"I don't see why you care." Gird hunched protectively over his mug. The mood Amis was in, if he turned around to argue, Amis would grab it away. He didn't have anything to trade for another, and this one would barely fuzz the edges of his misery.
"You're turning into a drunk," said Amis, far too briskly. "It's been what—three years?—and all you do is work and drink—"
"And eat," said Gird. "Don't forget that—they tell me all the time at home."
"And eat. You never come out with us—"
Gird shrugged, and took a swallow. Worse than usual, it tasted, but the bite in his throat promised ease later. "You may want me; the others don't."
"It's past, Gird. So you're not a soldier, so what? We didn't like it that much when you were—"
"That's true. You don't much like anything I do: fight or not fight, run or not run, drink or not drink. If I gave up ale, Amis, would that make me friends? Not likely."
"You know what I mean. Drink for celebration, yes—with all of us, a lot of singing and dancing and rolling the girls—but not this way. Come with us tonight, anyway."
Gird swallowed the rest of the mug he allowed himself, and tried to think past the rapidly spreading murk in his head. Walk across the fields to some sheepfold, listen to a wandering harper play, dance with—it would have to be girls from the other village, none from here would have him. And then back by daybreak, to work—his feet ached, his back ached, all he wanted was his bed. But at home his father's eyes would question silently: what did you take, to trade for that drink? What will you take next? It was my own, he answered that unspoken question. I found the mushrooms, I picked them when you were resting, it's my right—
"All right," he said gruffly. Amis grinned at him, steadied him as he stood. He did not look to see the reactions of the other men drinking in Kirif's hut; he thought he knew exactly what he'd see if he did.
Somewhere on the walk, two others joined them: Koris and Jens, he'd known them all his life. His skin prickled; he was sure they were none too happy to find him coming along. But nothing they said led that way. It was all the common talk of their village, Jens courting Torin and her father's dislike of it, a wager between Koris and his older brother on the sex of an unborn calf, Teris's problems with his wife's mother, how the last spring storm had damaged the young fruit on the trees. The thought passed through his mind that, but for subjects, it was much like the talk of his mother and aunt and sisters, that nearly drove him mad when he had to be indoors listening to it. For all that Jens and Koris talked of the girls, while Effa and Kara talked of the boys, it was the same talk. Who liked, who spurned, who loved secretly—who would be honest, and who lied in all encounters—whose work could be trusted, and who put rotten plums in the bottom of the basket.
He said nothing, having nothing to say, as the cool night air gradually blew the fumes of ale away. They were walking over the higher pastures sunrising of the village—east, as the lords called it. Under his feet the turf made an uneven carpet; overhead the spring stars blossomed as the night darkened. It had been a long time since he'd been out in the dark looking up, his gaze unmisted by drink. Some night-blooming plant—he knew he should know the name, but he'd forgotten—spread rare perfume on the air, and every lungful he took in seemed important, as if it carried a secret message.
They could see the sheepfold from the ridge, dark against the leaping flames of the fire built in the outer enclosure. As they came down the slope, the harpsong came to greet them, first the more carrying notes, then all of them, a quick rhythm that made them hurry. It ended, and voices rose in noisy swirls of greeting, flirtation, argument. Gird lagged as the others moved forward. He saw Jens edge toward a darker corner. There was Torin, who must have come earlier with her friends. Koris glanced back at him, and Gird stepped into the brighter firelight, not quite sure what he was going to do. He hadn't been to one of these since he was old enough to be serious about it. Boys the age he'd been lounged against the low stone wall, or crouched atop, knocking elbows and joking about the older ones.
At least three times a growing season, from early spring to fall, the young unmarried men and women of five villages met at this communal sheepfold. Gird had no idea how the dates were set, only that the word would spread through the young men—tomorrow night, tonight—and those who wished would go. One cold autumn evening, the first year he'd gone, there'd been only three young men and two women, and the music had come from a ragged lad playing a reed pipe. Usually there were more, and always someone from outside, a stranger, to play the music they danced to. But he had not come since he left the guard's training.
He heard someone say his name, across the fire, and his head jerked up. He couldn't see who, even when he squinted against the flames. So. They'd heard the story too, no doubt, and it would all be told over again. He glared at the coals beneath the burning wood, that half-magical heap of colored lights and mysterious shapes that seemed to be struggling to say something. A long hiss ended in a violent pop, and he jumped.
"I wonder what it said that time." The girl's voice held humor, as well as warmth. Gird didn't look at her.
"What all fires say," he said.
"Here's home and safety," she said. And then, surprisingly, "Here's danger; here's death."
Gird turned. She had a broad face, boldly boned for strength, not beauty, and all he could tell of her coloring in that uncertain light was that she was darker than he. Big capable hands held the ends of her shawl; she looked like any other young woman. Except for those eyes, he thought, watching the perfect reflection of the fire in them. Except for the mind that said those words.
"You're Gird," she said. "The one who left the guards."
"Yes." He wished he hadn't looked at her.
"Are they hard on you?"
He looked again, once more surprised. "Now?" She said nothing, and he wondered whether he dared be honest. Silence lengthened. No one else came near them; he could feel no other attention, no other pressure than her quiet interest. "At first," he began, "it was worst on my family—my father, my brothers—" He told her about that, the fines they'd had to pay, the extra labor on the roads. She said nothing, only nodding when he broke off. Tentatively, warily, he told her more. The guards themselves had bothered him least—even now that surprised him, that the sergeant, after that one explosion, had been fair, if distant, and the other soldiers neutral. "I'm just another farmer's son to them. They don't bother me, if they see me; they treat me no differently than the others. They never teased—" His head went down, remembering those who did, whose taunts he could not answer.
"It's like rape," she said. He stared at her, shocked and ready to argue, but she was still talking. "They blame the blameless, the victim: they always do. When the young count's houseparty went hunting our way, and one of them took my cousin, took her there in the street just for the excitement of it, everyone blamed her. My aunt said 'Oh, if you hadn't loitered there,' and the lad who loved her—or said he did—had nothing to say but blame. All her fault, it was, but how could she help it? They blame you, for not preventing what they never moved to prevent."
"But I wasn't—"
"Not your body," she said, in a tone that meant he should have understood. Then, "Never mind. If you're not killed, you're still alive; so my cousin said, and married elsewhere a year later, after the babe died. She survived; you will; that's how we all live."
"It's not right," Gird said, in a voice that he remembered in himself from years past.
Her brows went up. "Are we gods, to know right and wrong beyond the law? I hate the way it is, but no one made me a lord."
He would have answered, or tried to, but the music began again. At close range, the harp drowned out soft words, and the others had begun a song. Gird didn't know it, but the girl did.
"Fair are the flowers that bloom in the meadows
Fair are the flowers that bloom on the hill
Each spring brings more to brighten the season
Each winter snowstorm the bright flowers kills—"
She had a husky singing voice, melodic but not strong, that clung to the melody like a peach to a twig, half-enfolding it. Gird could feel her singing along his body, a warm, slightly furry touch. He wanted to sing with her, at least hum the melody, but his throat was too tight. Another song followed that one, this time an even sadder lament that they all knew. He sang, feeling his voice unkink and lengthen into the line of the song; her voice rolled along beside, rich and mellow. At the end of the many verses, he realized that others had fallen silent to listen, and at once his voice broke harshly, ruining the ending. Someone laughed, across the firelight; Gird flinched as if he'd been slapped, but the girl's hand was on his arm.
"Never mind," she said, under cover of the harper's quick fingering—it would be a jig, this time, and someone had found sticks to patter. Without really looking at the girl, Gird eased back to the angle between wall and fold, not at all surprised to find she had come with him. She stood closer than he found really comfortable; he could have put his arm around her and found her no closer.
"You know my name," he said, gruffly, unwilling to ask what she might refuse to answer.
"I'm Mali, from the village near the crossing—some call it Fire-oak." He remembered that name, from his guards' training; with the name he called up the location, the number of families, all the details he'd been taught. It surprised him; he didn't know he could remember all that. He looked down at her.
"You knew of me—"
She shrugged, and the shawl slipped back from dark hair. Something marked the side of her face: a scar, a birthmark. Hard to see in that light, but he could just make out a paler path across her cheek. "Most do; that kind of tale spreads. But Amis told me of you, and your past before the Guards. So I wanted to see you, see what they'd made of you."
"A failure," Gird said, then jumped as she slugged his arm. Hard: he would have a bruise there.
"Only you can make yourself a failure—and you a great strong lad with a head of solid stone—"
He was wide awake, now, as if he'd been dipped in a well. "What are you, some foretelling witch—?"
Firelight and shadow moved on her face; he could not read her expression. "I? I'm a farmer's daughter, as you're a farmer's son. I'm headstrong too, so they say of me, and a dangerous lass to cross. If you married me you'd have a strong mother of your children, and a loyal friend—"
"Marry—I can't marry—I'm—"
"A whole man," she said. Gird could feel his ears go hot; he wanted to grab her and shake her, or disappear into thin air. He knew he was whole; his body was as alive to her as his ears, and far more active. Was this how girls his age bantered? Surely she was bolder than the others.
"I'm sorry," she said then, in a quiet voice. He could feel her withdrawing without actually moving; she slid the shawl back over her hair. The withdrawal pierced him like a blade. He could not stand if it she left.
"Wait!" he said hoarsely. "I—you—I never heard anyone—"
"It's no matter." She wrapped the shawl tightly around herself, hugged her arms. "I'm overbold and wild; I've been told often enough. But I'd heard of you, and how you had changed, refusing your friends. I thought perhaps I could help, being a stranger—"
"You did." Gird rubbed his own arms, feeling the texture of his clothes and skin for the first time in—when?—years? He felt alive, awake, inside and out, and not only in that way which proved men whole. His skin tingled. "I'm—I'm awake," he said, wondering if she'd understand. Hot tears pricked his eyes; his throat tightened again.
She was looking at him, dark eyes hard to see in that flickering firelight—but he could feel the intensity of her gaze. "Awake?"
"It—oh, I can't talk here! Come on!" Without thinking, he grabbed her arm and led her around the wall to the entrance. She had stiffened for an instant, but then came willingly, hardly needing his guidance. He barely noticed someone by the gate turning to look, and then they were out beyond the walls, on the open fields, with the firelight twinkling behind them and stars brilliant overhead.
He stopped only when he stumbled over a stone and fell, dragging her down too. He had been crying, he realized, the roaring of blood in his ears louder than any night sound, the smell and taste of his own tears covering up the fragrance on the wind. She had pulled free when he fell, and now crouched, a dimly visible shape, an armspan away. When he got his breath at last, he sat up; she did not move, either towards him or away.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't—I've never done that before—"
"I should hope not." The tone carried tart amusement, but not hostility.
"I had to get away—I couldn't talk about it there, with those—"
"Only a few of them would still mock you, Gird."
"It's not that. It's—oh, gods, I'm awake again! I didn't know I wasn't. I didn't know I'd gone so numb, and now—"
"Does it hurt, like a leg you've sat on too long?"
He drew a long breath, trying to steady his breathing. "Not—hurt, exactly, though it does prickle. It's more as if I'd been sick, shut indoors a long time, so long I forgot about the colors outside, and then someone carried me out into spring." He turned to her, wishing he could see her expression. "Did you mean that about marrying?"
To his surprise, she burst out laughing, a joyous rollicking laugh that he could not resist. He didn't know why it was funny, but he laughed too. Finally, after a last snort, she quieted down, and apologized.
"I shouldn't laugh at you, I know that, but for someone just waking after long illness, you do move fast. Was this how you courted the girls, back when you were in the guards?"
"I didn't, back then—I was too young." Even in starlight, he could see that she'd let the shawl slip back again, revealing her face. His body insisted that he was not too young now; he tried to stay calm. "Mmm—would you sit with me?"
She moved closer, spread her skirts, and sat down almost hip-to-hip. "I thought I was, with you the closest person to me on this whole dark night."
She had a scent he had not noticed before; now it moved straight from his nose to his heart. Did all women smell like this? He cursed himself for a crazy fool, to have wasted the years in which he might have learned how to court such a girl. He clenched his fists to keep from reaching for her.
"But surely—" His voice broke, and he started again. "But surely you have someone—someone in your village—?"
Her low chuckle warmed his heart. "Alas no, Gird. For I'm the forward, quick-tongued lass you heard tonight; I will not guard my tongue for any man's content, though I swear by Alyanya there's no malice in it. And though I'm big and strong enough, and a good cook, I'm not much for threadcraft. My spinning's full of lumps, and my weaving's as bad as a child's. My family's parrion has always been in threadcraft, though my great-aunt taught me her parrion of cooking—she said I'd been born with a gift that way."
"My mother and sisters have threadcraft enough," Gird said. "But a parrion of cooking they'd welcome, even more in herblore than bakecraft." He could hardly believe they had come so fast to discussion of parrions. Wasn't that the last part before formal betrothal? He could not remember; he could not think of anything but the girl herself—Mali, he reminded himself firmly—and the smell and feel of her.
"Mine is that," she said, the weight of her coming now against his arm; he shifted it around her shoulders, and she leaned into him. Where she touched him, her body seemed to burn right through their clothes; he felt afire with longing for her. It was a struggle to speak calmly. He took another long breath of the cold, clean night air.
"Your father?" Gird thought it likely her father wouldn't agree, given his own reputation. But she shook her head, in the angle of his arm, where he could feel it.
"Grandmother's our elder, and village elder too—the magelords don't like it, but they agreed. She'll be glad enough if anyone wants me, and you're a farmer's son, in the same hearthing. But what of your mother?"
"She'll be happy." He leaned closer, to smell her hair. Was he really talking of marriage with someone met just this night, and by firelight? Could she be a witch—or, worst of all, a magelady pretending to be peasant, disguised by her magic?
"I have to tell you about this," said Mali, struggling upright for a moment. He looked at her; she had one hand to the mark on her face. "I'm no beauty, besides my loud tongue. Many call me ugly, for this scar if nothing else."
"What happened?" It was a chance to breathe, to remind himself of the customs of his people.
Mali made a curious noise that Gird could not interpret, somewhere between a sniff and a snort. "I wish I could claim it came from defending my cousin against the magelords—it happened the same day—but in fact it was my own clumsiness. I was carrying a scythe to my brother in the fields, and tripped. When I came running back, looking for sympathy, there was my cousin in the lane. No one had time for me then, and no wonder. I thought to save my grandmother trouble by treating it myself, but failed to put herin in the poultice, so it scarred. My own fault." She laid her warm hand on his. "But I will understand if you change—I mean, it's not fair. I've landed on you this night like a fowler's net on a bird. You must have a free choice, a chance to make up your own mind. See me in daylight and then if you still wish—"
Contending thoughts almost silenced him. Gird eyed her. "Is it that you think you can get nothing better than the coward of the count's own village? Was I just a last chance for you, is that what you're saying?"
She sat bolt upright. For an instant he thought she was going to hit him again; the place she'd slugged him before still ached. "You fool! If you don't want me, just say so. Don't make it my fault."
"I didn't—"
"You did." She was breathing fast, angry, and he waited. Finally she went on. "I was curious. I'd heard—what I told you. For myself, barring I like a roll as well as anyone, I'd live alone rather than marry anyone's last chance. Then meeting you—Amis said you were gentle, but he didn't say how you sang." Her voice trailed away. "And you're no coward, whatever you think."
"You don't think a man knows himself best?"
Laughter burst out of her again. "Who could? Can water know it's wet, or stone know it's hard? What could it measure itself against? I know my feelings, but my grandmother knew I was meant for herblore, not needlecraft or weaving. So with you—did your father or mother think you would make a soldier?"
Surprise again. "I—don't know. Not really, I suppose, although they feared I could be—"
"Cruel?" He could see her head shake in the starlight. "No, not like that. You can do what you must, but you take no pleasure in giving pain." He was eased by that, and his suspicions fled. A strange girl, like no girl he'd known (but what girls had he known?) but not a cunning one. If she said she liked him, then she did. Gird cleared his throat.
"I would like to—" Lady's grace; he didn't even know how to ask. But Mali had moved nearer to him again, her shoulder against his, her fragrant hair once more against his face.
"You should wait until sunrise," she said. "You might change your mind."
Gird laughed. "Sunrise," he said, "is too far away. Or do you want to go back and find witnesses to make it formal?"
"I want no witnesses," she said, in a low voice that was almost a growl. "Not for this." She folded her shawl, and lay back upon it, arms wide. "I swear by the Lady, that for this night I am content."
And content were they both by sunrise. Gird had thought he knew how it went between men and women; it was no secret after all, and any child saw it often enough growing up. But Mali's body, sweet-scented and warm on the cool hillside grass, was nothing like his imaginings—or far more. He could not get enough of touching her smooth skin, her many complex curves all ending in another place to enjoy with tongue and nose and fingers. And she, by all evidence, enjoyed it all as much as he did. They had fallen asleep at last, to be wakened by the loud uneven singing of Gird's friends on their way home. Mali chuckled.
"They want to let you know it's time to go, but without interrupting. You know, Gird, they are your friends. You must forgive them someday."
Right then he would have forgiven anyone anything, or so he felt, A pale streak marked distant sunrise. With a groan, he pulled his clothes together. "I don't want to leave."
Mali was already standing, shaking out her shawl. "If you wish, you know where."
"You know I want to marry you."
"I do not know. I know you enjoyed my body, and I enjoyed yours, but there's more to marriage than that. But I like you, Gird. I say that now, after hearing you sing, laugh, and cry—more than many girls do, before they wed. Look on my face in daylight, and decide." She turned away to start home. Gird caught her arm.
"Why not now?"
"What of your work today? What of your family? Go home, lo—Gird. Go home and think whether you want a big, clumsy, loud-voiced wife with a scarred face. If you do, come see me in daylight. Ask me then—"
"I'm asking now!"
"No. I'll not answer now. Daylight for both of us then." And she pulled away and was gone. Gird stared after her, then followed the distant voices of his friends toward home.
He caught up with them within sight of home. By then it was light enough to see their expressions; he could feel himself going red. Amis elbowed Jens.
"You see I was right. He just needed to get a little fresh air—"
"He got more than fresh air, I'll warrant. Look at his face. If I'd gone out like that with Torin—"
"You wouldn't. You'll be learning how in your marriage bed, Jens."
"I know how." Jens shoved Koris, who shoved back. "It's just that with her father—"
"Come on, Gird," said Amis, throwing an arm around his shoulders. "Tell us—you drag the girl out in the middle of the dancing, did you just throw her on the ground, or what?"
He could hear the undertones in their voices—they weren't sure if he was going to be angry, or sulk, or what. He felt like singing, and instead burst out laughing.
"That's new," said Amis. "I like that—Gird laughing again."
"Be still," he said, ducking away from Amis's arm and the finger that was prodding his ribs. "You were right: I admit it. I needed to go dancing—"
"You didn't dance," said Jens.
Gird shrugged. He could feel more laughter bubbling up, like a spring long dry coming in. "I did well enough," he said.
"Watch him go to sleep behind the hedges today." Koris grinned, but it had no bite to it. "You may be tired by nightfall, eh?"
Gird grinned back. He felt that the bad years had never happened; he felt he could work for two days together. He drew a long breath—sweet, fresh air of dawn—and said nothing more. He had never expected to be happy again, and now he was.
He came in through the barton, aware of the stale, sour smell of the cottage after the freshness outside. All very well to fall for a girl, to marry her—but where would they sleep? He'd have to build a bed. He'd have to earn the marriage fee for the count, and the fee to her family for her parrion. He'd have to—
"You're looking blithe this morning," said Arin, from the flank of the red cow. Milk hissed into the bucket. Arin's voice had sharpened, in the difficult years, but he sounded more worried than angry.
"Sheepfold last night," said Gird. He took down the other milking stool, and a bucket.
"You? I thought you'd gone to Kirif's."
Gird washed the cow's udder with water from the stable bucket and folded himself up on the milking stool. The brindle cow flapped her ears back and forth as he reached for her teats, and he leaned into her flank and crooned to her. "Easy, sweetling—I was at Kirif's first, and then Amis came along and we went over to the fold—"
"Good for you," said Arin. "Meet anyone?"
He might as well admit it; it would be all over the village by the time they came to the field. "You always meet someone at the fold," he began, but he couldn't hold the tone. "Someone," he said again. "Arin, there's a girl from Fireoak—"
"Where?"
"Fireoak. Sunrising of here. You know, Teris's wife's sister married into Fireoak. And her parrion is cooking and herblore—"
"Teris's wife's sister?" said Arin, with maddening coolness.
"No. Mali's parrion. The girl I met."
Arin's eyebrows went up. "You were talking parrions? In one night?"
"We did more than talk," said Gird, stripping the first two teats and going on to the next.
"You can't mean—you're not betrothed? Gird, you know you have to ask—"
Gird grinned into the cow's flank and squirted a stream of milk at Arin, who had come to stand by her hip. "Not betrothed, but more than talk. Lady's grace, Arin, you know what I mean. And I will ask for her, just you wait."
"But are you sure? The first time you've been out with the lasses since before—" he stopped short, and reddened. Gird laughed.
"Since before I left the guards, you mean, and you're right. So you think it's like a blind man's first vision, and I should wait and see? So she said, but I tell you, Arin, this is my wife. You'll like her."
"I hope so," said Arin soberly. "Best tell Da."
"After milking." He finished the brindle cow, and took both buckets into the kitchen.
His mother gave him one look and said "Who?" Gird looked at her. "Is it so obvious?"
"To a woman and a wife? Did you think I was blind, lad? No, you're a lad no more. Man, then. You've found a woman, and bedded her, and now you want to marry."
"True, then. What d'you think?"
She looked at him, a long measuring look. "About time, I think. If you're ready. You've spent long enough sulking—"
"I know," he said, to forestall what was coming. She shook her head at him, but didn't continue the familiar lecture.
"Well, then—I don't know where the fee's coming from, but you can earn that. What's her parrion?"
"Herbcraft and cooking." He held his breath; his mother had always talked of finding a wife with a parrion to complement hers: another weaver or spinner, perhaps a dyer.
"Well enough. No lad—man—takes advice of his mother, but you think now, Gird—is she quarrelsome? The house will be no larger for cross words." That was said low; Arin's wife was still in the other room, and she had brought, his mother had said once, a parrion of complaining.
"Not—quarrelsome." She had said she was freespoken, but nothing in her voice had sent the rasp along his skin.
"Best tell your father." She gave him a quick smile. "If she's brought you laughter again, Gird, I'll give her no trouble. It's been a long drought."
His father, still hunched over his breakfast, brightened when Gird told him. Arin's wife said nothing, briskly leading her oldest out the front door. His father leaned close.
"Comely, is she?"
"She's—" Gird could not think of words. She had been starlight and scent, warmth and strength and joy, all wrapped in one. "She's strong," he offered. His father laughed.
"You sound like the lad you were. Strong didn't give that gleam to your eye, I'll warrant. There's more to the lass than muscle. When will you go to her father?"
"Soon. I—I'm not sure."
His father whistled the chorus of "Nutting in the Woods" and laughed again. "Young men. By the gods, boy, I remember your mother—" Gird was shocked. His mother had been his mother—that capable, hard-handed woman in long apron, spooning out porridge or carding wool or weaving—all his life. His father had gone on. "Hair in a cloud of light around her face, and she smelled like—like—I suppose all girls do, in their spring. Never a young lad can resist that, Gird; we all go that way, rams to the ewes and bulls to the cows, and spend the rest of our days yoked in harness—but it's times like this make it worthwhile."
"Eh?" He had not followed all that; his father's words brought back Mali's scent, as if she stood next to him, as if she lay—and he pulled his mind back with an effort.
His father thumped the table. "To see sons ready to wed themselves, strong sons: that's what's worth the work, Gird. To see you with your eyes clear and your mind on something but the past."
Gird shrugged. The self of yesterday, the self that had had nothing to hope for, was gone as if it had never lived.
" 'Tis the Lady's power," said his father. "She can bring spring to any field." This no longer embarrassed Gird; he had returned whole-hearted to his family's beliefs.
His visit to Fireoak began auspiciously. Mali's own mother had seen his mother's weaving at the tradefair years before.
"She has the parrion for the firtree pattern," the woman said. She was as tall as Mali, but spare, her dark hair streaked with gray. "If she has not the parrion for the barley pattern, I would be glad to trade." Gird knew that his mother had wanted the barley pattern for years, and had never been able to work it out herself. She had bestowed the firtree pattern on Arin's wife's aunt; surely she would trade with his wife's mother. He nodded: no commitment, but possibility.
Mali herself was kneading bread, her arms flour-smudged to the elbows. The scar she'd told him of was obvious enough, along the right cheek, more broad than deep. He didn't care; he had known he would not care. It was hard to be that close to her, in the same air, and not holding her. Her eyes twinkled at him: agreement. Then she looked back at the bread dough and pummeled it again. He could feel once more her fist on his arm, the strength of her. She was strong inside and out; his knees weakened as he remembered the feel of her body all along his on the starlit grass.
"Mali's not the quietest girl," said Mali's father. He was not so dark as Mali and her mother, a brown square man with a graying beard, almost bald. "She's got a quick tongue."
"Gird knows that," said Mali, flipping the dough and slamming it down again.
"Like that," said her father. Gird smiled at him.
"Better a quick tongue than one full of malice," he said, misquoting the old proverb on purpose.
"Oh, aye, if it's not quick into the pot. Good cook; her parrion's valuable." That began the bargaining phase. A daughter's parrion was a family's most valuable possession, the secrets and inherited talent of generations of women passed to a chosen carrier. A valuable parrion enriched the household gaining it, and impoverished those left behind. The lords' fee for marriage was the same for all of the same rank, but he would owe Mali's family for her parrion.
At least it meant that her family found his acceptable, and she must have agreed as well. Despite all the lords had done, the people had never come over to thinking that girls had to go where their families bestowed them. Marriage was, in the old rituals, the mingling of fires on a hearth—and if either failed to kindle, the marriage could not be.
Arin had come along for the bargaining phase, since Gird was neither holder nor heir. Gird and Mali escaped to the smallgarden, there to stand awkwardly staring at each other, in full view of her village. An amazing number of people seemed to need to go back and forth in the lane. Gird knew none of them, but noticed the same small boys driving the same goats up and down, a girl in a red skirt carrying a basket—full, then empty, then full again—past the gate. Mali finally began to laugh.
"It's true—they're just seeing how long we can stand here, and expecting one of us to turn tail and run."
"The scar doesn't matter." The words were out before he thought; she flushed and it showed whiter. "I'm sorry," he said.
"No—I'm used to it. I thought you'd come anyway, and I thought you'd still—but I'm blushing because it's my fault."
"Fault?"
She looked away past his shoulder. "I had heard of you; I went there to meet you, and no one else. And meeting you, I wanted you—and then—"
"And then I wanted you. So?"
"So—I still want you, but—don't bring it back to me, years from now."
"No." He moved closer to her, ignoring the women now carrying buckets past on their way to the well. "No, it was meant. The Lady meant it, maybe, or some other god." He put his arm around her waist, and she leaned on him. He could have carried her off to the barton, then and there, but Arin came out looking pleased.
"So—we have work to do, Gird, to earn your fees."
He knew he had turned red; he could feel the heat on his face. "Ah—yes. Mali—"
"Don't tarry," she said. Then she leaned against him again, and kissed him, and whispered in his ear. "We may have a Lady's blessing already."