The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [208]
“Actually, sister,” Lirith said with a laugh, “he seems to be doing rather well.”
Lirith was right. The Mournish woman used her scarves to guide Durge in the dance, but in moments the knight seemed to have figured out the complex steps and moved in perfect unison with the woman. She lowered her scarf until it encircled his hips and used it to draw him closer.
Aryn’s blue eyes grew squinty, and her left hand clenched into a fist. “That … that harlot. She doesn’t actually think she can have Durge, does she?”
“No, sister. They cannot …” Lirith’s voice wavered, her visage suddenly stricken. “That is, I’ve heard that the Mournish can never marry outside their clan.”
Aryn seemed puzzled by this, but Lirith turned away from the fire, her face lost in shadow. Had Lirith drunk too much of the heady wine? Travis started to move toward her, then paused. He saw another figure standing apart from the light and music. Despite the gloom, Travis’s new eyes made the other out clearly. He hesitated, then left Lirith and Aryn and moved toward the shadow beneath the trees.
“Beltan, what are you doing way out here?”
The knight stared into his cup; it was still full of wine. “I’m afraid I’m not much in the mood for merriment.”
“Then I don’t think the fairy did heal you, at least not completely.”
“It’s not that. The fairy patched me together well enough. I suppose I owe it my thanks for that.”
Travis stepped closer. It was surprisingly cool away from the fire. He could feel heat radiating from the other man.
“Then what is it?”
Beltan was silent, his eyes glittering in the cast-off light of the fire. “I learned something about myself, Travis. In Spardis, in the baths. Dakarreth told me. It’s … it’s something I did. A terrible crime.”
The big knight was trembling. What was wrong? Travis didn’t know, but he did know one thing: not to trust the words of a Necromancer. He reached out, took one of the knight’s hands, and held it between his own.
“Beltan, I don’t know what Dakarreth told you, but he was evil—he wanted to hurt you. It can’t be true.”
“No, it is true,” Beltan said, his voice hoarse. “I know it is. Five years ago, in Calavere … I was the one …”
Beltan’s words trailed off. In the hospital, in Denver, Travis had dared to bend down, to press his lips to the knight’s. But that had been a cowardly act, one the recipient could never possibly respond to—or pull away from. Travis let out a breath, then leaned forward, bringing his lips nearer the other man’s.
“Travis? Are you there?”
He sucked his breath in again and stepped back. Beltan stared, expression confused, his hands frozen halfway before him, although whether in the act of reaching out or drawing back Travis couldn’t say. The darkness stirred, and a lithe figure stepped into the moonlight.
“You should come back to the fire,” Vani said. “Both of you.”
Beltan’s eyes narrowed. “We were doing fine out here.”
Travis worked his jaw, suddenly anxious for something to say. “What’s wrong, Vani? Do we need to be watching for the Scirathi? You said they could be here in Tarras.”
She broke her gaze from Beltan and spoke in a crisp tone. “They are indeed here in Tarras. Sareth told me he has seen their signs. But I do not think they will attack us openly, not here in the caravan. They yet have some fear of the Mournish. As well they should.”
Travis thought about this. “Your people are sorcerers as well, aren’t they, Vani?”
“No, it is forbidden for us to work blood sorcery until we return to Morindu the Dark. But we have … other means of keeping the Scirathi away.”
Travis studied her lean form, her easy stance. He supposed they did at that. Things like the T’gol.
Beltan seemed to notice Travis’s gaze, and the knight scowled.
“Come on,” Travis said, suddenly wanting to be near light again. “Let’s go back to the fire.”
The Mournish had just called for a song from Falken, and they were laying down their drums and flutes to watch the bard. Travis saw Grace, Melia, and the others and moved toward them, Beltan