Alfred and Orla were seated on her terrace, Orla busying herself by softly singing protective runes on the fabric of one of Samah’s robes. Chanting the words, she traced the patterns with her deft fingers on the cloth, putting her love and concern for her husband into each sigil that sprang up at her command.
Alfred watched sadly. Never in his life had a woman sung the protective runes for him. One never would now. Or, at least, not the one he wanted. He was suddenly wildly and insanely jealous of Samah. Alfred didn’t like the way the Councillor treated his wife—so cold and unresponsive. He knew Orla was hurt by it, he’d witnessed her silent suffering. No, Samah wasn’t good enough for her.
And I am? he asked dolefully.
Orla glanced up at him, smiling, prepared to continue their conversation on the healthy state of her rosebushes.
Alfred, caught, was unable to hide the images of the ugly, tangled, thorny vines that were twisting around inside him— and it was painfully obvious he hadn’t been meditating on the roses.
Orla’s smile faded. Sighing, she laid aside her work.
“I wish you wouldn’t do this to me … or to yourself.”
“I’m sorry,” said Alfred, looking and feeling wretched.
His hand went to pet the dog, who, seeing his friend’s un-happiness, offered sympathy by laying its head on his knee.
“I must be an extraordinarily wicked person. I’m well aware that no Sartan should have such improper thoughts. As your husband says, I’ve been corrupted by being around mensch too long.”
“Perhaps it wasn’t the mensch,” suggested Orla softly, with a glance at the dog.
“You mean Haplo.” Alfred stroked back the dog’s ears. “Actually Patryns are very loving, almost fiercely loving. Did you know that?”
His sad gaze was on the dog and he missed Orla’s look of astonishment.
“They don’t think of it as such. They call love by other names: loyalty, a protective instinct to ensure the survival of their race. But it is love, a dark sort of love, but love nevertheless, and even the worst of them feels it strongly. This Lord of the Nexus—a cruel, powerful, and ambitious man—risks his own life daily to go back into the Labyrinth to aid his suffering people.”
Alfred, caught up in his emotion, forgot where he was. He stared into the dog’s eyes. Liquid, brown, they drew him in, held him until nothing else seemed real to him.
“My own parents sacrificed their lives to save me, when the snogs were chasing us. They might have escaped, you see, but I was only a child and I couldn’t keep up with them. And so they hid me and lured the snogs away from me. I saw my parents die. The snogs tortured them. And later, strangers took me in, raised me as their own.”
The dog’s eyes grew soft, sad. “And I have loved,” Alfred heard himself saying. “She was a Runner, like myself, like my parents. She was beautiful, strong, and lean. The blue runes twined around her body that pulsed with youth and life beneath my fingers when I held her in my arms at night. We fought together, loved, laughed. Yes, there is sometimes laughter, even in the Labyrinth. Often it is bitter laughter, the jests dark and grim, but to lose laughter is to lose the will to live.
“She left me, eventually. A village of Squatters, who had offered us shelter for the night, was attacked, and she wanted to help them. It was a stupid, foolish notion. The Squatters were outnumbered. We would have only died ourselves, most likely. I told her so. She knew I was right. But she was frustrated, angry. She’d come to love those people, you see. And she was afraid of her love, because it made her feel weak and powerless and hurting inside. She was afraid of her love for me. And so she left me. She was carrying my child. I know she was, though she refused to admit it. And I never saw her again. I don’t even know if she is dead, or if my child lives—”
“Stop it!”
Orla’s cry startled Alfred, shocked him out of his reverie. She had risen from her seat, was backing away, staring at him in horror.