“Such foolishness,” laughed Cimilan, crouching down beside her to touch her hair with a gentle hand. “Surely there can be no matter which may not be spoken of before the High Rider. Speak now so that we may ease your questioning the sooner.”
Again Famira’s eyes moved, this time to Ceralt alone, and though she seemed near to bursting, her head shook resolutely.
“The matter is not so pressing,” said she, pulling her legs beneath her so that she might rise to her feet. “I shall accompany you to our tent as soon as I am clad.”
“Cimilan, I insist you and your wench stay and take the evening meal with us,” said Ceralt, sitting straight to watch Famira reach for the leathers which Cimilan had removed from her. “There is little to be done till Hannil and his riders join us, and no need for the time to be spent in solitude.”
“High Rider, my thanks,” glowed Cimilan, standing the straighter with pride as Famira stiffened behind him. “We will be pleased to . . . .”
“No!” snapped Famira, fury filling her eyes and voice, her body beginning to tremble. “I wish to return to my own tent, and I wish to go now! Perhaps another time, Ceralt!”
“Woman, hold your tongue!” growled Cimilan, turning quickly to face her. “I will not have you spit upon the honor granted me! Stand yourself before the High Rider and ask his forgiveness for your ill manners, then thank him for requesting our presence!”
“I shall do no such thing” gasped Famira, clearly shocked at the insistence, taking a step backward from the male. She held her breech and leather shirt to her, as though to ward off Cimilan’s wrath with them. “I wish to leave, and need no one’s permission to do so!”
“You require my permission,” said Cimilan, his voice grown hard and cold as he kept his gaze upon her. “And now it returns to me that you must be punished for your earlier actions, yet at this moment the High Rider awaits your words of apology.”
One large hand went to her arm, the other to the leathers she held, and a moment later the female was once again bereft of leathers and quickly pushed to her knees less than a pace before me. It was Ceralt she had been knelt to, of course, yet Ceralt did not move himself before me. He remained seated upon the fur as he was and awaited what would occur.
“We await the apology, wench,” said Cimilan from behind a Famira who was well taken with rage. She had been shocked to find herself put to her knees after having her leather taken again, yet the shock had quickly changed to fury. Her fists clenched, her eyes blazing hot, she attempted to regain her feet, yet this Cimilan would not allow. His hand moved quickly to her hair, tangling therein, bringing forth a cry of pain from the female.
“The words?” repeated Cimilan, his voice soft as his eyes continued to rest upon a female who now knelt rigidly, aware that movement would increase her pain. Her eyes had returned to an awareness of shock, a disbelief that she might be treated so by a male, perhaps most shockingly that it was Cimilan who treated her so. Again I shook my head, despairing of her foolishness, yet what might one expect from a village slave-woman?
“I shall speak!” Famira choked, her hands to Cimilan’s fist in her hair, a tremor in her voice. “Release me and I will speak!”
“The choice of when to speak is no more yours than whether or not you may do so,” returned the male, his voice as soft as it had been. “Speak the words you now understand are necessary, and then, perhaps, you shall be released.”
“Perhaps?” the female whispered, meaning the word for no one other than herself. It had come to her that Cimilan need not release her if it was not his desire to do so, and her eyes, when moved to Ceralt, glistened with tears. “Cousin, I ask your pardon,” she whispered, the tremor in her voice grown greater. “I would have you—forgive my—lack of good manners and—also have you know—that your invitation is—most gratefully accepted.”
“Cousin, the pleasure is mine,” smiled Ceralt, speaking as though the words came freely from his kin. “You will ever find a welcome beneath my roof.”
“High Rider, we thank you,” said Cimilan, his hand yet in Famira’s hair, a smile again upon his face. “In token of our gratitude, my woman will be pleased to see to the preparation of the provender—without the aid of your wench. Is this acceptable to you?”
“That is very generous of you, Cimilan.” Ceralt grinned, again pretending that he had no knowledge of the stricken look which took possession of Famira. “There is time yet before the meal need be cooked, yet perhaps it would be wise for Famira to familiarize herself with the whereabouts of the supplies and utensils. I am quite sure she would be upset if our meal were delayed by cause of her unpreparedness.”
“In such an event, I have no doubt of her upset,” said Cimilan, speaking in main to the female he now raised to her feet by the hair. “Come, Famira, let us have you inspect the cooking facilities. You may remember such things from your time in your father’s halyar.”
The female drew her breath in in mortification, yet made no attempt to resist the male as he led her toward the holder of glowing coals. She stumbled along in his grip, striving to keep pace with him, and neither she nor the male were aware of my eyes having left them to go to Ceralt. That male sat and laughed softly as he watched the others, then suddenly became aware of my gaze. His eyes moved to mine where I lay in the lanthay fur before him, and his laughter softened to a smile.
“Why do you study me so?” he asked, his hand coming to smooth my hair. “Do you, too, have a thing which must be discussed in private?”
“It is more a matter of confusion,” I sighed, doubting my wisdom in speaking of it. “At first Ceralt would not allow Jalav to touch him, now he demands that she do so. I do not understand why this is—nor when it shall again become forbidden.”
“My poor Jalav,” said he, a sigh to match mine in his voice. “All about her is confusion, yet one fey understanding will come. For now she has only to understand that Ceralt welcomes the touch of her hands—as all men welcome the touch of their women. Come, Jalav mine. Stand now and replace your breech.”
My look must have told him of my new lack of understanding, for he chuckled as he took my hands and pulled me to my feet.
“I am sure Cimilan intends keeping Famira unclothed as an added punishment,” he said very softly so that only I might hear. “Should this be the case, the presence of your breech upon you will increase her embarrassment and decrease her willfulness. It is more than time she was taken firmly in hand.”
He turned from me to reclaim his own breech, and as I took mine in hand I again wondered at his concept of duty toward his kin. It was evident that the thought of Famira’s coming embarrassment pleased him, a thing no Hosta would allow herself to feel. Perhaps one must be of the cities and villages to consider such an act a part of honor—and find pleasure in it.
No more than a hand of reckid later, Lialt and Telion entered the tent. They paused beside the entrance to remove their body furs and dry the bottoms of their leg furs, and only when they stepped full within the tent did they see Famira and she them. The female had been kneeling among the packs of provender, seeking knowledge of what lay where, hidden behind the crouching bulk of Cimilan. As the two newcomers entered within, Cimilan rose to his feet to greet them, and Famira, all unknowing, also straightened from her search to find the eyes and grins of Lialt and Telion full upon her. Her flesh reddened, from face to ankles, her breath drew in in a gasp of mortification, and she quickly placed herself again behind Cimilan.
“My leathers!” she choked, grasping at the back of the male she stood behind. “Cimilan, I cannot reach my leathers!”
“For what reason do you require your leathers?” asked the male, an easy amusement to his tone. “It is warm within this tent, and we shall not be leaving for some time yet.”