The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [13]
With his face hidden, he did not look so different than he remembered looking in younger days. His arms were still hard, the thick hair on his chest still dark, and his belly had not gone to pudding as with many men his age. It was his hands that gave it away. They were rough, big-knuckled, etched with lines and scars. The hands of an old man.
He shrugged his gray tunic on over his head, belted it into place, then turned around. Lesa was sitting up in bed now, her snarled brown hair falling about her shoulders, watching him with small eyes. Her face was lined and battered beyond her years by a hard life, but her breasts were small and well shaped.
She hugged her arms around her knees beneath the covers. “When will you make me your lady, my lord?”
“I shall never make you my lady,” he said, and pulled his boots on.
She laughed and patted the bed beside her. “I’m your lady here, I am. So solemn you seem. But you’re bold enough when you press yourself to me. Is that not enough for you?”
Durge laid three silver coins on a small table. “Buy some shoes for your children. I saw them barefoot in the town commons.” He moved to the door.
“I will, my lord,” she said. “Buy some shoes that is. Jorus bless you.”
Durge said nothing as he stepped through the door and shut it behind him.
The castle was quiet; most of Ar-tolor was still abed. He trod the passages back toward his chamber, but he did not hurry. This was one of his rare moments to himself, and it was proper to savor it. Over the last two decades, Durge had grown accustomed to being alone, and he did not find it a burden. There was so much that could be heard—so much that could be seen and felt—only in the stillness of solitude.
Not that he regretted the time he had spent with Aryn and Lirith. Above all else, a knight must have purpose. But then, that was part of his present difficulty, wasn’t it?
A knight needs someone to serve, but what need have they of your service here, Durge of Stonebreak?
He knew with the solidness of stone that it was time for him to leave, to go back to Embarr. Yesterday evening, upon their return to the castle, Aryn and Lirith had dashed off without a backward glance at Durge. But then, what use were somber knights when brilliant queens requested one’s attention?
Left to himself, Durge might have worked on his alchemical studies, but he had been unable to procure the proper supplies and equipment here. As far as he could tell, engineers and men of logic were as rare in Toloria as witches and blades of grass were common. So instead he had gone to Lesa. After the day’s events, he might rather have occupied his mind with his research, but it was good to occupy one’s body as well, lest one or the other grow weak from neglect.
He paused before a window, gazing at the world beyond the glass. A fine mist rose from the ground, and all things—hills, sky, trees—were cast in shades of gray. Sometimes Durge preferred it this way: a world without color, filled only with shadows. Or was it simply that this was all he knew?
No, there had been color in his world once. In his mind, he pictured a beautiful young woman with eyes as brown and warm as honey. Only then the color of the woman’s eyes changed, so that they were no longer brown but a vivid sapphire blue.
And you are an old man, Durge of Stonebreak.
But that wasn’t true, either. For he didn’t always feel old. Sometimes, when Lady Aryn was near, he almost felt young again, full of hope and vigor. But that was a foolish fancy, and he knew it.
Strong as stone, you present yourself, Sir Knight, a remembered voice hissed in his mind, and yet your heart is tender and weak with feelings for another … if only you were young and handsome enough to deserve her.
It was cruel, but dragons spoke truth. Was that not what Falken had said? The ancient creature called Sfithrisir knew his heart better than he did.
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