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“Deborah Wheaton,” said Noxon, “I’m not really proposing marriage to you. Not yet. I know you can’t possibly give an answer now. I’m just saying that our decision rests upon your decision. Unless you are sure, right now, that no man with a mask like this can . . .”
“As I was saying, before you interrupted—and please don’t go back in time and stop yourself from interrupting me, because that might create yet a third Noxon, and I’d have to choose between the rude interrupter and the even ruder correcter of interrupters—”
“As you were saying,” Wheaton prompted her.
“I’m still sorting out whether I’m in love with you or the amazing things you can do. Human females are attracted to power. That’s simply a fact. And so my feelings of attachment to you are suspect, because they began immediately upon my learning of your ability to vanish and reappear, and then to go back in time.”
“Did my saving your life help or hurt?” asked Noxon.
“It complicated matters, of course,” said Deborah. “Now I have to sort out how much of being in love with you stems from gratitude, and how much from girlish awe at a champion alpha male, and how much comes from my enjoyment of your quirky personality and the prospect of having you as the father of
my children.”
“Please wrestle with this quandary as long as you like,” said Noxon. “I’ll be content with whichever source of love you decide to go with.”
“Oh, just tell him yes and get it over with,” said Wheaton. “It’s been obvious from the start that you two were made for each other.”
“I’m used to keeping company with a genius,” said Deborah. “An irascible one, but . . .”
“I’m not irascible,” said Noxon. “In fact, I’m downright rascible.”
“That’s a false etymology,” said Wheaton. “The ‘ir’ in ‘irascible’ is not a negator, like the ‘ir’ in ‘irresponsible’ or ‘irrespective.’ The root of ‘irascible’ is the Latin ‘ira,’ meaning ‘wrath,’ and—”
Deborah stopped her father with a kiss on his cheek. “I’m sure he was making a joke, not asserting an etymology, Father.”
“Why are you kissing me?” Wheaton retorted. “He’s the one most in need of kissing, I think.”
“Now he’ll think I’m kissing him out of obedience to you, instead of as the result of my own uncontrollable ardor,” said Deborah.
Whereupon Noxon sprang from his chair, took her in his arms, and kissed her without regard for her immediate motive. She responded with as much enthusiasm as was appropriate with her father present. Which was to say that, upon repetition, in private, the whole business seemed to work much better.
CHAPTER 28
Face to Face
Param insisted on visiting the battlefield immediately after victory was assured. “They have to see me there,” she told Olivenko. “I’m in no danger, but the soldiers need to see me there with the dead, with the wounded.”
She was relieved that before Olivenko could answer, both Rigg and Loaf came in on her side. “She’s the one they fought for,” said Rigg. “They’ll love her for it,” said Loaf. And Olivenko could only smile and say, “I salute the Queen-in-the-Tent for her courage and generosity of spirit. I would never advise her to go against her own noble instincts.”
“Olivenko, you are so full of poo,” said Param.
“I meant every word,” said Olivenko, smiling even more broadly.
Now, the sights and smells made her wish she had not been so noble, or that someone had argued against this. Every corpse told a story to her soul: This was someone’s son. This man had hopes and dreams. Even if his only joy was to drink and carouse, those days are over.
“I can see that the smell bothers you,” said Loaf quietly. “But I assure you, today the bodies are still fresh and the rot has not set in. Tomorrow I would urge you strongly not to come. You would vomit, and that is not something your people need to see.”
Param had been trying not to think of vomit, since, as with yawning, the very thought made it more likely she would do it. But she understood his point, and stopped allowing herself to imagine these as living men. She cast her eyes toward them, but did not allow the sights to register. She was not here to learn about all the positions a broken body can collapse into when death comes by sudden violence. She was here to be seen caring about the fallen. So she fixed the proper expression of sympathy and barely-contained grief on her face, and allowed herself to be led where there were the most spectators to see how the Queen-in-the-Tent loved her soldiers.
And when a particularly pungent spot made her gorge rise, she allowed herself to burst into tears so she could be led away from the malodorous spot. Thus she prevented herself from throwing up and disgracing herself. Vomiting was not sympathy. Nausea and nobility were not compatible. But weeping went well with both sympathy and nobility, especially because she was a woman. She noticed that Umbo matched her step for step, but did not weep. She didn’t know if this was because he had seen worse, or smelled worse, or cared less, or was simply stronger than she was. Probably all of those were true.
This is why she was on the battlefield when the emissary arrived from Mother’s army. Param did not recognize the man, but that did not surprise her. In Flacommo’s house she had seen only sycophants, and mostly those who were in favor with the People’s Revolutionary Council. None of those would be in General Haddamander’s army.
“Hagia Sessaminiak sees no reason for this war to continue,” said the emissary. “She is ready to recognize her daughter, Param Sessamin, as Queen-in-the-Tent-of-Light, and her husband as Umbo Sissamik.”
The names were right: “Sissamik” as the male consort of a reigning queen; “Sessaminiak” as a former queen, now rightfully deposed. Deposed, not abdicating voluntarily; that would have been Sessaminissa, and it was a decision that could be rescinded. Mother was saying that she was prepared to recognize that she had been thrown down, and could not rise again.
“I am sure that Mother has terms and conditions to propose,” said Param to the emissary.
