Unsure of what to do, he kept her in his grip. “If I release you, do you promise not to try to kill yourself again?” he asked. Knowing that a battle of wills had begun, he looked hard into her eyes. The memory of her blow still recent, he smiled slightly, rubbing his chin with his free hand.
“I suppose it really is true,” he said wryly. “No good deed goes unpunished. And I shouldn’t like to be struck again, especially since my deed was such a truly good one.” One corner of his mouth came up in hope that she would return his smile, but she did not. “Do you promise not to try for the cliff?”
“No,” she said simply.
Nonetheless, he let go of her arm. As a precaution, he turned his body slightly. Sitting directly across from her would make it much harder for her to get past him. The knowing look in her eyes told him she was well aware of what he had done. Still, she did not speak.
Tristan used the moment of silence to take in her beauty. Thick, dark red hair that was parted on the side cascaded in undulating waves down past her shoulders. A small swell of those same waves curved gracefully down over part of her forehead, all the while turning slightly in the night breeze. Below the hairline were large sapphire eyes, heavily hooded but never seeming to blink. Her gaze was commanding, and direct. The whites of her eyes could be seen completely encircling the bottom portions of her irises, giving them a knowing, seductive quality. Dark, fine eyebrows arched up and over them gracefully; the slim nose rested above a mouth whose lips were almost too full. The high cheekbones and perfect, white teeth helped complete the picture, the final detail being just a hint of a cleft in the firm, proud jaw.
Although the rest of her was covered by the robe, he could tell that her form was tall, yet curvaceous. Strong, yet also sensual. He caught just a hint of myrrh from her hair as the night breeze flowed around them.
He looked at her robe. Dark blue, and obviously far too large for her, it had clearly once belonged to a consul of the Redoubt. But how had she acquired it? She might have stolen it—but how could she have managed to steal the robe of an endowed consul? Had there been another, more insidious reason for her to come to these cliffs in the middle of the night? He also sensed danger. Given the alarming information he and the wizards had just acquired from the consul Joshua, he was determined to learn more. Beautiful woman or not.
“Who are you?” he asked gently.
“No names,” she responded quickly. “Nor do I wish to know who you are.” Her tone told Tristan that she was doing her best not to seem afraid.
“Why are you wearing that robe?” he pressed. “Where did you get it?”
He thought he saw a touch of sadness come to her face, but she regained her composure. “It is of no matter.” She frowned, running one hand back through her hair. As her locks moved heavily across her shoulders, the scent of myrrh came to him again.
“Why were you trying to kill yourself?” he asked bluntly. “There are easier ways to do it if you’re really serious about it.” He smiled, hoping for some hint of her mood lightening.
Her eyes closed for a moment and opened again, this time with just a glimmer of shininess. “It’s easy for people like you,” she said softly, looking directly at him. “Besides, you wouldn’t understand.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
Her face lowered slightly. “You want to live,” she whispered.
Her words went through the prince’s heart like a knife. I’ve captured a bird with one wing down, Tristan realized. And I don’t even know who she is.
He looked up to the sky, realizing that he must finish his business and leave soon if he was to return to the Redoubt before daybreak.
“At least tell me where you live,” he said to her. “Perhaps I could see you again. We could talk further.” He tried to take her hands in his, but she pulled them away.
“No,” she said simply. She began to stand up. He stood with her, making sure she did not try to run off the cliff. Her eyes were almost on the same level with his.
“You have done me no favor by saving me from myself this night,” she said sadly. “And it would be impossible to involve you in my life.” She paused for a moment. “Besides, you would not like what you found there. Your heart would never survive it.” The shininess had reappeared in her eyes. Blinking her tears into retreat, she again proved herself the mistress of her emotions.
“Is your situation truly so bad?” he asked her honestly. “Perhaps I could help.”
“No one can help me,” she told him. “It would be foolish of you to try.”
“At least promise me that you will no longer try to take your life,” he said seriously. “You are far too beautiful to leave this world so early. The Afterlife can wait.” He reached out to touch her cheek. Almost as if it were a habit, she flinched.
“I cannot make such promises,” she said. “But if for some reason you cared enough to save me from myself, then care enough to let me go without further questions. Just let me leave this place, and you may then do whatever it is you came for.” The sapphire eyes did not waver as they stared into his own with strength and candor.
He had no choice, and he knew it. No matter how badly he wanted to know more about why she was here, there was no time. Another Tristan from another time would have let her go and then followed her, his curiosity overriding his common sense. But not this Tristan—and not on this night.
This Tristan would honor his promise to his sister, then return to the Redoubt. Taking this mysterious woman with him was out of the question. He felt his heart tug, knowing he would most probably never see her again. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“Very well,” he said finally. “You are not my prisoner, and you are free to leave. But if you can, please find some peace for yourself in this life. You are far too rare a thing to live in such pain.”
Her expression softened a bit. “Thank you,” she said. With that the nameless woman walked away into the forest, the leaves and branches closing behind her.
A final, brief hint of myrrh came to his nostrils and then quickly vanished, telling him she was gone. He stood there, gazing at the place where she had reentered the forest. He wondered again who she really was. But his heart told him he would never know.
He turned to the graves. Going down on both knees before them in the fading moonlight, he bowed his head and grasped the gold medallion around his neck with both hands. He remained that way for a long time.
So much had happened to him, yet so much still seemed unresolved. He missed his parents deeply, just as he missed the wizards of the Directorate who were also buried here. This small clearing by the cliffs would always have a special place in his heart of hearts.
Finally he stood and walked to the edge of the clearing to retrieve his dreggan. Before he left the little glade he turned, almost hoping to see her there again. But of course he did not.
When he returned to Pilgrim, the horse immediately rubbed the length of his face against Tristan’s shoulder, telling the prince it was good to have him back. Tristan mounted and wheeled the horse around. The morning sun was just beginning its struggle up over the jagged horizon of the mountains as he made his way sadly back to the Redoubt.
5
Faegan sat in his wooden chair on wheels, happily playing his magnificent, centuries-old violin, one of the few personal treasures he had allowed himself to bring from Shadowood. All around him, the fliers of the fields turned and wheeled through the air, their colorful wings tracing delicate patterns as if in response to the music. Sometimes they teased him, flying close then suddenly darting away; sometimes they actually landed upon his shoulder or knee as he played. Each one had a body as long as a grown man’s forearm, with a wingspan of several feet. And each pair of diaphanous wings contained a riot of colors, in patterns that somehow were never duplicated from one flier to the next. There was nothing else like them in the world, and they were particularly special to Faegan.