Storm Warning - Mercedes Lackey [15]
And yet—
He’s kind, he’s patient. In fact, Firesong had been coaxing, courting, and cajoling him with a gentle awkwardness that seemed to bespeak a distinct lack of practice in those three skills. Then again, why would he ever need to coax or court anyone? He could have anyone he wanted, I’d think. They must be throwing themselves at his feet, over there in the Palace. So it was all the more confusing that Firesong was willing to take the time to lead An’desha along like a spooked and frightened colt, time he could, without a doubt, spend more pleasurably elsewhere, with other people.
His thoughts muddled together at that point. He didn’t want to consider all the ramifications of this. He didn’t want to think that Firesong meant everything he had said in the dark of the night. He certainly didn’t want that kind of devotion.
Did he?
This was getting him nowhere. Rather than face further uncomfortable thoughts, he rose from his pallet and took himself back out into the garden.
The firebird had preened all the water from its feathers, and busily fluffed them, holding its wings away from its body in order to make certain that they dried fully. The bird paid no attention to him as he passed it and went to the far side of the garden, and the wrought-iron staircase that led to the second floor and the ekele he shared with Firesong.
He climbed the stairs and emerged in the middle of the central room of the ekele, a room intended for socializing. This room looked exactly like the “public” room of any Tayledras ekele; it was light and open despite little free floor space, furnished with a number of flat cushions for sitting and lounging, a pair of perches for bondbirds, and some low tables. The floor was a herringbone pattern of two different hardwoods, amber and pale honey.
An‘desha passed through this room to reach his own room, one draped with cloth against all the walls, and gathered up in the middle of the ceiling, supposedly to resemble a Shin’a’in tent. Firesong’s idea, and he couldn’t spoil Firesong’s pleasure by telling him it no more looked like the inside of a Shin’a’in tent than the Palace gardens looked like a Vale. It contained the chests that held his clothing, the few personal possessions that he had managed to accumulate, and a more comfortable bed than the pallet in the tent in the garden. He didn’t use the bed much, except to lie on and think.
He pulled aside the cloth covering the windows on the outer wall, and looked out into the branches of the tree just outside. He found himself wondering if that story Firesong had heard was true—and if it was, how had it ended? In tragedy, or in happiness?
And how could it matter to me, either way? Oh, I think too much.
He turned back into the room, dropped the robe, and pulled out a shirt and breeches from the chest that held his clothing, pulling them on and trying to ignore the slightly odd cut. These were not Shin’a’in, and there was no getting around the fact. They would never feel exactly “right.”
But it was clothing, and it worked very well; it didn’t matter if it felt like Shin’a’in clothing or not.
He turned back to the window—
And suddenly, out of nowhere, the fear came again. Not one of the stupid, personal fears, but something much, much greater. He clung to the windowsill with both hands as the sunlight turned as chill as a blizzard sweeping across the Plains, and his teeth chattered as he shook from head to toe, unable to move, scarcely able to draw a breath. His stomach clenched; his jaws locked on a cry of anguish. His heart thundered in his ears, and he wanted only to run, mad with terror, until he couldn’t run any farther.
Something is wrong....
Then, abruptly, the fear left him, gasping for breath, as it always did.
But the message