He knew better than to give any credence to the uninspired ritual insults, and yet he could wish that the name of Glave Trinchil had not been used. Glave was one of the few who still came to the farm and helped when there was heavy work to be done, but—the thought slid into Bartan’s consciousness like the tip of a poniard—he usually visited when Sondeweere was alone. Bartan thrust the notion away, but into his mind there crept the image of an event he had all but forgotten— Sondeweere and Glave by the side of the Trinchil wagon when they had believed themselves to be unobserved, the moment of intimacy which had taken neither by surprise.
Why am I suddenly doubting my wife? Bartan thought. What is doing this thing to me? I know that I cannot have been wrong about Sondeweere. And, while conceding that other men have been blinded by love, I know that I am too clever, too world-wise to be duped in that particular manner by a farm girl. Let the bumpkins jeer to their hearts’ content—I will never let them influence me in any way.
The rain was easing off and the well-defined edge of the cloud shield was now directly overhead, creating a feeling that the wagon was emerging into sunlight from the shade of a vast building. A short distance ahead the track on which they were travelling intersected a wider track, where Bartan would have to turn west for New Minnett. Water-filled ruts reflected the clear sky like polished metal rails.
Feeling oddly guilty, Bartan turned to Shome and said, “My apologies for this, but I have decided against attending the markets today. It’s a long way for you to go on foot, but…”
“Think nothing of it,” Shome said with a fatalistic shrug. “I have already walked halfway around this planet, and I dare say I can manage the rest.”
He shouldered his bag, jumped down from the wagon at the intersection and set off towards New Minnett at a good pace, pausing only to wave goodbye. Bartan returned the farewell and directed the bluehorn east towards his own section.
His feeling of guilt increased as he admitted to himself that he was laying a trap for Sondeweere. She would not be expecting him until close to nightfall, and the trip to town had been arranged days in advance, giving her ample time in which to make all her arrangements with Glave. Self-reproach mingled with self-disgust and a curious kind of excitement as he bent his mind to a new kind of problem. If he did espy Glave’s bluehorn from afar, tethered by the farmhouse, could he be underhanded enough to halt the noisy wagon and move in silently on foot? And if he were to find the couple in bed—what then? A year’s unrelenting toil had clothed Bartan’s frame in hard muscle, but he was still a lightweight compared to Glave and had little experience of fighting.
This is terrible, he thought in a crossplay of emotion. All I want out of life is to find my wife alone, working contentedly in our home. Why take the risk of losing what happiness I have? Why not turn back, catch up on Shome, and go on to the markets as planned? I could sit down with the old crowd and get merry on brown ale and forget all this…
The landscape ahead of Bartan was becoming obscured by refractive peach-and-silver mists as the fallen rain was lured back into the aerial element by the sun, and in the centre of his field of view there had appeared a wavering dark mote which seemed to change shape every few seconds. As he watched, the mote assumed a definite form, resolving itself into a rider approaching at considerable speed.
Bartan knew, long before proper identification was possible, that the rider was Glave Trinchil, and again there was a clash of emotions—simultaneous relief and disappointment over the fact that a confrontation was ruled out. This far from the farm Glave could claim that he was coming from any one of a number of places, and in all fairness there could be no justification for openly disbelieving him. With that analysis of the situation in mind, Bartan expected Glave to pass him with a casual greeting, and he was taken aback when the younger man began waving to him while still some way off, obviously preparing to stop and talk. Bartan’s heart quickened with alarm as he saw that Glave was in a state of agitation. Could there have been an accident at the farm?
“Bartan! Bartan!” Glave reined his bluehorn to a halt beside the wagon. “I’m glad to see you—Sondy said you had gone to town.”
“She said that, did she?” Bartan replied coldly, unable to shape a more appropriate response. “So you’ve been paying her another of your conveniently timed visits.”
The imputation seemed to pass Glave by. His broad, artless face looked troubled, but Bartan could detect no hint of shiftiness or defiance which might have sprung from guilt.
“Go to her without delay,” Glave said. “She has need of you.”
Bartan swore at himself for having continued nursing his petty suspicions when it was becoming obvious that something serious had happened to Sondeweere. “What’s wrong with her?”
“I truly do not know, Bartan. I called at the farm just to be neighbourly, just to see if there was any heavy work to be done…” Even though overwrought, Glave had to direct a satisfied glance at his well-muscled arms. “Sondy told me there was a tree to be uprooted. You know the one—where you want to plant the wirebeans and—”
“Yes, yes! What happened to my wife?”
“Well, I fetched a spade and an axe and set about the roots. It was hot work, in spite of the rain, and I was pleased when I saw Sondy coming down from the house with a pitcher of smallbeer. At least, I think it was smallbeer—I never got to drink any. She wasn’t more than a dozen paces away from me when she gave a sort of a gasp and let the pitcher fall and sat down in the grass. She was holding her ankle. I was fearful she had done herself a mischief, so I went to her. She looked up at me, Bartan, and she gave a terrible scream, but the worst thing about it was… was…” Glave’s voice faded and he stared at Bartan in perplexity, as though wondering who he might be.
“Glave!”
“It was a terrible scream. Bartan, but the worst thing about it was that her mouth was shut. I was looking straight into Sondy’s face, and I could hear her screaming, but her mouth was tight shut. It fair made my blood run cold.”
Bartan shifted his grip on the reins preparatory to moving off. “What you’re saying doesn’t make sense. All right, Sondeweere was moaning! Is that all there was to it? Had she turned her ankle? What did she say?”
Glave shook his head, slowly and pensively. “She does not say anything.”
“She doesn’t say anything! What way is that to…?” Bartan began to feel a new kind of alarm. “She can still speak, can’t she?”
“I don’t know, Bartan,” Glave said simply. “You should go to her. I stayed as long as I could, but there was nothing I could do. Nothing I could think of…”
His remaining words were lost in the clatter of hooves and equipage as Bartan sent the wagon forward. He goaded the bluehorn up to the best speed that could be achieved on the uneven track, enduring the discomfort of sliding and bouncing on the unpadded seat. The bright mist had now blanked out the horizon and reduced his range of vision so much that he seemed to be travelling at the centre of a bell-shaped dome in whose sides faint pastel colours swirled all the way up to the sun. A short time later the vapours began to boil off, the sky became a milky blue and Bartan saw his own farm in the distance, gleaming, created anew out of rain and mist. By the time he reached it the sky was returning to its normal intense shade of blue and the daytime stars were reappearing.
He brought the wagon to a standstill, jumped down and ran into the house. There was no reply when he called Sondeweere’s name, and a rapid search in which he threw himself from room to room established that she had to be out of doors. The first place he could think of looking was by the tree which Glave had mentioned, though it would be odd if she had lingered there so long—unless she had been overtaken by serious illness. Why had the oafish Glave not escorted her back to the house instead of fleeing as if he had seen an apparition?