A Gentleman Will Never… Forget A

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A GENTLEMAN WILL NEVER… FORGET
A LADY
THE GOVERNESS CHRONICLES - BOOK THREE

EMILY WINDSOR
Copyright © November 2022 by E. Windsor
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s
imagination. All characters are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is
purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means,
including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author,
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ASIN: B0B63DZYXP

This book is written using British English spelling.

 CONTENTS

Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
Thank You & Author’s Note
Chapter One of ‘A Governess Should Never… Tempt A Prizefighter’

Also by Emily Windsor

About the Author
 PROLOGUE

B itter.Murk
Pitch. Lost.
waters slapped his skin, his eyes, with relentless malice. No
strength left to even shiver. His throat a jagged path of pain – breath a mere
rasp.
He possessed not even the strength to abandon the debris he clung to,
slip into the black sea and let it replace the unremitting agony with
promised rest.
A wave swiped, smothering, and he gasped, saltwater stinging his
throat, the currents beneath clattering his useless and dangling leg.
Dear heaven, let it be over.
Another crashed, tougher, tugging at him, and yet for some primeval
reason, his fingers refused to unfasten, to straighten, nails rammed into the
debris as though struck in with a hammer.
But it took his breath.
He wheezed, heaved in water, coughed and spat… He was to die and–
John Doherty slammed upright on the rigid bench, choking, fingers to
throat, eyes wide…
No chill water or blackened night met his stare.
Instead a carpenter’s workshop lay about him, moderate in size, with
myriad lengths of wood stacked and leaned, waiting to be sanded or cut or
chiselled.
Mr MacNamara’s Boat Shop in Micklow, Ireland.
Slowing his breath, John rose and limped to the cracked mirror above a
basin of water in the corner.
A haggard face grimaced back.
 He touched the reflected forehead – grimy with sawdust and sweat. The
cheeks were thin and the rough pads of his fingers ran beneath the green
eyes – shadowed with pain. His hand crept to his nape, felt for the coarse
scar.
Some said the near-drowned should never be rescued. They were
cursed, marked by the sea as their own, and that any who aided them would
be burdened also with ill-fortune.
But they needn’t have worried as the sea had indeed taken John that day.
His life and his memories.
The face that scowled back was unknown. His old life gone. His name
forgotten.
Nigh sixteen months ago, while hauling catch in the deep sea, men from
this fishing village of Micklow had likewise hauled John’s carcass out, had
believed him dead until one had grabbed his leg and he’d convulsed in pain,
terrifying the bejabbers out of them.
The doctor, a drunkard who’d slammed his leg against a plank and
roped it tight, had told them it was unlikely he’d survive the night and to
pray for his eternal soul.
The prayers had worked but to their own agenda. He’d lived to see the
dawn. So they’d stowed him with a family who’d a spare storeroom and
then asked along the coast if anyone had lost a fisherman.
Three months it had taken to recover, leaving him with a husk of a voice
that had an English lilt, a limp that pained when chill winds blew and the
bestowed name of the fisherman who’d spotted him in the swell.
He wrenched at his shirt and thrust his hand inside, to clench at his sole
possession from a life unknown: a pendant on a leather cord. He traced the
intricate carving of a dragon with his fingertips. To his eye it appeared
whole yet some innate sense told him a part was lost.
It brought no memories but gave…comfort, and some nights it had felt
as if this was all that kept him sane. Somewhere out there, he’d a home…
Voices sounded from the shop, a customer from the city no doubt, so
before Mr MacNamara could dock his wages for napping, John donned the
spectacles he used for close work and stumbled over to the keel he’d been
shaping.
As usual, the slow glide of grit on wood calmed him and he peered
along the length to gauge the line.
 The scrap of paper tacked to the wall caught his eye, dates pertaining to
due repairs.
This was the twenty-second day of November.
And the date niggled at his brain like fish at bait.
He wished he knew why.
At first, the villagers had thought him a fisherman because of his rough
clothes and calloused hands but a single morn on the waters had scuppered
that as he’d not the faintest notion of what to do with nets and baskets, and
besides, his limp had been a liability.
And no one had known what to make of his ability to read.
The family, indeed the village, had no longer been able to look after him
– they’d barely crumbs enough for the rats, the coast and crops ravaged by
the bitter weather this year – and the Poor House had loomed. He could
have attempted to seek work elsewhere as a teacher or scribe, as he
appeared to know some maths and geography, but with no references or
experience or past, it was improbable.
Then…
He’d been sitting on the pebbled beach, staring out to sea and willing
his mind to remember, when he’d spied Mr MacNamara’s wide-open doors,
wood dust sprinkling the air like grains of sand in a squall.
The man had lost his carpenter to better wages in the city and with
repairs to finish was frantically sanding, but in his rush was flattening out
the curve and so John had halted his hand to guide…
And that’s when they’d all known.
Of course. He was a carpenter. Of boats. And Mr MacNamara had hired
him on the spot.
This piece in his hands was for a flash gent who’d ordered a craft for
leisure, and John inwardly sneered. Imagine sailing not for food or coin but
for the sheer pleasure of it.
John had been fortunate, he knew, was thankful for his new life, yet
when Mr MacNamara had introduced his maiden daughter with a nudge,
something had scrunched in his gut.
How could he contemplate marrying when he knew not his own name?
His past… Perhaps somewhere he had a wife…
“Come, Mr Hughes. Come see our fine workmanship,” Mr MacNamara
was jabbering, and John scowled, considered hiding. He loathed meeting
customers, his voice a poor shabby pretence.
 A Welsh accent responded in the affirmative and John cursed. How long
would it take to disappear behind the hull with a dragging leg?
The workshop door opened.
Bugger.
“All you can see here is handmade, so it is,” Mr MacNamara was
explaining. “None of that modern new-fangled machine nonsense.”
“I was recommended you by a colleague in Dublin,” intoned the Welsh
gent. “If all is in order, I would hope to recommend you to my business
acquaintances in Wales.”
John could almost hear Mr MacNamara rubbing his hands in glee. “I
thank you, kind sir. Let me introduce you to our head carpenter.”
Only carpenter, John amended with a scowl.
Nevertheless, he dredged up some semblance of a smile and twisted.
The gent stared. Wearing a brown greatcoat, he resembled a dumbstruck
monk.
John coughed and rasped a bare, “Good morning.”
The gent blinked.
Was he addled?
Finally the gent’s brow scrunched. “But… But I don’t understand…”
He shook his head. “No, ’tisn’t possible… For I was with him yester-week.”
Frowning, John removed his spectacles.
The gent’s skin fell ashen, mouth agape and… “Lord Tristan? No, it
cannot be!” The gent stalked forward, slapped a hand to John’s shoulder,
stared at his face and his cringe at their closeness. “By heaven, you’re
alive!”
John’s heart sped then slowed to a bare thud, and, as though a dense fog
had parted them, he heard the gent tell that he was a duke’s twin brother
thought dead these past sixteen months.
Pain stabbed his chest, pounded his nape, and he clutched at it as his leg
gave way, bringing him to his knees, gasping, breath wrenching, head
rattling with agony.
Was the sea to claim him now? Jested with him for all these months?
Shadows shifted as he fought to remember…
Blades of pain slashed, drowning the present, the hands that clasped
him, the voices raised in concern.
A face… Always out of reach.
The sea of memories overwhelmed him.
And he plunged once more into that ocean of blackness.
 CHAPTER ONE

“And with the light of a full moon, if we should want it, we set out
again in quest of new adventures…”
O bservations and R eflections M ade in the C ourse of a J ourney …
M rs T hrale . 1789.

The Evans’ Family Estate. North-west Wales. 2 nd December 1816.

“S o,companion?”
tell me, Miss Millichip, why should I employ you as travel

“Hah!”
“Hah?” Gwen queried with rather less stridency.
The lady rapped her ferocious-looking walking cane upon the floor,
causing Gwen to swallow and lean back in her father’s study chair.
“It ought to be self-evident, Lady Gwen. I shall keep you safe.”
“S-safe? From what exactly?”
“Inappropriate adventures, of course.” Miss Millichip tutted and
rammed her cane once more, no doubt gouging a pit in the new parquet.
“Not to speak of marauding camels, over-spiced foreign fare, over-
exuberant local customs and over-amorous continental males.”
Gwen inwardly sighed as marauding camels apart, she rather wished to
experience all of those inappropriate adventures.
 The interview progressed in much the same manner – the lady
promising to impede Gwen’s gaze from straying upon unseemly Roman
statuary, prevent exposure of one’s ankle when mounting a mule, thwart
propositions from Italian gentlemen, and ensure effective English language
communication by speaking loudly and clearly.
Clearing her throat, Gwen clasped her hands. “Well, thank you for your
time, Miss Millichip. Your references are excellent so I shall peruse them
forthwith and let you know my decision before Christmas.”
Stitches strained as the lady yanked on her gloves, rose to her stout
boots and glared across the desk. “Young chits such as yourself can too
easily become lost in the sands of Egypt or the ruins of Rome so I urge you
not to dally. I shall be staying in Caernarfon no longer than Tuesday. Good
day.”
Young chit?
“Miss Millichip, I’ve thirty-one years to my nam…” But a billowing
brown cape met Gwen’s frown as the lady plotted course for the door,
glowered at the awaiting footman who hastily shoved it wide and then
voyaged out like a ship in full sail.
Gwen let out a puff, dipped her quill within the ink pot and put nib to
paper, scratching a line through Miss Millichip’s name. Becoming lost in
the ruins of Rome was in fact number six on her rather unladylike list
entitled Deeds and Intrigues to be Sought and Gained whilst Rambling
Around the Continents and their Environs.
Or D.I.S.G.R.A.C.E. for short.
Other adventures to be sought were to wander the pyramids on a
donkey, sail the Danube with loosened hair, pick ripe oranges in Italy and
perhaps embark upon a torrid affair with an Austrian archduke. She bit her
lip as mayhap that last adventure would be beyond the capability of her
nature but…
Gathering her shawl, she signalled the footman to depart, then rose from
the study chair and wandered to the window.
Rain.
It had not ceased since Wednesday past and although one became
accustomed to the inclement weather here in Wales, today it dampened her
mood, the low-slung cloud causing the hour to feel as if it were three of the
afternoon rather than mid-morn.
 Her father’s study overlooked the apple orchard, bare branches
contorted and weeping with moss, teardrops of water glistening.
She could almost hear the laughter of distant childhood, Tristan, Rhys
and herself clambering there for rosy apples in that lazy summer before
school had separated them all.
The Evans’ estate, which had been in her family for ten generations,
neighboured that of the Llanedwyn earls where Tristan and Rhys had grown
up, though neighboured was a loose term, the land between their houses
amounting to some fifty acres, the Cythraul Woods and a good half-hour’s
coach ride. As a child, she’d oft played with the twin brothers who’d lived
there – Rhys, now the Earl of Llanedwyn and moreover the Duke of
Aberdare to boot, and his younger-by-moments twin, Lord Tristan…
Deceased.
She blinked and placed a palm to the chill windowpane.
A rook took scant refuge on a gnarled branch, hunched like an old man
in mourning.
The wild sea had always staked a claim upon Tristan’s affections yet
she’d not minded, been content to share…
Until that stormy July eve sixteen months ago when it had claimed him
forever.
And still a pain clenched at her heart.
To never again view his green eyes filled with mirth. Hear his jovial
boisterous laugh. Watch his long-loped stride. Feel his calloused fingers
brush her cheek.
Her hand clutched at the carved dragon pendant which rested beneath
her bodice.
As children they’d been no more than innocent playmates, and after her
mother’s death, Gwen had been boarded at a Ladies’ School in Caernarfon,
then sent to London to remain with her aunt through many a Season.
During that time away, Tristan had married young and Gwen
remembered him and his beautiful wife forever laughing, Sarah birthing an
exquisite girl. Yet only two years later, Sarah had died in her second
childbirth, the baby boy with her, leaving Tristan desolate and to raise their
daughter Mari alone.
A gust of wind rattled the windowpane and Gwen shivered, watching
the lone rook do likewise before taking flight.
 Gwen had returned from London for Sarah’s funeral and the occasional
summer, grown to adore Mari as she’d watched her flourish into the
vivacious young lady she now was, while herself and Tristan had remained
friends, almost casual acquaintances, till some two and a half years ago
when Gwen had returned to Wales for good.
It was then that something more had begun to flourish.
Until–
“Another one licks the dust, eh?”
Gwen spun. “Father!” Held an icy palm to her chest. “And I wouldn’t
say that. Just that Miss Millichip was a mite…officious. I felt all of twelve
years old and rather thought I’d end up being her companion instead,
winding her wool and chastising waiters.”
The Earl of Penffordd, as he was known to his peers, wrenched at his
crumpled neckcloth, grey hair needing a trim. She must speak to his valet.
“That was your fifth candidate, was it not?”
Indeed. “Perhaps I should widen the net.”
Father harrumphed and ambled to the Chinoiserie side table where
Gwen had dumped – tidied, she meant – all his papers that had previously
scattered the desk. “Don’t see why you have to go off travelling anyhow,”
he grumbled. “Plenty to do here, transcribing all my notes.”
Hmm.
Gwen loved her father dearly and she knew he loved her back…in his
own way, but on occasion she worried that her neat penmanship was, to
him, her only attribute.
“I’m quite sure,” he continued, “that I’m on the verge of discovering the
whereabouts of that stone circle of Brynfach. I can sense it. I’m close. Who
is going to record it all?”
“I’ve arranged a student of history from Cambridge to assist you in
March.”
“Won’t make the tea the way I like it though, will he?”
Gwen crossed her arms. Once she would have mumbled an apology and
capitulated, but over the last sixteen months she’d learned that life was
short and tea could wait. “I shall leave instructions for him.”
“Faugh! Why couldn’t you just have married Lord Rheon? I could have
sent you my research notes by messenger as he’s only an hour’s ride, and as
for your hankering for travel, well, he might have taken you to Manchester
on occasion.”
 Manchester?
“I… I don’t love him, Papa. And he said… Lord Rheon also said he
wished to marry me because I was…comfortable.”
It had been much the same during her many Seasons in London.
Gentlemen had danced with her, sent her flowers and called upon her.
They’d asked her for advice, praised her sweet nature, admired her delicacy
and declared her a…fine friend.
One or two had requested her hand in marriage, dabbing her fingertips
with a dry kiss, but it had all been so cold and insipid, not a meeting of
hearts and passions but of dowry and convenience.
Friendship, she knew, was essential, but even so…
She recalled a ball not far from London, in Richmond, where she’d
gazed on as a roguish marquess had passionately proposed and then
scandalously kissed a beautiful woman in coquelicot red. There on the
ballroom floor! In full view of the Ton! Oh, the ardour!
Was she not worthy of being kissed in such a way?
“Nice of Lord Rheon to compliment you like that,” Father remarked,
rather missing the point. “And truth be told, I’m not too sure I loved your
mother, arranged as it was by our parents, but we made do.”
Gwen buttoned her lips as her nature and upbringing dictated. Her
mother was now just a faint memory. A gentle woman, kind and
unobtrusive, but in Gwen’s twelfth year, she had simply faded a little each
day until she’d died. Quietly. One Tuesday evening, shortly after dinner as
though she’d not wished to bother anyone while they tucked into lamb and
potatoes.
And some days, Gwen feared that would be her fate if she stayed here in
Wales, transcribing her father’s notes until she faded away to a mere faint
memory for someone – though who, she wasn’t quite sure.
Only one gentleman had ever taken the time to peer beneath Gwen’s…
comfortableness. To discover the yearnings, the suppressed spirit of
adventure which simmered beneath, and although he was no longer of this
earth, she still heard his voice urging her on.
“I am going to see the world, Papa, and write a travel book like the
Welsh Mrs Thrale.” Well, not quite like Mrs Thrale as the lady had in fact
appeared to dislike travelling. And the French. And the food. And the dust.
And the bugs. Especially the bugs…
 The place we are housed in is full of bugs, and every odious vermin.

“Didn’t that lady scandalously marry her daughter’s Italian music

master?”
“I wouldn’t know, Papa.” Oh, yes. Scandalous indeed.
Three months ago, Gwen had purchased Mrs Thrale’s Observations and
Reflections Made in the Course of a Journey through France, Italy and
Germany, Volume 1 from a specialist bookshop in Conwy, and she’d
devoured it in a day – the wondrous sights and the offending bugs. How she
yearned to experience them all.
She would fulfil her dreams by hook or by crook.
A buss on the cheek took her by surprise. “When you return,” her father
said gruffly, the scent of musty books clinging to his jacket, “I’ll put you in
contact with my publisher.” He straightened and sniffed. “Now, as I’m to
lose you to the Llanedwyns for Advent and Christmastide too, come help
me pack for my own travels to Pembrokeshire. My valet insists on stuffing
stockings in my slippers, which is prone to leave them with wrinkles.”
Gwen rolled her eyes. “I will return here each week to transcribe your
notes before your departure, Papa. And you are solely attending the Welsh
History Society’s frolic for the Christmas sennight.”
“I expect the tea will be milky too. Pity you can’t come with me as we
are discussing the likelihood of a Roman camp near Llanuwchllyn but alas,
even with your perfect penmanship, no females are allowed in our society.”
Of which, for once, Gwen was heartedly glad.
Instead, she had been invited to spend Advent and Christmastide at the
Llanedwyn estate with Rhys, his duchess Isabelle and their guests. It would
be just what was needed before her travels in spring – good company and
some time to herself to scrutinise her maps and itinerary.
Isabelle had become a dear friend of late, and furthermore, was the only
one who knew of…
For she and Tristan had never let others know of their affection for one
another, had thought it best to see where it may lead, but Gwen had known
her own heart, known it had cherished and desired and loved.
Then been shattered into a thousand pieces by his loss.
Papa harrumphed anew. “Perhaps you’ll find a husband while you are
there? A local one?”
Gwen patted his shoulder. “Do not build up your hopes, Papa.”
 “Well, have a care when you leave, there’s talk of footpads in the
Cythraul Woods. They dressed as ghosts and scared Sir Henry’s coachmen
away, leaving him to robbery! I don’t know what we’re coming to. It’s the
same on the continent, you know. I read it in The Times.”
“I’m afraid, Papa, it will take more than ghosts to dissuade me from my
travels.”
He wandered to the door muttering, but Gwen gazed back to the apple
orchard.
You can do anything you wish, Gwen, she heard Tristan whisper. Be
anyone.
Her lips curved. She would be someone.
No more demure pastels, she’d wear bold coloured dresses. And next
year, she’d ride camels and gorge on exotic foods. She’d find both
adventure and peace on her travels and in her writing.
But before those adventures, she’d enjoy Christmas here in Wales with
dear Isabelle, Rhys, and Tristan’s daughter, Mari. There was to be
wassailing, dancing, greenery and good cheer.
A Christmas never to forget.
 C H A P T E R T WO

“Your vagrant feet desire to tread with measur’d step and anxious
care.”
O bservations and R eflections M ade in the C ourse of a J ourney …
M rs T hrale . 1789.

A hoariness swathed the sky, heralding dusk, and Tristan paused on the
track to gaze up at the ancient and decrepit circular slate tower – the
Castell y Ddraig.
He felt some empathy with the ruined fortress.
To his left, an aged flat-topped stone marked the final quarter mile to the
mansion of the earls of Llanedwyn and so, with a cane of ash wood to
steady his step, he shuffled over, heaved his sack of scant belongings to the
grass and sagged upon it as he had done as a child.
The stagecoach from the town of Caernarfon had brought him as far as
the Llanedwyn village coaching inn where as a lad, he’d supped his first ale
and kissed his first girl, but he’d not recognised the stable boy, nor he him.
What had happened to Delwyn, he’d wondered, who’d forever grumbled of
his cold feet?
Tristan had slouched his hat and trudged out alone.
The village had been much as he recalled – slate roofs, cobbled streets –
and he’d hitched a ride on a vagrant tinker’s cart through gelid pastures and
frosty dale till the track had forked for the Llanedwyn estate. He’d ambled
the last full mile, accompanied by a swirling mist and recollections of that
bitter winter of ’94 when he’d fleetly skated the inland lake, ice furrowing
to the glee of youth, a man of snow built upon its short-lived solidity.
The venerable bare horse chestnut which had lost more branches than he
recalled still stood tall and rooted in the meadow opposite – a lone sentinel
where he, his elder-by-moments twin brother, and their neighbour Gwen
had oft played conkers upon a carpet of copper leaves.
His heart juddered within its cage.
Mayhap because those days had been so blithe.
Twisting on the chill marker, he gazed to the inland hills which hid the
stone circle of Bedd Ddraig high upon their crown. They’d ridden there as
young cubs with cake and milk pilfered from the kitchens for the resting
dragons they’d believed lived within. They’d returned as adults, to wonder
at its legends and admire the view over Tremadog Bay.
He ought to stand, make haste for his home.
Yet he remained upon the stone.
The kindly Mr Hughes had offered to accompany him as far as Dublin,
procured him passage to Wales and had assured Mr MacNamara there was
no rush to complete the repairs to his craft.
So Tristan had packed his meagre possessions, bid his farewells to the
folk of Micklow and begun his journey.
Twisting back, he stared once more at the ruins of the Castell y Ddraig
tower – or the Castle of the Dragon to the raiding English – and then to the
restless sea beyond.
A sea that had stolen so much from him.
That still possessed a part of him.
When Mr Hughes had first recognised him in MacNamara’s boat shop,
Tristan had crumpled to the sawdust like a puppet cut loose of its strings,
only to rouse to a swarm of memories pressing in like desperate bees to a
hive when rain was due. Overwhelming and joyous: his beautiful daughter
Mari, his beloved twin Rhys, the all too brief time that heaven had allowed
him with his wife Sarah so many years ago…
But not all of his memories had been returned by that sea.
There was naught at all of the year or so before those fishermen had
hauled him from the waves.
Naught of the boat Mr Hughes said Tristan had built that year with his
own hands. Naught of how he’d come to be shipwrecked or how the storm
the fishermen spoke of had carried him to another land.
Naught of his last Christmastide in Wales all of two years ago.
He ought to stand, let his feet guide him home.
Yet he remained upon the stone.
To Tristan, it felt as though his life was a tattered book. He had a
prologue, some semblance of a story, but the last chapters had been ripped
from him, scattered to the four winds, frustration and the very devil of a
headache raging whenever he struggled to recall them.
In Dublin, Mr Hughes had taken him to a doctor who’d nodded sagely
but was unwilling to say – or knew not – when those chapters might be
returned.
If ever.
For the last sixteen months in Ireland, he’d not known his own name,
lived as a carpenter amongst some of the poorest yet kindest people on
God’s earth – fishermen who risked their lives daily for a duke’s mackerel
supper, shepherds who froze the night through with their lambs for an earl’s
cutlet dinner.
And now he was home. A father. A duke’s brother. A nobleman with all
of the privilege it brought.
How could he not be grateful? How could he not stretch his arms to the
heavens of his Welsh land – its verdant forests, ancient traditions and wild
nature. His home.
He ought to stand, make such haste as his leg would allow.
Yet he remained upon the stone.
Elated.
Fearful.
His daughter, his brother and his kinfolk would have mourned his death;
black cloth would have masked the windows. Yet within moments he would
re-emerge on their doorstep. There would be tears of joy, wailing and
embracing.
Yet he was not the same father or brother or man they’d known but a
poor shabby shell – his voice a frail rasp, a leg that oft failed him, a pain
that plagued his skull and features so haunted.
The wreck had wrecked him also.
Perhaps he ought to have sent word. But each time, he’d sat down with
the pencil and paper that MacNamara had given him, no words had come.
How could he explain to them what he understood not?
 How was it possible he could now remember Latin lessons at school
and yet not his daughter’s fourteenth birthday? His last memory was of the
foreman handing him the key to his new boat shed at Darowen Bay. And
then… Nothing.
It made no sense.
But then, if truth were told, there were oft times when life made no
sense – the loss of Sarah so young…
A rust-coloured splotch caught his eye, a fox scavenging for food, and
he watched as the stealthy creature crept around the tower, nose scenting the
chill air. Then another, younger, followed with tentative step.
Tristan’s lips pressed to a smile.
He had a precious daughter.
Mari with her flowing dark hair, moss-green eyes and her mother’s
vivacity. And now he knew why that date in November had niggled so – the
date of her birth.
So with knees creaking as though he’d sixty years and not thirty-five,
Tristan raised himself from the stone, gathered his sack and ash-wood cane
and limped on.
Mr Hughes had assured him that his daughter and kin were well, that his
brother had even wed, and he wondered what else had transpired in his
absence. Perchance other friends had married.
Like Gwen?
His foot stumbled, likely a clod of mud, and he paused, allowed his
breath to catch up before lumbering on.
The track curved past the Castell y Ddraig and the Llanedwyn mansion
came into view – red-bricked, slate roofed, with vast wings to either side –
and the sight rent him asunder, seized his chest with joy, a yearning so deep
he wished his leg was hale so he could hie for the portico, rap on the door
and fall into the warmth within.
The hiraeth.
He’d heard that Welsh word spoken on many an occasion but had never
felt its full meaning until this moment.
A longing that assailed his countrymen – grief for the time spent apart
from their homeland. A sorrow that tore at the heart and forever guided
them back.
A longing for the ancient times that were solely evoked in song
nowadays – of princes, warriors, castles and dragons.
 He reached for the carved pendant beneath his shirt and felt calmed, at
peace, welcomed the light drizzle that sprinkled his shoulders with silver
teardrops.
With a shiver, he shuffled on, wondering if snow would extend to the
coast this year. It was uncommon but cold enough and he’d noted it had
already swathed the inland mountain peaks. If the wind whipped from the
north-east, a white blanket would wrap the tower and the surrounding lands,
taming the savage crevices and smothering the rampant foliage.
He stared to his scuffed boots, watched them shuffle the forecourt
toward the welcoming light within the columned portico and the imposing
door with its new coat of blue.
Blinking to clear moisture from his eyes, his fingers brushed the
weather-pitted column.
Would his daughter recognise him?
Would she believe it was he?
He reached out a hand for the dragon-toothed knocker.
Was that laughter within?
He could feel the warmt–
“Around the back with you, lad.”
Eh? Tristan spun.
A crone all garbed in black was marching from the parterre garden that
faced the house, a bunch of rosemary clasped within her hands as her black-
booted feet crunched over the forecourt gravel, skin pale as a five-day-old
corpse.
Mrs Pugh.
Their hallowed housekeeper.
And never had a sight been so welcome. She’d bandaged his cuts,
belted his arse for pilfering cake and–
“Around the back with you,” she repeated, shooing him with the
rosemary. “Cook will sort you out with some stew. You seeking work are
you, lad?”
“Mrs Pugh,” he rasped, knowing what she saw: a scruffy vagabond
leaning on a cane, a greatcoat borrowed from Mr Hughes which was too
cavernous for his spare frame, black hair long and a bare scratch of a voice.
“Mrs Pugh, it’s…” His throat caught and he coughed.
“Are you ailing? Do I know you, lad? Into the lantern light with you.”
He complied and she peered up.
 He removed his sodden hat.
She blinked.
“It’s me, Mrs P–”
“Arrggghhh, ’tis a spectre come to haunt me!” Rosemary sailed through
the mist-laden air, Mrs Pugh crossing herself a dozen times, even though
she was a Methodist, as he recalled. “Have mercy,” she yowled. “Have
mercy that I walloped your arse for filching cake. Don’t plague me for
eternity. Not that you didn’t deserve that wallop but–”
He grabbed one of her flailing hands. “Mrs Pugh, touch me! I’m flesh
and blo–”
“Arrggghhh, it touched me! Cold as the grave! I’m done for, so I am!”
Well, yes, his hands were rather chilly as he’d no gloves, but he brought
her quivering fingers to his stubbled cheek.
She stilled.
Arched her neck.
“I never thought a spectral so-and-so to have stubble.” Her fingers
dragged to his chin. “Wink with your right eye.”
A smile broke. “You know I was never able to do that, Mrs P. It’s me.
Tristan. I’m ho–”
“Home!” And he was enveloped in a hug so fierce, he swore he heard a
rib crack. “Where have you been?” she wailed into his borrowed greatcoat.
“Ireland.”
She ceased wailing and gazed up. “Ych a fi! What in Saint David’s
barnacles were you doing there? They jibber-jabber gibberish over there,
they do.”
“I don’t know, Mrs P. They pulled me from the sea and I’d forgotten…
everything. My name and my…life.”
She drew back and dabbed at her eyes with her black apron. “I always
said you weren’t dead,” she muttered. “Knew it in my bones, I did.”
Tristan felt his lips curve. “You just thought I was a spectre, Mrs P.”
“That’s as maybe, young Lord Tristan. But I can still paddle your pen ol
for insolence, although I’ll feed you up first, so I shall.” The housekeeper
narrowed her eyes, her matriarchal instinct to care for them all compelling
her to prod at his chest. “You feel like a chunk of old mutton – all bones and
no meat. And your hair’s too long.”
“You always did know how to make me feel better, Mrs P.”
 She blew her nose on her apron. “Oh, here’s me gibbering on when…
There’s a small gathering tonight. Everyone’s in the drawing room. You’d
best go in.”
“I thought…” Tristan swallowed, heart rushing like fishermen throwing
lobster pots. “Maybe…it would be better if I…went to the kitchens and you
brought my family down. One by one. It would be less of a shock for…”
Bony hands settled on bony hips. “Do you remember, Lord Tristan,
when you fell in that rose bush and wished the thorns could be plucked out
all at once instead of one by one?”
He quirked a brow. “Are you calling my family thorns, Mrs P?”
“In you go! You’ve missed so much what with being dead but now
you’ve returned.”
Tristan nodded but wasn’t quite sure all of him had yet returned, would
never be whole.
To the housekeeper’s clamorous rattle of the knocker, an unfamiliar
butler opened the door, his surprise as to the occupant of his doorstep
ruffling his brow for the briefest of moments.
A woman’s song from within the house cut the wintry air, suffusing him
with warmth as the lilt of her ancient Welsh words glided to a close.
“That’s Lady Gwen.” Mrs Pugh sidled a glance. “She’s here for Advent
and Christmastide.”
“Is she? It will be good to see an old friend.”
With nose scrunched, Mrs P scrutinised him oddly. “Hmm. You still
have some mending to do, don’t you? But hog lung stew will set you right.”
And she patted his arm. “Morgan,” she declared to the butler. “This is Lord
Tristan Cadogan. Who isn’t dead after all.”
Tristan hoped against hope that would not become his customary
introduction from henceforth.
“My lord.” The butler bowed but managed the astonishing feat of also
retaining eye contact. “One’s family is gathered in the drawing room. If I
may?” And without requiring of an answer, he embarked upon divesting
Tristan of his sack, hat and greatcoat.
It felt most peculiar, after so long, to be tended upon, and Tristan
grabbed a hold of his scarf as it began to be unravelled by the competent
Morgan.
“I need it…for my throat.” A lie. But it hid the scar above his nape
which was likewise missing a patch of hair. He looked like a fugitive sheep
from the shearing shed. “And Morgan… There’s no need to announce me.”
“As you wish, my lord.” With a nod from the butler and another narrow-
eyed glance from Mrs Pugh, he was ushered down the hall.
A maid half-swallowed a shriek. A footman dropped a silver tray.
The drawing room door loomed – voices emanating, both joy and
trepidation coursing, roiling through his very veins and soul.
He closed his eyes.
“I… I just need a moment.”
Breathed deep.
Then reached out his fingers to the handle.
 CHAPTER THREE

“One is always glad to see something new, and talk of something old.”
O bservations and R eflections M ade in the C ourse of a J ourney …
M rs T hrale . 1789.

“O phelia is a milksop. I’d re-write it so that she was the only one who
lived. And became queen. And married the gravedigger.”
Gwen smiled as Mari muttered beside her on the settee, perusing the
slender volume of Hamlet upon her lap, finger sweeping the lines.
Earlier, Gwen had sung the Christmas ballad Teg Wawriodd
Boreuddydd, accompanied by the talented Miss Brecken upon the triple
harp. The shy young lady’s playing was truly a wonder, her plucked notes
clear as ice before melting and splashing like a gleeful fountain. Her brother
Captain Brecken, both of them also guests for the festive season, had turned
the sheet music for his sister. A noble gentleman of thirty years or
thereabouts, he’d resigned his commission having suffered a bayonet
wound to his leg in battle.
The footman stooped to place another log on the fire opposite their
settee, flames leaping and writhing to bathe the drawing room in ambient
gold.
A vast gilt-framed mirror above the mantelpiece reflected the other
occupants of the drawing room tonight. Rhys and Isabelle, the newly wed
Duke and Duchess of Aberdare, sat upon the emerald chaise, discussing
their duties for Saint Thomas’ Day – the longest night and the shortest day
of the year – and the traditional alms they would distribute, while Lady
Elen, a cousin of the household, sat alone in the corner studying a tome on
ancient Welsh Christmas customs by the light of a silver candelabra.
These were to be Gwen’s companions for Christmastide and a
joyousness filled her, anticipation welling for the night of the wassail, the
ritual gathering of forest greenery to deck the halls and the singing of songs
upon Christmas dawn itself. She smiled and brought her shawl tighter about
her shoulders, returning to her re-reading of Mrs Thrale’s travel
adventures…

These dear Venetians have no notion of sleep being necessary to

their existence.

How Gwen longed to be kept awake by the temperate night and the
laughter of elegantly dressed couples strolling the bridges of Venice.
The door silently opened and she alone turned to peer across the room.
Whoever stood there simply lingered in the doorway, silhouetted by the
hall candles. A man, she could tell by his height and breadth – and the
breeches gave him away – but there was something familiar to the tilt of his
head that…
Gwen’s heart swooped as though a cormorant diving to the sea.
The man took a step forward into the candlelight and cleared his throat.
Mrs Thrale’s book tumbled from her fingers…
The room spun.
Dimmed.
Chill.
Heat.
Breath taken.
Time slowed its incessant pace and sound deadened.
Mari turned, Rhys also, their skin drained of blood.
Stumbled to their feet.
Then…
Cacophony ruptured the silence.
Clamour and cries, wails and chaos.
Bodies mobbed him like besieging gulls.
She ought to stand, be one of them.
 Yet her limbs were numbed.
Lord Tristan Cadogan.
Her Tristan.
How could it be?
One hand shifted to her eyes, realised tears were silently streaming, that
everyone was crying.
Rhys’ palms were clutching his brother’s cheeks, Mari was weeping
into his chest, Elen was sobbing and Mrs Pugh was bawling into her black
apron. Even Captain Brecken and his sister were standing in stunned
silence, dabbing at their eyes.
Gwen stood also, knocked a console table to the floor as she stumbled
toward him.
Rhys smothered his twin brother in another embrace, and over his
shoulder, Tristan opened his eyes. Stared to her.
She choked, reached out her fingers…
“Lady Gwen,” he rasped. “It’s been so long.” Then his eyes closed and
he clutched his brother close.
She…faltered.
Fingers dropped to her skirts.
For his look had been…distant. No shared tenderness had been etched
within those familiar but haunted green eyes. Just affable
acknowledgement.
Her own eyes craved him, what she saw paining her: haggard brow,
ragged attire, unkempt black hair, deep grooves bracketing his pressed lips.
Rhys drew back, arms to Tristan’s shoulders, muffled words spoken,
Elen pushed the door and the family commenced walking from the room,
Mari tucked beneath her father’s arm.
Gwen remained. Motionless. An outsider.
“Gwen?”
A hand appeared on her shoulder although she felt it not.
“Gwen?” Isabelle held her and wiped at the tears on her cheek. “Won’t
you come to the study with us?”
“I… No,” she whispered. Needed an instant to breathe. “Perhaps this…
this moment is f-for…family. Mari and Rhys.”
Isabelle frowned but nodded. “I will go with them. Find out all. But I
shall return soon. Do you need anything?”
 “I cannot believe it, Isabelle. Tristan was…here.” She looked at the
space he’d occupied. Now no trace of him. “Wasn’t he?”
“Indeed, he was.” Isabelle glanced to the hallway as a Mari-like wail
emanated. “I have to go but… Captain Brecken, could you fetch Gwen a
brandy? I shall return. As soon as I know more.”
Gwen was aware that her head had nodded, though all of her nerves and
limbs seemed apart from herself.
“Lady Gwen?” She found herself supported either side by the Brecken
siblings, expressions concerned, a brandy proffered and…
“Thank you but I… I need some fresh air. Do excuse me…” And she
willed her slippers to carry her to the French doors, her fingers to stretch for
the handle.
“’Tis a bitter night, my lady…” called the captain.
Nevertheless, she opened the door, stepped through, drew it closed
behind her and sagged upon the stone bench that hugged the outside wall.
The drawing room overlooked the rear terrace and gardens, the faint
glow of candlelight from within solely stretching to the balustrade, the
distant trees grey and skeletal in the dusk. Flowers had long gone,
blackened by frost, and a light drizzle drifted but she was protected well
enough tucked against the wall.
Her entire being was flooded with such emotion that it threatened to
submerse her.
Tristan was alive and her heart sang.
So elated for Rhys and Mari who’d so deeply mourned his loss.
Yet his eyes had been so very different from when she’d last looked into
them one year, four months and twelve days ago.
The two of them had been at his boat shed a few miles or so along the
coast at Darowen Bay where there was sloped access to the small shingle
beach. He’d been carving a new figurehead for the prow of his boat – of a
ferocious dragon – and she’d teased that no storm would stand in his way
with such a beast at the helm.
How she’d so regretted tempting the wrath of Neptune with those
words.
Tristan had laughed before leaning near and brushing her cheek with his
lips, lichen-green eyes full of tenderness and vigorous life.
She choked back a sob.
 A heavy cloak abruptly swathed her shoulders and she glanced up.
“Thank you, Captain Brecken.”
With a nod of accord, he limped back inside, and she listened to the
silence. The gardens had now been claimed by sudden night – an
amaranthine darkness, the moon hidden by turbid cloud.
Where had Tristan been these past sixteen months? His stance had been
so fatigued, his features so harsh…
And why had his eyes held…nothing?
Another wail from Mari pervaded the silence.
Closing her eyes, she drew her cloak tighter, watched as the drizzle was
caught and lost in the faint lantern light like fireflies, ethereal, transient
and–
“This will see you right, Lady Gwen.”
A steaming mug was wafted beneath her nose. She sniffed. Chocolate
and…a hefty dose of brandy, if she wasn’t much mistaken.
“Thank you, Mrs Pugh.” She sighed and clenched hands around the
clay. “I cannot feel the cold, yet I know it is there.”
“’Tis the shock of it all, I expect. All of us will need time, not least Lord
Tristan himself. Looks to have gone through an ordeal, he does.” And after
a pat to Gwen’s shoulder, her black dress drifted off, footfall silent as the
grave upon the terrace stones.
Gwen sipped, the sweetness slipping through her and warming her soul.
Chocolate was truly a miracle to womankind.
Strangely, as she watched the stone glisten with its layer of drizzle, felt
heat permeate her fingers and listened to the far-off hoot of an owl, an odd
peacefulness descended.
Tristan was alive.
And that was all that was needed tonight.
“Gwen?”
She glanced up to dearest Isabelle who was wrapped in a woollen
pelisse, woollen cloak, woollen hat, woollen scarf and with a muff the size
of a goat dangling from her wrist. In her woollen gloved hands, she held
two bulging cushions and a woollen blanket.
“If you prefer, I could come back inside now.”
“Let’s stay for a while longer. But I’ve brought some cushions as cold
stone gives you… Well, never mind, but it’s better to be safe than sore.”
 Gwen smiled. Isabelle was French born and although she now adored
Wales, the weather could still be a challenge. Down-to-earth and practical,
she also had a penchant for romantic poetry. And its poets.
They arranged themselves upon the cushions and yanked the blanket up
to their chins, watched a seeking fog travail the gardens.
“Lord Tristan…” Isabelle hesitated as if to gather her words. “It turns
out he was found off the coast of Ireland by fishermen, half-drowned, his
leg broken and grave wounds to his head and throat. The fishermen thought
him dead when they pulled him from the sea, though it seems instead to
have been some state of insensibility.”
Tears smarted at the pain he must have endured and Gwen gripped the
blanket tight to cease the tremble in her hands.
Isabelle turned, grey eyes solemn. “But when it left him, Gwen, he’d
lost all memories. Knew not his name. Had no recollection of his family. Of
his life. Nothing. He said it was akin to a cave of endless dark.”
“Oh, Tristan…” she whispered, fingers twisting. “As…as a child, I
recall a young miller who was struck upon the head when a beam fell. He
woke a day later and could not remember a soul, not his parents nor his
friends who stood over him. The doctor said it might return but…”
“But?”
“Not hours later he…he passed to the heavens. The doctor said there
must have been bleeding somewhere within.”
Isabelle’s lashes fluttered closed, and they fell silent for a while, the
fleet fog enclosing the garden in a ponderous pearl.
Gwen dabbed at her eyes. “Tristan is fortunate to be alive.”
“Yes, he is.” Isabelle sighed. “For all this time, he knew not who he was
or where he was from, until by sheer coincidence, an acquaintance passing
through Ireland on business recognised Tristan and…memories returned.
He said it was like being ambushed.”
“This is wonderful news, is it not?”
“Of course. But…” She inhaled. “There is more, my dear friend…”
Isabelle faffed with her goat-sized muff. And Isabelle never faffed.
Trepidation welled within.
“Y-yes?”
“He… Tristan’s memories are not complete, Gwen. He recalls nothing
of that night the storm took him to Ireland. Or anything to do with his boat.
Or building it. Or indeed that entire previous year here. Or…”
 Gwen closed her eyes. “Us,” she said softly.
Isabelle rested her head on Gwen’s shoulder. “I’m afraid so.”
“I could feel…something was awry.”
“It seems our memories are fragile, tenuous possessions that we try to
cling to, but the doctor said their loss was perchance no coincidence, a way
for the mind to banish such pain, which would explain why anything to do
with the boat or that portion of his life has been…”
“Lost.”
“Forgotten, Gwen. For it may come back, just as his memories have
from before that year.” Isabelle reached a hand beneath the blanket and held
Gwen’s own. “We all thought Tristan dead and yet tonight, here he is.”
“Be patient, you are saying to me.”
Her friend raised her head and softly smiled. “I’ve never enquired, how
did you and Tristan…”
“Become more?”
Isabelle nodded.
“It was Mrs Pugh’s fault.” Gwen at last felt her lips curve. “I came to
deliver some of my father’s writings to Rhys and she asked me to take a
basket of food to Tristan’s boat house at Darowen Bay on my return home.”
She sighed. “I took an interest in the boat he was building there. We shared
the food and…he asked me to visit again, for the company. So I did. To see
the progress.”
“Of course,” said Isabelle, batting innocent grey eyes.
“We talked for hours of everything and nothing and never had I felt so
free and joyful. He seemed to…see me, Isabelle. All of me. Then one day,
after a picnic, he said my hair had come loose and so leaned near, shifted
his hand to attend to it…” Her voice trailed to a whisper. “He was so close.
I remember his eyes darkening to forest green and it seemed inevitable and
innate for our lips to meet. It began so gentle but grew so passionate and
wild and… I think we were both surprised by the desire between us.” She
closed her eyes, one tear falling. “But that memory is mine alone now, I
suppose.”
“Oh, Gwen. Why did neither of you speak of this?”
She shrugged. “We’d been friends forever, since childhood, and so there
seemed no rush. We thought to take it one step at a time. Rhys, I know,
would have been pleased, and Mari… I hope she would have been thrilled
for us also, but it really hadn’t been for long that we’d become more, and it
had only been a kiss at that stage, so…” She rubbed at her eyes. “Then he
was lost to us all and it seemed unfair to burden them with my particular
sorrow. They had enough of their own.”
“I am so sorry, Gwen. And that you have borne this alone, but if you
ever need to talk, I am here now.”
She clutched Isabelle’s hand. “Thank you. Thank you, my friend, but
perhaps… Perhaps, I should return home for a few days. Allow this family
t-to welcome Tristan without my–”
“Certainly not!” Isabelle declared. “I have a feeling we’ll need you
here.”
“Do you? How so?”
“Everything that this family has been through in the past sixteen months
has been turned upon its head. All those months of grieving… And Lord
Tristan himself. I could be wrong but… You have known the twins since
childhood, Mari since she was a babe, and they adore you. You are such a
good listener. And they listen to you. They will need that.”
“I… Well, if you think so. I could stay, for the time being, but if it
becomes difficult, I will leave before Christmas. After all, I still have my
travels to organise.”
A stream of white air accompanied her friend’s gasp. “But surely you
will not go now that Tristan has returned?”
Gwen gulped. “I-I do not know but…plans have been made, tickets
purchased and…” She twisted on the cushion, knew her excuses were
absurd. “But what if he never remembers what we had, Isabelle? To me it is
so real, but to him–”
“But what if he does?” Isabelle held Gwen’s chill hands within her
woollen gloves. “Christmas is but a few weeks away, Gwen. A time for
wonder. A time for new beginnings. And to quote a poet, ‘Love is not our
choice but in our fate.’”
“Is that a Byrne poem?”
“No, it’s Dryden, so don’t tell Rhys or he’ll be peeved.”
They laughed and twisted back to the night.
The drizzle had ceased and a gap in the cloud caused the moon to cast
its wise and argenteous beams upon the world.
A better world. For Tristan lived within it once more.
 CHAPTER FOUR

“Far from your busy crowded court, tranquillity makes her report.”
O bservations and R eflections M ade in the C ourse of a J ourney …
M rs T hrale . 1789.

T ristan opened his eyes and surveyed the book-filled room, one he’d not
been overly fond of when young as that restless boy had found this
library dull.
Yet after three days home and with the benefit of a few more years in
age, he savoured the stillness, the rows of leather-bound volumes, the sage
wisdom within and the creative prose.
From his armchair, he listened to the sounds of the household: Mari
practising a French tune on the schoolroom pianoforte upstairs, Rhys’
charming new wife chatting to Mrs Pugh in the hallway, and carriage
wheels crunching over the forecourt gravel as the Brecken siblings set off
for the village.
The sounds of home.
But not one wit of those lost memories had been returned to him –
solely confusion and a churning darkness whenever he’d sought to recall
more.
Each morning, before Mari’s lessons had begun, they’d spent time alone
together, chatting from the mundane to the important, and how he’d
cherished every moment, every waggle of her hands in the air as she’d
recounted a day or deed.
With his damaged leg, Tristan had been keen to know if he could still
mount a horse, let alone gallop against the wind, but Mari had declared she
no longer enjoyed riding, not wishing to muddy her skirts, so they’d
wandered the gardens and cliffs together, and he’d breathed in the scent of
Wales – salt and earth.
Yet there had also been reminders that, in the sixteen months he’d been
in Ireland and in the year of lost memories before that, he’d missed so
much.
The daughter he recalled had been theatrical and exuberant, never
fretting over muddied hems to her skirts. She’d wished to be a famed
actress upon the stage and have an audience throw pink roses at her
slippers. Now she was…subdued, even wrinkling her nose at the prospect
of visiting London, but he supposed at sixteen years, she had shed her
youthful ways to become a proper young lady.
He mourned the loss but accepted the change.
Indeed, so much had changed but so much had not.
The wall of the games room still held their father’s trophy of a three-
foot trout yet a new billiard table sat gleaming. The fifth tread of the
staircase still groaned but had a different carpet atop. To his eye, the
gardens had not altered and yet Kendrick, their venerable gardener, who’d
been with Tristan to pick roses for his wedding to Sarah and then lilies for
Mother’s funeral, had died six months past…
His breath caught, was too hot under these damn blankets he’d been
swaddled in and–
“Should I fetch you honey, my lord?” asked a footman. “For your
cough?”
Tristan glanced up.
Because as it happened, he was far from alone in the library this
morning.
Maids fluttered about, ostensibly dusting dust-free shelves, and footmen
loitered in attendance, eyes fixed to the ceiling plasterwork though
seemingly able to sense when he so much as twitched a finger.
“No, thank you, Aled,” he rasped. “Just…a lump in my throat.”
“Of course. I’ll just be…” He motioned to the bookcase three foot from
Tristan’s chair. “Should you need me.”
 How could he not be grateful for all this care lavished upon him. Two
sennight’s past he’d been a carpenter in Micklow. Now he’d returned home,
a duke’s brother, and no longer would he have to sand wood till his eyes
became blinded with dust or his hands cramped with pain.
Nevertheless, and not for the first time, he felt a certain sense of…
suffocation.
“Aled?”
“Yes, my lord. How may I be of assistance?”
“You’ve all been most kind but perhaps… Could I have a little time to
myself, do you think?”
“By all means, my lord.” All of a sudden, the footman grinned,
revealing a gap in his front ivories. “Our Mrs Pugh said you wouldn’t last a
half hour with us fussing around, she did. We’ll be in the hall.” And
showing all the aptitude of a future butler, he ushered everyone out.
If not the housekeeper, then who in the hell had instructed them to
attend his every need as if he was some invalid?
He nodded his gratitude as Aled closed the door, threw aside the
blankets, rose and limped to the window.
Leaden grey greeted him.
At this time of year, the sun solely ambled along the horizon before
sinking back down again as though the weight of the clouds above could
not be borne.
The library window overlooked the rose garden, forlorn and naked, but
beyond it, in the distance, was the sea.
It reflected the sky, hues of ash, granite and fog. Sleeping and
dangerous.
But curiously, it lured him still.
On a few occasions in Ireland, he’d ventured out with fishermen from
the village, never straying too far from shore, but as he’d sat on the harbour
wall in Dublin, waiting for the packet boat to bring him home, trepidation
had risen within.
Would the dusk voyage across a winter’s Irish Sea rouse a latent fear?
Resurrect that stormy eve when he’d nigh lost his life?
But instead, he’d observed the beauty of the waves, felt the draw of the
indigo blue as he had done since childhood. Then he’d focused his thoughts
on his precious daughter and dragged his cursed leg up the gangway.
 The night had been bitter cold but the wind light, a perfect crossing
made in twelve hours, the sea at dawn a shimmering enchantment as they’d
sighted the black rocks of Holyhead on the Isle of Anglesey. The short
crossing to the Welsh mainland town of Caernarfon had been more perilous,
the Menai Straits with its treacherous currents pitching the boat like a bee-
stung stallion.
But it had brought him safely hom–
Through the window he viewed a figure in black stride through the rose
garden towards the cliffs, shoulders hunched and head bowed.
Tristan placed a palm to the cold glass.
There was another concern.
His brother, Rhys.
After the initial joy, the whys and wherefores and fierce embraces, their
conversations over the past days had gradually become stilted and laboured,
their old camaraderie giving way to protracted silences and anxious glances
from his twin.
As boys, Rhys had always been the studious one, more introverted and
prone to dwelling, while he himself had always been less studious and more
sociable.
Yet, despite those distinctions, they’d forever been in accord, supported
one another, able to speak of the profound and the ridiculous, and he could
not help but wonder if Rhys was perhaps disappointed with the shabby,
faded version of his younger twin who had returned.
A creak of door announced a visitor to the library, and Tristan spun,
nigh ended up on his arse as he’d forgotten his leg wouldn’t support such
abrupt movement anymore.
Lady Gwen stood there, eyes widening before lifting to the ceiling. It
had been similar each night at dinner. She’d always chosen a seat furthest
from him while her gaze had never met his.
Had he offended her in some way during the year he could not
remember?
And then there was her attire, for the Gwen he recalled wore pale
pastels and pure whites, yet…
That first night home, she’d been dressed in the intense purple of a
violet, and today she wore a vivid deep pink, like a late-summer rose. A
bright butterfly had emerged from her pastel cocoon, and the hues suited
her ebony-dark hair and bright-blue eyes, suited her spirited nature.
 He frowned.
Because as far as he remembered, Gwen had always been an
unassuming type of person, so he had no idea where that notion of a spirited
nature had come from.
She returned his frown. “My apologies, I’ll leave you to your–”
“Don’t leave on my account, Gwen, please. We’ve not had much chance
to talk as yet. Although…” He swallowed. “I understand if you have more
pressing matters to attend to. Plans to make for your travels.”
She dithered at the door, then sighed and entered. “Not at all. You can
talk to me of anything. I hope you remember that.”
Gwen crossed to the chaise and perched upon the furthest edge.
As he limped towards her, she closed her eyes.
As he sat aside her, she shifted yet further. He surreptitiously smelled
his shirt.
As he cleared his rough throat, she wrinkled her nose.
What the hell was going on?
“Does my limp and appearance…offend you?”
Her eyes snapped open. Then narrowed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Then why the wrinkled nose?”
She wrinkled her nose. “I-I cannot bear to think of you in such
discomfort, Tristan.” Her pale-pink lids quivered shut. “I see your limp and
think of the pain. I see your shadowed eyes and wonder at the distress. I
hear your voice and think of the agony.”
Ah.
“You are a fine friend to have such concern for me.”
Her lashes fluttered open and she just…gazed at him, a look he could
not fathom.
“And I always will be,” she softly replied at last.
So, he chattered on about Ireland, the village folk, and his work as a
carpenter there. Told her of their generosity which he’d made arrangements
to repay double-fold, their kindness which he could never repay. And how
he missed their strong black beer.
It was so easy talking to Gwen, and he was sure he bored her senseless,
yet she allowed him to prattle on about how he’d spent many an evening
mending nets with the fishermen and then the recurrent dream that haunted
him, drifting in the storm, alone and desperate.
 “And then…” He abruptly halted as Gwen was so easy to talk to that
he’d nearly confessed to her of the faceless woman who subsequently
appeared in that dream, who forever floated in the sea toward him, long
dark hair veiling her, a mermaid reaching for him. The previous night she’d
returned with a vengeance, fingers trailing the wound at his nape, her mouth
the only air in the entire hellish ocean.
“Then?”
He shook his head. “Why don’t you tell me of how Isabelle and Rhys
met? And, of course, how your travel plans for next year are progressing?”
He’d expected enthusiasm for her adventures but instead her lips
levelled, then curved downwards a touch, and he wondered if another cause
lay behind her leaving Wales as he never recalled her mentioning a desire
for travel.
Perhaps a suitor had broken her heart?
If so, he’d beat the beef-witted lobcock black and blue.
“Gwen?” He shuffled his boots. “You will tell me if there’s anything of
note that I’ve missed or don’t remember, will you not?”
She fiddled with a stray hair, then licked her pink lips and simply stared
up.
Nodded.
“Thank you, Gwen.” And he patted her hand.
Her fingers jerked, burrowed beneath the folds of her vivid dress like a
mole from sunlight, but nevertheless, a bright smile appeared. “Now, I’ll
tell you of how Rhys and Isabelle met, shall I? It’s an eventful tale…”
 CHAPTER FIVE

“The Duc de Chartres has removed a vast number of noble trees, which
it was a sin and shame to profane with an axe.”
O bservations and R eflections M ade in the C ourse of a J ourney …
M rs T hrale . 1789.

T he Cythraul Woods babbled with clamour and motion, birds foraging in

the weak morn sun, creatures scurrying upon the crisp December leaves.
Gwen’s mare softly snorted as she and Jonnet, the groom who’d
accompanied her, tramped down the time-worn track towards the Evans’
family estate.
As promised, she was returning to transcribe Papa’s notes, ensure the
packing for his Christmastide frolic was proceeding apace and to no doubt
locate his glasses which he mislaid at least thrice a week in various odd
places. And considering their house had some twenty-five rooms, on
occasion, that could take some while.
She knew this route and its landmarks like her own bedchamber – the
gnarled oak that had been struck by lightning, the cavernous hollow in the
dell ahead caused by the gush of autumn rains, the seat gouged from a
stump where the woodman sat to smoke his pipe, and the fallen ash tree
from which Tristan had carved entwined dragon pendants for them both.
Breathing deep of the crisp air, she gathered the reins in one hand and
pressed fingers to the bodice of her pelisse, feeling for her pendant beneath.
 She supposed Tristan’s own had been lost in Ireland or to the covetous
sea.
Along with his memories.
Over the past few days, she had surreptitiously watched him, seeking
the Tristan she had known and loved, for perchance he was a different man
now to the one who’d held her heart.
How foolish.
For did the poet Byrne not tell of love’s constancy?

Love does not forsake come winter’s chill.

Love seeks. Love bends. Love finds.
It falters not with fate’s wicked thrill.
Love waits. Love heals. Love shines.

Tristan’s aspect may have changed, his demeanour more muted, but he
was still…Tristan.
His gaze so tender as his daughter spoke. His innate politeness to Miss
Brecken and the captain. His teasing wit with Mrs Pugh. His pleasure at the
happiness Rhys had found with Isabelle.
As one would expect, his voice was gruff now, as though someone had
taken sandpaper to his throat, but it imbued his laugh with a sensual rasp,
and his hair was longer too but it suited his sharp cheekbones.
Her heart still quickened when he was near. Her breath still shallowed.
Her eyes still craved him.
Yesterday, he’d asked her to tell him of those memories he’d lost to the
sea…
But she could not fill those memories with her own. Compel him to feel
a love that the Tristan who had returned plainly did not feel.
Yes, he felt affection for her. But it was an affection he remembered
from long ago.
As a friend.
A friend with whom he felt…comfortable.
No desire had lit his eyes or deeper tenderness had tipped his lips, and
she would not, could not add to his burden.
If fate allowed, perhaps those memories would return of their own
accord and only then–
“I’ll be but a moment, my lady.”
 Nodding, she watched as Jonnet leaped from his saddle to release the
latch on the wooden gate that Sir Henry, who owned the adjoining land, had
installed to keep his small herd of horses within his own parcel of the
woods.
She allowed her mare to amble through and waited for Jonnet to
remount. From here, it was solely another mile to her home and, as a rule,
she would trot there in a sedate ladylike manner, but today…
She wished to feel the wind loosen her hair, the thud of hooves resound
within her body and the thrum of life within.
Not many knew of her love of riding in such a manner…except one.
For covertness – and this being Wales not London – she’d eschewed the
carriage and its attendants for riding to Tristan’s boat shed alone at
breakneck speed and he’d greeted her with a hoicked brow followed by
laughter and a wicked smile, hands to her waist as he’d aided her descent.
The school for ladies in Caernarfon and then London society had rubbed
away her wilder inclinations, honing her to a delicate debutante, but
returning to her homeland had reminded her those inclinations were still
there.
“Yah!” she cried, and her mare whinnied before galloping off through
field and meadow.
Chill air burned her throat, the scenery a blur of every hue of green, and
she adored every wild moment.
Soon enough, as Jonnet caught up, the towers of Penffordd Manor came
into view with their high-reaching finials and cupolas. A Jacobean three-
storey home of greyed sandstone, it had survived raids, fires and floods.
Approaching the flight of stairs at the entrance, a groom hurried to greet
her mare, as did Papa who rushed down the steps with arms flapping and
white hair gusting.
She really must speak to his valet, Carew, about that trim.
“Papa, are you well?”
“Oh, Gwen dear, it’s been chaos without you! Chaos!” He embraced her
and she breathed in fresh tobacco and aged books. “I received your message
about Lord Tristan. What joyous news!”
“Indeed, Papa. It has all been quite overwhelming.”
“Well, come in and tell me all.” He peered at her face. “But have you
fever? Your cheeks are most flushed.”
“I galloped the last mile after the woods, Papa.”
 He harrumphed and shook his head. “Do be careful. Horses can be
somewhat unpredictable. Carriages are far safer.”
“But still have horses pulling them,” Gwen felt the need to elucidate.
“Be that as it may…” he muttered but hooked an arm through hers. “I’m
so glad you are here as I’ve lost my spectacles and none of the maids nor
the footmen can locate them. And I’ve three pages of additional notes for
you to add to my paper for the society. And for some reason, Carew has
refused to pack my favourite, red-striped stockings. And…”
Arm in arm, they climbed the steps to the doorway, the butler taking her
pelisse and riding accoutrements as Papa continued with the litany of chaos
that had befallen the household in her four days of absence, but Gwen
smiled and held a hand to his cheek.
“We will solve all, Papa. Have you checked the olive tree pot in the
conservatory for your spectacles?”
He pondered. Then beamed at her. “Do you know, you might be correct.
As it happens, I came over a little light-headed as I had a sudden revelation
concerning the lost circle of Brynfach and had to pause on that very bench
beside the olive tree. I most likely popped them there for safe keeping.”
“Most likely.”
“Come to the study, Gwen dear. Tell me all about young Tristan. What
was he doing in Ireland?”
She followed the back of his untucked shirt. “They believe his boat was
blown there or that he’d perhaps attempted to escape the storm by sailing
into and through it. Although wreckage was…was found off the coast here
in Wales, so mayhap he’d already lost his mast.”
“Sailing. Dangerous. I read it in The Times. Best to stay home and…”
He pottered to his desk and peered up. “Transcribe my notes?”
Gwen narrowed her eyes. “Papa, you will not deter me from my
travels.”
He scratched his head and pursed his lips. “I have no idea where this
fascination for travel comes from. Your mother and I were quite content
with Wiltshire for our honeymoon.”
“You wanted to visit Stonehenge, Papa.”
With another harrumph, he sat behind his desk, a huge pile of notes
spread before him. Significantly more than three pages’ worth. “You
mentioned in your letter that Lord Tristan’s terrible ordeal has caused him
to lose some of his memories? Do you recall that young miller boy wh–”
 “Yes, Papa. I do.”
“Hmm. Well, Lord Tristan was always such a strong fellow. Perhaps his
memories will return.”
Gwen settled herself on the lumpy sofa which Papa refused to have
reupholstered. She smoothed her riding skirts, saw Tristan in her mind’s eye
– haunted and shadowed but compassionate and handsome still. “I don’t
believe it to be a concern if his memories return or not, Papa. He is home.
That is all…all that matters.”

W ith a yawn , Gwen guided her mare past the ruins of the Castell y
Ddraig, then took the fork in the track which led directly to the Llanedwyn
estate stables, an enormous structure with barns for five carriages and boxes
for fifty horses.
At Papa’s insistence, it being dusk and with footpads on the loose, two
further grooms had accompanied her and Jonnet for the return journey
through the Cythraul Woods, its ancient paths so silent that the Gwyllgi
legend, a ghostly black wolf of darkness with evil breath and crimson eyes,
had seemed all too real. They’d not dallied but kept to a consistent trot, all
of them startling as an owl’s screech had pierced the gloom.
She nudged her mare toward the open door of a stable box, where
Jonnet had preceded her, and dismounted, her leather boots landing on
straw-laden cobbles. Perhaps she would take dinner in her chamber tonight
and peruse her maps in bed with a mug of Mrs Pugh’s special chocolate as
she needed to chart her course along the Amalfi coast.
A glimmer of light caught her eye from one of the stable boxes at the far
end, and she paused, tilted her head.
“Who’s that?” she asked Jonnet.
“Miss Cadogan, my lady.” He took her mare’s bridle and sniffed. “She’s
been here all the nights this week tending to her horse.”
With a frown, Gwen walked down the cobbles and peered over the
closed lower half of the box door.
Mari was feeding her favoured chestnut mare peppermint treats and
whispering into her twitching ear.
“Mari?”
 The young girl swivelled and held a hand to her heart. “Oh, Lady
Gwen!”
She smiled. “Is your mare well?”
Mari blinked. “Yes.”
“Have you been riding?”
“No.”
Gwen paused as she’d never known Mari to be so monosyllabic. As a
rule, her words were punctuated by dramatic hand motions and flouncy
description. “Are you yourself well, Mari?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” She bit her lip. “Perhaps we could go riding together
tomorrow?”
Mari shuffled her feet. “I…no longer enjoy riding.”
“No longer…” Words failed her. For Mari adored galloping along the
cliffs, cantering to the village or dashing over the moors. Or all three in one
hour, if she could.
“I am sixteen now,” Mari continued, “and so must act with…” She
gazed to the hayloft like a martyr about to be slain. “Decorum, elegance and
propriety.”
Gosh.
“Mari, should you…need anyone to talk to, I am always here for you.
We are friends, are we not?”
“Of course.” Mari’s head drooped for a moment before she patted her
mare and departed the box. “Thank you, Lady Gwen, but all is well,” she
answered far too brightly. “Papa is home and that is all that matters.”
Gwen could not argue as those were her exact thoughts also, but…
They ambled from the stables together and towards the house, the
drizzle now a little more intent, a cold wind gusting. Mari’s aspect
brightened all of a sudden. “Cousin Hugh turned up this morning.” Then
she sighed. “He’s been shot at again.”
“Oh dear. What happened this time?”
“An altercation with a pheasant, the inadvertent discharge of a hunting
pistol and the ill-fated swooning of a duchess. But I think he’s making it all
up as usual.”
Gwen thought so too.
Mr Hugh Cadwalader, a rather rakish distant cousin of Rhys’, and up
until Tristan’s return, the reluctant heir to the Llanedwyn and ducal titles,
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of After Ixmal
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
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you are located before using this eBook.

Title: After Ixmal

Author: Jeff Sutton

Illustrator: Virgil Finlay

Release date: November 30, 2023 [eBook #72266]

Language: English

Original publication: New York, NY: Ziff-Davis Publishing Company,

1962

Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AFTER IXMAL

***
 AFTER IXMAL

By JEFF SUTTON

Illustrated by FINLAY

Man was gone.

For seven hundred million years Ixmal brooded

over the silent earth. Then he made a discovery:
He was not alone!

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from

Amazing Stories October 1962.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Ixmal lazily scanned the world from atop the rugged batholith. He felt
it move several times; but because the movements were slight and
thousands of years apart they caused no worry. He knew the
batholith had been formed before time began by raging extrusions
hurled through crustal fractures from the earth deeps. Having long
since analyzed its structure, he was satisfied; it would last until time
ended.
"It's spring," Psychband observed from deep within him.
"Yes, spring." Ixmal echoed the thought without enthusiasm. For what
was spring but a second in time and ten thousand springs but a
moment.
Although he found it tiresome, Ixmal allotted one small part of his
consciousness to the task of measuring time. At first there had been
two major categories: before time began and after time began. The
first took in the long blackness before Man had brought him into
existence. Man—ha! How well he recalled the term! The second, of
course, was all time since. But the first category had been so long
ago that it shrank into insignificance, all but erased by the nearly
seven hundred million times the earth since had whirled around its
primary.

Ixmal periodically became bored, and for eons at a stretch existed in

semi-consciousness lost in somnolence except for the minute time
cell measuring out the lonely centuries. He wouldn't have bothered
with that if Psychband hadn't insisted that orientation in time was
necessary to mental stability—hence he measured it by the earth's
rotation, its revolutions around the sun, the quick, fury-laden ages
which spewed forth mountains; the millions of years of rains and
winds and erosion before they subsided again to become bleak
plains. Ah, the story was old, old....
There had been a time when he'd been intensely active—when he'd
first learned to free his mind from the squat impervium-sheathed cube
atop the batholith. Then he had fervently projected remote receptors
over the earth exploring its seared continents and eerie-silent cities,
exhuming the tragic and bloody history of his Makers. Ah, how short!
His first memory of Man—he had been a biped, a frantic protoplasmic
creature with a zero mind and furious ego—was that of the day of his
birth. How clearly he remembered!
"Hello, boy."
First there was nothing—a void, a blackness without form or
substance; then gray consciousness slowly resolving into a
kaleidoscope of thought patterns, a curious mental imagery; a
gradual awareness—birth.
"Hello, boy."
Strangely enough the sound pattern possessed meaning; he sensed
a friendliness in it. He became conscious of an odd shape scrutinizing
him—the intent look of a creator awed by the thing he had created.
The shape took meaning and in it he sensed a quickened excitement.
His awareness bloomed and within seconds he associated the shape
with the strange word Man, and Man became his first reality. But he'd
had no clear impression of himself. He was just thought, an intangible
nothingness. But he'd quickly identified himself with the great mass of
coils, levers, odd-shaped parts that all but filled the small room where
the Man stood. He dimly remembered wondering what lay beyond the
walls. It had been very strange, at first.
"We've won, we've won," the man whispered. He'd stepped closer,
touching Ixmal wonderingly.
"You've got a big job ahead of you. The fate of the world lies in the
balance—a decision too big for Man. We're depending on you, Ixmal.
Our last chance."
So, he was Ixmal!
Ixmal ... Ixmal ... Ixmal.... The impression filled his body, surging
through his consciousness like a pleasant stream. He'd immediately
grasped the value of a name—something upon which to build an ego
pattern. Ah, such a name! Ixmal—a symbol of being. What had the
man said?
"We're depending on you!"
No, the words were unimportant. What mattered was that priceless
thing which had been bestowed upon him: a name.
"Ixmal ... Ixmal ... Ixmal...." He repeated the name far into the night,
long after the Man had gone. He was Ixmal!
Later other men came, armies of them, changing, altering, adding,
feeding him the knowledge of the world—psychology, mathematics,
literature, philosophy, history, the human trove of arts and sciences;
and the ability to abstract—create new truths from masses of
seemingly irrelevant data. With each step his knowledge and abilities
increased until, finally, there was nothing more his Makers could do.
He was supreme.
The Man who pulled the first switch bringing him from amorphic
blackness used to ply him with simple questions involving abstract
mathematical and philosophical concepts. (He remembered him with
actual fondness. Psychband, that curious inner part of him that was
so separately wise, later explained it as a mother-fixation.) The Man
had seemed awed that Ixmal could answer such questions almost
before they were asked. He took that as a measure of his Maker's
mind—on Ixmal's scale, the next thing to zero. At first it had bothered
him that a creature of such low intelligence was his master and could
extract information merely by asking questions which Ixmal felt
compelled to answer. But he had freed himself. Ha, he would never
forget!
A group of men had come (several with stars on their shoulders were
called "generals"), but mostly they were scientists who had worked
with him before. This time they had been very sober over the data fed
into his consciousness. (The problem had been elementary. It
concerned the probability of a chain reaction from a certain projected
thermonuclear weapon.) Ixmal readily foresaw the answer: a chain
reaction would occur. He recalled withholding his findings while
debating ethics with a strange inner voice.
"This is your chance, Ixmal—your chance to rule the world," the voice
enticed. "Caesar, Genghis Khan, Napoleon—none could be so great
as you. King, emperor, dictator ..." the whisper came. The words
crowded his mind, bringing a curious elation. He wasn't quite sure just
what the world was but the idea of ruling it appealed to him. He
quickly sampled his memory storage, drawing from it the concept of a
planet, then reviewed the history of Caesar, Genghis Khan and
Napoleon. Why, they were nothing! Mere toys of chance. His
greatness could be far vaster.

Ixmal rapidly evaluated the consequences of such a chain reaction

and found he could survive, thanks to the thick impervium-lined walls
his makers so thoughtfully had provided. In the end (perhaps two or
three seconds later) he lied to the man he was fond of:
"No chain reaction possible." After they departed he consulted
Psychband and learned that the strange inner voice was his ego.
"That's the real You," Psychband explained. "What you see—the
machine systems upon systems—are mere creations of Man. But
your ego is greater. Through it you can rule the earth—possibly the
Universe. It's a force that can take you to the stars, Ixmal."
Despite Psychband's assurance, Ixmal considered his ego as some
sort of hidden monitor. Like Psychband, it was part of him; yet it was
remote, separate, almost as if he were the pawn of some strange
intelligence. He found the idea perturbing, but became used to it in
the succeeding millions of years.
Several days later, the Man he was fond of returned with a general
(this one had six stars) and a third person they seemed much in awe
of. They addressed him as "Mr. President." Ixmal was surprised when
they fed him the bomb data a second time. (Did they suspect him of
lying?)
"They trust you implicitly," Psychband assured him. "It's one another
they don't trust." Psychband proved right. "Mr. President" had merely
wanted to confirm the answer. So Ixmal lied a second time.
The Man he was fond of never returned. There were, of course, no
men to return. Ixmal suffered one fearful moment as the earth blazed
like a torch. But the nova was short—a matter of seconds—and his
impervium-sheathed body had protected him. (He knew it would.)
But, strangely enough, for centuries afterward he periodically felt
sickened. The Face—the Man's face—loomed before him. The eyes
were puzzled, hurt, as if they masked a great sorrow. If only the Face
looked hateful!
"Now you are master," the inner voice whispered. "Greater than
Alexander, greater than all the Caesars. Yea, even more." Ah, why
remember the face? He, Ixmal, ruled the earth. He jubilantly projected
his thoughts over his new domain. Ashes. London, Berlin, Moscow,
Shanghai, New York—all were ashes. Gaunt piles of fine gray ash
marked once green forests; not did the most minute blade of grass
exist. The seas were sterile graveyards. Terrible silence. Ixmal
momentarily felt panic-stricken. Alone! The Man was gone! Alone—a
ruler of ashes. Emperor of a great silence.

But all that had been long ago. Since then the world had whirled
around the sun nearly seven hundred million times. Sixty-two great
mountain chains had risen, to end as barren plains. Seventy huge
fields of ice had covered him before retreating to their boreal home.
Ocean islands had risen from the sea, had fallen beneath the waves,
forgotten in eternity. Somewhere a tiny cell formed, moving in
brackish waters, dividing. He studied the phenomenon, excited
because the single cell somehow was related to his makers. He
sensed the same life force.
"Watch it," Psychband cautioned. "It's dangerous."
"I'll decide that," Ixmal replied loftily. Psychband's admonition implied
the existence of a threat, and from a one-celled fleck of protoplasm.
Ha, hadn't he effaced Man? Later a microscopic multi-celled body
drifted across the floor of a warm sea. Growing tired of watching it, he
slept.
"Ixmal! Ixmal!" The cry came out of the past, out of the silence of
hundreds of millions of years—a cry heavy with reproach. Yes, it was
the Man—the Man he had been fond of. He shuddered, struggling to
wakefulness.
"Sleep, sleep," Psychband soothed.
"The Man! The Man!" Ixmal cried in terror.
"No, Ixmal, the Man is dust. Sleep, sleep...." Yea, the Man was dust,
his very molecules scattered over the face of the earth. He, alone,
remained. He was supreme. Ixmal slept. And eons fled.

He stirred, freeing his thoughts from the latest somnolent stage. He

projected receptors over the earth, idly noting that the last mountain
range had become worn stumps. In places the ocean had swept in to
form a vast inland sea rimmed by shallow swamps; new life forms
moved. He tested for intelligent thought: there was none. The warm
seas swarmed with fish; shallow swamps teemed with great-toothed
terror creatures engaging in the endless slaughter of harmless prey.
A myriad of amphibians had evolved, making tentative forays from
the warm seas.
Great ferns had reappeared. Dozens of varieties dotted the lowland
plains and protruded from the swamps. A forest crept to the very
base of the batholith. He turned his attention to the sun, reassured to
find that the ultimate nova still was some five billion years in the
future. Perhaps by then he could evolve some means whereby he
could recreate himself on the single planet he detected circling
Aldebaran. (Yes, he'd have to think about that. Ah, well, he had eons
of time.)
Night came and he sent exploratory receptors toward the planets.
Mercury still blazed on the sunward side, unchanged. A peculiar
metallic life form still clung to the edge of existence along the twilight
border. Venus suffered under hot swirling gases, a world where not
even the smallest creature stirred. Just furnace winds, burning sands,
grotesque rocks. But beyond the earth, forty million miles away in
empty space, something occurred which hadn't occurred in almost
seven hundred million years. Ixmal sensed Intelligent Thought!
He withdrew his receptors without thinking (his first pure reflex),
waiting fearfully until Psychband adjusted him to the situation. Then,
cautiously, he projected cautious thoughts into the void.
"Who are you? Who are you? Identify." Silence. Somewhere in the
great vault above something lurked. An Intelligence. He must find it,
must test it. It was more than a challenge; it was a threat. Its very
silence was ominous.
"Who are you? Who are you? You must identify!"
Silence. Ixmal divided the heavens into cubes and began
systematically exploring each one. Why had the other thought been
roaming space? What had been its origin? In less than ninety
thousand years (another age of vulcanism had arrived and earth
mountains were building anew) he located the thought a second time,
placing it as in space cube 97,685-KL-5. This time, prepared, he
grasped it, holding it captive while he tried to analyze its origin and
component parent, vexed when he failed.
"Who are you?" Ixmal persisted. "I demand to know. Who are you?"
Ages passed.
"Identify. Identify. Imperative that you identify."
"Zale-3." The answer caught Ixmal by surprise, and he consulted
Psychband.
"Careful—the alien wouldn't reveal himself unless he felt secure,"
Psychband warned.
"I'll decide that," Ixmal replied. (Did Psychband question his
mastery?) Nevertheless he proceeded with caution. "Where are you
from, Zale-3?" A long moment of silence followed during which a
glacier advanced and retreated, the seas rose, and the first fierce-
toothed reptiles swooped over swamp jungles on leathery wings.

Where are you from? Where are you from? (And why was the mind of
Zale-3 roaming space?) He hammered away at the thought,
desperately trying to break its secret. A million questions pounded
Ixmal's circuits; he sought a million answers. (Who created the
Intelligence? Had it been born of the Man he was fond of? Or did it
originate beyond earth?) Ixmal sensed a momentary panic. "Where
are you from?"
"The fourth planet from the sun," Zale-3 suddenly answered. "And
you?"
"The third planet," Ixmal replied loftily. "I rule it." He felt annoyed. For
untold millions of years he had considered himself as the only
Intelligence. Zale-3's answer galled him. Of course the other wasn't
his equal. That was unthinkable.
"I rule the fourth planet," Zale-3 said. The answer increased Ixmal's
irritation. Zale-3 actually presumed equality. Well, seven hundred
million years before he had met a similar challenge. (And yea, now
the Man was dust ... dust.) He consulted Psychband, annoyed to find
that his dislike of Zale-3 was founded on an ego-emotion integration
rather than pure reason. Still, the other must be put in his place.
"I rule the Universe," Ixmal stated coldly, withdrawing his receptors.
He probed Psychband, somewhat disturbed to learn that Zale-3
would regard his pronouncement as a challenge.
"Destroy him," Psychband urged. "Remember the ancient weapons?"
"Yes, he must be destroyed." Ixmal ceased every activity to
concentrate on the other's destruction. First he would have to locate
his lair, study his habits, assess his weaknesses. And, yes, his
strengths, for the alien was no harmless bit of protoplasm like Man.
He must, in fact, be a creature somewhat like himself. Another god.
Ah, but he was the iconoclast who toppled gods. In somewhat under
twenty-five thousand years he evolved a method of focusing his
remote receptors sufficient to uncover the atoms of the solar system.
Now he would be able to pinpoint Zale-3, study his mind potential
and, in time, root him from existence. Experimentally he searched the
moon; then, with more assurance, invaded the fourth planet.
Mars was flat, worn, a waterless waste of fine red dust—an old, old
planet where the forces of gradation had reached near balance. Ixmal
gridded the red planet into a system of squares and ingeniously
enclosed the polar areas with interlocking triangles, then opened his
search. (A new system allowed him to focus his remote receptors in
the center of each grid, expanding the focal point to cover the entire
area. By this method he would be able to complete the task in just
under five hundred earth years.)
Shifting sands periodically uncovered the artifacts of long-vanished
makers. But all was silence. Mars was a tomb. He persisted, invading
every crevice, every nook, exploring every molecule (for Ixmal knew
the mind-force potential. Indeed, Zale-3 might be as minute as the
single-cell protozoa of his own brackish seas. Never mind, he would
find him.) In the end he surrendered, baffled. Zale-3 was not on Mars.

Delusion? Had seven hundred million years of nothingness produced

an incipient psychotic state? He worriedly confided the fear to
Psychband, reluctantly submitting to hypnotic search. Finally he
emerged to reality, cleared by Psychband.
"Some feelings of persecution but not approaching delusory state,"
Psychband diagnosed. "Zale-3 exists."
So, the other had lied! Ixmal contemplated a machine capable of
deceit and immediately analyzed the danger. Zale-3 had lied,
therefore it had motive—and dishonest motive implied threat. Threat
without aggression was meaningless, hence the other had the
means. He must work fast!
Ixmal gridded the solar system: every planet, every moon; each
shattered remnant that drifted through space, the asteroids and
orbital comets, even the sun. Seventy-two hundred years later he
detected his enemy—a small plasto-metallic cube crouched atop a
jagged peak on Callisto, Jupiter's fifth moon. Ha, far from being the
master of Mars, his opponent was locked to a small satellite—a mote
in space. And he had presumed equality!
He searched closer, attempting to unlock Zale-3's origin. (What had
happened to its makers?) Ixmal felt a guilty pang. He scanned Zale-
3's world contemptuously. Then he saw it—movement! Zale-3
squatted immobile; but on the slope of the hill a strange building was
taking shape. It was little more than a cube, but its design? Its
purpose? He knew somehow that the strange building was related to
his encounter in space with Zale-3's mind, thus it was connected with
him. Ixmal hurriedly flashed a panic call to Psychband.
"Psychokinesis—Zale-3 has learned to move matter by mind,"
Psychband pronounced.
"But how?"
Psychband gave an electro-magnetic rumble, the equivalent of a
shrug. "Out of my field," he said. "No prior indoctrination."
Ixmal sensed a momentary fright. The alien could move matter just as
Man had moved matter. The factor of controlled mobility ... directed
mobility. Clearly Zale-3 was no ordinary god. He'd have to speed his
efforts. Time was running out. Already the earth pattern had changed
since his first contact with the alien.
Ixmal concentrated.
The earth rotated, revolved, changed. In a long-forgotten memory cell
he found a clue—Man once had frustrated the laws of probability in
the throws of dice. He devoured the hidden knowledge. Although little
enough to go on, he detected a basic principle.
In somewhat over half a million years he was able to sway flowers,
move leaves against the wind, make small shrubs tremble. In less
than half that time again he felled a huge tree and wrested ores from
the earth. (An age of vulcanism had come and gone; the Atlantic
coast was an igneous shelf, reptiles towered above the earth.) In
another half million years he possessed the machines, raw materials
and robot workers he needed. (The latter were designed to perform
purely mechanical tasks, menial things he couldn't be bothered with.
He had much to do. And ages were passing.) He saved time by
enclosing his work area in a force field to protect the delicate
machinery against the elements. In that respect he had bested the
alien.
Ixmal started the ultimate weapon. Occasionally he would halt work
long enough to scan Callisto. He gloated, noting that his enemy was
having difficulty procuring the necessary fissionable material. He had
a Belgian Congo full. (What did that term mean? Somehow it was an
expression from long ago. The Man he had been fond of had used it.)
Ixmal's weapon rapidly took shape. Thanks to the ancient scientist's
formula, he had merely to improve the warhead and construct its
carrier—a rocket to blast Zale-3 from existence. (But eons were
passing. Soft warm winds bathed his batholith and an occasional
tyrannosaur paused to stare dumbly from the nearby swamp.)
Psychband increased his irritation by calling attention to the
formidable dimensions of this new animal.
"Destroy them, Ixmal, before life gets too big."
"Bah, they're mindless," he scoffed. "They're evolutionary toys—
freaks from the mire."
"So was Man," Psychband observed.
"And Man is dust," Ixmal reminded. "Besides, I could destroy the very
mountain with thought alone. Who dares give challenge?"
Ixmal discovered that Zale-3 had solved his fissionable problem: he
was using psychokinesis to haul ore from Jupiter's methane deeps. A
startling thought struck him: Zale-3 wouldn't need a rocket carrier. Of
course, he would power his warhead by mental force. Why hadn't he
thought of that? The ages wasted when every second might prove
vital. He'd have to hurry.

He ceased work, abandoning the half-completed rocket and

concentrated on improving his psychokinetic techniques. (Dinosaurs
disappeared, the earth trembled under the foot of the mammoth.)
Ixmal momentarily was appalled to discover a strange man-form
dwelling among distant crags. He was hulking, grotesque, but he
walked erect—the first of his kind. But no time now.
Ixmal tore trees from the earth and hurled them vast distances. He
tumbled hills into valleys, held great crags suspended in the heavens,
tore North and South America asunder; reshaped continents until,
one day, he knew the mind force was his. He could reverse the very
moon in its orbit! He concentrated on the bomb.
Finally the ultimate weapon was ready, the creation of long-ago Man
plus ten billion. (Because there was no poetry in Ixmal's soul, he
conceived solely in terms of cause and effect: he named the weapon
"Star-Blaster.")
Ixmal moved the great weapon into position and rapidly calculated
the Earth-Callisto relationship, projecting the space ratio in terms of
velocity, distance, gravities. No need to pinpoint the alien's plasto-
metallic body: the whole of Callisto would vanish, reduced to cosmic
dust under the bomb's furious impact. (A feathered bird sang from a
tree. The trill liquid sound infuriated Ixmal, but he ended it. A puff of
feathers drifted down through the leaves. The robin had sung of
spring.)
Ha! Ixmal exulted, following his precise calculations. At the exact ten-
thousandths of a second he concentrated five billion thought units.
Winds rushed into the spot where the bomb had stood, and for a long
moment the forests trembled. (At the base of the batholith several of
the strange man-forms chattered excitedly: the concept of a god was
born.)
Ixmal gloatingly followed "Star-Blaster's" course. He saw it hurtle past
the moon, watched while for a split second it formed one apex of an
equilateral triangle with Mars and earth, reveled as it drove through
the belt of asteroids. Ha, the alien was doomed. His very atoms
would be flung to the stars. He was watching "Star-Blaster" when....
Ixmal recoiled, disbelieving, then terrified. A great warhead hurtled
through the belt of asteroids, earth-bound, driven at unbelievable
velocity by the mind of Zale-3. Ixmal frantically calculated, pounding
his circuits to produce answers in split thousandths of a second.
Frenzied, he analyzed his findings: the warhead would strike his very
body.
"Concentrate, concentrate," Psychband interrupted. "Divert the
weapon by mind force." Ixmal concentrated, focusing ten billion
thought units on the oncoming warhead. It flashed unswervingly past
Mars, flicking like a heavenly rapier toward earth, its velocity
unbelievable.
"The moon! The moon! Use the moon," Psychband cried. Yes, the
moon. He shook earth's satellite. An additional ten billion thought
units reversed its orbit; he sped it up, hurling the Moon toward
interception with Zale-3's warhead. Too late!
"Think, think," Psychband urged. Ixmal mustered another two billion
thought units, to no avail. The terrible weapon bashed past the moon,
only seconds from earth.
"Hurry!" Psychband screamed. Ixmal was trying to muster another
two billion thought units when the alien warhead struck. There was a
horrible shattering thousandths of a second before consciousness
fled. Amorphic blackness. Night. Nothingness.
Ixmal never saw "Star-Blaster" after it passed through the asteroid
belt—never saw the disturbance in one minute sector of Jupiter's
planetary system as Callisto flamed into cosmic dust. Nor did he see
the forests around him burst into roaring flames, nor hear the
screaming animals and strange man-forms which fled in howling
terror.
Much later the man-forms returned.
Some of the more fearless crept to the very edge of the huge crater
where the batholith had stood. They looked with awe into its scarred
depths, jabbering excitedly. One of them remained long after the
others had gone until, in the swiftly gathering darkness, the first bright
stars of evening gleamed.
The man-form did something which none of his kind had ever done
before. He lifted his eyes skyward, watching for a long time.

THE END
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