter also.
The ride back was silent, Andrew feeling let down, distressed. He felt that he had been a fool. He should have taken advantage of Callista’s yielding, the sudden disappearance of fear or hesitation. What stupid compunction had made him hesitate?
After all, if it was Callista’s response to him which overloaded the channels, there had already been as much of that as if he had actually taken her. As she had wished! What a fool he had been, he thought, what a damnable fool!
Callista was silent, also, glancing now and then at him with an inexpressible look of guilt and dread. He picked up her fear, fear that came to wipe out the gladness.
I am glad I have known, again, what it was to desire him, to return his love… but I am afraid. And he could feel the paralyzing texture of her fear, the memory of pain when she had allowed herself, before, to respond to him. I couldn’t endure that again. Not even with kirian. And it would be dreadful for Damon too. Merciful Avarra, what have I done?
It was raining hard by the time they reached Armida, and Andrew lifted Callista from the saddle, sensing with dismay the way her body stiffened against his touch. Again? He kissed her wet face under the soaked hood. She did not draw away from the kiss, but she did not return it, either. Puzzled, but trying to be sympathetic — she was afraid, poor girl, and who could blame her after that awful ordeal? — Andrew carried her up the steps and set her on her feet.
“Go and dry yourself, my precious, don’t wait for me. I must make sure the horses are properly seen to.”
Callista went slowly and regretfully up the stairs. Her gaiety had vanished, leaving her feeling tired and sick with apprehension. One of the strongest taboos in Arilinn was that which made the raw kireseth plant, untreated, a thing wholly forbidden. Although she was no longer bound by those laws, she felt guilty and ashamed. Even when she knew she was being affected by the flowers, she had remained to enjoy the effect, not moving out of range or withdrawing. And through the guilt was fear. She did not feel as she had felt with channel overload before — she had seldom felt better — but knowing what she did about herself, she was deathly frightened.
She went in search of Damon, and he guessed at once what had happened. “Were you exposed to kireseth, Callista? Tell me.”
Stumbling, ashamed, frightened, she managed to convey to Damon a little of what had happened. Damon, listening to the faltering words, thought in an anguished empathy that she sounded as shamed as a repentant harlot, not a married woman who had spent the day innocently with her own husband. But he was troubled. After the events of the early winter, Andrew would never have approached her like this, without an explicit invitation. Kireseth, as a matter of fact, had quite a reputation for breaking down inhibitions. But whatever the cause, she might again have overloaded her channels with two conflicting sets of responses. “Well, let us see what harm has been done.”
But after monitoring her briefly, he felt confused. “Are you sure, Callista? Your channels are a Keeper’s, undisturbed. What sort of joke is this?”
“Joke? Damon, what do you mean? It happened just as I said.”
“But that is impossible,” Damon said. “You could not react like that. If you had, your channels would be overloaded and you would be very ill. What do you feel now?”
“Nothing,” she said wearily, defeated, “I feel nothing, nothing, nothing!” For a moment he thought she would burst into tears. She spoke again, her voice tight with unshed tears. “It is gone, like a dream, and I have broken the laws of the Tower. I am outcaste for nothing.”
Damon did not know what to think. A dream, compensating for the deprivations of her life? The kireseth was, after all, an hallucinogenic drug. He stretched his hands to her. Her automatic withdrawal from the touch verified his guess: she and Andrew had merely shared an illusion.
Later he questioned Andrew, which he could do more thoroughly and specifically, discussing the physical responses involved. Andrew was distressed and defensive, though he willingly admitted he would have been responsible if Callista had been harmed. Zandru’s hells, Damon thought, what a tangle! Andrew already had so much guilt about wanting Callista when she could not respond to him, and now he must be deprived even of the illusion. Laying his hand on his friend’s shoulder, he said, “It’s all right, Andrew. You didn’t hurt her. She’s all right, I tell you, her channels are still wholly clear.” Andrew said stubbornly, “I don’t believe it was a dream, or an illusion, or anything like that. Damn it, I didn’t invent the leaves in my hair!”
Damon said, wrung with pity, “I’ve no doubt you were lying somewhere on the ground. Kireseth contains one fraction which stimulates laran. Evidently you and Callista were in telepathic contact, much more strongly than usual, and your… your frustrations built a dream. Which could happen without… without endangering her. Or you.”
Andrew hid his face with his hands. It was bad enough to feel like a fool for spending the whole day kissing and caressing his wife without anything more intimate, but to be told that he had simply gone off on a drugged dream about doing it — that was worse. Stubbornly he looked up at Damon. “I don’t believe it was a dream,” he said. “If it was a dream, why didn’t I dream of what I really wanted to do? Why didn’t she ? Dreams are supposed to relieve frustrations, not make new ones, aren’t they?”
That, of course, was a good question, Damon admitted, but what did he know of the fears and frustrations which might inhibit even dreams? One night, during his early manhood, he had dreamed of touching Leonie as no Keeper might be touched even in thought, and he had spent three sleepless nights for fear of repeating the offense.
In his own room, readying himself for the evening meal, Andrew looked at his garments, crumpled and stained. Was he fool enough to have erotic dreams about his own wife? He didn’t believe it. Damon wasn’t there; he was. And he knew what happened, even if he could not explain it. He was supremely glad Callista was not harmed, though he could not understand that either.
It was that night at dinner when Dom Esteban said, in a worried tone, “I wonder… do you suppose all is well with Domenic? I feel something menaces him, something evil…”
“Nonsense, Father,” Ellemir said gently. “Only this morning Dom Kieran told us he was well and happy, and surrounded by his loving friends, behaving himself and carrying out his responsibilities as best he could! Don’t be silly!”
“I suppose you are right,” the old man said, but still he looked troubled.