“I had never thought what could happen in a climate where there is never autumn nor winter,” Anthony said, “but only ever-lasting summer. It seems almost magical.”
“It does, does it not?” Balkis frowned, then stilled, letting her thoughts settle and rest, opening her mind to such tendrils of magic that might coil about this grove.
Dimly, as though at a distance, she heard Anthony ask, “Balkis? What ails you?” But when she did not answer, he desisted, only watching. It warmed her to realize that he was alert for the slightest sign of danger, but knowing that she was a wizard, he would not disturb her unless one emerged.
The constant exposure to magical creatures during her infancy had left Balkis not only with an unusual talent for magic, but also with a sensitivity to it. Now she listened, open to the touch of its tendrils, and felt them all about her. Slowly, she stepped over to an apple tree, pressed a hand against the bark, and thought a question to the dryad that lived within it. Instantly she felt the answer, guarded but intrigued, and was quick to think through her early days, to remember the nixies she had met in Maracanda, the same who had taken charge of her when her mother had set the infant Balkis adrift in a trunk because the barbarians were invading the city. Appeased, the dryad now gave her silent permission to walk her grove, gave her the freedom of the valley, and Balkis withdrew her hand, knowing that word would pass from spirit to spirit as soon as the human folk were asleep and the dryads felt free to come forth from their trees to play and celebrate life. Slowly, she let herself return to the world, feeling her pulse gradually speed up, felt the breeze on her cheek and the perfume of the apple trees become more vivid, until she was back in the world again.
She turned to Anthony with a smile. “There is magic here indeed, but it welcomes us and will protect us.”
“Will protect you, rather,” Anthony said with a smile, “but I suppose that as long as I am with you, I shall be safe, too.”
“You shall be, surely.” Balkis reached out to take his hand with a smile. “Come, let us find a village. If the valley itself welcomes us, can its people do less?”
Fortunately, the answer turned out as she hoped—the people were friendly indeed, and just as welcoming as the Piconyans.
The apple grove opened out suddenly into a meadow filled with a score of round, straw-roofed cottages circling a central green. Some of the people practiced archery on the common while others carved statues or painted landscapes on the walls of their houses. Nearer to Balkis and Anthony, a circle of people sat with strange-looking but beautifully crafted musical instruments, setting up harmonies that were strange, almost weird, but hauntingly beautiful.
“What a handsome people they are!” Balkis exclaimed.
“They are indeed,” Anthony agreed. “I see no one fat and no one skinny, and all have that lovely bronze-toned skin.” He smiled. “How wonderful it must be to live in a land where you never need wear more than a loincloth! Though I must admit theirs are wrapped to cover the sides.”
“The women's sarongs are beautiful in their jewel tones,” Balkis said, “and how exquisitely they are patterned! Indeed, their weavers must love their craft.”
“Love it, yes,” Anthony marveled. “One more art among many. Does no one here actually work?”
One of the musicians heard; he looked up with curiosity, and all the others, seeing him, followed his gaze. Then they put down their instruments and rose as the first advanced, holding up an open palm in greeting and dazzling them with a broad smile. As he came close, Anthony and Balkis had to hide their expressions of surprise. Apparently they weren't successful, for the villager smiled and said, “Yes, you thought we were as tall as you, only farther away, did you not?”
“Of course,” Balkis stammered, “for you are of the same proportions as we.”
“Certainly! How could you know that we only came up to your waists?” the villager asked. “Welcome to Pytan, O Strangers. I am Rokin.”
“I am Balkis, and he is Anthony,” Balkis said, imitating the stranger's sign of greeting.
“We hope you have news of the great world outside our valley,” Rokin said. “We will trade you songs for tales.”
“We know something of what moves outside,” Balkis said, smiling, “though we have traveled too fast for any news to catch up with us.”
“At the least,” Anthony put in, “we can tell you of the marvels that lie to the south, if you can tell us what you know of the obstacles ahead of us to the north.”
“Do you travel to the north, then?” Rokin asked.
“We do, and my home is in the southern mountains.”
“Then you are of the breed that Alexander's soldiers sired when they sought to conquer the hills!” Rokin shook his head in amazement. “It must be uncanny to live on land that slopes.”
Anthony grinned. “It seems strange to me to see people dwell and farm on land that is level … well, it did seem strange when I started out.”
“You have heard all we have to tell, then,” Balkis said with disappointment.
“Surely not, for even in this little valley we hear the echoes of great battles and arrogant horsemen who sweep across broad plains, seeking to rule the world!”
Several of the Pytanians shuddered at the thought, but one said, “It must be amazing to be able to stand in one place and see completely to the horizon.”
“I thought so, too,” Anthony admitted, “the first time I came down to the desert to sell food to the caravans.”
“Caravans!” cried several, their eyes lighting with wonder, and the young man said, “Strings of camels that sway on their way, eastward to China, westward to Samarkand and Persia, northward to Maracanda! Fabled cities and lands of wonder! We know only those that travel northward, and we must wander a day's march to meet them, so we see them rarely! Oh, tell us of them!”
“I can tell you little,” Balkis said with a laugh, “though I can speak of Bordestang and the forests of Allustria, even some little about the Arabian galleys and the people of India.”
“Tell us, tell us!” the Pytanians chorused, and led them to the village green, where they sat around an empty firepit to listen eagerly.
Anthony looked around, disconcerted.
“You are looking for food and drink, are you not?” Rokin said, somewhat chagrined. “Panyat, I pray you bring a dozen of the finest apples.”
The young man who had marveled at the thought of plains ducked into one of the straw-roofed stucco cottages.
“We do not eat or drink, as you do,” one of the women said apologetically. “The scent of our apples is sustenance enough for us.”
Indeed, every one of the villagers was bringing out an apple from a cleverly concealed pocket and waving it under his or her nose. Panyat reappeared with a bowl of beautiful rosy fruit in the crook of his arm, so perfect that Balkis noticed that the apples the villagers held had each the marks of insects or the lopsided shape that comes from growing too closely. In his other hand he carried a pottery beaker of clear water which he set down at their feet. “We always keep water near for washing,” he explained, “for we love to be clean. I hope this will suffice as drink.”
Balkis lifted her beaker and sipped. “Oh, how delicious! It is delightfully cool.”
Anthony rolled a sip over his tongue as though he were tasting the Piconyans' wine and nodded. “Cool indeed, and with a wonderful tang to it.”
“Has it really?” Panyat asked, intrigued. “To us it is merely water, for we do not taste of it.”
“At least you will never be drunk,” Balkis said with a laugh.
“Drunk?” Rokin asked, and the crowd murmured echoes of the word, puzzled.