Page 47 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy

“We can’t lose Tristane,” said Beaufort, passing his hands over his face.

“Let’s talk elsewhere,” said Sacramore.

The Orders dispersed and milled towards the waystone at the centre of the Stánrocc. A rainbow of tacn gleamed in the dark as their owners pressed them to the stone: blue, white, crimson, purple, green, bronze, and gold.

Through the shuffle of hoods and cloaks and helms, Osric didn’t spot Fairhrim until he was two feet away from her. They caught each other’s gaze.

She had won. He had lost.

The scene would later come back to him like a painting; the silhouettes around her massing at the edges like a frame, heavily moulded, and she, pin straight, the subject of the portrait, cold and pitiless. In that summer night, she was the sting of frost, the silence of winter, remote, untouchable. Silver at her shoulders, iron in her countenance, and in her eyes, only disdain.

She was a mere arm’s length away, but the commonplace bit of grass between them was an impossible gulf. Osric had never so acutely felt their difference as when they stood there, surrounded by their respective Orders, in purest white and unrelieved black, on opposite sides of the Stánrocc. Could anything mend the breach? He felt so far from her.

There was beauty in it. The mournful beauty of things that could never be.

10

The Hunig Moon

Osric

When Fairhrim’s deofol next prickled Osric’s tacn, his first impulse was to ignore it. He was in the throes of a vague misery, angry at her for what she’d done but finding himself, also, missing her. The confusion of feelings could find no place to settle, but crept, heavy and dark, from heart to mind and back again.

He ought to go out on some deplorable debauchery, but he preferred to mope. It was women like Fairhrim who turned decent men into pathetic pining cretins.

This was rather a lot of fuss for a Flight of Fancy. He must hold on to his anger above all the rest.

Fairhrim’s deofol pressed at Osric’s tacn so sharply it might have been using its teeth again. Given that July’s full moon was only a few days away, Osric let it through. He did, after all, need to know where to meet Fairhrim for the next healing attempt.

The white genet materialised. Its red eyes gleamed with contempt. There were no preliminaries save for, “You absolute moron.”

“Hello, Fuckfang,” said Osric.

“Every time I think you’ve plummeted to the bottommost depths of idiocy, you spelunk your way to new ones. Did you really think Aurienne would let you intercept Tristane’s transfer?”

“No oneletsme do anything,” said Osric. “I do what I want.”

“Hasn’t she just taught you the contrary?”

“She didn’t tell me her seith markers had other uses.”

“You didn’t ask,” sniffed the deofol. “You’re to meet her at the Hotel Llawgnychu on the day of the Hunig moon. The healing will take place at sunset. Aurienne is taking rooms at the hotel. You may take yours in the foulest midden heap in Dyfed; it’s all you deserve.”

The deofol vanished with an irritated crackle of fur.

On the day of theHunig moon, Osric discovered that the Hotel Llawgnychu was not a part of the waystone graticule. Apparently, it prided itself on its remoteness and exclusivity, and therefore forced its guests to arrive at a waystone two hours away by carriage, from whence they were carted into the mountains of Dyfed.

The hotel was situated upon a lake. It was originally some rich bastard’s sprawling private mansion, recently converted to a hotel, and enjoyed now by other rich bastards. There were extensive gardens, an elegant terrace, and, following the lakeside, a long undulating promenade. Couples meandered arm in arm among fluttering banners and stalls selling ice cream, lemonade, and sweets.

Osric bribed the man at the front desk to free up the best rooms at the hotel for his use, because he was the richest bastard there and he deserved it.

Having selected a table on the terrace, Osric discovered that the hotel was a favoured spot of lovers and honeymooners, or singletons hoping to join those categories. He was accosted three or four times bygentle ladies and one hopeful man. He fended them off, then pushed a few thrymsas into his waiter’s palm and told him he was married, and to please keep away the riff-raff.

Osric ordered a fizzy something or other featuring alcohol and spheres of frozen cantaloupes. He leaned back indulgently as he sipped upon it. This was what he liked: just him, his drink, and his problems. No Fairhrim.

“Pardon me, sir,” interrupted the waiter.

Osric, at peace with the world, answered opulently: “What is it, my dear man?”