The Return of the Dragonhawk

Chapter 22 -- The Call of Destiny

Rhoz held her breath as she eased open the secret doorway into Alyx's chamber and stepped into the dim light. Silvery moonlight flooded through the windows, mingling with the everpresent blue glow.

She wondered at the undrawn drapes. Either Alyx had left them open to allow more fresh air to enter his chamber on this humid evening, or he had not yet retired.

Silently, she tiptoed over to the massive bed where they had lain together. She had not intended to be so brazen. But the swollen moon teased her with its shimmering light even when her eyes were closed, making her blood sing, until she could think of only one thing.

She had dressed by moonlight, telling herself that a walk outdoors would calm her. She did not dare to ask herself why she donned a pale green blouse of soft gauze instead of her usual tunic, pulling it down to bare her shoulders; or why she added a long, flowing skirt in dark green shot with silver. She exchanged her boots for soft slippers and combed her hair into silken smoothness. It was the first time since her birthday that she had worn feminine attire.

Once outside, it had seemed perfectly natural to examine the base of the Kingstower stone by stone, looking for the one that would admit her into the secret tunnel, and equally natural to proceed down the stairs and follow the corridor to the dead end. Her fingers had explored the wall of their own accord, searching for the catch that would unlatch the pivoting section of wall.

She had to see Alyx.

There had been no opportunity for private conversation in the frantic days since Utor Horakkyn's intrusion into the council chamber. Now that the language barrier had been overcome, Alyx had spent long hours closeted with Utor, as well as with Lord Amech, the Vacina Calchis, and young Gundar. Between these private meetings and the deliberations of the Great Chapter, he rode out with the patrols searching for Lothar. He looked more exhausted day by day, as if he no longer slept. It was understandable that they found no private moment for themselves; but Rhoz could not help feeling that he was avoiding her.

She had tried her best to concentrate on inventing ways to neutralize the catastrophic evil that loomed over them all; but no matter what she was doing, she thought of Alyx. Alyx of the mysteriously variable eyes; Alyx of the stormy heart tossed on waves of fleeting joy and bitter grief; Alyx of the fluidly muscled limbs, with lips and hands clever to find the source of each and every one of her fountains of delight.

When she had read the ancient romances in the library of Draklunys, she had been mystified by the transcendent love that bound the legendary couples together. Now she knew its force for herself. Fighting against it was as useless as trying to scale a waterfall. She had meant to wait for some sign from him, but her own heart and body betrayed her. Every moment apart from him was searing agony.

Trembling, she pulled open the heavy curtains around the bed.

No one was there.

She crawled onto the smooth expanse of the coverlet, letting the curtains fall shut behind her. She sat with her feet drawn up, hugging one of his pillows, imagining that she could smell his muskiness on the silk. Perhaps he was restless too, and had decided to roam silently in the moonlight, just as she had. For all she knew, he might be at the door of her chamber this very minute, rapping gently so as not to reveal his presence to those slumbering nearby.

Or maybe he had found another bed more welcoming than hers.

No! She shook her head, as if to dispel the unwelcome thought. He loves me. He must love me.

She put the pillow behind her back and leaned against the wall. The books that were read aloud during the weary hours of embroidery had often spoken of the fact that men were different from women. While women were bound by virtue and natural inclination to one man, men were wont to flutter like butterflies from flower to flower, taking whatever they wanted. Perhaps the mystic unions celebrated in the romances of Dys were fables, false tales men told to lure women to surrender their virtue. Perhaps what had transpired between Alyx and her meant nothing to him.