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and above all be selective in choosing your target. I am not one you can wound.’
Sheltatha shrugged off her cloak, leaving it to fall to the floor. ‘The soldiers talked about you,’ she said. ‘You are missed, or, rather, were. A soldier killing himself in your tent has somewhat stained your reputation.’
‘I have high expectations,’ Renarr replied, still seated, still studying the daughter of Tathe Lorat.
Sheltatha’s brows lifted, and then she laughed. ‘This – I know what this is, you know.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes. This is an attack upon my mother. They tell me it’s for my own good, but they never really understood any of it. When she realizes she can no longer abuse me, she will find comfort in my absence. You see, I was better at it than her.’
‘Better at what?’
‘I learned the sensual arts at a very young age. I have not begun to sag, or waste with drink or smoke. My youth was her enemy and she well knew it. She made her own habits her instruments of abuse, and having given them to me, she desired to watch them deliver to me their ruin.’
‘You are perceptive. Do you deem this wisdom? It is not.’
Smiling, Sheltatha Lore raised her hands, and from both white fire suddenly flared into life. ‘The flame purges, as required. My flesh knows no taint. My habits deliver no stain. Well, not for long, anyway.’
‘Clever,’ Renarr said. ‘So, you are now separated from your mother. Tell me, what do you seek for yourself?’
Sheltatha lowered her hands, and the fires dwindled and then vanished. Her eyes scanned the chamber. ‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘I am surrounded by ambition. It makes every visage ugly to behold.’
‘Ah. Then what of my visage?’
Sheltatha glanced over at Renarr, and after a moment she frowned. ‘No, you remain pretty enough.’
‘And is that something to admire, even aspire to? Shall I teach you the art of my own immunity? You see, I have no need to purge anything from me.’
‘I doubt the fires would find you in any case.’
‘I agree. I therefore elect more mundane means, which might serve you should the sorcery one day fail.’
‘Fail? Why should it fail?’
‘Everything,’ Renarr said, ‘comes with a cost. A debt is already begun, although you do not yet know it, or feel its weight upon you. Be assured, it exists.’
‘How do you know?’
‘You see ugliness in the faces of the ambitious. That is their debt, writ plain enough to your eyes. When I look upon you, here, now, I too see what the magic demands of you.’
Sheltatha cocked her head. ‘What, then? What do you see?’
‘The wasteland in your eyes.’
After a moment, Sheltatha blinked, and then turned away. ‘Which room will be mine, then?’
‘Do you invite my instruction?’
‘Do you name yourself wise?’
‘No. Just more experienced.’
Sheltatha sighed. ‘I had a tutor already. He touched me for pleasure – oh, nothing crass or bold. The very opposite, in fact. A hand upon mine, briefly. A brush of a shoulder, or a tap upon my knee. It was charming in its pathos, to be honest. He too wanted to steal me away from my mother and her ways. But his lessons were worthless. Why should yours be any better?’
