Free Moving Water by Sylvia Kelso Page B

done with it.”
    His face changed again.
    â€œYou,” he said flatly, “do not.”
    Her fingers stilled.
    â€œImmortality?” He was not teasing, nor on the offensive. His face was stern, grim. “Tyranny? Godhead? You have no idea. It shows in every move you’ve made.”
    â€œOf course you know so much better.”
    â€œEnough to know what I wouldn’t do.”
    â€œCastrated,” she said sweetly, “by morality.”
    The shaft bounced straight off. “You do know what it is. And you abuse it. Play with it! Using that for Pharaone, imsar Math! Practicing Wreve-lethar to keep yourself young! Who was your teacher, in the Four’s name! Or were you blinded in the nursery?”
    In anyone else that tiny shift of brow might have signaled a frown. Then it was gone.
    â€œOh?” she was purring. “So what should I do?”
    â€œSomething about Assharral?”
    Her voice was flat. “It’s mine.”
    â€œMine!” He tossed his hand up. “There speaks a true Morheage. Just leave it mine, and who cares what else happens to it? Mine! You don’t know the meaning of the word!” He had quite forgotten he was in combat, and I knew she had not. “Rule it! Exploit it, tyrannize it, terrorize it, batten on it, play your piddling tricks—rule? It’s pure shameless incompetence!”
    She had not been drawn. She watched him, contained, poised, and again I wanted to cry, Look out!
    Then she smiled. “Here, then,” she said. And held out the globe to him.
    His hand jerked away as from a snake. He very nearly recoiled.
    â€œDon’t you want it?” she purred.
    His face moved. Not in shock or wrath or any other emotion he had shown. This time it was vulnerable. Naked, as in physical desire.
    Â He swallowed. Then he said harshly, “No.”
    â€œBut I’m incompetent.” She knew she had the whip hand, and was showing it. “You could do so much better than I.”
    He took a quick hard breath and licked his lips. I did not understand the fence. I simply knew he had lost his guard, and was being pressed beyond hope of recovery.
    â€œNo,” he said fiercely. “I don’t want it.”
    She merely looked at him. We both knew it was a lie.
    â€œYou’re not . . . competent?”
    The light writhed in his eyes, the pupils flared, they were turning black. His hand lifted, and was wrenched violently back to his side.
    â€œJust think,” she murmured, “what you could do for Assharral. From the court to the painted savages. No more terror. No more tyranny.” He choked as if hands had him by the throat. “And not only Assharral. Hethria. Everran. The Confederacy. You know what this is. You know you needn’t stop at that. You could change the entire . . . world.”
    He shut his eyes. That one small act was a bitterly contested, cruelly expensive victory.
    â€œThat is not Math.” His voice shook. He was not stating a belief but reciting a prayer. “Math isn’t doing. It’s doing only what you must.”
    â€œBut surely you know it must be done? You were—are—a ruler too.”
    â€œNo.” Sweat ran down his jaw. The scar glared purple. He clenched his fist.
    â€œNo.” It came on a longdrawn, struggling breath. “I . . . will. . . .” His voice cracked, I barely heard the clinching whisper. “. . . not.”
    She had missed the pivot point. She still sounded soft. Concerned. Pitiless.
    â€œYou’ll turn your back? On all that? Even on Assharral? Is it Math to see something so evil and to . . . walk away?”
    He opened his eyes. The irises were bleached, the sockets looked bruised, evidence of a fight that had taken every atom of strength. But the exhaustion was at peace.
    â€œMoriana,” he said. “Give it up. Please.”
    Her eyes went blade sharp. “To you?”
    â€œNot to me. Not to anyone. I know