Heaven's Needle (56 page)

“I will,” Bitharn said, amused.

“And thank you, too. For keeping
her
alive.”

She glanced up, smiled, and returned to her book.

Hours passed in welcome stillness. Clean air, warm sun, the sweetness of spring flowers … it was a world apart from the bleakness of Duradh Mal, and its verdant lushness banished the shadows from her soul. Bitharn had spent most of her days in the temple gardens since finishing their work with Corban, luxuriating in the sunny calm.

She hadn't seen much of Kelland in recent days. He seemed preoccupied, sometimes secretive; she wondered about that, and worried, but had decided not to press him on it. They had each endured their troubles over the past winter, and she hadn't felt much inclination to talk about hers, either.

All wounds healed in time. Maybe his just needed a little more.

She could hardly fault him for that. Bitharn still remembered the retreat from Corban's den vividly: the limp weight of the knight dragging at her side, the storm pounding her head and heels as she raced death back to the temple. The Illuminers had kept Kelland in the healing rooms for weeks after her return. It was a miracle that he'd lived, they said, and a greater one that he'd sustained no lasting damage.

At least she had the consolation that he'd be spared any further strain in Duradh Mal. Neither she nor Kelland had seen Malentir since leaving him with Asharre that awful night. The
sigrir
had returned, with that skinny yellow dog and without the Sword of the Dawn, but the Thorn had not.

Asharre never said what she had done there, but Bitharn
knew. She read the answer in the High Solaros' silence over Aurandane's loss and Malentir's failure to return. Either Asharre had killed the Thornlord, or she had given him the Sword of the Dawn. Whichever it was, it had ended any chance of alliance.

And Bitharn was relieved. She had no desire to see the Thorn again; she dreaded the prospect of walking back into Duradh Mal. The memories unnerved her as much as the danger did. Guilt, terror, grief … there was no escaping those ghosts in the mountains. Not for her. If the blight of Ang'duradh could be cured without her, and without Kelland, she was all too happy to stand aside.

Bitharn closed her book, brushed stray flower petals from her clothes, and started back toward the Dome. After a few steps she stopped. A quiet thrill of nervousness went through her; her palms went damp at her sides. Kelland was approaching.

He had something small in his hands. A box. It was flat and rectangular, made of some reddish wood polished to a satin sheen. A goldsmith's mark was incised on its top. She didn't recognize the house; it wasn't the one that made most of the temple's sun medallions.

The expression on his face startled her. He looked frightened but determined, as he often did before marching into battle. His back was stiff, his shoulders squared; he cradled the box so gingerly that she wondered if it held live coals.

“Oh, did you buy me a ring?” Bitharn asked. She meant it as a joke, hoping to lighten his tension, but Kelland started as if she'd dropped an icicle down his back.

“I can't give you a ring,” he said gravely. “I want to, and I will, but … not yet. That must wait until I'm ready to step down from the order. Until then … I'd like you to wear this.” He offered her the box.

Feeling oddly hesitant, she folded her hands behind her back. “What is it?”

“Open it.” The trepidation was still in him, but his lips twitched too, as if he wanted to smile and didn't quite dare. “It's not a snake, I promise.”

“I was thinking hot coals,” she said, lifting the box's lid.

Gold twinkled on a bed of velvet inside. Two sun medallions nestled next to one another, separated by thin golden pins that affixed them to the velvet. They were similar to the one Bitharn wore, but more finely wrought, and each of them had a chip of diamond throwing fire at its heart.

She looked from the jewelry to Kelland, astonished. “What is this?”

“A gift,” he said, pressing his hands over hers on the box. They trembled, although he no longer seemed afraid. “I read about it when I was researching Bysshelios … and the history of my oath. In Pelos, near the end of the Ardasi Flowering, it was the custom for newly married couples to exchange sun signs at weddings. They gave each other medallions that were made of gold, as ours are today, but were also set with a diamond to symbolize their love: a part of this mortal earth, but a beautiful one—and a prism through which the full splendor of the light could be seen.”

“It's lovely,” Bitharn breathed.

Kelland exhaled, relaxing visibly at her approval. He unpinned one of the medallions and held its glimmering chain over her head. “Will you wear it?”

“Yes.” She tilted her face up, mirroring his smile. Happiness swelled in her. As he settled the delicate chain carefully around her neck, Bitharn leaned forward, surprising him with a kiss. “Yes, I will.”

This was a hard book to write. I have quite a few people to thank for the fact that it ever got done, rather than ending unceremoniously as a never-finished manuscript buried in an unmarked … um … trunk. I owe debts of gratitude to:

Jennifer Heddle and Marlene Stringer, for their encouragement, clear-eyed honesty, and (especially!) willingness to crack the whip when this thing got mired too long in the bogs of despair.

Victoria Mathews, who saved me from at least seven face-plants in print.

Dan Andress, Nathan Andress, Ian Hardy, David Montgomery, and Cliff Moore: the valiant team of early readers, who generously gave of their time and brainspace to read half-finished drafts on short notice and comment thoughtfully on same.

Hugh Burns, for being extraordinarily understanding when deadlines crashed into deadlines.

Peter, for being calm, patient, and quick to distract me with zombie cowboys on flaming horses when mere rationality wasn't going to do the trick.

And my dog, Pongu.