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own bed for ... as long as she could remember. The disturbing dream did not
return, to her secret relief.
Dy Cabon's first few morning sermons after Casilchas showed the results of his
hasty researches, being plainly cribbed from some volume of model lessons. But
the next few days brought more daring and original material, heroic tales of
Chalionese and Ibran saints and god-touched martyrs in the service of their
chosen deities. The divine made contorted connections between each day's tale
and the sites they were to view, but Ista was not deceived. His stories of the
famous miracles that men and women had performed as vessels of the gods'
powers made Ferda's and Foix's and even Liss's eyes shine with a spirit of
emulation, but Ista found the divine's message, on all its several levels,
entirely resistible. He watched her anxiously for her responses; she thanked
him coolly. He bowed and bit back disappointment, but also, fortunately, the
temptation to reopen the subject more directly.
A break in dy Cabon's oblique campaign occurred as they wound through the
foothills of the western ranges and arrived at the town of Vinyasca, just in
time for the mid-spring festival. This feast day fell at the apogee of the
season, exactly midway between the Daughter's Day and the Mother's. In
Vinyasca, it was also tied to the renewal of the trade caravans over the snowy
passes from Ibra, bringing new wine and oil, dried fruit and fish, and a
hundred other delicacies of that milder land, as well as exotic fare from even
farther shores.
A fairground had been set up outside the town walls, between the rocky river
and a pine grove.
Mouthwatering smoke rose up from roasting pits behind tents displaying
handicrafts and produce of the area's maidens, who competed for honors in the
goddess's name. Liss shrugged at the tent of embroidery, sewing, and wool
work; dy Cabon and Foix returned disappointed from a reconnoiter of the tent
of foodstuffs to report that it did not offer morsels to any but the judges.
Food might be the focus, but youthful energy could not be denied. For all that
it was a young women's festival, young men vied for their gazes in a dozen
contests of skill and daring. Ista's guard, kindling at the challenges, begged
for their commander's indulgence and dispersed to try their luck, although
Ferda meticulously apportioned pairs in turn to be at her call at all times.
Ferda's sternness eroded abruptly when he discovered the horse races. Having
no one else's leave to beg, he sought Ista's, and she hid a smile and sent him
off to ready his mount.
"My courier horse," said Liss in a voice of longing, "could make all these
country nags look like the plow horses they undoubtedly are."
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"I'm afraid the women's race was earlier," said Ista. She'd seen the winner
led past, horse and girl festooned with blue-and-white garlands, surrounded by
cheerful relatives.
"That was for the young maidens," said Liss, her voice tinged with scorn.
"There are some older women getting ready for the longer one I saw them."
"Are you sure they were not just grooms, or relatives, or owners?"
"No, for they were tying colors on their sleeves. And they had the look of
riders."
As Liss did, indeed. She was doing her best to keep her face dignified, but
she was rising on her toes.
"Well," said Ista, amused, "if Foix at least will undertake not to abandon
me "
Foix, smiling, favored her with a loyal bow.
"Oh, thank you, my lady!" cried Liss, and was gone as though racing afoot,
back to the inn's stable where they had stowed their mounts.
Ista strolled about the makeshift grounds on Foix's arm, taking care to
observe any contests in which her own men competed. A contest to gallop with a
javelin picking off small rings set up on posts was won by one of her guard; a
match that involved leaping from a horse to grapple a young steer to the
ground was won by the steer. All brought back their prizes for their officer
Foix to hold, and therefore Ista to notice;
she felt half courtly, half maternal, and commiserated the dusty, limping
steer-wrestler with as many words as she spared to congratulate the luckier
contestants.
She had accepted her guard troop at first as an unavoidable encumbrance, and
ignored them. But over the days of her journey she had learned names, faces,
life stories most very short. They had begun to look less like blank-faced
soldiers, responsible for her, and more like overgrown children. She did not
care for this oppressive shift in her perceptions. She did not want to be
responsible for them.
I had no luck with sons.
Yet loyalty must run two ways, or else become betrayal in the egg.
As the contenders assembled for the horse race, Foix found Ista a spot on the
slope overlooking the road, above most of the rest of the eager crowd. In a
gallant's gesture he spread his vest-cloak, carried over his arm in the warmth
of the bright afternoon, on the ground for Ista to settle upon. They had a
fine view of the start and finish point, which was a large stump by the
roadside. The course ran down the valley road for about two miles, circled a
stand of oak trees crowning a mound, and returned by the same route.
Some twenty or so horses and their riders milled about in the wide space on
the road. Ferda dy Gura,
on his shining black beast, was shortening his stirrups and studying the
others when Liss trotted up on her leggy bay. He turned to stare at her in
surprise, but no delight. He apparently said something sharp, for
Liss's face fell. She looked up in a moment and returned a rather bitten-out
remark. Ferda leaned toward her and said something else, longer. She jerked
her horse away, flushing; the angry color faded in a moment, to be replaced by
a thoughtful frown, then a tight smile.
"Now, what was that all about?" Ista wondered aloud.
Foix, sitting at her feet, smirked. "I believe my brother was seeking to
display his prowess to Liss, not to compete with hers. I fear he did not
handle his surprise well." He settled back on one elbow with an air of
enjoyable interest that did not seem entirely due to the colorful excitement
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