Chapter Six: The Literate Blanket of Snow

Authors Note: It is just so sad that it's taken me almost three years to get this chapter up. I'm mortified, and touched that you've all been so patient with me. There's only one chapter and an epilogue to go--both partially written!

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, 'Do I dare?' and, 'Do I dare?'

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--

[They will say: 'How his hair is growing thin!']

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--

[They will say: 'But how his arms and legs are thin!']

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

--The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Elliot.

Late in the evening. Actually, closer to very early in the morning.

When Alanna the Lioness stood in the doorway of Numair Salmalìn's room, she found herself face to face with what could only be called an inexplicable phenomenon.

It was snowing--indoors.

Alanna blinked. No, that wasn't it. What she was staring at was a room transformed by paper. It covered everything; an obscuring, extremely literate blanket of ink-stained white. The desk was gone, and all traces of carpet. There was about half the Royal Forest in that small room, and, emerging from under it, was a manic-eyed, wild haired being which appeared to be masquerading as her friend. Alanna stood on tiptoe, stretched, and managed to put a comforting arm around his shoulders, while digging her nails--hard--into his shoulder. He winced. She glared. "You need to eat."

"I've nearly found it, Alanna."

"Found what?"

"It"

"Oh," Alanna raised an eyebrow. "'It'"

Numair sighed, and passed a hand over his eyes. "How's Daine?" he asked, attempting nonchalance.

"She's sleeping."

"Have the Provost's men found the bastard, yet?"

"Who do you think they are? Of course they've found him--no, you can't see him, he's being questioned."

"By whom, may I ask?"

Alanna looked at him, concerned. There was a gleam in his eyes that unsettled her. She felt very relieved that she'd asked the Provost to keep Numair away from the Clerk, now. "Dimitri Peregonis."

"That--"

"--Perfectly capable officer--"

"--Inexperienced little--"

"--Fully qualified--"

"--Puppy!"

Alanna groaned. "You're overreacting."

"They're trusting an important case to a child."

"He's twenty-one."

"I don't care."

"You're impossible."

"Refer to my earlier statement, Alanna."

"I hate it when you're in a mood. I'll go away now, and you're going to go down and eat something. No matter how important 'It' is, I'm not waiting on you hand and foot."

Numair sighed, feeling unutterably depressed. "Whatever you say."

The Lioness slammed the door as she left. Hard.

Why is it that women all try and make some sort of point that way?

The Healers' Wing was always quiet in the evening. Most of the visitors had left, leaving those unfortunates on the night shift with at least one less evil to deal with. And Duke Baird had felt it safe to go to his family's rooms, where he could rest a while before arguing with his youngest son about staying at the University.

So, Daine's room was completely deserted when Numair went in, holding a small, delicate pair of scissors that had once belonged to his mother. No one was there to hear the soft 'chink' as the blades came together on a smoky brown curl of her hair. There was no one to protest as Numair's long-fingered hand brushed against her cheek, in a most un-teacherly manner. For there were charms against visitors with ill intent, but nothing to guard against the exquisite and utterly inappropriate tenderness radiating off this man.

Did he kiss her then, reader?

Did he give in?

Did he dare?

No.

He didn't dare.

He knew that, though there was no one there to see, he would remember.

He would remember.

And never be able to live with himself.

With a last look, Numair stole away--curl and scissors firm in hand.

It was past midnight, and most of the paper had been cleared away. A tray of food lay, mouldering and uneaten, by a closed door. Numair, eyes hollow and shadowed yet working like a man possessed, was busy lighting candles. They were set in a circle around him, in heavy, blackened-iron holders, and he lit them by hand. If he tried to use his gift, so highly charged and already beginning to leak from him in black/white fits and starts, they would probably have melted. Iron and all.

He was muttering under his breath. Over and over, in Old Thak, the language of old men and spellcasters. His voice was as tired as the rest of him. If anyone listening had a knack for languages, they would be surprised at how smoothly the harsh Charthaki tongue translated into common.

"'Strength of the Seeker, to find it,'" Numair lit the last candle, and sighed. The circle was complete--all he needed to do was step in.

"'A part of the Lost One, to drive it.'" Nervously, he drew out the tight curl he had cut from Daine before. He stroked it, as if for reassurance. You'll never be lost again, Magelet…

"'Enclose in metal, to bind it,'" he whispered. Then stopped. Metal! He'd forgotten that part. All he needed was a twist of copper wire, but…no, he thought. Flushing, and suddenly swallowing down more than a fair share of guilt, he half ran to his desk, and opened a drawer. Out of it, he drew a man-sized bracelet made of fine gold links, with a small oval locket hanging from it. When he pressed the catch, and let the cover fall back, startling blue eyes looked smilingly back at him--in a lovely oval face framed with long golden hair. His breath caught. He hadn't looked at this picture in years. She looked so young. So pretty…

Gently, Numair removed the portrait, and let it crumple up in his closing hand. There. The last tie to Arram Draper, the one thing that might have ever tempted him to go back, was gone. He dropped it. Then, very, very carefully, he slipped Daine's picture in Varice's place. It filled it completely, and fitted perfectly. And so mote it be, he thought. He put the curl in its place then, and moved back to the circle.

With the air shimmering like a heat mist around him, the candle flame growing and flickering eerily in a room that seemed to grow darker with expectation, Numair closed the locket.

"'And the link is forged, between the two.'"

The candles exploded. And molten iron pooled around their remains, burning through the floor.