Death and the Lady by Judith Tarr Read Free Book Online Page A

but what he
was best minded to do.”
    “You made him.”
    “Would you rather he came back with fire and sword?”
    For a moment they faced one another, like fire and sword
themselves. Mère Adele shook her head and sighed. “It’s done. I can’t say I
want it undone. That’s a wanting I’ll pay dearly for in penance. You—maybe you’ve
paid already. You never should have left your Wood.”
    “No,” said Lys. “I don’t think that. But that I’ve stayed
too long—yes.” Mère Adele started a little. Lys smiled a thin cold smile. “No,
I’m not in your mind. It’s written in your face. You want me gone.”
    “Not gone,” said Mère Adele. “Gone home.”
    Lys closed her eyes. “Sweet saints, to be home—to live
within those walls again—to be what I am, all that I am, where my own people
are—” Her breath shuddered as she drew it in. “Don’t you think I’ve tried? That’s
why I came here. To find the door. To break it down. To go back.”
    “You didn’t try hard enough,” said Mère Adele. “ Won’t again. Always won’t .”
    “Not my won’t ,”
said Lys. “My king’s.”
    “Yours,” said Mère Adele, immovable. “I can read faces, too.
Are they all as stubborn as you, where you come from?”
    “No,” said Lys. Her eyes opened. She drew herself up. “Some
are worse.”
    “I doubt that,” said Mère Adele. “You’re welcome here. Don’t
ever doubt it. But this isn’t your world. We aren’t your kind. You said it
yourself. You love us, and we die on you.”
    “You can’t help it,” said Lys.
    Mère Adele laughed, which made Lys stare. “Go on, child. Go
home. We’re no better for you than you are for us.”
    Lys was mortally insulted. She was older than Mère Adele,
maybe, and higher born. But she held her tongue. She bent her head in honest
reverence. If not precisely in acceptance.

III.
    The Wood was cold in the grey light of evening. No bird
sang. No wind stirred the branches of the trees.
    Lys had tried to slip away alone. She should have known
better. This time it was not my fault, not entirely: I had followed Francha. So
we stood on the porch of the ruined chapel, Francha with both arms about her
waist, I simply facing her.
    “If the walls can open at all,” Lys said, careful and cold, “your
mortal presence will assure that they stay shut.”
    I heard her, but I was not listening. “Are you going to
leave Francha again?”
    Lys frowned and looked down at the child who clung to her. “She
can’t go, even if I can get in.”
    “Why not?”
    “She’s human.”
    “She can’t live in this world,” I said. “She was barely
doing it when you came. When you go, she’ll die.”
    “We are forbidden—”
    “You were forbidden to leave. But you did it.”
    Lys had her arms around Francha, almost as if she could not
help it. She gathered the child up and held her. “Oh, God! If I could only be
the hard cold creature that I pretend to be!”
    “You’re cold enough,” I said, “and as heartless as a cat.
But even a cat has its weaknesses.”
    Lys looked at me. “You should have been one of us.”
    I shivered. “Thank God He spared me that.” I glanced at the
sky. “You’d best do it if you’re going to. Before it’s dark.”
    Lys might have argued, but even she could not keep the sun
from setting.
    She did not go into the chapel as I had thought she would.
She stood outside of it, facing the Wood, still holding Francha. It was already
dark under the trees; a grey mist wound up, twining through the branches.
    Lys’ eyes opened wide. “It’s open,” she said. “The walls are
down. But—”
    “Stop talking,” I said. My throat hurt. “Just go.”
    She stayed where she was. “It’s a trap. Or a deception. The
ban is clever; it knows what it is for.”
    Francha struggled in her arms. She let the child go. Francha
slid down the curve of her, keeping a grip on her hand. Pulling her toward the
Wood.
    She looked into wide eyes as human as hers