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just for their gratification. She was raped. But you know that, too. On some
level." "Yes," he whispered.
"Taking away her contraceptive implant and allowing- or compelling-you to
impregnate her was part of their idea of sadism. The first part. They did not,
thank God, live long enough to get to the second part."
His legs had drawn up, his long arms wrapped around them in a tight, tight
ball. His breathing was fast and shallow, panting. His face was freezer-burn
white, sheened with cold sweat.
"Do I have red rings around me now?" Cordelia asked curiously.
"It's all ... kind of pink." "And the last picture?"
"Oh, Milady." He swallowed. "Whatever it was ... I know it must be very close
to whatever it is they most don't want me to remember." He swallowed again.
Cordelia began to understand why he hadn't touched his lunch.
"Do you want to go on? Can you go on?" "I must go on. Milady. Captain
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Naismith. Because I remember you. Remember seeing you. Stretched out on
Vorrutyer's bed, all your clothes cut away, naked. You were bleeding. I was
looking up your . . . What I want to know. Must know." His arms were wrapped
around his head, now, tilted toward her on his knees, his face hollow,
haunted, hungry.
His blood pressure must be fantastically high, to drive that monstrous
migraine. If they went too far, pressed this through to the last truth, might
he be in danger of a stroke? An incredible piece of psychoengineering, to
program his own body to punish him for his forbidden thoughts . . .
"Did I rape you, Milady?"
"Huh? No!" She sat bolt upright, fiercely indignant. They had taken that
knowledge away from him? They'd dared take that away from him?
He began to cry, if that's what that ragged breathing, tight-screwed face, and
tears leaking from his eyes meant. Equal parts agony and joy. "Oh. Thank
God." And, "Are you sure . . . ?"
"Vorrutyer ordered you to. You refused. Out of your own will, without hope of
rescue or reward. It got you in a hell of a lot of trouble, for a little
while." She longed to tell him the rest, but the state he was in now was so
terrifying, it was impossible to guess the consequences. "How long have you
been remembering this? Wondering this?"
"Since I first saw you again. This summer. When you came to marry Lord
Vorkosigan."
"You've been walking around for over six months, with this in your head, not
daring to ask-?" "Yes, Milady."
She sat back, horrified, her breath trickling out between pursed lips.
"Next time, don't wait so long."
Swallowing hard, he stumbled to his feet, a big hand waving in a desperate
wait-for-me gesture. He swung his legs over the low stone wall, and found some
bushes. Anxiously, she listened to him dry-vomiting his empty stomach for
several minutes. An extremely bad attack, she judged, but finally the violent
paroxysms slowed, then stopped. He returned, wiping his lips, looking very
white and not much better, except for his eyes. A little life flickered in
those eyes now, a half-suppressed light of overwhelming relief.
The light faded, as he sat in thought. He rubbed his palms on his trouser
knees, and stared at his boots. "But I'm not less a rapist, just because you
were not my victim."
"That is correct."
"I can't . . . trust myself. How can you trust me? . . . Do you know what's
better than sex?"
She wondered if she could take one more sharp turn in this conversation
without running off screaming. You encouraged him to uncork, now you're stuck
with it. "Go on."
"Killing. It feels even better, afterwards. It shouldn't be ... such a
pleasure. Lord Vorkosigan doesn't kill like that." His eyes were narrowed,
brows creased, but he was uncurled from his ball of agony; he must be speaking
generally, Vorrutyer no longer on his mind.
"It's a release of rage, I'd guess," said Cordelia cautiously. "How did you
get so much rage, balled up inside of you? The density is palpable. People can
sense it."
His hand curled, in front of his solar plexus. "It goes back a long way.
But I don't feel angry, most of the time. It snaps out suddenly."
"Even Bothari fears Bothari," she murmured in wonder.
"Yet you don't. You're less afraid even than Lord Vorkosigan."
"I see you as bound up with him, somehow. And he's my own heart. How can I
fear my own heart?"
"Milady. A bargain."
"Hm?"
"You tell me ... when it's all right. To kill. And then I'll know."
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"I can't-look, suppose I'm not there? When that sort of thing lands on you,
there's not usually time to stop and analyze. You have to be allowed
self-defense, but you also have to be able to discern when you're really being
attacked." She sat up, eyes widening in sudden insight. "That's why your
uniform is so important to you, isn't it? It tells you when it's all right.
When you can't tell yourself. All those rigid routines you keep to, they're to
tell you you're all right, on track."
"Yes. I'm sworn to the defense of House Vorkosigan, now. So that's all right."
He nodded, apparently reassured. By what, for God's sake?
"You're asking me to be your conscience. Make your judgments for you. But you
are a whole man. I've seen you make right choices, under the most absolute
stress."
His hands pressed to his skull again, his narrow jaw clenching, and he grated
out, "But I can't remember them. Can't remember how I did it."
"Oh." She felt very small. "Well . . . whatever you think I can do for you,
you've got a blood-right to it. We owe you, Aral and I. We remember why, even
if you can't."
"Remember it for me, then, Milady," he said lowly "and I'll be all right."
"Believe it."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Cordelia shared breakfast one morning the following week with Aral and
Piotr in a private parlor overlooking the back garden. Aral motioned to the
Count's footman, who was serving.
"Would you please rout out Lieutenant Koudelka for me? Tell him to bring that
agenda for this morning that we were discussing."
"Uh, I guess you hadn't heard, my lord?" murmured the man. Cordelia had the
impression that his eyes were searching the room for an escape route.
"Heard what? We just came down."
"Lieutenant Koudelka is in hospital this morning."
"Hospital! Good God, why wasn't I told at once? What happened?"
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