“Last, the child will be mine to raise.”
“Whatever you say,” he whispers, because the daimone has caught sight of him. She has no true distinguishable features, no human mask of a face, yet those are eyes that see him, that mark his presence, and she does not recoil as he returns her gaze boldly. She watches him, blazing and effulgent, the most magnificent thing he has seen in a life that brought him face-to-face with many wondrous creatures. He does not fear her. He is too much in thrall to desire, the man who until now had remained faithful to his vow of chastity despite the many temptations thrown in his path.
Whatever you say.
The words haunt Liath.
The corpse is carried away and buried fittingly. The next day, Anne and Bernard are joined in holy matrimony in the chapel, with the others looking on as witnesses. Wolfhere paces restlessly throughout the ceremony, looking ready to spit. Rothaide, Meriam, and Severus leave for distant parts, although Wolfhere lingers for a handful of days like a man in the throes of suspicion, believing that his wife is contemplating adultery. Only when his Eagle’s sight shows him the old king, Arnulf, bed-ridden with a terrible fever, does he leave, hastening away to the side of the king he has pretended for all these years to serve faithfully.
When Wolfhere is finally gone, Anne can at last work her spell, but hers is a devious mind and she has the means to punish the only man for whom she ever actually felt unbearable physical desire. The fire of the daimone’s soul is tamed, her aetherical body is given a semblance of mortal substance, but in this process her features are molded so that they resemble Anne herself.
Trapped and diminished, the daimone turns to the one who shows her kindness and affection. Fire seeks heat when it is dying. Bernard is not unaware of the way Anne has turned his wish back onto him, so that when at last the daimone surrenders to his patient courtship of her, it’s as if he is making love to Anne herself, her face, her body, but lit by aetherical fire from within, like Anne in the guise of an angel. With that wicked, sardonic humor that made him able to withstand much suffering in his eastern travels, he even calls her “Anne” although Anne lies as helpless as a newborn in the villa, tended by Bernard hand and foot because he remains as good as his word. His entire universe has shrunk to this villa, to the care he gives faithfully to the invalid who has made his wish become truth, to the sphere of the fiery woman-creature he worships and makes love to.
Maybe what he feels for the daimone is love and maybe it is only lust, a craving brought on by a glimpse of the high reaches of the universe, too remote for the human mind to comprehend. But if what he feels is not love, then it is hard to say what counts for love in a cold world.
Because the world is cold, and the universe disinterested in one insignificant man’s feelings, however strong they might be. Certain laws govern the cosmos, and not even love can alter them, or perhaps love is the unmoving mover that impels them forward.
Seed touches seed, by means unknown to humankind and perhaps influenced by the tides of magic. A seed ripens and grows, and the child that waxes within the creature born not of Earth must build a mortal body in which to live.
It happens so slowly that in the end it seems to happen all at once.
The child consumes the substance of the mother to make itself. All her glorious fire is subsumed into the child she births, and the birth itself becomes her death. All that she was she has given; even her soul is now part of the child. She herself, the brilliant creature bound and trapped months ago, is utterly gone.
That she existed at all can only be seen in the newborn’s remarkable blue eyes, as bright as sparks.
He weeps for a long time, broken, pathetic, until Anne appears suddenly at his side, hale and hearty now that the spell which drained her strength has been dissipated by the death of the daimone.
“So,” she says, examining the baby as if for flaws, “this is how lust ends, in death and despair.” She seems pleased to have found a way to escape this fate, since lust’s cruel hand brushed her as well. She surveys Bernard’s bent form with disdain. “Give me the baby now, as you promised.”
“No,” he says, clinging to the naked little thing, still slick from the birth. Where he made for his love a childbed for her labor lies only a soft blanket, nothing else, no trace of her.
“She killed her mother, the one you loved.”
“I know.” He weeps, because Anne has trapped him, as she meant to all along. She knew, or guessed, what would happen. He fell as did the angels long ago, tempted by carnal desire, and now all he sees at his feet is the yawning Abyss. His heart’s strength is broken at that moment. In the years to come, his body’s strength will be broken as well, bit by bit.