Chapter 37
Sandrine

he afternoon sun diminished behind green hills. Resting in a lush valley spread before them was the charming city of Sandrine. Along the road they came upon a wayside inn. It was a pleasant, homely place with comfortable old tables and chairs and a large barrel of spiced wine in the corner. A pleasant, demure woman, came up from the cellar to greet them. “May I offer you an evening meal or a bed? I have only two rooms available, but they are both lovely and very comfortable. I’m certain they will be to your satisfaction.”

Cedrik said, “We’ll have the two rooms and something hot to eat.”

The three young men took one room. Magenta had the other to herself. Before settling in for the evening, they sat in the commonroom in the warm glow of the fire, awaiting their hostess. The woman returned with a jug filled with spiced wine and a tray with hot bread. Setting them down, she then darted off to retrieve the rest of their supper. She smiled and apologized, as she slipped past another customer.

“This seems one of the few places where everything and everyone is friendly,” said Cedrik, waiting while Magenta was cutting a slice of bread for him.

“Yes, it’s nice,” said Derek between sips of wine; “it’s away from everything, though. Only farms and streams and trees.”

Cedrik rubbed his nose and looked down. He did not want to tempt her away from her decision, or interfere with what was not his business. Next to him Deacon was silent with submission, like fate.

A pleasant quiet was in the room as they dined. The gentle conversation rarely lifted beyond a murmur. Derek took his last mouthful and stretched comfortably in his chair. Looking at Magenta he leaned forward on the table. “It’s not too late to change your mind,” he said, “if you want to return to the Imperial with us. I have a sister you would adore.”

“It is a good thing to think about,” said Cedrik.

At the suggestion of her leaving with them, Deacon blinked but did not raise his face. He waited for her answer.

“I am grateful you have been so kind, but I will find my own way. Here shall be the place to start.” Her tone was indisputable, and rising to avoid further discussion, she bade them a farewell. Cedrik rose quickly to his feet, and reaching over the table, offered her his hand.

“We will bid you a proper farewell when we rise in the morning,” he said. She placed her hand in his, and he brought it to his lips, with the gentleness and reverence in which he knew he would always hold her. Taking his brother’s lead, Derek rose and did likewise. Half overcome, Magenta was unable to speak, and inclined her head graciously. Drawing away, she removed herself and swept up the wooden stairs.

Without looking after her Deacon raised the wine to his lips but placed it down again untasted.

The young men soon retired to their own room. It was cosy and smelled of fresh linen, with a double and single bed. The brothers shared the double, while Deacon took the single. After returning from checking on the horses for the night, Cedrik stripped off his shirt and pulled back the bedcovers. Derek was already sound asleep. Cedrik was grateful he had remained on his own side, for now at least. On the other side of the room, Deacon lay on his back, his eyes closed.

“You don’t want her to stay here, do you?” said Cedrik in a quiet voice.

“No,” he admitted. He didn’t open his eyes.

“If you can convince her, I’ll take her to the Imperial with me. We’ll start off tomorrow, and you can continue on alone.”

“She won’t,” was all he said.

The night waned away in sleeplessness. Deacon looked up through the dark. The room was pleasant, the bed comfortable, yet his body was unsettled, restless. What would become of her when he left her all alone in a world among strangers? These thoughts among others ate away at him, till finally he decided he would convince her to go with Cedrik. With a sudden sense of urgency, he flipped back his covers and ventured out to seek Magenta. Along the narrow hall he contrived what he would say to her. As he came to her door, he felt the grief in his chest again. He raised a knuckle hesitantly, then tapped lightly. There was no answer. He said in low tones, “I know you’re awake. Will you let me come in?”

There was still no response, and he was gripped momentarily with a tight fear. He forced the lock and slowly pushed open the door. Magenta stood with her back to him. Her face down, she looked into the flickering flame of a candle. Deacon softly closed the door behind him and waited a moment. In his chest was a heavy beating.

“Why do you not answer me?” he said with some reproof. He saw her stir and finally turn to face him. Her countenance was wan, yet she met his eye with such a strange, unwavering gaze that he was completely discomposed and could not find a word to say. He stood before her mute. It occurred to him that she might feel his coming an impertinence.

“Why are you here?” she asked in a toneless voice. There followed a deep silence to which all the torment that had gone before was nothing. He wanted to tell her to go with Cedrik, but he dared not assert himself.

“I wanted to speak with you,” he said, speaking more calmly than his look would have indicated. “Why will you not go to the Imperial with Cedrik?” he suddenly asked, despairing. “I fear to leave you alone.”

“I cannot conceive why you should care,” she said, with the slightest touch of contempt. He fell quiet, conscious of a throb deep in his heart. It was with timidity and grief that he sought to convince her, but her refusal was so final that, short of physically forcing her to go with Cedrik, he perceived there was nothing to be done. With pained resignation he slipped the chain from round his neck. The jewel appeared as if transparent, filled with soft luminance.

“Here. Take this,” he said. “It is worth a considerable amount, I should imagine.” He held it out to her. When she refused, he shook it and said, “Take it—I have no use for it.” But she would not take it from him. Leaning past her, he placed it on the bedside table behind her. “I no longer want it pressing against my heart.” He didn’t draw back but paused near her. “It will fetch a fair price,” he repeated, feeling useless, then said hesitantly, “or you may keep it, if that is your wish.”

At the hopeless misery of it all, her eyes became veiled with tears, which she endeavoured to conceal by tilting her face from him. He felt a choke rise in his own throat. He could look nowhere except to her. Her firmness finally gave way, tears filled her eyes and stole freely down her cheek, exhausted of hope.

“Magenta …” He stood with helpless hands. “I would rather shed drops of my own blood, than have you shed tears for me.” But his words only made the tears flow afresh, even as her eyes closed against them. She had born the strain so long and continually, that she was unable to cease the flow now that it was released. He didn’t know where to place his hands and helplessly touched her arm. He felt on the verge of tears himself. “Please don’t,” he said weakly.

It was in a diminished voice that she uttered, “What would you have me do? I have tried to bear everything else—” She was checked with something like a low sob. In that moment he saw utter defeat in her eyes and it nearly tore out his heart. He stood mute. He was so deeply distressed by her sudden giving way that he would have, at this point, promised anything. In his helplessness he knew not what else to do. Brushing aside her hair he stooped and approached his lips to hers, but she turned her face and put his hands from her.

“The poorest of souls may well be content with the poorest of love,” she said quietly, scarcely moving her lips. Emotion would suffer her to say no more. She turned her back to him. He remained standing apart. Something in him broke, and he knew he could not endure being separated from her anymore. The necessity was admitted, and his forbearance was obliterated, all strength and desire to resist were gone.

Magenta watched the flame flicker. She could not feel him. Quietly he drew close behind her, and gradually his presence made itself felt. She was aware of his chest close upon her back. She felt his hands sweep her hair back from her neck. At his first touch something in her stirred and responded out of the darkness, and her wounded heart filled silently with yearning.

He set the jewel round her throat and murmured close to her ear. “I would have you come with me, if I thought I had not destroyed any hope of it.” Very gently, very sadly, he urged her to face him. “Be with me always.” His look setting no bounds to his meaning, he put his arms round her and pressed his breast to her breast, which somehow felt bruised and hurt, so that she thought she could weep from the gentle pressure of his embrace.

They were silent, hid against each other. Lifting his face he found her mouth with soft, caressive lips. Then he paused as if he awaited some assurance of forgiveness, pressed against her very close. He had a frightened sense of her irreparable loss of love for him. She had returned his kiss faintly, but was tight and closed against him. Her heart was bound tightly in sorrow, so wounded it cringed upon itself. His heart sank in bitter despair. He stopped her hand from reaching and unclasping the necklace. “In my heart I have belonged to you all the time,” he murmured, broken. “My happiness lies in yours; they cannot be parted.”

At his words she gave way. Clinging to him, she fell into quiet sobbing, and cried with bitter cries, hoping that his nearness was not merely a departing vision. When her passion of anguish at last subsided, and she was quiet, he whispered to her a few faint words, which inevitably drew shuddering, sharp intakes of breath at short intervals; the only trace of her previous grief.

Here, in the nearness of answering feeling, they became profoundly still, his face pressed into her hair. In the depths of their silence the two were most intimately connected, with that pure affection which unites spirits.

“Don’t make me sleep alone,” he murmured, faltering, like a man when he supplicates some request which he desires intensely but fears to be denied. A reverent silence answered him, and with an unspoken consent they resumed with long, anguished kisses. The cruel feeling of separation drifted away and oneness came in the dark still aura of his love.

With a trembling heart, she stole her arms round his neck and pressed herself into the absorbing flow of his kiss. His will slackened and relaxed, no longer sharp and immovable, but full of human feeling and warmth. With a quiet gesture he extinguished the lamp, and she was in darkness, abandoned to him.

Never had she felt his eyes more upon her as she did now in the darkness, where she could not see, but only feel him, his touch so vivid and certain. Together they lay, breathing the still dark atmosphere. It gathered softly round them, and all outside thoughts dissolved into it. All her love, all her pain, came up and all her consciousness slipped and passed away, so there was only him. She was given to him and he to her. They were together, complete, eternal.

Before the night was ended they were quiet together in the dark. He lay against her bare skin, half upon her, caressing her with his mouth, loving her into a sense of herself. He clasped both her upraised hands in his and breathed into her ear his devotion. In this moment with her, he was free from the pressing of time. Together they spoke with low-toned tenderness. When she turned on her side he ran his fingers over her naked back, upon which he discovered the marks of evil deeds: strange, intricate patterns that had been inked deeply into the flesh. “What are these?” he murmured in his throat, with a frown.

“One for each offence,” she answered, then turned to face him. She lay warm against him, feeling adored and enfolded; he felt so familiar, so safe. She told him of all the things that had hurt her, and afterwards became quiet, lying partly on top of him, drifting near sleep, lulled by the rising and falling of his life’s breath beneath her. His body was relaxed, but his mind was going over all the things she had told him. The centre of him tightened with a sense of unjustness. She could feel that he was still awake and lifted her face. “Are you able to sleep?”

“I am,” he murmured. He stroked her hair, and she settled down against him again, his hand locked in hers with instinctive, almost unconscious tenderness; she would not part with it even in sleep. While she slept in his arms, he had an urge to go into her mind to see all the things she had seen and feel all the things she had felt. He wanted to know all she had suffered.

Feeling this undeniable urge, he raised himself above her. He placed his hand on her brow. She stirred slightly, and he remained still, breathlessly, until he was certain she was again sound asleep. Slowly and unobtrusively he went into her mind in search of thoughts, memories, and feelings. He was poised over her while images and emotions were hastening upon him.

There were children, little villains, that shouted with vile tongues, trying to shame her, casting stones which cut and bruised. Ghastly, wasted hands grasped her, and she felt that some terrible violence lurked beneath their touch. The prick of a thorn stung her. There was pain, fear, quivering, shaking. She was lame and ill, deathly so, locked in darkness where living cords snaked their way round her limbs, easily overcoming her frantic struggles. Things, leech-like, were sucking on her flesh, drawing on the venom, letting it from her blood, which had received too much.

Not long had he been inside her thoughts when it was his desperate wish to leave. So overwhelming as it was, he wanted to abruptly break free of her mind, but forcing himself to do so, he slowly withdrew. In him was a degree of gratification, knowing he was the sole possessor of her most intimate thoughts.

Panting, he lay his head against her soft breast. It’s often believed one likes to hear the beating of another’s heart, a reminder of the security he felt in his mother’s womb. He hated it. To him it was the sound of life wearing out, reminding him of the fragility of mortality. He shifted his face higher on her bosom, away from the ceaseless beating, and sank down into the comfort of her. It was such utter peace to just lie with her with no thought or will. In the softness of coming sleep, he felt the world pass away from him, and there was only her.

Morning found them much the same way. He had slept very deeply, so that he felt strangely revived. Leaning over her, he brushed his lips over her sleeping brow. Outside the morning was pleasantly chill. He came to find Cedrik out by the stables, already preparing the horses. “Our course is still the same?” Cedrik asked when Deacon joined him.

“Yes,” came the brief answer, as if it needn’t have been asked. Deacon secured his bag to his horse, and without turning round, said, “But I don’t go alone.”

Cedrik made no comment. He had presumed as much, having noted Deacon did not return to his bed the previous night.