Ailann came to bed with me, but when I woke in the morning, he was gone. He was really being childish.
I went to pour myself a drink and found to my surprise that there was still plenty of scotch in the decanter. When Ailann gets in a mood, he drinks. Of course, I suppose he could have just refilled the container with his alchemy, but the level looked pretty much the same as it did when we’d gone to bed.
I knew I should apologize, but for what? Maybe I had jumped into bed with Manasseh too hastily, but I don’t believe I did anything wrong. He was Ashtara. For years, I’ve told Ash that the emanations weren’t expendable, that I loved all of them because they revealed a part of his true nature to me. How could that be any less true for Manasseh?
Nevertheless, I went looking for Ailann. Maybe we’d just argue again. I didn’t want that. But I wanted to be apart from him even less. Of course, if he wanted me, he could easily find me. Which must mean that he was upset enough to be avoiding me. Or – that he’d left again.
Even though he promised. Even though he’d never broken a promise to me. I ran through the palace looking for him. I bumped into Lady Magdelaine. “Madonna, have you seen the Lord Archon?”
“He left,” she said.
“Left? What do you mean, left?” I asked, my chest numbing with panic.
“Prince Driscoll is here now. He’s in his studio.”
“Driscoll?” That was the last thing I expected. Of course they often changed emanations without warning, and if Ailann was being a prick, Ash might very well swap him out for someone who could smooth things over – Patrick, diplomatic and sweet, or gentle Lugh, or Tarlach with his insight into human nature. But Driscoll? Catty Driscoll, the art bitch?
When I got to the studio, before I could even see a thing, I heard the sound of inconsolable sobbing. Driscoll – was crying? I’d never seen him cry, ever. Never even imagined it. When he was hurt, he got bitter, slashed back.
He was collapsed on the floor, in front of a canvas he’d been working on. In a tray on the counter, his cigarette had burnt itself out in its ridiculous holder. He must’ve been crying for a long time. I knelt by him, placed my hand lightly on his shoulder. “Lover, what’s wrong? Is the thing with Manasseh upsetting…”
He gestured at the painting. “It’s not fair,” he said, haltingly between sobs.
At first, I thought the painting was meant to be of Whirljack, or maybe Suibhne. Which would be uncharacteristic for Driscoll – even when his paintings verge on abstraction, they have such an uncanny insight into personality that the subject is instantly recognizable.
And then I realized that the subject was instantly recognizable. It was Ari.
“The latest in my series Self-Portraits Not of Me.”
“But how do you know what Ari looks like? I thought there was no contact between Atlas and Goliath.”
“I don’t know. When I emanated this morning, his face was in my mind. And I felt like I had to get it on canvas because otherwise you might never get to see it. It’s not fair. He’s one of us, Tara.”
“I know,” I said. “Try telling Ailann that. Maybe I was so nasty to him yesterday because…” I realized the truth. “If I had to choose, of course, I’d choose Atlas. But that doesn’t mean I feel nothing for that sweet boy Manasseh – that boy who’s equally a part of Ashtara as any of you. Or Aran. I really started out badly with him, and I need to make it up. Or…you know, I have seen Ari before. I took Gyre to find you. I saw him in my vision, and he’s been in my dreams ever since.”
Driscoll nodded. “Ailann wants to keep control. And I understand why – we can’t guarantee your safety if we aren’t conscious and aware. And also – I’m frightened. I’m not the only one. We don’t sleep, Tara. And suddenly we slept, dark and dreamless, for over two years. Where were we? Two years lost. It’s a little like death. But…but they’re like that now.” Driscoll’s lip quivered, and I knew he was fighting with tears again. I hugged him, pulled him close. I could feel him shaking. After a minute he stood, offered me his hand. He was sullen now, and I could tell his unusual self-exposure discomfited him.
Ironic perhaps, since the self-portrait series was really an exposure of the other emanations. In his own defense, he’d say he had included self-portraits in Self-Portraits Not of Me (another irony!) But there was always something wry about them – like he was winking at his audience. In other words, controlling his own image. Which is actually a pretty apt summation of his character, so perhaps the lying, ironic portraits neither lie nor are ironic. Another irony.
“There has to be a way,” I said. “Both trees are Ashtara. He can’t exist divided from himself.”
Driscoll said nothing, but his gaze shifted away from mine, and I knew there was something he was not telling me. And then I was pretty sure what it was. “Did Ailann threaten to burn down Goliath?”
Driscoll sighed, an exaggerated, dramatic gesture. “I suppose it’s predictable.”
“That was his reaction to Cillian too – amputate the branch, burn it. And aren’t you glad we didn’t? If not for Cillian, we’d all be dead. Ash doesn’t make mistakes.”
Driscoll snorted. “But Tara, doesn’t this prove the opposite? Goliath was a horrible mistake.”
I pointed at the painting of Ari. “Do you believe that he was a mistake?”
Driscoll was silent for a while. “I honestly don’t know,” he said. “That isn’t like me. I’m usually certain. Even when I’m completely wrong, nevertheless, I’m certain.” He grinned. “But this – heart and brain are at odds with each other. How do you humans stand that? There’s never a moment in a tree’s life when root and leaves are at odds with each other.”
Now I had to laugh. “I’ve read your novel,” I said. The kind of internal conflict you guys have – I want to say it would drive any human crazy, but seriously, only a crazy human would have it. Multiple personality disorder. The difference is just that you externalize your inner conflicts.”
“It’s not the same at all,” he sniffed. “I’m not Ailann or Cillian or anyone but me.”
“But you’re all part of Ash. It’s more like if my heart and my brain each had a will of their own. Which probably they do, come to think about it. But it’s my job to keep them in proper balance. As an organism, I’m probably more analogous to Ash, but he’s so…I don’t know what the word is I’m looking for…ineffable, maybe? I can’t talk to him. I’m incapable of understanding. So it’s like me telling a monkey to go and talk to my liver for a while.”
“That’s an extraordinary insult, Tara.”
“Well, you’re so cute when you’re offended. No one does righteous indignation better.”
I was pushing him back into his prickly persona, and he knew it. I could see the gratitude in his eyes. Nevertheless, he did not release my hand.
“Come on, let’s get some lunch,” I suggested. “The people are still uneasy because the Archon was gone for so long. It couldn’t hurt for us to get papped in some trendy bistro.”
“The thought merely depresses me.”
That gave me pause. If there’s anything Driscoll loves, it’s being the center of attention.
“I’ve been away for two years, Tara!” he continued. “By now, anyplace that I would normally go is two times last year’s news. I’d be mortified to be seen someplace like that.”
“I’ll ask Lady Madonna if she’s heard of anyplace new.”
“You jest? Surely you jest? Lady Lorma’s tastes run to teahouses frequented by dowdy old biddies recollecting whose cousin danced with the Marquess of such-and-such at some dusty old prom.”
“Well…no one in the smart set will be there. Which means you’ll be on the cutting edge.”
Driscoll pulled his cigarette holder from the tray, contemplating it in the light. “For such a place, I would really need to accessorize with a pipe. I suppose I can borrow one from Tarlach.”