When she opened her eyes again, Lythande was looking down at her, sorrowfully.
Bercy stretched up languid arms. ‘Truly, my beloved, you have loved me as no
woman has ever been loved before.’
For the first and last time, Lythande bent over her and pressed her lips in a
long, infinitely tender kiss. ‘Sleep, my darling.’
And as she sank into ecstatic, exhausted sleep, Lythande wept.
Long before she woke, Lythande stood, girt for travel, in the little room
belonging to Myrtis.
‘The spell will hold. She will make all haste to carry her tale to Rabben – the
tale of Lythande, the incomparable lover! Of Lythande, of untiring virility, who
can love a maiden into exhaustion!’ The rich voice of Lythande was harsh with
bitterness.
‘And long before you return to Sanctuary, once freed of the spell, she will have
forgotten you in many other lovers,’ Myrtis agreed. ‘It is better and safer that
it should be so.’
‘True.’ But Lythande’s voice broke. ‘Take care of her, Myrtis. Be kind to her.’
‘I swear it, Lythande.’
‘If only she could have loved me’ – the magician broke and sobbed again for a
moment; Myrtis looked away, wrung with pain, knowing not what comfort to offer.
‘If only she could have loved me as I am, freed of Rabben’s spell! Loved me
without pretence! But I feared I could not master the spell Rabben had put on
her … nor trust her not to betray me. knowing …’
Myrtis put her plump arms around Lythande, tenderly.
‘Do you regret?’
The question was ambiguous. It might have meant: Do you regret that you did not