“Your words hold no meaning,” protested Mehrayn, the bewildered look upon Ceralt saying the same. I, too, felt bewildered, yet was S’Heernoh amused.
“Let me put it another way,” said he, again with smoothness. “You said she refused to make a choice. If she makes one now, will you both abide by it?”
Again were the two males silent, this time as they looked upon one another with less full agreement than there had been, yet did they both at last nod their heads.
“Should the wench make a choice, we shall abide by it,” allowed Mehrayn for the both, no lightness to be heard in his tone. “It is certain Ceralt feels as I do, yet shall we abide by the decision for her sake.”
“Excellent,” said S’Heernoh, beaming upon the two as though he saw naught of their grimness. “In that case, as my daughter’s father, I’ll announce her decision for her.”
Perhaps the male believed there would again be silence at his pronouncement; was such the case, he surely felt unexpected disappointment. Both Mehrayn and Ceralt began shouting at once, outrage clearly in the fore, the clamor so great that the words I, myself, meant to speak were buried beneath it. S’Heernoh held up both hands for silence.
“You object?” he asked, looking from one to the other. “Hasn’t a father the right to make such a choice for his daughter?”
“When you have already allowed him to claim her in his village?” demanded Mehrayn in a growl, looking coldly upon S’Heernoh.
“When you have already given her to him in a cavern in the woods?” asked Ceralt in the chill, soft way he had.
“Then it seems I’ve already made a choice,” said S’Heernoh, continuing to divide his look between them. “One, I might add, my daughter agrees with. Do we have your agreement as well?”
Mehrayn looked upon S’Heernoh narrow-eyed, Ceralt stared in a manner which suggested S’Heernoh had lost his wits, and I silently watched them all, wondering upon what the gray-haired Walker this time attempted. His dark eyes strove to mask the usual amusement he showed with easy questioning, yet was the amusement still clearly there.
“Well?” said S’Heernoh after a brief time of waiting his tone indicating expected agreement. “Do you approve of my choice?”
“Perhaps my wits are not quite as swift as I had thought,” said Ceralt slowly, leaning somewhat back where he sat. “Although you claim to have chosen, I am able to see naught save that you have indicated . . .”
“The both of us!” said Mehrayn in great upset, also straightening where he sat. “You cannot mean . . . .”
“Why not?” pounced S’Heernoh gently yet implacably, while I merely stared. “My daughter has refused to choose between you because she cannot choose; it isn’t possible for her to turn her back on either one of you. You both said you would give her up if that would save her life, and I asked if you would refuse to give her up for the same reason. She would rather die than go on without the two of you. Will you let her die?”
The eyes of the two males came to me then, both silently demanding to know what truth had been in S’Heernoh’s words. Never would I have found it possible to say the thing of my own self, yet with it already spoken I could not deny it. Indeed did I desire them both, more than life itself, and naught of goddess-demand stood between us. No more than the views of the males themselves stood between us, a far greater barrier than any goddess-made.
“You can see just by looking at her that I’ve told you the truth,” said S’Heernoh, sobriety returned to his voice. “You can also see that she doesn’t expect you two to agree. She expects you to hold fast to your prejudices—and let her die.”
“No!” said the two males at once, both greatly angered, then did it come to them what they had said. They looked upon each other warily, doubt strong in their eyes, and S’Heernoh voiced a sigh of vexation.
“Stop looking at each other as if you’re absolute strangers,” he said, annoyance now coloring the words. “You know you’ve learned to respect each other, that you’re both men of honor. Hasn’t it occurred to either of you yet that if something happens to one of you, that one can at least be sure he won’t be leaving his beloved alone to fend for herself? That she’ll still have the other to stand beside her?”
“Indeed is such a thing worth knowing,” said Ceralt with a nod Mehrayn appearing surprised—and unexpectedly pleased in his surprise. “A man need not fear his own fate with the fate of his beloved happily seen to.”
“And yet are there other things which might concern a man,” said Mehrayn, his pleasure quickly fading. “To be pleased that another sees to his woman after his end, is not to be pleased upon the same point while he lives. To share a slave with others is no more than meet; to do the same with the free woman you have chosen and love—”
“Does having to share her mean your love has to lessen?” S’Heernoh demanded, his voice and eyes sharp. “If it does, it can’t have been much of a love to begin with. If it doesn’t, then no more than some small part of your pride is hurt, a part that will heal rather quickly. Would you rather lose her entirely than share her? Would you rather see her dead than occasionally in the arms of another man? She’s a warrior who would never even consider limiting your needs; will you thank her by trying to limit hers?”
Soberly had Mehrayn listened to the words of S’Heernoh, his eyes troubled and then did his gaze clear. Slowly and firmly did he shake his head, showing that the decision he had reached had been difficult yet surely was his decision, and a warmth and gladness I had not expected filled me. When his green gaze came to me and saw my smile, all doubt vanished from it as though the thing had never been. When we turned then to look upon Ceralt, we found that S’Heernoh already studied his frown.
“Different men, different worries,” said the gray-haired Walker, nearly in a murmur. “You have no problem about sharing her with another man, but sharing her life with the life of a warrior is another story, isn’t it?”
“Indeed,” said Ceralt with a heaviness seemingly demanded of him. “To share her love with another man is still to retain it; to share her with the life of a warrior is far too likely to lose both love and her—in the same swordstroke.”
“I can’t argue that,” said S’Heernoh, his tone filled with compassion. “The life of a warrior is dangerous no matter how skilled you are. The thing that has to be remembered here, though, is that the life of a warrior is what made her what she is, what made her into someone who attracted you in the first place. If you take that away from her, will you still have what you fell in love with? Is it fair to punish her for being the very person you want? If the most important thing in your life was taken away, would you want to continue living?”
The blue-eyed gaze of Ceralt had come to me as S’Heernoh spoke, and for a moment after he ceased there was naught save the stare, seeking to read my soul. Then Ceralt heaved a deep sigh, and smiled a smile which warmed as few before had done.
“To keep the thing of greatest importance in my life, then, I must risk it,” said he, his gaze unmoving from my face. “Should there need to be the pain of loss, sooner would I have that pain be mine. I will make no effort to keep her from the life of a warrior.”
“Then we are all in accord,” said Mehrayn with a grin, looking between Ceralt and myself, yet did S’Heernoh immediately shake his head with the accursed amusement which so often filled him.
“Not quite,” said the gray-haired male, this time sending his full attention to me. “When a compromise is necessary, everyone has to compromise, otherwise the whole thing falls apart. Well, daughter? Are you ready to do your part?”
“I know not which part you refer to,” I replied, disliking the manner in which his demand brought annoyance to the limitless joy which had come to me. Odd had the male S’Heernoh ever been, and odd did he remain.