I knew my lord had always felt closer to animals than to his own kind, for it is their nature not to judge by appearance, rather to respond to that which lies within a person. The little castoff’s plight stirred him deeply.
Those amber eyes… they tugged at me, their golden color awakening the ghost of an idea… amber…
My hand flew to cup Zwyie’s amulet, clutching tightly that ripe amber sheaf of wheat entwined with grapes. Gunnora!
I turned back to the mare. “Kerovan, we must get some of the mare’s own milk onto the hide of this little one. Squeeze some onto your hands, then rub it over the foal.”
He hesitated, as though he questioned what I intended, but instead obeyed without further comment. I walked a little apart so I could see the mare, the two foals, both lying down now, and my lord all together. The afternoon sun had darkened slightly as it edged toward its western bed, changing the sky’s hue to near the amber of the pendant. Overhead I could see the faint white day-ghost of the moon’s disc. I closed my eyes, raising my face to that shadow of moon, picturing in my mind Gunnora as she is always described (though none can claim to have seen her with eyes of the body), for, time out of mind, she has been truly spirit.
A woman… ripe of body, yet slender of waist, with dark hair and eyes, wearing a mantle of rich amber, a precious amulet twin to mine… I filled my mind with that image, holding to it with all the will toward life I could summon. Also silently I thought-spoke, words that held no proper shaping, yet welled up from my heart.
Gunnora… you who are mindful of womankind, our support and aid in times of pain and fear… you who nourish the seed when it is sown, who raise up the ripe fields… I ask your aid to waken and strengthen the will to motherhood here, so that one in great need will not die. … So may it be always by Thy will…
For moments counted only by the beats of my heart I held her image before me, striving to reach… touch—
A warmth spread from between my breasts, outward-flowing along my body. Those dark eyes—they were no longer those of the woman in my mind-constructed image—they were real. For a long moment they looked directly into mine.
Then that contact was gone, and the warmth that had been nigh unto heat gentled. Blinking, I looked around, feeling the tough grass blowing about my ankles once more, then a caressing puff of breeze against my cheek.
Kerovan stared at me, his wide eyes fixed on the amulet.
I looked down, to see that symbol still glowing, pulsing in time to my lifeblood’s flow.
He wet his lips. “Joisan?”
“Here,” I made answer. What had he seen in those few moments that he should look at me so?
“For a space it seemed…” He shook his head, long fingers absently pushing back unruly locks of dark hair, for his helm lay upon the coils of his doffed mail. “It was as though someone else stood there. A second only—too fast for my eyes to make sure.”
The black mare nickered low in her throat. She bent her head, took a step forward, standing nose to nose with our little outcast. I caught my breath, then the horse began to lick her second newborn. With spidery legs outthrust, the filly made her unsteady way to her mother’s side, began nursing greedily, her little whiskbroom tail switching from side to side.
“Thank you,” I whispered, watching, that absurd tightness I had felt watching Utia and Acar clutching once more at my throat. “So may it be always by Thy will…”
Kerovan’s arm circled my waist, and we stood so for a moment—then his grasp tightened until I drew breath sharply in near pain.
“What? Kerovan—” Now I could hear it, too. The rolling thrum of hoofbeats.
My lord swung around, stooping to grasp sword-hilt, setting himself still mailless between me and those oncoming riders. My heart pulsing not now in joy, but fear, I tightened fingers on my own blade, half drawing it. Fingers as steely as my weapon reached back, grasped my arm, staying its motion. “No, Joisan. There are too many.”
Every impulse in my body urged me to draw. Swallowing, I sheathed blade. My lord had the right of it, and with one part of my mind I admired his wisdom and restraint as he slowly, deliberately, hooked his thumbs in his belt, waiting with an outward show of ease.
As the riders swept toward us, I counted twenty in the hand. All bestrode mounts clearly of the same fine breed as the mare behind us, though colors ranged from grey to a brown mottled with small white spots. Their riders were equally colorful.
As they reined in to face us silently, I was surprised to see that both men and women made up the band, dressed alike in loose-sleeved linen blouses bright with embroidery. Their trousers were also linen, of coarse wild flax, tucked into high soft boots laced with dyed leather. Some wore beautifully patterned blankets, a simple hole in the center to form a loose surcoat.
All were clearly of the same race, dark of skin, hair, and ryes, with high-bridged noses and cheekbones. Most wore their hair braided, some of the women making colorful cords part of that twining. Copper necklets set with rough stones caught the late sun’s rays with flashes of crimson, indigo, and jade-green.
Each rider carried a short spear, wickedly barbed.
After a long moment’s hesitation, the lead rider, a brawny man of middle years with a thick fringe of lip hair, touched heels to his mount’s flanks, moving to front my lord. The common speech of Arvon sounded harsh and strangely accented as he demanded:
“How do you come here? And why? Could there be dreams of horse-stealing?” His short fingers twirled easily, and suddenly the spear was leveled at us. “Let me tell you, the Kioga take not kindly to such.”
Kerovan shook his head in denial. “No horse-stealing, only the saving of a horse… and a valued one, by the look of her.”
The leader’s teeth showed in a grin that held no humor. “So say you, outlander, and so would say anyone caught as you are. But Briata would never have wandered so far from the herd, even for foaling, unless—”
“Obred, look!” That cry cut across his words. Startled, I looked to its source. A young woman, red—and-gold cords threading her long braids stared wide-eyed, pointing. At me.
Confused, I glanced behind me, wondering what strangeness had caused her to look so. Gasps and mutterings were audible from the band of riders.
The leader, Obred, suddenly touched hand to forehead, bowing so low his scrag of mustache nearly grazed his mount’s mane. “Your pardon, Cera. I did not see what you are. Please forgive. Wise One.”
My lord was also staring at me, his gaze fixed on my mail shirt. Hastily I looked down.
Gunnora’s amulet was less bright now, but the sun was also nearly gone, and the amber glow still waxed and waned from it in time to my heart’s beating. I took a breath that was more than a little shaky. Kerovan nodded slightly, mindsharing, and I knew he was in full agreement with my measurement of our now-averted peril.
I wet dry lips, found a voice that only will kept steady. “Through Gunnora’s Will I was able to help Briata, but she and her foals still need tending. My lord and I will leave that to you, now, and be once more on our way.”
“Foals? Two?” Obred’s eyes made a quick search of the tall grass, fastened on the bigger filly stretched out asleep. “Truly, Cera, a miracle! Twins, and both alive! Has Briata accepted both?”
“Yes, thanks to my lady.” There was pride in Kerovan’s voice as he spoke, such pride as to bring the blood up in my cheeks.