“That’s an excellent thought, Zavotle—and I thank you for it—but you have not addressed the subject.”
“I dare not, Majesty,” Zavotle said humorously. “To do so I would either have to disagree with a King or insult a nobleman who has a reputation for reacting violently in such instances.”
Toller gave him an amiable nod. “What you’re saying is that a man’s private life should be his own.”
“Private life?” Chakkell shook his brown-domed head in amusement. “Toller Maraquine, my old adversary, my old friend, my old court jester—you cannot row upstream and downstream at the same time. Messengers in fallbags preceded your arrival in Prad by days, and the news of your honeymoon flight with the delectable Skycaptain Narrinder has travelled far and wide.
“She has become a national heroine, and you—once again —have become a national hero. In the taverns your union has already been blessed with a million beery libations. My subjects, most of whom appear to be romantic dolts, seem to see you as a couple chosen for each other by destiny, but none of them is faced with the unenviable task of explaining that to the Lady Gesalla. As for myself, I almost think I would rather go against Karkarand.”
Toller gave the King a formal bow, preparatory to taking his leave. “As I said, Majesty, a man’s private life should be his own.”
Riding south on the highway which connected Prad to the town of Heevern, Toller reached a crest and—for the first time in well over a year—saw his own home.
Still several miles away to the south-west, the grey stone building was rendered white by the aftday sun, making it sharply visible among the green horizontals of the landscape. Within himself Toller tried to manufacture a surge of gladness and of affection for the place, and when it failed to materialise his feelings of self-reproach grew more intense.
I’m a lucky man, he told himself, determined to impose will on emotion. My beautiful solewife is enshrined in that house, and—if she forgives the sin I have committed against her—it will be my privilege to be her loving companion for the rest of our days. Even if she cannot absolve me at once, I will eventually win her over by being what she wants me to be, by being the Toller Maraquine I know I ought to be, and which I genuinely crave to be—and we will enjoy the twilight years together. That is what I want. That is what I WANT!
From Toller’s elevated viewpoint he could see intermittent traces of the road which joined his house to the north-south highway, and his attention was caught by a blurry white speck which betokened a single rider heading towards the main road. The stubby telescope which had served him since boyhood hinted at a bluehorn with distinctive creamy forelegs, and Toller knew at once that the rider was his son. This time there was no need to contrive gladness. He had missed Cassyll a great deal, primarily because of the ties of blood, but also because of the satisfaction he had found when they were working together.
In the unnatural circumstances of the aerial war he had somehow almost managed to forget about the projects he and Cassyll had been engaged on, but much remained for them to do—more than enough to occupy any man’s days. It was absolutely vital that the felling of brakka trees should be brought to a halt for ever—otherwise the ptertha would again become invincible enemies—and the key to the future lay in the development of metals. King Chakkell’s reluctance to face up to the problem made it all the more imperative for Toller to rejoin his son and resume their work together.
Toller increased his speed towards the juncture of the two roads, anticipating the moment in which Cassyll would notice and recognise him. The intersection was the one where the unhappy incident with Oaslit Spennel had begun, but he pushed the memories aside as he and Cassyll steadily grew closer together on their converging paths. When they were less than a furlong apart and nothing had happened Toller began to suspect that his son was riding with his eyes closed, trusting the bluehorn to find its own way, probably to the ironworks.
“Rouse yourself, sleepyhead!” he shouted. “What manner of welcome is this?”
Cassyll looked towards him, with no sign of surprise, turned his head away and continued riding at unchanged speed. He reached the road junction first and, to Toller’s bewilderment, turned south. Toller called out Cassyll’s name and galloped after him. He overtook his son’s bluehorn and brought it to a halt by grasping the reins.
“What’s the matter with you, son?” he said. “Were you asleep?”
Cassyll’s grey eyes were cool. “I was wide awake, father.”
“Then what…?” Toller studied the fine-featured oval face—previewing the forthcoming meeting with Gesalla— and any joy that was within him died. “So that’s the way of it.”
“So that’s the way of what?”
“Don’t fence with words, Cassyll—no matter what you think of me you should at least speak forthrightly, as I am doing with you. Now, what troubles you? Is it to do with the woman?”
“I…” Cassyll pressed the knuckles of his fist to his lips. “Where is she, anyway? Has she, perhaps, transferred her attentions to the King?”
Toller repressed a surge of anger. “I don’t know what you have heard—but Berise Narrinder is a fine woman.”
“As harlots go, that is,” Cassyll sneered.
Toller had actually begun the back-handed slap when he realised what was happening and checked the movement. Appalled, he lowered his gaze and stared at his hand as though it were a third party which had attempted to intrude on a private discussion. His bluehorn nuzzled against Cassyll’s, making soft snuffling sounds.
“I’m sorry,” Toller said. “My temper is… Are you on your way to the works?”
“Yes. I go there most days.”
“I’ll join you later, but first I must speak to your mother.”
“As you wish, father.” Cassyll’s face was carefully expressionless. “May I go now?”
“I won’t detain you any further,” Toller said, struggling against a sense of despair. He watched his son ride off to the south, then resumed his own journey. Somehow it had not occurred to him to take Cassyll’s feelings into account, and now he feared that their relationship had been damaged beyond repair. Perhaps the boy would relent with the passage of time, but for the present Toller’s main hope lay with Gesalla. If he could win her forgiveness quickly his son might be favourably influenced.
The crescent of sunlight was broadening on the great disk of Land, poised overhead, reminding Toller that aftday was well advanced. He increased the bluehorn’s pace. Here and there in the surrounding fields farmers were at work, and they paused to salute him as he rode by. He was popular with the tenants, largely because he charged rents that were little more than nominal, and he found himself wishing that all human relationships could be so easily regulated. The King had joked about facing up to Gesalla, but Toller could remember times when he had genuinely been more apprehensive on the eve of a battle than he was at this moment, preparing to run the gauntlet of his wife’s reproach, scorn and anger. Loved ones had an intangible armoury—words, silences, expressions, gestures— which could inflict deeper wounds than swords or spears.
By the time Toller reached the walled precinct at the front of the house his mouth was dry, and it was all he could do to prevent himself from trembling.
The bluehorn was one borrowed from the royal stables, and therefore Toller had to dismount and open the gate by hand. He led the animal inside and while it was ambling to the stone drinking trough he surveyed the familiar enclosure, with its ornamental shrubs and well-tended flower beds. Gesalla liked to look after it personally, and her skilled touch was evident everywhere he looked—a reminder that he would be with her in a matter of seconds.