Free The Forgotten Beasts of Eld by Patricia A. McKillip Page A

silver-gray Boar stood panting mildly in the doorway.
“If that is a riddle, I do not know the answer.”
The sweet-mouthed Boar considered. “Then I will tell you. Ask Sybel what name she spoke today before she spoke yours.”
Coren’s red, straight brows flicked into a frown. “I will,” he promised, and reached for a pale length of parsnip.
He brought a rich soup and hot spiced sausage, thick-crusted bread and cups of heated wine to her, and found her sleeping, her hands limp in her lap. She half woke as he pulled a small table between their chairs, and he spoke her name gently.
“Oh.” She straightened, rubbing her eyes with her fingers.
He gave her wine. “I am glad you slept a little.”
“It was good. I did not dream.” She sipped wine, color returning to her face. “Your soup smells like Maelga’s.”
He served her, then sat down beside her with a bowl on his knees. “You should not go so long without eating.”
“I forget to. Coren, this is good. I do not know which is warmer in me, your kindness or your soup.”
He smiled. “It does not matter. Cyrin came to talk to me while I cooked.”
Her brows rose. “He did? He speaks so rarely. What did he say?”
“He gave me a riddle. When I could not answer it, he told me to ask you what name you spoke today just before mine.”
“Why? Is that the answer?”
“I think so. Whose name was it?”
She thought, frowning. “Oh. It was the Blammor’s name, but I do not see—” She stopped abruptly, her eyes widening. Her voice flashed sharp with anger. “Cyrin!” Coren’s plate crashed full at her feet as he rose.
The Blammor appeared before them, the green flame dancing dimly through it. Its crystal eyes stared into Coren’s, and he stood motionless, voiceless, his face the color of ice. Imperceptibly as a mist, the Blammor moved, lengthening, widening, until it hovered like a shadow over Coren, so close his bloodless face seemed smudged and limned with darkness. A sound broke from him, sharp, incoherent, and he swayed gently, as though he were held upright by a wind. Then Sybel, her hands clenched cold against her mouth, heard his whisper.
“Blammor...”
The Blammor turned its eyes to Sybel.
Is there anything more? it asked indifferently, and she shook her head.
“No,” she whispered. It melted away; the fire sprang, warm into her face.
Coren’s head dropped into his hands. He covered his hands with the heels of his palms, ground them against his eyes as though to rub away a vision. He fell, so suddenly she could not catch him; she knelt beside him, helped him sit.
“Coren—” He did not answer. She reached desperately for wine, and saw, watching beyond the circle of light, the red, imperturbed eyes of Cyrin. She sent the blaze of a furious cry into his mind.
I would have sent him on his way—there was no need—
“Sybel—” Coren’s voice came to her as from a deep place within him. She turned to him, her hands closing on his cold, taut fingers.
“I am here.”
“Hold me. Hold me tightly.”
She put her arms around him, held him so close she could feel the leap of his heart and the long shudderings of his breath.
“I am sorry. I am sorry,” she whispered, and kissed him as though he were Tam come to her for comfort. Then a thought stirred in her mind, and she drew away from him. He murmured a protest, his hands dropping from his eyes to pull her back. She said sharply, “Coren.”
He opened his eyes, dazed, as though he were coming out of a dream. “What?”
“Coren, how did you know Rommalb’s name?” He gazed at her, his hands limp on her shoulders, his face drawn, white. She moved his hands, held them tightly as she sat with him on the floor. He said finally, “I know it.”
“But, Coren, how?”
“How do I know anything?” He leaned back against the stones, closing his eyes.
“But how?”
“I had to know.” His words lay strengthless a moment between them. “I would have died on your hearth,” he whispered. “I have