Exile's Children (61 page)

He arched his head back against her hand and turned toward her, smiling. She noticed that first he carefully set down his pen, and when he put his hands upon her hips she decided she would not, this time, be circumvented.

“What is it?” she asked, and before he could dissemble with words or his lips, “Arcole, I am your wife. Shall you lie to me?”

He looked an instant shamefaced, then shook his head. “Not to you, Flysse.”

“So?”

“I'd not lie to you,” he said with a terrible sincerity. “So better I say nothing.”

Flysse stood awhile silent, shocked. The room was chill, but when she shivered it was not from the cold, save what curdled in her belly. “What do you say?” she asked at last. “I don't understand.”

Arcole took her hands and kissed them. “Is it not enough I love you?”

“But keep secrets from me?” It hurt to say that, so stern. “Is it so in the Levan that husbands and wives hold secrets from one another?”

He chuckled then, which confused her. “As it happens, yes,” he said. “But we're not in the Levan, eh? And even were we, I'd not. There'd be no cause.”

She guessed he spoke of such matters as he had described to her, which seemed most scandalous—that married men kept mistresses, and wives entertained lovers as if the marriage vows meant nothing. Was that how society behaved, she'd have none of it. “No,” she said, “we are not in the Levan.”

“Were we,” he responded, “there'd be no cause.”

Flysse felt confusion grow. Did he say he'd not give her cause to doubt him, but be a faithful husband no matter where they be? Or did he say that were they in the Levan, there should be no cause for any secrets? She was a plain woman, and preferred plain speech: she said, “Arcole, do you speak honestly to me?”

He sighed and said again, “It were better I say nothing, Flysse. Better you not know what I do.”

Anger grew, or was it fear? She faced him square and said, “I am your wife, our lives are as one now. You should not hold secrets from me.”

He said, “No,” and sighed again.

“So?” she prompted.

“So,” he said, “I have stolen paper and pen and ink from Wyme's
study, and am I found out shall be punished. I'd not see you suffer for what I've done.”

Flysse sensed there was truth in that, but that it was not all the truth. She withdrew her hands from his grasp and stepped past him to stare at the sheet of paper. From the corner of her eye she saw him move, and wondered an instant if he would block her or remove the mysterious document. She was pleased when he did neither but only stood watching. Still, she could not understand what it was she studied.

“I know what you've taken,” she said, “and where you hide it. And that you often work on this … whatever it is. Were it discovered, think you the master would not assume my knowledge and punish me?”

Arcole said softly, “Perhaps you should report me.” Then he gasped as Flysse's hand struck hard against his cheek, stinging across the brand there.

“How dare you!” There was genuine anger in her voice. “Have you so low an opinion of me?”

“No.” He shook his head, smiling as he rubbed gingerly where her blow had landed. “No, Flysse, I've not. God knows, I've only the highest opinion of you.”

His smile was genuine, his tone apologetic. Flysse felt outrage dissolve, regret form in its place, and again confusion. She said, “Arcole, forgive me.”

“No.” He took a pace toward her, hand rising to touch her lips, silencing her apology. “I deserved that reminder I wed an honest woman. What I said, was unwarranted, unforgivable. Flysse …” He took her hands again, his expression solemn, “Do you forgive me?”

She said, “Yes, of course.” And then, “But I still fail to understand what it is you do.”

He had known he could not keep it secret, and with his gambler's instinct decided to chance whatever transpired.

Sleeping in a room shared with Nathanial and the other single men allowed no opportunity to work on the chart. One or the other would inevitably have seen what he did, and even had they not recognized it, they would surely have known he could read and write. He could not risk their telling, either by a tongue's casual slip or deliberate malice. He knew there were some who resented his elevation and would likely seize the opportunity to advise Benjamyn of his project. Then doubtless Benjamyn would investigate and inform Wyme, and all his hopes be dashed.

Sharing this tiny chamber with Flysse had given him the privacy he
needed to hide his stolen materials and work unseen—save by her—on the chart. It was impossible to believe she would not sooner or later learn what he did, but—cowardly, he supposed—he had avoided this inescapable confrontation as long as possible. He knew Flysse would not betray him; he had no idea how she would take the truth.

He said, “It's map.”

“A map? A map of what?”

Arcole found her tone difficult of interpretation. He was suddenly very afraid: he loved this woman, and knew himself ashamed he had thought to deceive her. He said, “Of Salvation.”

She stepped by him, leaning over their barrel-table to study the hard-won chart. “Do you explain?”

He ventured to set an arm around her and was relieved she did not shake it off as he indicated his work.

“This is the coastline; Grostheim's here, this line is the Restitution River. These are inland holdings. It's not done yet.”

“How can you know all this?” she asked, her gaze still fixed on the sheet.

Arcole wished he might see her eyes. He said, “Wyme keeps maps in his study. When I have the chance, I study them; memorize them.”

“You're very clever,” she said.

Her voice was carefully modulated, the warmth that had been there earlier cooled. Arcole said, “Not really. I make mistakes, working solely from memory. Often I must start again.”

Flysse said, “This looks complete. What's this?”

She touched the line indicating the forest edge, and Arcole told her, “The beginning of the wilderness.”

“And these?” Now she dabbed a finger's tip at the crosses he had drawn.

“Holdings that have been destroyed,” he said.

She turned from the map at that, and her face was grave. “Destroyed?”

He nodded. “There were three when first I saw the map. There have been six more marked since then. And the Militia patrols the boundaries—I think there shall be more when they return.”

“How do you know?” she asked. “That there's patrols, I mean?”

“Wyme talks,” he said, and shrugged, grinning. “He thinks we branded folk have no ears. He's careful—I think some great event unfolds—but still he lets things slip. And he leaves papers about: I think he forgets I can read and write. If he ever knew.”

Flysse heard the bitterness in his voice and nodded thoughtfully. “Destroyed, you say. By what?”

Arcole shrugged again. “I don't know for sure. I think no one knows; only that farms have been found burned, and all the folk there slain. Wyme'd not have such news get out.”

“No wonder you'd keep this secret,” she said. “Did any learn you know …”

She shivered, and Arcole drew her close, but she set a hand against his chest and pushed him back a little. “They'll not have it from me.” It was a promise he accepted with confidence. “But still—Arcole, what is this
for
?”

He said, “Something is happening in this land that Wyme does not understand. Something is killing the farmers. Or
Someone
. I think there may be folk living in the wilderness. See?” He touched the map swiftly, counting the crosses there. “The attacks began close on the forest edge, on the most isolated holdings; but they move closer to Grostheim. I think Wyme is afraid—surely, he keeps this news from all but the Militia.”

“It frightens me,” she said.

“You've no need to fear.” He hoped she spoke of the map, not of all it portended. “I doubt whatever is out there would dare attack this place. There are too many soldiers …”

“No.” Flysse shook her head. Her eyes were suddenly lonely. “It's not that I fear.”

“Then what?” he asked.

Almost, Flysse could wish she had not begun this: it led toward a destination that did, indeed, frighten her. But she was on the path now and could not turn back—her innate honesty would not allow her. Suspicion grew: of what the map meant, not only in immediate conclusion but also in terms of her marriage. A horrid question shaped in her mind, and for all its possible answer terrified her, she knew it must be asked. So she squared her shoulders and looked her husband in the eye and voiced her fear. “You contemplate escape, no?”

His expression was all the answer she needed, but still he ducked his head and said, “Yes,” in the tone of a man caught out in some misdemeanor.

He began to amplify, but Flysse waved him silent. The room's cold seemed now to permeate her and she folded her arms, hugging her shawl close. Her throat was abruptly dry and she must force out the words she had no choice but to speak. “Alone? Or did you intend to take me?”

“Flysse,” he said, his voice hollow, “I love you.”

“But?” She studied his face. Was it the shadowplay of the candle, or did she see anguish there?

“As yet I see no way I might escape,” he said in the same dull tone. “Even could I, it should surely be perilous.”

“You evade my question, 'sieur.” The cold inside her seemed to gather, focusing on a point deep in her belly, and there grew hot: she felt anger kindle afresh. She had believed she knew this man, believed he loved her. Suddenly she was no longer certain. “I ask you: is it your intention to desert me, or have I a place in these designs of yours?”

Arcole said, “Flysse,” helplessly, and shook his head.

“You do not answer, 'sieur,” she said coldly.

“Flysse,” he said again, and moved toward her.

She stepped back. “Is your silence my answer?”

He swallowed, ran frustrated hands through his hair, and met her icy gaze. “This”—he gestured at the map—“is no more than a vague dream as yet. I learn what I can, against a possibility likely hopeless. It may well come to naught . . ”

“But does it not?” she pressed. “Have I a place in this dream of yours?”

“I'd not bring you into peril,” he said. “I'd not see you harmed. I love you too much.”

“I had thought love required honesty,” she said. “I had thought love meant sharing; being together.”

“We are together,” he said, “and I do tell you honestly what I do.”

“We are together, yes.” Flysse laughed: a short, sharp snort, devoid of humor. “I had believed we were together because you wanted that. Now I must wonder if it was only the privacy marriage affords you, this room that allows you to weave your plans. And your honesty? It seems that must be drawn out of you, no?”

“I'm sorry.”

“Now, doubtless.” Flysse smiled, the curving of her lips no warmer than her laugh. “But had I not discovered your intent?”

Arcole could only shrug. It was difficult to meet her eye. Her gaze was so cold now, and he knew he hurt her. He wished he had not; of a sudden, he wished he had told her everything from the start. Had any doubt lingered that he loved her, it was gone now. He had not realized she might hurt him so much, not realized her pain could cut him so deep. He wondered how he might heal the wound. He knew he would not lose her; and feared she was already gone.

“Well?” she prompted.

He sighed and rallied his thoughts. “I know not where this leads,” he said, indicating the map again. “I stumbled on this knowledge and found some hope there. I'd not be a damned servant all my life, Flysse! I
was unjustly charged, unjustly branded! Evander sent me to this godforsaken place, and I'd not die a servant of Evander. I …”

He fell silent as her eyes blazed like blue ice. “And I was fairly condemned?” Her voice was low, throbbing with barely contained fury. “Did I deserve exile? Am I only a ‘damned servant'?”

“No!” he said fervently. “Oh, God, Flysse, you're my wife because I wanted that.
Wanted
it! I tell you honestly—I love you; and I'd live out my life with you, proud you name me husband.”

“Save,” she said, “the opportunity comes to escape.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I hadn't thought so far. Once, perhaps, but no longer! Never since that night. I'd not thought past the making of the map.”

“And now you must.” She wondered she did not weep. Surely she felt tears threaten, but also the heat of anger still, the outrage his betrayal delivered. “Think carefully, Arcole.”

He nodded. “It may not be possible,” he said slowly, choosing his words with infinite care. “To flee this house, get past the walls. Wyme should surely send soldiers after”—he almost said “me,” caught himself—“us. And then we'd need to cross Salvation. We'd need supplies; weapons. I'm not sure where we'd go. Into the wilderness, perhaps. Or …”

He hesitated and Flysse urged him on with a tilt of her chin.

“Or go to the savages Wyme writes of,” he said. “Seek sanctuary with them.”

“Who slay farmers and branded folk alike?” she said. “Who burn farms and leave none living? Think you they'd welcome us openarmed?”

“I said it should be dangerous.” God, this woman cut to the meat of it! He supposed it was one reason he loved her. He wondered how he could have contemplated leaving her. And how he could not.

“I think that should be rank foolishness,” she said. “To think to find common cause with this unknown folk who burn and kill? Shall you go to them and they wait while you explain your purpose ere they slay you?”

He grinned shamefaced and shook his head, shrugging. “I told you it is, as yet, no more than a vague dream. Think you it should be better to run for the wilderness?”