“I … I think so,” said Alfred. “G-good dog. Go with Orla.” He waved his hand and, much to his astonishment, the animal went. “I want to thank—”
Orla turned and walked out of the room, careful to shut the door behind her.
She led the dog to the garden. Sitting down on a bench, she looked expectantly at the animal. “Well, play,” she said irritably, “or whatever it is you do.”
The dog made a desultory turn or two about the garden, then returned and, laying its head on Orla’s knee, gave a sigh and fixed its liquid eyes on her face.
Orla was rather nonplussed at this liberty, and was uncomfortable with the dog so near. She wanted very much to be rid of it and barely resisted an impulse to leap to her feet and run off. But she wasn’t certain how the dog might react, seemed to vaguely recall, from what little she knew about the animals, that sudden movement might startle them into vicious behavior.
Gingerly, reaching down her hand, she patted its nose.
“There …” she said, as she might have spoken to an annoying child, “go away. There’s a good dog.”
Orla had intended to ease the dog’s head off her lap, but the sensation of running her hand over the fur was pleasant. She felt the animal’s life-force warm beneath her fingers, a sharp contrast to the cold marble bench on which she rested. And when she stroked its head, the dog wagged its tail, the soft brown eyes seemed to brighten.
Orla felt sorry for it, suddenly.
“You’re lonely,” she said, bringing both hands to smooth the silky ears. “You miss your Patryn master, I suppose. Even though you have Alfred, he’s not really yours, is he? No,” Orla added with a sigh, “he’s not really yours.
“He’s not mine, either. So why am I worried about him? He’s nothing to me, can be nothing to me.” Orla sat quietly, stroking the dog—a patient, silent, and attentive listener, one who drew from her more than she’d intended to reveal.
“I’m afraid for him,” she whispered, and her hand on the dog’s head trembled. “Why, why did he have to be so foolish? Why couldn’t he have left well enough alone? Why did he have to be like the others? No,” she pleaded softly, “not like the others. Let him not be like the others!”
Taking the dog’s head in her hand, cupping it beneath the chin, she looked into the intelligent eyes that seemed to understand. “You must warn him. Tell him to forget what he read, tell him it wasn’t worth it—”
“I believe you are actually growing to like that animal,” Samah said accusingly.
Orla jumped, hurriedly withdrew her hand. The dog growled. Rising with dignity, she shoved the animal aside, tried to wipe its drool from her dress.
“I feel sorry for it,” she said.
“You feel sorry for its master,” said Samah.
“Yes, I do,” Orla replied, resenting his tone. “Is that wrong, Samah?”
The Councillor regarded his wife grimly, then suddenly relaxed. Wearily, he shook his head. “No, Wife. It is commendable. I am the one who is the wrong. I’ve . . . overreacted.”
Orla was still inclined to be offended, held herself aloof. Her husband bowed coldly to her, turned to leave. Orla saw the lines of tiredness on his face, saw his shoulders slump with fatigue. Guilt assailed her. Alfred had been in the wrong, there was no excusing him. Samah had countless problems on his mind, burdens to bear. Their people were in danger, very real danger, from the dragon-snakes, and now this . . .
“Husband,” she said remorsefully, “I am sorry. Forgive me for adding to your burdens, instead of helping to lift and carry them.”
She glided forward, reached out, laid her hands on his shoulders, caressing, feeling his life-force warm beneath her fingers, as she’d felt the dog’s. And she yearned for him to turn to her, to take her in his arms, to hold her fast. She wanted him to grant her some of his strength, draw some of his strength from her.
“Husband!” she whispered, and her grasp tightened.