“I’d take you to your temple to be questioned again,” said Arud, “but not yet. Cah, let me rest. Watch that dog and keep it off me. Give some water to the beasts.”
He went into the hovel with a proprietary but hopeless air, plainly pondering fleas and insalubrious meat and bitter beer.
The girl Tibo remained at the door until he and the outrider passed through. The zeebas had been tied to a post. Tibo drew water at the well, and took it to them in a bucket. She promised them fodder, Panduv heard her, talking in a secret friend’s voice at their ears.
Toward Panduv Tibo made no display of recognition.
Yet, she must truly have some sorcery. She knew, without knowing it or me, that I had some significance for her. I saw her son in his glory.
One large room, the hovel was divided from its main area at the back by two wooden walls. These created two sleeping cells, out of the larger of which into the smaller Tibo lugged a mattress. It was clean, fragrant even with herbs and the scent of soap. This bed was Tibo’s own it would seem. Her half-wit husband slumbered by her in the same room, but on another couch.
Tonight husband and wife, if needful, would share, in order the priest should have good rest.
Arud left his instructions. The outrider was to guard the entry to his sleeping-place for three hours, then wake him. The outrider sat by the entry, and, as promptly as Arud, fell asleep.
The husband had been reassured and gone out for a constitutional with the black dog. From the hovel yard they were visible in the valley, playing with a stick.
Tibo went on with her chores, now doubled by guests. She offered Panduv nothing, nor refused her anything. Panduv in turn drew water and drank two cups. Then she watched Tibo. In the end, Panduv spoke to Tibo.
“Are you afraid? I mean of this questioning at the temple. Arud is persistent.”
“I’m not afraid,” said Tibo.
She went into a hut and returned with fodder for the zeebas.
“Witches are stoned, aren’t they?” said Panduv.
“Yes.”
“But you’re not a witch.”
“I obey Cah.”
“Why,” said Panduv, “did you look so long at me in the temple?”
“Your black skin,” said the Iscaian.
Panduv checked. Perhaps it had been only that.
She followed Tibo back into the house and observed her making dough at the hearth. Panduv sat down opposite to her.
“I can’t help you with your wifely tasks. You see, I was never trained to them.”
Tibo made no comment. But suddenly she said, “Your master the priest has a fever. I grow an herb here that will cool it.”
“He’s not my master. He may try to think so. Nevertheless, little Iscaian wifeling, he’s useful to me. I’m not about to let you poison him.”
Tibo made no comment. And this time offered nothing else.
Tight-strung, Panduv said harshly, “They tell in Ly your son was sold to slavers some twenty years ago. I know the name of your son.” She hesitated, to equip herself with the essential, recognizable slur. “Raier.”
Tibo’s hands turned to stones in the midst of the dough. The hearth fire’s glow flickered against her face, its lovely youngness and veiled eyes.
“But he wasn’t yours. You’re no older than he would be.”
Tibo said, “Yes, but he was my son.”
The air tingled. This was like some duel, but not between enemies, not even sisters at practice.
“I have known him,” said Panduv. “He and I were starry lights of the arena at Saardsinmey, in Alisaar. His light was the greater. They called him Rehger the Lydian. He was a famous swordsman and charioteer, the best of them, gorgeous as a god—”
Tibo lifted her head. She looked at Panduv with great eyes full of ancient, worn and uncomplaining hurt, and sudden lashing anger. The power that came from her made Panduv start. In another moment, the Iscaian had controlled it, her emotion, the power. She soothed them down, like her dog at the door. Then she gazed far away, beyond Panduv, the hovel, the valley, and said, “Not now. Later. If you want, speak to me then. First I must answer to your master.”
Vastly disconcerted, Panduv could only rasp, “I told you, he isn’t my master.”
“What does it matter?” said the Iscaian, her eyes on other worlds. “Nothing matters. Here we are. Here, it’s the custom.”
“Your custom. That pie-brain up the valley—your lordly, masterful husband—does he give you Cah’s pleasure? I doubt if he fathered Rehger. What’s he worth?”
“While I’m married to Orhn, I needn’t take another man.”
“You could geld every man in the village with your magic. By the Fire, I felt it, just how, what you could do. You are a sorceress. Why be a slave?”
But Tibo was busy again with the hospitable dough.
It was quickly over, in the eventuality. Arud wakened near sunset, in a foul temper, berated the snoring outrider, said to Panduv, “My head aches—it’s the stink here—” which was wrong, for the hovel was kept fastidiously and did not stink—and called for beer and food.
Tibo served a savory stew, into which he would do no more than dip a chunk of bread. He was suspicious of venoms, or only of eating up some intrinsic element, and thus being warped to the witch’s charms. Panduv, having offered to act as his taster, did have a plate of the stew. It was delicious, and the hot cakes tasty. The fever was still on Arud, as Tibo had said. He drank cup after cup of “Orhn’s” beer, to quench the fever’s thirst.
The idiot husband ate farther along the board, sometimes feeding the black dog. She was a bitch, full of age, yet despite the gray on her muzzle, clear-eyed and alert. She had been ready to go for their throats at the door. Tibo’s youth, while it had not infused the dog, had still kept her in health. Panduv remembered how the idiot had played with the dog. He could not be blamed for anything. He looked at Tibo with un-Iscaian, unmanly love and admiration. She was now his mother.
Arud pushed away from the table, and called for more beer. He went over and sat in a wooden chair by the hearth, the fever making him want the warmth one minute, then draw off in a sweat.
Tibo filled his cup as he demanded. Suddenly he rose and caught her wrist.
The idiot whined, and the dog rumbled.
Tibo, not resisting, said back to them, “It’s well. Hush.”
“No,” said Arud, “it isn’t well. How will he manage after they stone you?”
It was then that Tibo lifted up her eyes to his. It was only for two or three seconds, enough, it seemed. In the beginning, Arud had sometimes struck Panduv, weightless puppy blows, and she had been able—after that first occasion—to contain herself. Later there was no aggression of this kind. Now his hand went whirling back, gathering up all the strength of his arm, to bring a blow on Tibo that could have broken her jaw. Panduv, who had been trained to know the measure of such things, sprang straight for him. She snatched his arm on its backswing, and hauled. The Watcher priest went toppling over, on his spine on the dirt floor. He took a pot with him, which smashed. He lay there in the debris, cursing and sprawling, his eyes madly upon Panduv, while the outrider, pulling a knife, made as if to come at her. Panduv flung up her hand, holding the outrider off with her dramatic gesture. To Arud she said, “Master, you mustnt strike her. Before Cah.
Arud gabbled, struggling to sit up. The outrider, in a dilemma (Panduv had cowed him), hurried to assist.
“Master,” wheedled Panduv, hating him, “I thought only to save you. If Cah truly is with her, you daren’t raise your hand against the goddess.”
“Cah—” Arud panted, his head swimming, blundering to his feet, “there’s no goddess—Cah is only life—”
“Close your ears,” Panduv said severely to the outrider, who was now blinking indeed, and making signs over himself. “You misunderstand his words.”