But Bard’s delight in the thought was so great that she could not bear to quench it. She temporized. “That must be as my father and my lord wills it, Bard.”
Bard saw only a proper maidenly shyness in the words. He tightened his fingers on her hands and said, “Will you kiss me in farewell, my promised wife?”
How could she deny him so much? She let him draw her close, felt his lips, hard and insistent, over hers, stifling her breath. He had never kissed her before except for the brotherly and respectful kiss they had exchanged, before witnesses, at their handfasting. This was different, and somehow frightening, as she felt him trying to open her lips with his mouth; she did not struggle, submitting, scared and passive, to the touch, and somehow this was more exciting to Bard than the most violent passion could have been.
As they moved apart he said in a low voice, half afraid of his own emotion, “I love you, Carlina.”
At the shaking of his voice she was moved, again, with reluctant tenderness. She touched his cheek with her fingertips and said gently, “I know, my promised husband.”
When he had left her again, she stood staring after the closed door, her emotions in turmoil. Her whole heart yearned after the silence and peace of the Isle of Silence; yet it seemed that it was never to be, that she must go, will she nill she, to be the wife of her cousin, her foster brother, her promised husband, Bard di Asturien. Perhaps, she told herself, perhaps it will not be so bad, when we were little children we loved one another well.
“Ah, Carlina,” called one of the women, “what am I to do with this bolt of material; the threads are all drawn at the edge and there is a big piece spoilt here—”
Carlina came and bent over the material. She said, “You will have to straighten it as best you can; and if it is not wide enough after for a sheet, then you must save this end for cushion covers, which can be worked over in wool, with colored designs embroidered here to hide the crooked weave. . . .”
“Why, lady,” mocked one of the girls, “how can you give thought to such things, when you have had a visit here from your lover. . . .”
She had used the inflection that changed the word subtly from promised husband to paramour, and Carlina flushed, feeling the heat flooding into her cheeks. But all she said, schooling her voice to calm and uninvolvement, “Why, Catriona, I thought you had been sent here to learn weaving and embroidery and all manner of womanly arts among the queen’s women, but I see you need schooling in casta too, to say promised husband with the proper courtesy; if you say it like that among the queen’s other women, they will mock at you for being countrified.”
CHAPTER THREE
Bard rode forth before dawn the next morning. The hour was so early that the easternmost sky had not yet begun to flush with the red dawn; all four of the moons were in the sky, though only one near the full; three small crescents, and the pale disk of Mormallor, floating over the distant hills behind them. Bard’s mind was filled with the memory of Carlina’s shy kiss; perhaps a day would come when she would kiss him of her own free will, when she would be glad and proud of being married to the king’s banner bearer, the king’s champion, perhaps the general of all his armies. . . . His thoughts were pleasant enough as he rode at the head of his first command, small though it was.
On the other hand, Beltran, somberly dressed and wrapped in a great cape, was sullen and morose; Bard sensed that he was angered and wondered why.
Beltran growled, “You seem content enough, and perhaps for you this command is welcome, but I would rather ride north to Hammerfell at my father’s side, where he could see whether I do well or ill; and here I am sent to capture a caravan, sent off like the leader of a bandit gang!”
Bard tried to tell his foster brother how important it might be, to make sure that the clingfire from Dalereuth never reached Serrais, to be used against the fields and villages and forests of Asturias; but Beltran could only see that he had not been given the privilege of riding at his father’s right hand, in sight of his armies. “My only comfort is that you will not take my rightful place there,” he grumbled. “That post he gave to Geremy. . . damn him, damn all the Hasturs!”
Here Bard shared Beltran’s displeasure and thought it politic to let him know it.
“Right; he promised me I should have Geremy at the head of the sorcerers riding with us, and at the last moment he tells me he cannot spare Geremy to me, and has given me three strangers,” he added his grumbling to Beltran’s. He looked ahead to where they rode, a little apart from the picked combat men he had chosen; a tall laranzu, graying, his red moustaches hiding half his lower face, and two women, one overplump for riding, ambling on a donkey, and one thin, childish girl, so deeply shrouded in her gray sorcerer’s cloak that Bard could not make out whether she was fair or plain. He knew nothing of these three, nothing of their competence, and he wondered nervously if they would be willing to accept him as leader of this expedition. The laranzu in particular; although, like all of his kind, he rode unarmed except for a dagger at his side, a small knife such as a woman might wear, he looked as if he had been riding on campaigns such as this since long before Bard was born.
He wondered if this was Beltran’s apprehension, too, but he soon found that the prince’s displeasure was from quite another cause.
“Geremy and I pledged one another we would ride together to battle this year, and now he has chosen to remain at the king’s side—”
“Foster brother,” Bard said seriously, “a soldier hears only the voice of his commander, and his own wishes must be subordinate to that.”
Prince Beltran’s voice was petulant. “I am sure, if he had told my father of this, Father would have honored our promise and given Geremy to this expedition. After all, it is only a stupid matter of chasing down caravans, not much more important than riding out to capture bandit raiders on the border,” he added; and Bard, frowning, knew suddenly why the king had said firmly to him that he, and not Prince Beltran, was really in command of this expedition; quite obviously, the prince had no notion of the strategic importance of the clingfire caravans!
If Prince Beltran has no military sense, no wonder my lord the king is eager to train me for command at last; so that if he cannot leave his armies in the hands of his son, he may leave them to his son-in-law. . . . If he has no son fit for a general of all his armies, he will marry his daughter to his own general instead of to a rival outside his borders. . . .
He tried to make Prince Beltran see something of the importance of his mission, but Beltran was sulking, and at last said, “I can see that you want it to be important, Bard, because it makes you feel more important.” And Bard shrugged and let it go.
By midafternoon they were near to the southern border of Asturias; and during the midafternoon rest to breathe the horses, Bard rode toward the sorcerers, who had stopped a little apart from the rest. This was customary; most fighting men (and Bard was no exception) were wary of leroni.
He thought King Ardrin must have regarded this mission as important, else he would hardly have sent a man long seasoned in campaign, but would have given them the young and inexperienced Geremy, if only to please his son and his foster son. Still, Bard found himself echoing the wish of the prince, that Geremy, whom he knew so well, had been with them, rather than this stranger. He did not know how to talk to a laranzu. Geremy, from the time they were all twelve years old, had had lessons apart, not in swordplay and unarmed combat and dagger fighting like the rest of the king’s fosterlings, but in the occult mastery of the starstones, the blue wizard’s crystals which gave the leroni their powers. Geremy had shared their lessons in military tactics and strategy, in riding and hunting, and had gone with them on fire watch and ridden with them against bandits, but it was clear even then that he was not intended for a soldier, and when he had given up wearing a sword, exchanging it for the dagger of a sorcerer, and saying he needed no weapon but the starstone about his neck, a great gulf had opened between them.
And now, as he faced t
he laranzu the king had sent with them, he felt something of the same gulf. Yet the man looked hardened to campaigns, rode like a soldier, and even had a soldierly way of handling his home. He had thin, hawklike features and keen, colorless eyes, the gray hardness of tempered steel.
“I am Bard di Asturien,” he said. “I do not know your name, sir.”
“Gareth MacAran, a ves ordras, vai dom. . .” said the man, saluting briefly.
“What have you been told about this expedition, Master Gareth?”
“Only that I was at your orders, sir.” Bard had just enough laran to catch the very faint, almost undetectable emphasis put on your. Inwardly he felt a definite satisfaction. So he was not the only one to believe Beltran was completely hopeless in military matters.
He said, “Have you a sentry bird?”
Master Gareth pointed. He said, gently, but in definite reproof, “I was riding on campaign before you were begotten, sir. If you will tell me what information is needed. . . .”
Bard felt the sting of the reproof. He said stiffly, “I am young, sir, but not untried in campaign. I have spent most of my time with the sword, and am not accustomed to the proper courtesy in dealing with wizardry. I need to know where the clingfire caravan rides to the south, so that we can take them by surprise, and before they have a chance to destroy what they have.”
Master Gareth set his mouth. He said, “Clingfire, is it? I’d be glad to see all that stuff dumped into the sea. At least it will not be used to set siege to Asturias this year, then. Melora!” he called, and the older leronis came toward him. He had thought her, from her thick body, to be an older woman; now he saw that she was young, but heavy-bodied, her face round and moon-shaped, with pale, vague eyes. Her hair, brilliantly fire red, was twisted into an untidy bun.
“Bring the bird to me. . . .”
Bard watched with amazement—an amazement not new to him, but one that never failed—as the woman deftly unhooded the great bird riding on a block on her saddle. He had had occasion to handle sentry birds; by comparison, even the fiercest of hunting hawks were gentle as a child’s cage-bird. The long snakelike neck writhed around and the bird screamed at Bard, a high snarling cry, but when Melora stroked its feathers it quieted, giving a chirp which seemed almost plaintive, eager for caresses. Gareth took the bird, while Bard cringed inwardly at the proximity of those fierce, unclipped talons near his eyes; but Master Gareth handled it as Carlina would have held one of her tiny singing birds.
“There, my beauty . . .” he said, stroking the bird lovingly. “Go and see what they are doing. . . .”
He flung the bird into the air; it winged away on long, strong pinions, wheeling overhead and disappearing into the clouds. Melora slumped in her saddle, her vague eyes closed, and Gareth said in an undertone, “There is no need for you to stay here, sir. I’ll stay in rapport with her and see all she sees through the eyes of the bird. I’ll come and make my report to you when we ride on again.”
“How long will it take?”
“How should I know, sir?”
Again, Bard felt the sense of a reproof from the old campaigner. Was this, he wondered, why King Ardrin had given him this command, to show him all the little things he should know, in addition to fighting. . . including the courtesy one should show to a skilled laranzu. Well, he would learn.
Master Gareth said, “When the bird has seen all it needs to see, and is on its way back to us, then we can ride on. It will find us wherever we are; but Melora cannot ride and stay in rapport with her bird. She would fall from her donkey, and she is no skilled rider at the best of times.”
Bard frowned, wondering why they had sent a woman with the troops who could scarcely sit a donkey, let alone a horse!
Master Gareth said, “Because, sir, she is the most skilled at rapport with sentry bird of any leronis in Asturias; that is a woman’s art, and I am not myself so skilled. I can share rapport with the birds enough to handle them without being pecked to death, but Melora can fly with them and see all they see, and interpret it to me. And now, sir, if you will forgive me, I must not talk any more, I must follow Melora.” His face shut down, his eyes rolled up into his head, and Bard, looking at the whites of his eyes, felt a shudder of dismay. The man was not there; some essential part of himself was off with Melora and the sentry bird. . . .
Suddenly he was glad that Geremy had not come with them. It was bad enough to see this stranger go away into some eerie realm where he could not follow; if it had been his friend and foster brother, he would have found it unendurable.
The third of the leroni had removed her gray riding cloak, throwing back the hood; he could see now that it was a slender young girl, with a pretty, remote face, her flaming hair curling around her cheeks, beautiful and serious. As she saw Bard’s eyes on her, she colored and turned away, and something in the shy gesture reminded him of Carlina, frail, almost wraithlike.
She was leading her horse toward the spring, with only the faintest glance at her two colleagues, entranced on their mounts. Bard dismounted and went to take her horse’s bridle.
“Damisela, may I assist you?”
“Thank you.” She surrendered the reins to him. She did not meet his eyes; he tried to catch her glance, but only saw the color rising in her face. How pretty she was! He led the horse to the water hole, standing with one hand on the reins.
He said, “When Master Gareth and Dame Melora come back to themselves, I will send two of my men to care for their horses.”
“Thank you, sir; they will be grateful, for they are always weary after long rapport with the birds. I cannot do it at all,” the girl said. She had a small, whispery voice.
“But you are a skilled leronis?”
“No, vai dom, only a beginner, an apprentice. Perhaps I shall be one day,” she said. “My gift at the moment is to see where they cannot send a bird.” Again she lowered her eyes and colored.
“And what is your name, damisela?”
“Mirella Lindir, sir.”
The horse had finished drinking. Bard said, “Have you a food bag for your horse?”
“By your leave, not now, sir. The horse of a leronis is trained to stand quietly for a long time without moving—” She gestured to the two motionless figures, Master Gareth and Melora. “But if I feed mine, it will disturb the others.”
“I see. Well, as you will,” Bard said, recalling that he should go among his men and see what they were doing. Prince Beltran should see to them, of course, but already he had begun to mistrust Beltran’s skill, or even his interest in this campaign. Well, so much the better; if this went well, it would be all the more to Bard’s credit.
Mirella said shyly, “Don’t let me keep you from your duties, sir.”
He bowed to her, and went; her eyes, he thought, were beautiful, and she had a shyness not unlike Carlina’s. He wondered if she was still a virgin. She had looked at him with interest, certainly. He had promised himself that he would give up his wenching, remain faithful to Carlina, but on campaign a soldier should take what was offered. He was whistling when he rejoined his men.
He was pleased when, some time later, the pretty Mirella, shrouded in her gray cloak again, modestly, before the eyes of the soldiers, rode toward him and said timidly, “By your leave, sir, Master Gareth has reported that the bird is on its way back and we can ride on.”
“I thank you, damisela,” Bard said, and meticulously turned to Prince Beltran for orders.
“Give the order to ride,” Beltran said indifferently, getting into his own saddle. When the men were all on the road again, Bard, who had watched them all ride past, his eyes alert for anything amiss in any one of them, a piece of equipment rusty, a horse that might be showing the first signs of having picked up a stone or throwing a shoe, rode on to join the three leroni.
“What word from your sentry bird, Master Gareth?”
The old laranzu’s lined face looked taut and weary. He was chewing on a strip of dried meat as he rode. Melora, next to hi
m, looked almost equally exhausted, her eyes reddened as if with crying, and she too was eating, cramming mouthfuls of dried fruit with honey between her smeared lips.
“The caravan lies about two days’ ride yonder,” Master Gareth said, pointing, “as the bird flies. There are four wagons; I counted two dozen men beside the wagon drovers, and I saw from their gear and horses, and the fashion of their swords, that they are Dry-town mercenaries.”
Bard pursed his lips, for the Dry-town mercenaries were the fiercest fighters known, and he wondered how many of his men had ever fought against their curious curved swords and the daggers they used in lieu of shields to their other side.
“I will warn my men,” he said. Among the picked men were several veterans of the wars against Ardcarran. It had been, he thought, a good instinct prompting him to choose men who had fought against the Dry towns. Perhaps they could give the others some advice on how to cope with that style of attack and defense.
And another thing. He glanced at Master Gareth and said with a faint frown, “You are an old campaigner, sir. I do not expect the women to know this, but I was taught it was unsoldierly to eat in the saddle except in the gravest emergencies.”
He sensed the smile behind the old man’s copper-colored moustaches. “It is clear you know little of laran, my lord; how it drains the body of strength. Ask your quartermasters; they will tell you they have been issued triple rations for us, and with good reason. I eat in my saddle so that I will have the strength not to fall out of it, sir, which would be far more disruptive than eating as I ride.”
Much as Bard hated to be reproved, he tucked the lesson away, as he did all military matters, for when he would have need of it. But he scowled at Master Gareth and rode away with the briefest of courtesies.
Riding among the men, he dropped the word to each of them that they would be fighting, when it came time to capture the caravan, against Dry-town mercenaries; and he listened for some time to the reminiscences of an elderly campaign veteran who had ridden to war with his own father, Dom Rafael, years before Bard was born.
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