Page 84 of A Song of Ash and Moonlight

He paused, swallowing hard. I wanted to spare him this revelation, to yell at Yvaine to stop it, to free him, but I couldn’t speak, and I wondered with a spark of fury if she’d done that too. If she’d known I would protest and had seen to it that I couldn’t.

I couldn’t look at her, too angry to bear the sight of her. Instead I looked at Ryder, right at him, only at him: his dark beard, his bright eyes, the little scar above his eyebrow, his hands in fists on his thighs. My heart was in my throat, every inch of me bursting with a tenderness so fierce it made me dizzy. I knew what it was to live like a shadow in your own house, to not know when you woke what the day would bring—a father lost in his own despair or a father who remembered to eat, to change his clothes, to love you as he should.

“Later,” Ryder began again, “as we got older, it became more difficult to hide, but it also became easier to fight him. Alastrina and I befriended every animal in the forest; there was little else to do. And we made them hate him, and he grew afraid of them, would sometimes lock himself up in his rooms for fear that some forest cat would come for his throat when he wasn’t looking. And we were tempted to make that happen. The deaths we imagined for him, each more gruesome than the last. But Mother…”

He shook his head, shut his eyes. “She forbade us from it. She’s an Anointed beguiler, and her talent is narrow but powerful: persuasion. Every time we neared the brink, hungry to kill him at last, she would turn her magic on us—some spell, some clever working of language—and convince us it was folly to turn on him. He was the lord of the house. He’d given us life. Shelovedhim.” He spat the words. “Incredible, what sorts of lies a mind will conjure up just to survive.”

He fell silent then, and after a moment the slight pressure in the air disappeared. Yvaine had released us. She leaned back into her cushions, her face carefully blank. She looked between us, reading us. I hoped she could see how angry I was, how utterly the whole strange evening had unnerved me. I grabbed Ryder’s hand and held it fiercely. He sat slumped in his chair beside me, spent from the telling, and I hoped that the grip of my hand would bring him some small comfort, some scrap of strength.

Yvaine’s gaze fell to our joined hands. I thought she would say something; her pale brow furrowed as if she were thinking something over very hard. But then the oblivious dancing crowd near us parted, and a harried-looking adviser bustled over—Lady Goff, with her smooth brown skin and her head of dark braids. She shot me a watchful sort of look, then bent and whispered something to Yvaine that I couldn’t hear.

Yvaine listened, nodded, then rose sedately from her cushion, thefolds of her lilac skirt cascading into place around her. “I’m sorry to leave so suddenly, but I am needed downstairs,” she said, not quite looking at either of us. She cautiously put her hand on Ryder’s shoulder. “Thank you, Lord Ryder, for sharing that with me. I hope you…”

She hesitated, then looked at me beseechingly. “I envy you,” she said quietly. “I envy you both. Hold on to each other. And you’re…you’re welcome, of course, to stay here as long as you wish.”

I couldn’t make sense of it—how scattered she was, how obviously, horribly sad. I thought she might be ashamed of what she’d forced Ryder to do and gave her a pointed look—apologize, now—but she said nothing and instead let herself be led away. I dug my fingernails into my palms as I watched her go, dangerously close to jumping up and making some sort of scene, demanding she make amends in front of everyone. Never mind her too-thin shoulders, bared by the ruffled gown; never mind the way she leaned on Lady Goff as they hurried out of the room. Using her power to protect her people was one thing; brandishing it to force a grieving man to recount his sad family history was quite another. The next time I saw her, I would tell her as much. No champagne, no advisers. She would apologize and mean it, or I would leave the Citadel and never return.

In her wake, we sat in exhausted silence. I let Ryder have a few moments of peace before I turned to him, feeling bold and brave, and said, “My rooms are nearby. They’ll be ready for me, and no one will disturb us. Would you like to go there with me?”

The relief on his face made my heart swell. I wanted to wrap him up in a blanket and protect him from the world—this big burly man with a boy’s broken heart.

He took my hand. “Please, Farrin.”

***

My rooms were quiet and clean—the fire crackling, the bed turneddown, a plate of sandwiches and a pitcher of lemon water on the table by the bathing room. I fussed about nevertheless, tidying blankets that didn’t need tidying, straightening rugs that were perfectly straight. In the private haven of my rooms, with a breeze fluttering the curtains and no noise to distract me from my thoughts, my courage from before seemed foolish and slight. Ryder’s body took up too much space in the room, turned it unfamiliar. It was not altogether an unpleasant feeling; in fact, it thrilled me. I trembled with anticipation, feeling on the edge of something I couldn’t name.

I poured myself a glass of water and then one for Ryder. I gave it to him, shaking a little, not looking at him. What did I expect to happen here? I should go into the bathing room, use that as an excuse. I needed a bath, he could make himself comfortable on the sofa, and I would see him in the morning.

“Farrin, please don’t worry.” He set the glass on the table, then did the same with mine. “I expect nothing. Just being here with you is all I need to be content.”

He took my hands in his, so gentle I wanted to cry. All of it made me want to cry—Yvaine’s strangeness, Ryder’s horrible story. The image of him hiding in a cupboard with Alastrina, their fingers over their lips.Let’s count to one hundred and see just how quiet we can be.Most of all, I wanted to cry because being so near Ryder was like standing on the edge of a cliff, the wind at my back and my toes curling in the dirt. I was going to fall, and the idea both frightened and exhilarated me. What sort of madwoman wanted to fling herself off a cliff into the unknown?

I put my arms around him, drawing him to me. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered, which seemed far too pale a thing to say. So I touched his chest and reached up on my toes to kiss him. I decided I would press all my pity and tenderness, all my understanding, right into him. My touch, unpracticed and halting as it was, would tell him what mywords were too small to encompass. My heart pounded hard in my ears, in my wrists, at the back of my throat. I pulsed with need and nerves, with a fear of what this could be, of whatwecould be. But then his lips were in my hair, his hands sliding gently down my back, and though I still trembled, I felt stronger, less afraid. Always, when he was near, I felt less afraid.

He led me to the bed, helped settle me among its feather pillows, its blankets of soft linen, and I drew him down to me, shaking all over, breathless with joy and wanting. The gentle firelight warmed his face, softening the faint lines that years of grief, fear, and anger had carved into his skin.

I wound my fingers into his dark hair and held him to me, kissed him until my head spun. The weight of him above me, the muscles of his back under my hands, sparked in me a feeling of simple, vivid joy. He drew his fingers lightly down my arms, making them prickle with goose bumps, and then circled his thumbs over my breasts, my ribs, my waist, learning with unending, focused patience every dip and curve. My gown was plain but fine, a gauzy gray, and through its silk I could easily feel the careful heat of his hands, every warm caress.

Then he moved lower down my body, dropping kisses on each pleat of my dress along the way, and began sliding his hands up my legs, under my skirts. I ached for his touch—my thighs were damp and trembling—and yet suddenly a fist of nerves seized me, and I went rigid, felt my heart began to race in a different way. Not with wanting, but with doubt.

With a gentle touch to his shoulders, I stopped him. I whispered, “Wait.” He moved his hands away at once and came back to me. He pressed his brow to mine, breathing hard, a question on his face. Those eyes of his were soft and warm on my face, his lashes thick and dark.

The old fear had come back to me—my body, its frighteningnakedness, how for so many years it had remained closed to me, stubbornly quiet. What would Ryder see if I bared myself to him completely? I couldn’t answer that question. I’d spent so many years ignoring myself, tired and angry, every now and then futilely trying for release, that even now, as desperately as my body ached for his touch, I felt the familiar terror of the unknown. What did I look like under these clothes? Only Gareth could truly say, and it had been years since that night, and he didn’t love me, and I didn’t love him. Not like that. Not like this.

“Is it all right with you if we keep our clothes on?” I whispered. I closed my eyes, humiliated. What a question. He would think me a child, a cold fish. I couldn’t look at him.

But then I felt him kiss me—my brow, the tip of my nose, the sharp curve of my chin—and I opened my eyes and saw him smiling down at me, tender and dear. No judgment on his face, no confusion.

“Of course,” he said gently. He brushed my cheek with his thumb. I was crying; he dried my tears. “Farrin, look at me.”

I obeyed, because I loved looking at him. I obeyed, because being told what to do, having the choice made for me, unwound some tight coil of fear within me. I was nervous, and still he wanted me. I was uncertain; he would be certain for both of us.

“You’re beautiful,” he told me, his gaze locked on mine. “Every day, every moment. Everything you wear, everything you don’t. Every time I look at you, every moment I’m apart from you and have to imagine your face instead.” He drew in a breath, let it out. He cradled my face in his hands, his eyes storm-bright. “Farrin, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. In the forest light, in the candlelight. Star of my life. You’re perfect. I know you don’t believe it, but someday you will. I swear it, you will. I’ll make sure of it.”

Chills raced up and down my body.Star of my life.A peculiar thing to say, but lovely, and also familiar in a way my fevered mind,fogged with desire, couldn’t place. And then the thought was gone, bolting cheerfully away, because Ryder was lowering his mouth to mine and kissing me, and with that kiss, the last of my fear dissolved. I whispered my assent: “Yes, Ryder,” I told him, feeling suddenly light as air and brave as I ever had. I wanted this; I wanted him. And I knew that at any moment I could saystop, and he would at once, without question. This most of all was the thing that helped me find my courage.

So I gave myself up to him, let him guide us both toward the cliff’s edge. The thrill of it was astonishing—his kisses licking up and down my body like slow-burning fire; his hands holding mine, pinning me to the bed as he knew I loved; his palms sliding my skirts up my legs just enough, rolling down my tights just enough. He kissed my thighs, reached under my gown and drew light circles across my trembling belly. I whimpered something, some wordless plea, and the sound elicited from him a sharp, desperate groan. Quickly he undid his belt and loosened his trousers. Then, his mouth on my breasts through the thin bodice of my dress, the hard heat of him pressing inside me. His size matched the might of his muscles, and for a moment I gripped his shoulders in shock, stilling him.

---