She had a husky singing voice, melodic but not strong, that clung to the melody like a peach to a twig, half-enfolding it. Gird could feel her singing along his body, a warm, slightly furry touch. He wanted to sing with her, at least hum the melody, but his throat was too tight. Another song followed that one, this time an even sadder lament that they all knew. He sang, feeling his voice unkink and lengthen into the line of the song; her voice rolled along beside, rich and mellow. At the end of the many verses, he realized that others had fallen silent to listen, and at once his voice broke harshly, ruining the ending. Someone laughed, across the firelight; Gird flinched as if he'd been slapped, but the girl's hand was on his arm.
"Never mind," she said, under cover of the harper's quick fingering—it would be a jig, this time, and someone had found sticks to patter. Without really looking at the girl, Gird eased back to the angle between wall and fold, not at all surprised to find she had come with him. She stood closer than he found really comfortable; he could have put his arm around her and found her no closer.
"You know my name," he said, gruffly, unwilling to ask what she might refuse to answer.
"I'm Mali, from the village near the crossing—some call it Fire-oak." He remembered that name, from his guards' training; with the name he called up the location, the number of families, all the details he'd been taught. It surprised him; he didn't know he could remember all that. He looked down at her.
"You knew of me—"
She shrugged, and the shawl slipped back from dark hair. Something marked the side of her face: a scar, a birthmark. Hard to see in that light, but he could just make out a paler path across her cheek. "Most do; that kind of tale spreads. But Amis told me of you, and your past before the Guards. So I wanted to see you, see what they'd made of you."
"A failure," Gird said, then jumped as she slugged his arm. Hard: he would have a bruise there.
"Only you can make yourself a failure—and you a great strong lad with a head of solid stone—"
He was wide awake, now, as if he'd been dipped in a well. "What
are
you, some foretelling witch—?"
Firelight and shadow moved on her face; he could not read her expression. "I? I'm a farmer's daughter, as you're a farmer's son. I'm headstrong too, so they say of me, and a dangerous lass to cross. If you married me you'd have a strong mother of your children, and a loyal friend—"
"Marry—I can't marry—I'm—"
"A whole man," she said. Gird could feel his ears go hot; he wanted to grab her and shake her, or disappear into thin air. He knew he was whole; his body was as alive to her as his ears, and far more active. Was
this
how girls his age bantered? Surely she was bolder than the others.
"I'm sorry," she said then, in a quiet voice. He could feel her withdrawing without actually moving; she slid the shawl back over her hair. The withdrawal pierced him like a blade. He could not stand if it she left.
"Wait!" he said hoarsely. "I—you—I never heard anyone—"
"It's no matter." She wrapped the shawl tightly around herself, hugged her arms. "I'm overbold and wild; I've been told often enough. But I'd heard of you, and how you had changed, refusing your friends. I thought perhaps I could help, being a stranger—"
"You did." Gird rubbed his own arms, feeling the texture of his clothes and skin for the first time in—when?—years? He felt alive, awake, inside and out, and not only in that way which proved men whole. His skin tingled. "I'm—I'm awake," he said, wondering if she'd understand. Hot tears pricked his eyes; his throat tightened again.
She was looking at him, dark eyes hard to see in that flickering firelight—but he could feel the intensity of her gaze. "Awake?"
"It—oh, I can't talk here! Come on!" Without thinking, he grabbed her arm and led her around the wall to the entrance. She had stiffened for an instant, but then came willingly, hardly needing his guidance. He barely noticed someone by the gate turning to look, and then they were out beyond the walls, on the open fields, with the firelight twinkling behind them and stars brilliant overhead.
He stopped only when he stumbled over a stone and fell, dragging her down too. He had been crying, he realized, the roaring of blood in his ears louder than any night sound, the smell and taste of his own tears covering up the fragrance on the wind. She had pulled free when he fell, and now crouched, a dimly visible shape, an armspan away. When he got his breath at last, he sat up; she did not move, either towards him or away.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't—I've never done that before—"
"I should hope not." The tone carried tart amusement, but not hostility.
"I had to get away—I couldn't talk about it there, with those—"
"Only a few of them would still mock you, Gird."
"It's not that. It's—oh, gods, I'm awake again! I didn't know I wasn't. I didn't know I'd gone so numb, and now—"
"Does it hurt, like a leg you've sat on too long?"
He drew a long breath, trying to steady his breathing. "Not—hurt, exactly, though it does prickle. It's more as if I'd been sick, shut indoors a long time, so long I forgot about the colors outside, and then someone carried me out into spring." He turned to her, wishing he could see her expression. "Did you mean that about marrying?"
To his surprise, she burst out laughing, a joyous rollicking laugh that he could not resist. He didn't know why it was funny, but he laughed too. Finally, after a last snort, she quieted down, and apologized.
"I shouldn't laugh at you, I know that, but for someone just waking after long illness, you do move fast. Was this how you courted the girls, back when you were in the guards?"
"I didn't, back then—I was too young." Even in starlight, he could see that she'd let the shawl slip back again, revealing her face. His body insisted that he was not too young
now
; he tried to stay calm. "Mmm—would you sit with me?"
She moved closer, spread her skirts, and sat down almost hip-to-hip. "I thought I was, with you the closest person to me on this whole dark night."
She had a scent he had not noticed before; now it moved straight from his nose to his heart. Did all women smell like this? He cursed himself for a crazy fool, to have wasted the years in which he might have learned how to court such a girl. He clenched his fists to keep from reaching for her.
"But surely—" His voice broke, and he started again. "But surely you have someone—someone in your village—?"
Her low chuckle warmed his heart. "Alas no, Gird. For I'm the forward, quick-tongued lass you heard tonight; I will not guard my tongue for any man's content, though I swear by Alyanya there's no malice in it. And though I'm big and strong enough, and a good cook, I'm not much for threadcraft. My spinning's full of lumps, and my weaving's as bad as a child's. My family's parrion has always been in threadcraft, though my great-aunt taught me her parrion of cooking—she said I'd been born with a gift that way."
"My mother and sisters have threadcraft enough," Gird said. "But a parrion of cooking they'd welcome, even more in herblore than bakecraft." He could hardly believe they had come so fast to discussion of parrions. Wasn't that the last part before formal betrothal? He could not remember; he could not think of anything but the girl herself—Mali, he reminded himself firmly—and the smell and feel of her.
"Mine is that," she said, the weight of her coming now against his arm; he shifted it around her shoulders, and she leaned into him. Where she touched him, her body seemed to burn right through their clothes; he felt afire with longing for her. It was a struggle to speak calmly. He took another long breath of the cold, clean night air.
"Your father?" Gird thought it likely her father wouldn't agree, given his own reputation. But she shook her head, in the angle of his arm, where he could feel it.
"Grandmother's our elder, and village elder too—the magelords don't like it, but they agreed. She'll be glad enough if anyone wants me, and you're a farmer's son, in the same hearthing. But what of your mother?"
"She'll be happy." He leaned closer, to smell her hair. Was he really talking of marriage with someone met just this night, and by firelight? Could she be a witch—or, worst of all, a magelady pretending to be peasant, disguised by her magic?
"I have to tell you about this," said Mali, struggling upright for a moment. He looked at her; she had one hand to the mark on her face. "I'm no beauty, besides my loud tongue. Many call me ugly, for this scar if nothing else."
"What happened?" It was a chance to breathe, to remind himself of the customs of his people.
Mali made a curious noise that Gird could not interpret, somewhere between a sniff and a snort. "I wish I could claim it came from defending my cousin against the magelords—it happened the same day—but in fact it was my own clumsiness. I was carrying a scythe to my brother in the fields, and tripped. When I came running back, looking for sympathy, there was my cousin in the lane. No one had time for me then, and no wonder. I thought to save my grandmother trouble by treating it myself, but failed to put herin in the poultice, so it scarred. My own fault." She laid her warm hand on his. "But I will understand if you change—I mean, it's not fair. I've landed on you this night like a fowler's net on a bird. You must have a free choice, a chance to make up your own mind. See me in daylight and then if you still wish—"
Contending thoughts almost silenced him. Gird eyed her. "Is it that you think you can get nothing better than the coward of the count's own village? Was I just a last chance for you, is that what you're saying?"
She sat bolt upright. For an instant he thought she was going to hit him again; the place she'd slugged him before still ached. "You
fool!
If you don't want me, just say so. Don't make it my fault."
"I didn't—"
"You did." She was breathing fast, angry, and he waited. Finally she went on. "I was curious. I'd heard—what I told you. For myself, barring I like a roll as well as anyone, I'd live alone rather than marry anyone's last chance. Then meeting you—Amis said you were gentle, but he didn't say how you sang." Her voice trailed away. "And you're no coward, whatever
you
think."
"You don't think a man knows himself best?"
Laughter burst out of her again. "Who could? Can water know it's wet, or stone know it's hard? What could it measure itself against? I know my feelings, but my grandmother knew I was meant for herblore, not needlecraft or weaving. So with you—did your father or mother think you would make a soldier?"
Surprise again. "I—don't know. Not really, I suppose, although they feared I could be—"
"Cruel?" He could see her head shake in the starlight. "No, not like that. You can do what you must, but you take no pleasure in giving pain." He was eased by that, and his suspicions fled. A strange girl, like no girl he'd known (but what girls had he known?) but not a cunning one. If she said she liked him, then she did. Gird cleared his throat.
"I would like to—" Lady's grace; he didn't even know how to ask. But Mali had moved nearer to him again, her shoulder against his, her fragrant hair once more against his face.
"You should wait until sunrise," she said. "You might change your mind."
Gird laughed. "Sunrise," he said, "is too far away. Or do you want to go back and find witnesses to make it formal?"
"I want no witnesses," she said, in a low voice that was almost a growl. "Not for this." She folded her shawl, and lay back upon it, arms wide. "I swear by the Lady, that for this night I am content."
And content were they both by sunrise. Gird had thought he knew how it went between men and women; it was no secret after all, and any child saw it often enough growing up. But Mali's body, sweet-scented and warm on the cool hillside grass, was nothing like his imaginings—or far more. He could not get enough of touching her smooth skin, her many complex curves all ending in another place to enjoy with tongue and nose and fingers. And she, by all evidence, enjoyed it all as much as he did. They had fallen asleep at last, to be wakened by the loud uneven singing of Gird's friends on their way home. Mali chuckled.
"They want to let you know it's time to go, but without interrupting. You know, Gird, they are your friends. You must forgive them someday."
Right then he would have forgiven anyone anything, or so he felt, A pale streak marked distant sunrise. With a groan, he pulled his clothes together. "I don't want to leave."
Mali was already standing, shaking out her shawl. "If you wish, you know where."
"You know I want to marry you."
"I do
not k
now. I know you enjoyed my body, and I enjoyed yours, but there's more to marriage than that. But I like you, Gird. I say that now, after hearing you sing, laugh, and cry—more than many girls do, before they wed. Look on my face in daylight, and decide." She turned away to start home. Gird caught her arm.
"Why not now?"
"What of your work today? What of your family? Go home, lo—Gird. Go home and think whether you want a big, clumsy, loud-voiced wife with a scarred face. If you do, come see me in daylight. Ask me then—"
"I'm asking now!"
"No. I'll not answer now. Daylight for both of us then." And she pulled away and was gone. Gird stared after her, then followed the distant voices of his friends toward home.
He caught up with them within sight of home. By then it was light enough to see their expressions; he could feel himself going red. Amis elbowed Jens.
"You see I was right. He just needed to get a little fresh air—"
"He got more than fresh air, I'll warrant. Look at his face. If I'd gone out like that with Torin—"
"You wouldn't. You'll be learning how in your marriage bed, Jens."
"I know how." Jens shoved Koris, who shoved back. "It's just that with her father—"
"Come on, Gird," said Amis, throwing an arm around his shoulders. "Tell us—you drag the girl out in the middle of the dancing, did you just throw her on the ground, or what?"
He could hear the undertones in their voices—they weren't sure if he was going to be angry, or sulk, or what. He felt like singing, and instead burst out laughing.