And he knew it. His voice, when he turned to me, was truculent.
“Now that you’ve put the child to bed—”
“Don’t mock the lad, cousin,” I said. “He’s young, but he was man enough to cross the Hellers alone. I wouldn’t.”
Beltran said, “I’ve had that already from Father; he had nothing but praise for the boy’s courage and good manner! I don’t need it from you, too!” And he turned his back on me again. Well, I had little sympathy for him. He might well have lost us any chance of Danilo’s friendship or help; and Danilo’s help, as I saw it now, was all that could save this circle. If Beltran’s laran could be fully opened, if with Danilo’s aid we could discover and open up a few more latent telepaths, there was a chance, a bare chance but one I was willing to take, that we might somehow control the Sharra matrix. Without that it seemed hopeless.
Marjorie smiled and said, “Your friend wouldn’t speak to me or look at me. But I would like to know him.”
“He’s a valley man, love, he’d think it rude and boorish to stare at a maiden. But he is my good friend.”
Kadarin’s lip curled in amusement. “Yet it wasn’t for your sake he crossed the mountains, but for the Syrtis boy.”
“I came here of my free will, and Regis knew it,” I retorted, then laughed heartily. “By my probably nonexistent forefathers, Bob, do you think I am jealous? I am no lover of boys, but Regis was put in my charge when he was a little lad. He’s dearer to me than my own brother born.”
Marjorie smiled her heart-stopping smile and said, “Then I shall love him, too.”
Thyra looked up and taunted, through the chords of her harp, “Come, Marjorie, you’re a Keeper! If a man touches you you’ll go up in smoke or something!”
Icy shudders suddenly racked me. Marjorie, burning in Sharra’s flame. … I took one stride toward the fire, wrenched the harp from Thyra’s hands, then caught myself, still rigid. What had I been about to do? Fling the harp across the room, bring it down crashing across that mocking face? Slowly, deliberately, forcing my shaking muscles to relax, I brought the harp down and laid it on the bench.
“Breda,” I said, using the word for sister, not the ordinary one but the Intimate word which could also mean darling, “such mockery is unworthy of you. If I had thought it possible, or if I had had the training of you from the first, don’t you think I would have chosen you rather than Marjorie? Don’t you think I would rather have had Marjorie free?” I put my arm around her. For a moment she was defiant, gazing angrily up at me.
“Would you really have trusted me to keep your rule of chastity?” she flung at me. I was too shocked to answer. At last I said, “Breda, it isn’t you I don’t trust, it’s your training.”
She had been rigid in my arms; suddenly she went limp against me, her arms clinging around my neck. I thought she would cry. I said, still trembling with that mixture of fury and tenderness, “And don’t make jests about the fires! Evanda have mercy, Thyra! You were never at Arilinn, you have never seen the memorial, but have you, who are a singer of ballads, never heard the tale of Marelie Hastur? I have no voice for singing, but I shall tell it you, if you need reminding that there is no jesting about such matters!” I had to break off. My voice was trembling.
Kadarin said quietly, “We all saw Marjorie in the fire, but it was an illusion. You weren’t hurt, were you, Margie?”
“No. No, I wasn’t. No, Lew. Don’t, please don’t. Thyra didn’t mean anything,” Marjorie said, shaking. I ached to reach out for her, take her in my arms, keep her safe. Yet that would place her in more danger than anything else I could possibly do.
I had been a fool to touch Thyra.
She was still clinging to me, warm and close and vital. I wanted to thrust her violently away, but at the same time I wanted—and she knew it, damn it, she knew it!—I wanted what I would have had as a matter of course from any woman of my own circle who was not a Keeper. What would have dispelled this hostility and tension. Any woman tower-trained would have sensed the state I was in and felt responsible. . . .