Page 58 of Never the Roses

“I’m not a fool, Tristan,” she said sharply, snapping him out of his rapt state. To her relief, his eyes met hers again, his usual sparkle in them. “Don’t be concerned for my sake,” she told him reassuringly, attempting to soften her sharp edges. “I am able to refuse the queen’s invitation. I have dispensation.” Her Majesty would be thoroughly displeased, but Oneira could live with that. What she couldn’t live with was returning to the citadel to assist with a war, especially knowing Stearanos would be on the other side of it.

“Couldn’t we go for just a little while?” Tristan pleaded wistfully, still on his knees. “A day or two, and then return home.”

It made her uncomfortable that he was kneeling like a supplicant and that he’d referred to her house as home. Stearanos was right in that much—she’d let Tristan stay far too long and become much too attached to her. She prodded him to get up and sit in his chair again.

“I’m not going at all,” she told Tristan. “I left for a reason. Her Majesty knows this. She just hoped…” What? “That I’d recovered from what sent me here to begin with.” There, that was the truth. “But I haven’t.”

Tristan blanched, uneasy, subtly edging away from her. “Plague?” he whispered.

“No.” She nearly laughed and had to drag it back. If only what plagued her was curable. “It’s more complicated than that. Suffice to say that the reasons that brought me here remain the same and so I will be writing a reply to Her Majesty regretfully declining on the grounds that I must stay where I am.” And fervently hope the queen accepted it without too much fuss. Oneira didn’t look forward to a fight—especially as she still wouldn’t kill any soldiers who arrived to forcibly escort her to the citadel—but she wouldn’t go back. She’d die first, which could be easily arranged.

“You should face your fears, Lira,” Tristan said decisively. “That’s how you overcome them.”

“I am not afraid,” she replied softly, irritated enough that menace leaked into her mien and he withered ever so slightly. Poor guy. Stearanos had that much correct—the young poet was no match for her, with her internal darkness and independent nature. There was a reason she’d spent most of her life alone. She wasn’t a woman who could have lovers. “Truly, Tristan. I’m not angry with you, but let it go.”

“Then what are—” he bravely forged on before she cut him off.

“I am resolved,” she finished for him. “And I will not be persuaded otherwise.”

“Nothing I can say would alleviate your concerns?” he asked miserably. “I’d stay by your side the entire time.”

She refrained from telling him that particular promise was more of a threat than an enticement—though the image he evoked did serve to remind her of how it would be at court, all of those people packed into the citadel, thronging the narrow, winding streets, weaseling their way into the palace proper, spending and seeking favors. A headache formed between her brows, a brightstar that threatened to grow and burn all her thoughts away. No, she could not go back there. Not for any reason, not for anyone.

“I’m sorry,” she said, although she wasn’t. A polite white lie that barely registered. She put her hand over Tristan’s, eliciting a woebegone smile from him. “This is not something I’m able to do.”

“I understand.” He turned his hand to squeeze hers, then let it go. “I was just really excited to have a chance to get back to court. To see thequeen,” he added with longing, before dragging his attention back. “The likes of me don’t receive many opportunities.”

“I’ll tell you what,” she said, making a bid to solve two problems at once. “I will give you my reply to Her Majesty, with the stipulation that I trust only you to put it into her hands. You can travel with the messenger to the citadel and that will give you entrée to the court. I’ll even add a personal note of reference and recommendation.”

She owed Tristan that much for putting up with her moods, for changing her mind on him, for leaving him alone so often. Not that a personal recommendation from the dread sorceress would hold much water with the queen, but Tristan wouldn’t know that. And itwouldget him into court. With his charming ways, he’d no doubt soon find other sponsors, other older women eager enough to have a young and virile lover in their beds.

“Oh, my lady!” Tristan gushed, looking as if he might fall to his knees again, stopped by her warning look. Instead he took up her hand once more and pressed a series of kisses to it. “How can I ever thank you?” His handsome face fell. “How can I ever leave you, though?”

Smoothly, she extracted her hand from his enthusiastic grip. “It is I who am thanking you,” she replied, focusing on that and ignoring the last question. “You’ve provided a lonely woman company, despite my gloomy moods.”

“You are never moody,” he declared gallantly, then gave her a long, serious look. “I’m only sorry that you never admitted me to your bed. You know how much I desire you, Lady Lira. Perhaps if we’d become lovers, then…”

“But now our time is done,” she interrupted, stopping any further discussion there. While she regretted not purging this stifled desire from her mind and body—all the fault of Stearanos—she congratulated herself for resisting Tristan’s further advances. No doubt many women could enjoy no-strings bed games in that scenario, but she’d learned she firmly wasn’t one of them. She wasn’t casual about that sort of thing. Unfortunately, at the other end of the spectrum lay Stearanos and his knee-watering offer, which was the farthest thing from casual she could imagine. And also something she could never do, for entirely different reasons.

Tristan was watching her in miserable expectation, clearly unsure what to say, unwilling to jeopardize the gift she’d offered.

“I’ll go write the missive,” she told him, “and you can take your leave.”

“Take my… you mean, leave this afternoon?”

“It’s for the best. Galahad is ready and no sense delaying goodbyes.” All true. Plus she was eager to have her silence again.

As is the way of these things, in the wake of Tristan’s departure, Oneira found her much-craved silence ever so much more, well,silentthan she recalled.

She, Bunny, Moriah, and Adsila saw Tristan through the wards at the road. The animals had never quite taken to the young poet—and vice versa—but they attended the leave-taking for reasons of their own. The queen’s messenger was not at all pleased to have gained Tristan as a traveling companion, nor that the unwelcome companion carried Oneira’s reply. She had laid alight enchantment on the messenger to prevent him from revealing Oneira’s true identity. Tristan would discover the truth once he arrived at court—if not before, in some other way—but that couldn’t be helped.

Once they were gone, the wards duly sealed behind them, Oneira tried to settle into her previous schedule again. Without success. She felt as if she tried to wedge her feet into a pair of favorite old shoes from years ago, finding she no longer fit into the life she’d led before Tristan’s arrival.

Before Stearanos, truly, if she was being honest with herself.

She tried to think back to who she’d been when she first came to the cliff, building her house—Did you make these steps? Spectacular work—extracting a measure of peace from the smoking remains and blood-drenched despair that had driven her into exile. Where that nothingness of being entirely alone had been restful once, now the emptiness of the house weighed on her, the silence within the walls too heavy. She worked in the garden, tended her roses, played in the sea with Bunny, who also kept her company on a long hike into the mountains while Adsila traced circles in the sky above them.

She was there, high in the hills, when she felt the knock against her wards, startling her into alertness. Her house was becoming as trafficked as the citadel.

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