Love And War by Various Read Free Book Online Page B

than a week; she wasn't angry with him. Besides, in her great and enduring
     sadness, there was precious little happiness. Seeing her old friend was a welcome relief
     from her neverending sense of loss.
    They sat on a sandy beach at the edge of the bay. She glanced up and smiled, slightly
     averting her eyes. It was self-preservation. Tosch was covered with every imaginable color
     of cloth; it nearly blinded her whenever she tried to gaze at him. He obviously was not
     interested in the three-color cape that she had painstakingly made.
    “Look,” he said, insisting that she focus her eyes on him, “I've had my teeth chiseled.
     What do you think? Good and straight now, right?”
    She shielded her eyes and glanced at his mouth. “Every time I see you, you're different,”
     she said. “I can hardly remember what you looked like six years ago.”
    A tear suddenly ran down her cheek. Her chin trembled.
    “Now what's wrong?” asked Tosch, perturbed. “I'm sorry. It's just that I sometimes forget
     what Seron used to look like, too.”
    The dragon lowered his plummaged head and sighed with exasperation. “You still think of
     him?” “I never stop.”
    “Well, I still can't understand what you saw in him. I grant you, he was a passable
     painter, but after all, he had a wonderful subject. You know,” Tosch added, “he was never
     very nice to me.”
    “He liked you very much,” Kyra said defiantly. “And I don't want you to say another bad
     word about Seron. Not ever.”
    “Sorry,” apologized Tosch, shrinking just a bit under her wrath. He thought it wise, just
     then, to say something nice about her late husband. “It's too bad he never did a self-
     portrait,” offered the dragon. “He would have done a fine job. And then you would have had a picture of him always.”
    Kyra nodded sorrowfully. “Listen, let me take you for a ride,” suggested the dragon,
     trying to change the subject. “It'll lift your spirits. Where would you like to go?”
    “Home,” she said sadly. “I'm not very good company when I'm feeling like this.”
    She lay in bed for hours, unable to keep from crying. It's been six years, she thought to
     herself. Why am I still grieving? Why can't I stop?
    The answer was as plain as the tears on her face:
    Her love did not die in that fire. Yes, her memory was fading, but her feelings were as
     strong as ever.
    Finally, late that afternoon, she climbed wearily out of bed and built a fire in order to
     make herself a light meal. Later, after sitting down at her rickety wooden table to eat,
     she noticed that her hands were smeared with charcoal. Without thinking, she absently
     cleaned her fingers by etching an image of her husband in charcoal on her faded white
     tablecloth.
    When she realized what she had done, she stopped and stared at her work. The picture
     stared back at her. It wasn't a very good likeness of Seron, but it was still undeniably
     him. More than that, though, while she had been sketching, she had sensed - for the first
     time in more than six years - the peace and security she had felt in her husband's arms.
    After all this time, Kyra finally knew what she could do with her life besides serving
     ale. Still staring at the sketch, she whispered, “I'm going to paint you, Seron. I may not
     be the artist that you once were, but I'll do my best to be as good as I can be. I won't
     settle for less; I can't settle for less, because it's the only way I can have you close
     to me.”
    With paints, brushes, and a canvas bought out of her meager savings, Kyra started the
     memory portrait of her husband that very night. Painting by firelight, she worked until
     dawn. Her body ached, her eyes were strained, and she was thoroughly exhausted. And when
     the sun came up, she was also thoroughly disgusted. She hurled the canvas to the floor,
     where it landed face down. “Terrible,” she muttered. “He didn't look anything like that.”
    It