Daughter of Lir (18 page)

That was more than the men near her could do. It did not
persuade the easterners to acknowledge her existence, though she could feel
their awareness of her. It must be torture for them to keep their eyes to
themselves.

The conversation did not sparkle. The easterners that she
had met till now were mighty talkers and tellers of tales, but either these
were men of few words, or some constraint silenced them.

Maybe she was that constraint. She amused herself by getting
up and wandering about, and marking how they stiffened when she came near.

Why, she thought, they were afraid of her. She could hardly
see why, unless some rumor had run ahead of her.

She paused near the captain. He was a lovely young thing,
awkward in his length and leanness, but beautiful in his way. His hair was as
bright as new copper. His brows were straight and well-drawn and a shade
darker. The stubble on his cheeks was more gold than red. His skin was like
milk. The sun seemed not to stain it at all.

He had wonderful hands, lean but strong, with long clever
fingers. They were a maker’s hands, as much as a warrior’s: she knew the like
of those marks and scars. A man only won those from long work at a forge. It
was a pleasure to watch him break bread and drink wine and be ill at ease in
her presence.

She sat on her heels in front of him. “What is your name?” she
asked him.

For a moment she thought he would go on ignoring her. But it
seemed he had no such strength of will. “Minas,” he said, as if it had been
startled out of him. “My name is Minas.”

“Mine is Rhian,” she said. “I horrify you. Why? Don’t women
have speech where you come from?”

His eyes flashed up. Her breath caught. They were as green
as summer leaves.

She had never seen eyes like that. They transformed his
face. It was handsome enough without them. With them, it was beautiful.

“Women have manners where I come from,” he said.

“What are those?” she asked him. “To hide in tents and never
speak at all?”

“Goddesses know little of men’s ways,” he said.

“Men of the tribes know nothing of women.” She smiled at
him, much too sweetly, but maybe he would not know that. “You are in sore need
of teaching.”

“You will take it on yourself to do that?”

She laughed. “Oh! You do have wit. Who’d have thought it?”

He seemed more startled than offended, which interested her.
Some of his fellows were muttering among themselves. He silenced them with a
slash of the hand. “You are very bold,” he said.

“I’m a woman,” she said. She grinned at all their
expressions.

One of them could bear it no longer. His command of traders’
speech was not as firm as his captain’s, but he could make himself understood.
“You, woman! You be quiet. He is king’s son.”

“She,” said Minas before she could speak, “is a goddess.”

She was not, at all, but it seemed wiser to hold her tongue.
He had cowed his people, if not into submission, at least into silence.

This was a very fortunate thing, to have met first with the
king’s son of the charioteers. Though maybe there was little of chance about
it. “Did your father send you?” she asked him.

“No,” he said quickly, but not as one who lies. “We were
hunting near here. We saw your camp.”

Was he blushing? She began to wonder when he had seen it.
Surely not this morning. Had he been hunting under the moon, then?

Yes, his fair cheeks had gone scarlet. She bit back a smile.
This was beyond fortunate. It was the Goddess’ own gift.

She would use it, and well. But for now she simply said, “We
would be honored if you would escort us to your people.”

“We had intended to do that,” he said.

o0o

“That was well played,” Emry said to her as they rode out
of the camp. He spoke the dialect of Lir, which was altogether unlike the
traders’ speech.

The tribesmen had ridden ahead of them by a little. Rhian
supposed the caravan were not to know of the handful who had fallen behind
them. Innocents these people might be in matters of men and women, but they
were masters of war.

She did not glance at Emry when he spoke, though she was
perfectly aware of him. Her eyes were on the prince, who rode not far in front
of her. His back was straight, his tail of coppery hair swinging with his horse’s
stride. He had a lovely way of sitting on a horse.

“He is good to look at, isn’t he?”

“Beautiful,” Rhian said.

“And,” said Emry, “he’s their king's son.”

“Is that how kings think?” she asked, still watching Minas.

“Kings,” he said, “and goddess’ servants.”

“She sent him to us,” Rhian said.

“I can believe it,” said Emry.

“I will use him,” she said, “as the Goddess bids me.” He was
silent. She turned to look at him then. His face wore no expression. “Are you
judging me?”

“No,” he said. “Not at all. I’m only thinking of the day I
first saw you, and of what happened after that. The priestess might have done
better than she knew, to refuse your choosing.”

“She did better than she ever wanted to do,” said Rhian. “I
was never meant for Lir. I was meant for this.”

“It would seem so,” said Emry.

Traders did not come to the People as often as they might.
They were afraid; and well they might be. The People were terrible in war.

But there were things that the People did not make, or that
came from so far away that they were both rare and wonderful. For that, traders
were welcome, and they were honored like princes.

They rode in through a gathering crowd of children and dogs,
men and even a few bold women. As wide as the camp was and as full of people,
by the time Minas had brought them to the king’s circle, a feast was already in
the making.

Even the king had come out to see what came with such
delighted tumult. Minas glimpsed his keepers in the shadow of the tentflap,
dark shapes with glinting eyes. He was freer of their spells than he had been
in a long while: his face was bare to the sun, and though his skin was pale and
his eyes blinked as if blinded, he did not hide himself away.

He greeted the caravan-master with courtesy befitting a
king. The guards and the lesser caravaneers he welcomed. The woman—his eyes
slid past her as if she had not been there.

They were all doing that, but when her back was turned, they
stared and muttered among themselves. She stood just behind the caravan-master,
next to the captain of guards. She seemed to be taking great pleasure in the
sight of this camp, these people, and certainly their tall and terrible king.

Rather fortunately for everyone’s peace, she did not address
the king as she had addressed Minas. She held her tongue and let the men speak.
Her eyes were outrageously bold, dancing over the gathered faces, scanning the
tents, narrowing a little as she caught sight of the shadowed women.

Just when Minas could not have borne it any longer, one of
those women slipped out of concealment. His mother’s eyes crossed his briefly,
seeing everything she needed to see. Then she turned away from him, touching
the stranger’s arm, murmuring in her ear.

The stranger’s smile was swift and dazzling. She let Aera
lead her away, offering neither objection nor sign of apprehension.

She was safe now. Minas turned his mind from her with an
effort that wrenched in his belly. The king was done with his words of welcome.
He laid his arm about the caravan-master’s shoulders and led him to the feasting-ground,
where captives and veiled women of the People had spread the beginnings of a
royal banquet. There were finely tanned skins to lie on, heaps of cushions to
lean against, and a servant for each man, to keep his cup filled and to choose
the best portions for him.

Minas made sure that he sat beside the captain of the
guards. The captain’s men were light-hearted creatures, like Minas’ companions.
The captain was a graver soul. He ate in silence, offering no conversation.

Minas let the silence stretch through the platters of bread
and the wheels of cheese and the heaped bowls of fresh curds. When the roasted
meats began, from the tiny mouthfuls of lark and quail to the slab of roast ox,
Minas said as if casually, “It was maybe not wise to bring a woman here.”

The captain’s brows rose. “Is she in danger?”

“Not,” said Minas, “from my mother.”

“Then she’s safe,” the captain said.

“For a while,” Minas said.

“You are kind to be troubled for her.” He managed, somehow,
not to sound stiff. Was that a hint of mockery in his glance?

“She is beautiful, your sister,” Minas said. “She is
headstrong, yes? How well can she learn the manners that a woman needs here?”

“My—” The captain shook his head as if to thrust that
thought aside. “She does as she pleases.”

“And you have no power over her.”

“No man does.”

“Does a woman?”

The captain’s lips twitched beneath the black beard. “How
strong is your mother?”

“Very strong,” said Minas.

The captain’s grin broke free. He looked strikingly like his
sister then. “I should like to have seen their meeting,” he said.

Minas reflected on Aera face to face with a goddess from
beyond the river. It was a rather marvelous vision, and rather alarming.

As he paused to contemplate that, one of his father’s
servants set before them a choice portion of the ox, steaming-fragrant and
dripping with juices. Minas half-bowed to the other. The captain drew his
belt-knife to cut off his share.

Minas’ teeth clicked together. That knife was bronze. So was
every knife in the hand of every one of these foreigners, to the last donkey-driver.
They were all armed with bronze.

Beyond the river, he thought as if in a dream. Bronze came
from beyond the river. The gods made it—or men as wise as gods.

If they would trade—if that were possible—

There would be no trading today. These things had their
rites and proprieties. Today the traders were honored guests. Tomorrow they
would bring out their wares. And Minas would learn what was to be learned of
the metal that was so strong in its magic.

o0o

Rhian had not thought to vanish among the women of this
tribe. But while she stood with the men, hearing the king’s greeting, a light
hand touched her. She looked up a little into eyes as green as the prince’s,
but much, much wiser.

These were not eyes to be deceived by simple sleights or
veils of pretense. This woman saw clear and she saw deep.

Not so clear and not so deep, Rhian prayed, as to understand
why Rhian had come here. Certainly she betrayed no anger, nor did she call the
warriors of the tribe to seize and destroy the invader. She led Rhian into a
dim and musty world.

Sometimes in a bitter winter Dura’s house had grown as rank
as a fox’s den. This was a rankness to match the rankest of it: smoke and sweat
and ill-washed skin, wool, leather, horses and cattle and the stench of goats.

The tent was very large, and divided into chambers by
curtains of leather. Lamps lit it. Some of them were splendid, made of gold or
silver, and others were plain clay. The light they shed was a pale golden
twilight full of shadows and whispers.

There were no men here, and no menchildren old enough to
ride or earn a weapon. This was a world of women and infants. All the men were
out in the sun.

Rhian stopped some little way into the tent. Her feet would
not carry her onward.

Her guide went on a step or two, then half-turned. “Come,”
she said.

It took all of Rhian’s strength to go on. There was a horror
in her, her dream come alive: the cage, the bars, the bird of flame bound
within them.

She could turn on her heel and walk away. But she was well
raised; she had learned courtesy. And she was stubborn. She had begun this. She
would end it.

They must be passing the entire length of the tent, to take
so long to come to the end of it. When she began to think that this was a dream
indeed, and she was trapped in it forever, they came to a wall, and that wall
opened on blessed light.

This was a court of tents, so well hidden that she would
never have imagined that it was there. Walls of leather enclosed it. Its roof
was the sky.

There were women here, veils laid aside, weaving baskets of
the strong steppe grasses, or chattering among themselves. Children played in
the sun.

Rhian’s guide put aside her veils. She bore a remarkable
resemblance to the prince, though her hair was darker. The face, the eyes were
the same, the slender height and the breathless grace.

She regarded Rhian steadily, studying her with care. At
length she said, “I am Aera. My son brought you here.”

“He looks like you,” said Rhian.

“People do say so.”

Aera gestured toward a heap of hides laid on the ground. The
women who had been seated on them had moved on to tend some of the children. It
seemed a matter of chance, but Rhian was on edge here; she trusted nothing. As
welcome as the light was, and the sky, she was still trapped, still surrounded
by strangers, enemies of her people.

This woman, this mother of a prince, seemed amiable. When
they had both sat on the hides, younger women brought food and drink. The food
was fresh-baked bread and stewed roots and roast meat. The drink was not kumiss
as she had expected, but watered wine. The platter and the cups were of beaten
gold, extravagant in their richness.

Rhian would have welcomed more herbs in the stew and less
grit in the bread, but it was a good enough meal, and plentiful. She was hungry.
She ate well and drank lightly, and belched after, with the courtesy of the
tribes.

Aera, who had eaten more slowly and with less appetite,
nodded approval. She sat erect, with her feet tucked up and her hands resting
on her knees. She carried herself beautifully, as if she had been the Mother of
a city.