Free The Forgotten Beasts of Eld by Patricia A. McKillip

so he died with no one beside him at a battle that was fought for him. That is what I cannot forgive Drede: that Norrel died alone, without help, without comfort.” His voice faded. A branch snapped in the fire; the wind murmured restlessly beyond the walls, moving in the darkness around her house like a beast seeking entrance. She said finally, haltingly,
“I am sorry. But Tam loves Drede. So—I do not want Drede killed.”
She heard his slow, indrawn breath. “So. Ice-white Lady, what shall I do? I cannot stop either my loving or my hating.”
“I do not know what you should do. I know nothing of hating, and only a little of loving. I wish—I wish I could ease your sorrow, but I cannot.”
“You could. I think you could.”
“No.”
He sighed. Then his fingers dropped, curled gently over her folded hands, and she raised her head.
“It took a great love to give Tam to Drede. I hope he is happy with Drede, for his sake, and yours, though I cannot understand how Tam would prefer Drede to you.”
She smiled, the green light gleaming in her hair, on her weary face. “Tam is drawn to people who need him.” She paused. “Surely—surely there is some woman of your own world who has such a need of you. You are gifted, and kind, and—very—and pleasant to look at.”
“Thank you,” he said gravely. “Why is that so hard for you to say? It is so easy for me to say that you are wise, magical, honest, very beautiful to look at, and I love you.” He touched a strand of her ivory hair. Then he shook his head quickly at her restless movement. “I will not—I will not trouble you with things you do not want to hear from me now. But if—if you could give me something of friendship, it would ease me.”
She looked at him, her face opening a little to him. “You came tonight, when I needed some kindness. For that, I am in your debt.”
“Good.” He rose, put more wood on the fire, the flame dancing pale over his face. “Sybel, your fire is the color of young trees... I will cook some supper now— No, stay here. Trust me in your kitchen. Sleep a little, if you can.”
He left her quietly, and as quietly, Cyrin Boar rose from the shadows and followed him into the kitchen. Investigating, Coren discovered her knives, and pots, the loops of sausages on her rafters, new-made bread, and chilled vegetables from her garden. He stripped a carrot at the cutting board, and began slicing it. The great Boar remarked behind him in its golden voice,
“The trained falcon returns to its master’s hand eventually.”
Coren’s knife slipped, struck hard at the cutting board. He turned. “I had forgotten that the Lord of Wisdom had a voice to speak with.”
The small red eyes regarded him, unblinking. “What would you give me for all the wisdom of the world?”
“Nothing.” He turned back to his work. “I have heard you know the answers to every riddle save one. That will be the one I need answering.”
Cyrin snorted gently. “The wise man knows the riddle to ask it.”
“And that the asking and answering are one.” He swept the chopped carrot into a pot, and began peeling a potato. “You mistrust me. I am no trained falcon bound by the leash of Rok’s politics. He had nothing to do with my coming.”
“When the Lord of Dorn received in secret from the witch Glower the death spell she made for his enemies, a shadow darker than night stood beside him, bound to him.”
Coren was silent, slicing the hard potato into rings. He said finally, “It is not to you I must prove I can love freely, but to Sybel.”
“Her eyes see clearly through darkness.”
“I know. I have hidden nothing from her.”
“Roots are grown in darkness.”
“So they are.” He inspected another, and peeled it. “But I do not think, like a root grows, in secret.”
“The giant Grof was hit in one eye by a stone, and that eye turned inward so that it looked into his mind, and he died of what he saw there.”
Coren’s head turned sharply. The