Balkis still gazed at the fiery cocoon. “Does each caravan bring a wizard to make the worms harmless?”
Anthony shook his head. “The drivers tell me that once the salamander has wrapped its cocoon around itself, it becomes harmless, and to kill it one need only drown the blaze. Then the merchants can take the silk to sell.”
Balkis stared. “Now I know that form! I have seen palace servants buying giant silken eggs like this in the marketplace of Maracanda when the first caravan from the south comes!”
“The marketplace of Maracanda!” Anthony gazed off into space, his head filled with shining visions. He shook off the mood and asked, “What use have your people for cocoons?”
“They weave the silk,” Balkis explained. “Spinsters carefully wind the thread onto spools and give it to weavers, who make it into cloth.”
“Cloth? From salamander cocoons?” Anthony asked, wondering. “Why would anyone want them more than robes of true silk? The traders have shown me silken cloth, and it is beautiful!”
“This is even more so,” Balkis told him, “and it lasts far longer, and is amazingly easy to clean! When they wish to wash the garments made of this cloth, the servants have only to put them into fire, and they come forth fresh and clean. They last so long that many people inherit them from their grandparents, and of course they never burn.”
“How wonderful it must be in Maracanda,” Anthony exclaimed, his eyes glowing, “if everybody there wears such silk.”
“Not everyone, silly!” Balkis smiled, feeling quite the sophisticate. “Such cloth is very expensive, of course. Garments made of it are for royalty and nobility”
“So only the people who live in palaces can wear such cloth?” Anthony asked, disappointed. Then he shrugged, turning his face toward the north. “Even so, I wish to see Maracanda, for if it is your home, it must be wonderful indeed.” He turned back to grin. “And if it is your home, I wish to take you there.”
Heart warmed, Balkis smiled up into his eyes. “Thank you, my friend.” She wondered why her voice had gone all throaty.
Anthony noticed; his grin widened and his eyes gleamed in a way that made her both excited and frightened at the same time—though whether she was frightened of the emotion she saw in him or of the feelings his look aroused in herself, she could not say.
Then Anthony turned back to the north. “It lies there, northward—but how far?”
Balkis shrugged. “I cannot say. I know only that its winter is much, much colder than this.”
“Months away at least, then.” Anthony shook his head regretfully. “Why did I not ask the caravan drivers how long it took to reach Maracanda? I only asked them how distant it was, and they always answered, Tar, very far.'”
Balkis' stomach sank. “I cannot ask you to go so far from your homeland.”
“But you did counsel me to leave that home behind and seek my fortune,” Anthony reminded her.
Balkis felt a touch of pique; it might be true, but it was scarcely gentlemanly of him to remind her. “I do not recall saying anything about seeking your fortune.”
Anthony looked up at the sharpness in her tone and saw he had erred. “You spoke of Maracanda, did you not? And surely my fortune lies there!”
Balkis gazed at him a second or two, then smiled. “I think it does, yes—not your fortune, perhaps, but your destiny.”
“Then let us go!”
Balkis shook her head in amazement at his boundless optimism—or his foolish refusal to think of failure. Whichever it was, he would be pleasant company—for there was no question of her not doing all she could to return to Mara-canda. “We shall, then—but let us rest while we may.”
They sat down by the pond. As Anthony rummaged in his pack he voiced misgivings he'd been hiding. “I will be a stranger and a bumpkin in Maracanda. Dare I go there?”
“All are welcome unless they come in war,” Balkis told him. “Every high holy day brings caravans of pilgrims who come to visit the shrine of St. Thomas.”
“St. Thomas?” Anthony looked up, startled. “Doubting Thomas? The one who would not believe the Lord had risen from the dead unless he could put his finger into the nail holes in His palms and his hand into the rent the spear had made in His side?”
“Yes, and the one who, when the Lord appeared before him, dared do no more than kneel,” Balkis said with a smile. “You did know it was St. Thomas who brought the Gospel to India, did you not?”
“To India, and thereby to all these lands of Asia,” Anthony assured her, “but I did not know he had taken his preaching as far north as Maracanda.”
“He died there,” Balkis told him, “and his body sits in state in a golden chair in the cathedral that is part of Prester John's palace, preserved and uncorrupted, looking as though he only sleeps—but during the great holy days of the year, St. Thomas comes to life and preaches to the people.”
“Truly?” Anthony's eyes were as round as saucers.
“I have not seen it myself,” Balkis confessed. “I have a dislike of crowds.” She knew why—she had a cat's fear of too many huge, booted feet stamping and shifting without regard for what lay beneath them. “People tell me the saint's body also gives communion, but closes its hand over the wafer if an unbeliever comes.”
“Amazing!” Anthony exclaimed. “My family are Nestorian Christians. Will the saint count us as unbelievers?”
Balkis tried to hide her amusement. “Most of the Christians of Prester John's domain are Nestorians.”
“Then let us find a caravan and go to Maracanda with it!” Anthony cried.
“Why, what a perfect notion!” Balkis clapped her hands. “It will surely be safer to journey with a caravan than by ourselves. But did you not say they do not travel in winter?”
Anthony nodded. “The trading season is over until spring, still a month away, but the first caravans should be leaving India even now—and did you not say we would be months on the road?”
“I did,” Balkis admitted.
“Surely we will meet a train of camels long before we come to Maracanda!”
Balkis smiled; his enthusiasm was infectious. “Let us seek your caravan, then—but for now, let us eat, then rest awhile longer.”
“We certainly shall not lack for a campfire,” Anthony agreed, with a glance at the flaming cocoon.
“Is it safe, do you think?” Balkis asked, watching the flames.
Anthony nodded. “The fire will burn until the moth is grown—but it will not reach much beyond the chrysalis. If it did, it would devour the trees that hold it!”
Balkis could see the truth in that. “Not that it needs height for protection.”
“The only creatures who would not be frightened away by its blaze are people.” Anthony grinned. “Small wonder it did not chose to spin near the pond!”
“We should be safe enough,” Balkis agreed.
They drank from their waterskins and ate dates from the palms with their journeybread and dried beef. As they finished the meal, the talk drifted to their pasts.
“Father taught us that we and all the people in our part of the hills are part Greek,” Anthony told her. “Our ancestors were soldiers in the army of Alexander the Great. When he died and his generals settled down to rule the empire, his troopers followed Alexander's example and married women from the tribes around and about.”
“So that is the source of your yellow hair and blue eyes!”
“Probably,” Anthony said, “but the legends tell us that there were always redheads among these hill folk even before Alexander came, and my hair is as much red as yellow.”
“Golden,” Balkis agreed, trying to ignore the sensations that studying Anthony's looks aroused in her. “I expected all your folk to have black hair, though, as do so many of the peoples of these lands.”
“Black hair and yellow skin, like the caravan drivers from the east? Yes. But our legends say the first mountaineers in these hills came from a wild people who crossed the mountains to conquer India,” Anthony told her. “Their skins were bronze and their hair was red, brown, or black. But if so many in Asia have slanted eyes and yellow skin, how is it your eyes are round and your skin golden?”