Lara

by Bertrice Small

  “But there must be a system of governance, my lord,” Lara insisted. “How are your clan families ruled? Who decides upon the rulers?”

  “Each clan has a chieftain,” he began. “Each village has a headman who is responsible to the chieftain. When a chieftain dies, or chooses no longer to rule, his successor is chosen by the elders of the clan family, both men and women. Generally they pick a chieftain from the same family grouping, but their choice is based upon the man who is best suited to take the responsibility of the clan upon his shoulders. My uncle was the previous chieftain, Liam’s father.”

  “Why did they not choose Liam?” she asked.

  “He was younger in years than I was, and he did not want to be chieftain. My grandfather was the chieftain before Liam’s sire. The elders, knowing this, then chose me. I have ruled the Fiacre for five years now.”

  They had left the village of Camdene well behind, and now rode at a leisurely pace over the rolling green plain. In the sky above them a hawk soared and, seeing it, Lara could not help but wonder if it was Kaliq. But then she put the thought from her head. She was a very long way from the Desert of the Shadow Princes. Kaliq was her past. She cast a surreptitious look at Vartan from beneath her lashes as they rode. He was a handsome man in a rough-hewn sort of way. She considered what it might be like to share her body with him, and her cheeks grew hot.

  Finally, ahead of them they saw another grouping of cottages. It was not as big a village as Camdene, but it appeared every bit as prosperous.

  “This is Orlege,” he told her. “I have a dispute to settle here today. One of the village men lost his wife, and wishes to have another, but his neighbors will not match any of their daughters with him. I must learn why, and then settle the problem.”

  Vartan was greeted warmly by the villagers of Orlege. He was led into the headman’s house, and seated at the small high board in the little hall. Lara stood quietly at the side of the room, observing all. The headman, Scully, brought forth the complainant to state his case. Pol was a man in his sixth decade. He had been widowed for a year and wished to take a new wife, but, he complained to his lord, the villagers of Orlege would not offer him their marriageable daughters that he might choose. He begged his lord to help him find a wife to take care of him in his old age.

  Next, the headman spoke for the villagers. Pol was an old man. No young girl wanted to be shackled to an old man. She wanted a vigorous husband who would give her children, that she not be ashamed at the well when she went to draw water. And no father in Orlege would force his daughter to be Pol’s wife. He was an ordinary man with only a small holding he could barely work any longer.

  “I must think on this,” Vartan said. “Bring me something to drink.” He looked to Lara, and beckoned her to him. When she stood by his side he said, “What would you do in a case like this, Lara, daughter of Swiftsword?”

  “Ask the headman if there is a widow who would be willing to have Pol for a husband,” she replied. “If he has no children to care for him it is unlikely he will have them at his age. He does not need a young wife. He needs a housekeeper, a cook and a companion. What could he possibly give a young wife but unhappiness?”

  “A clever solution, Lara, daughter of Swiftsword,” Vartan said. He drank from the cup placed by his left hand, and then shared the draught with Lara.

  How easy she felt with this man, Lara thought to herself. Their acquaintance was hardly a lengthy one, and yet she felt completely comfortable with Vartan of the Fiacre.

  When he had finished his drink, Lara moved discreetly away again to the side of the hall and watched while Vartan settled the issue between Pol and his fellow villagers. First he drew Scully, the headman aside, and spoke with him for several minutes in low tones. Scully listened, nodded and finally smiled. The headman signaled another man, murmured to him. The second man went off into the crowd of villagers, speaking with several women. Finally he led three of them forward. Both Scully and Vartan spoke with them, and then Vartan called for silence.

  “Pol of Orlege, you seek a wife to care for you in your old age. Is this correct?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Then choose from among these three fine widows. Women of good reputation with experience in keeping a husband happy,” Vartan said. “No father will give you his young daughter. No young girl wants a graybeard for a mate. In this I concur. You seek a companion who will keep you comfortable and well-fed. Here stand three, all eminently suited to your needs, and all willing to have you. You must choose from among them if you would remarry.”

  Pol looked the three women over, and finally said, “I choose Corliss.”

  “Corliss, you are willing?” Vartan asked.

  “I am, my lord,” the plump widow said.

  “Then come forward, and be joined,” Vartan said, and when the two stood before him he said, “Marriage between a man and a woman is sacred in the eyes of the Celestial Actuary. It is the husband’s duty to provide for his mate. It is the wife’s duty to care for her mate. Are you, Pol, willing to provide for Corliss, and treat her with dignity and kindness?”

  “I am, my lord,” Pol said.

  “And you, Corliss, will you care for Pol, treating him with respect and kindness?”

  “I will, my lord,” the widow replied.

  “Then it is done, and you are considered husband and wife in the eyes of the Celestial Actuary,” Vartan concluded. He drew a coin from his vest pocket, and gave it to the bride. “For luck,” he told her, and kissed her cheek. Then he shook Pol’s hand.

  “Thank you, my lord,” the newly wed man said. Then he and his new bride left the hall chattering busily about where they would now live.

  “A grand solution, my lord, to a difficult problem,” Scully said grinning broadly.

  “Do not thank me, but rather my companion, Lara, daughter of Swiftsword,” Vartan said graciously. “She is my guest at Camdene.”

  The headman looked at Lara admiringly. “Thank you, my lady,” he said.

  “It was common sense,” Lara told him, “but sometimes it takes an outsider to see the path through the woods.” She smiled at him.

  They left Orlege, and traveled on to Leax, Vartan’s next village. Again Lara found it a pretty and thriving place. Along the path they traveled, fat cattle grazed on the grass of the plain. There were no problems in Leax that required Vartan’s attention, and so they moved quickly on to the next village, Scur, which sat by a swiftly flowing brook. The headman there, Evin, was concerned because in the last few days the fish that populated the brook were turning up dead. He had forbidden anyone to eat the fish, but was worried that if the fish were dying, the water could be tainted.

  “Where does the brook flow from?” Vartan asked.

  “The north, my lord. In the mountains of the Piaras and Tormod clans,” Evin answered.

  “I shall send someone north to investigate,” Vartan promised. “The village has another well?”

  “Yes, my lord. It comes from an underground spring not connected with the brook,” Evin said.

  “Continue to keep people from the brook and the fish until we learn what is happening,” Vartan said.

  “You will remain the night, my lord?” Evin bowed when he offered the invitation.

  “We will,” Vartan said jovially. “This is Lara, daughter of Swiftsword, who is my guest at Camdene.”

  “You are from Hetar,” Evin said.

  “We are all from Hetar,” Lara told him.

  “They do not think it,” he replied.

  “Then they are fools,” Lara remarked, “and I have little tolerance for fools.”

  The sun set quickly, as was its habit here in the Outlands. Evin’s wife invited them to her table, clucking and fussing as the meal was brought forth. Vartan praised her menu, and she beamed, well pleased. Shortly after their meal in the headman’s little hall the lord of the Fiacre and his companion were shown to a bedchamber, and bid goodnight.

  Lara looked about her. There wa
s one bed. “Where will you sleep?” she asked Vartan. “The bed or the floor?”

  “We will share the bed,” he said in matter-of-fact tones.

  “I have not offered my body to you, my lord Vartan,” Lara said tartly.

  “I have not asked for it,” he replied, his tone amused.

  “Then one of us must sleep upon the floor,” she told him.

  “Why? The bed is large enough for two,” he replied. “Evin and his wife have honored us by giving us their chamber to sleep in, Lara, daughter of Swiftsword.”

  “I will take the floor, then,” Lara said, and pulled a coverlet from the bed.

  He snatched the coverlet back with one hand, reaching for her with the other. Then tossing the coverlet onto the bed he took her chin between his thumb and his forefinger even as he pressed her slender form against his hard one and looked down into her lovely face. “Do you think I lured you out to one of my distant villages to seduce you, Lara, daughter of Swiftsword? Do you believe I am the kind of man who would share my body with you for the first time in a borrowed bed, in an underling’s house?” His blue eyes stared fiercely into her green ones. “If I had desired nothing more than to bed you I could have done it that first day we met out on the plain. When we finally decide to share pleasure with each other, Lara, daughter of Swiftsword, it will be because we both want it. Despite what your Hetarian teachers have taught you, I am not a savage bent on rapine and pillage. Now get into that bed, which I fully intend sharing with you. The nights grow cold in late summer on the plain.” Then tipping her face up, he kissed her a slow, hard kiss and, releasing her from his grasp, shoved her toward the bed.

  Meekly, Lara complied with his request, but she couldn’t resist saying, “I just wanted you to understand that I am not some common Pleasure Woman, my lord Vartan.”

  “No,” he replied wryly. “You could not be called common, and you have a destiny to fulfill.” Then climbing into the bed, he turned his back to her.

  Arrogant! He was the most arrogant man she had ever met, Lara fumed to herself. Then she reached down to finger the crystal star that hung between her breasts in hopes of calming her righteous indignation.

  He is very masterful, Ethne said. I like him.

  I have a destiny, whatever it is, and I shall fulfill it, Lara returned irritably.

  Perhaps he is part of that destiny, Ethne replied, for why else have you been brought to the Outlands? And why have you been set so neatly into his world? Do not allow your pride to deter you. Remember that the Shadow Prince taught you to be patient, and to consider each situation carefully before acting. You seem to lose all reason with this man, my child. Is it possible you are falling in love?

  Faerie women do not really love, Lara replied. You know that.

  You are but half faerie, Ethne reminded her. There is much that is human about you, Lara. Do not deny either part of your heritage. And faerie women do fall in love. Your own mother fell so in love with your father that until she had to, she would not take another mate, or have another child.

  Will she birth a child for Thanos, Ethne? And if she does, will you leave me? Lara asked the guardian of the crystal.

  You will have a brother in the next spring, Lara, but I will never leave you. I am the guardian your mother gave you, and I will always be with you, my child. Now go to sleep. The man by your side is already in deep slumber. The flame within the crystal flickered, and dimmed to the tiniest golden dot.

  Lara lay silent but wakeful. Vartan was sleeping soundly. She considered her earlier words, and now felt like a fool. Why had she been so sure he wanted to share pleasure with her? He had made no suggestive overtures. She realized, to her dismay, that she did not trust most men. Her own father had sold her into slavery to advance himself, and she had been willing because she saw no other way and she loved him. Now she wondered if he had ever really loved her, or if her striking resemblance to her mother had but added soreness to his broken heart. But he had been a good father when he was there. She had no complaints. He had never beaten her.

  But her experience with the Forest Lords had been distasteful at best. She had become hard, Lara realized, in order to survive their brutality and stupidity. Yet Og had been kind to her, and without him she would have never escaped the Forest. And Kaliq had been gentle, patient and generous to her. He had taught her the meaning of passion. But there had to be more to the relationship between a man and a woman than just pleasure for the body. Was that what this love people talked about was?

  In the morning, Evin’s wife fed them a hearty breakfast of porridge, eggs and ham with fresh bread. She wrapped slices of bread and meat in a cloth, giving it to Lara for it would be afternoon before they reached Doane, the next village. They rode the long morning, stopping briefly to eat again. Evin’s wife had not only packed meat and bread, but there was cheese and two pears as well. They sat in the grass while the horses grazed placidly within their sight. Vartan asked Lara to tell him about her life in the City. She was surprised by his curiosity, but complied nonetheless. He listened with open interest, and as she came to the end of her recitation he handed her a piece of pear. The juice drizzled down her chin as she bit into it, and she was startled when he leaned forward to lick the nectar from her skin.

  “You are bold, my lord,” she said quietly.

  “I will always think of you as tasting of pears,” he said as quietly.

  “What is it you want of me, Vartan of the Fiacre?”

  “Everything!” he answered her.

  “I cannot give it to you.”

  “You can, and you will one day,” he replied with an assurance that amazed her.

  “We should go,” she said, rising to her feet and whistling for Dasras.

  “Shall I save the other pear for tonight?”

  “If it pleases you to do so,” she replied, feeling her cheeks grow warm as she pulled herself back into her saddle.

  Vartan smiled up into her eyes, but said nothing more.

  In midafternoon they reached Doane, another flourishing village. They remained but a brief while, as all was in order. Next they came to Calum village, where again the lord of the Fiacre was greeted warmly and there was no difficulty to be had. The last village was Rivalen, and they reached it just before dark to be greeted by Sholeh, the headwoman.

  “My lord!” She came forward smiling, a big-boned woman with dark red hair that hung to her broad hips. “Welcome! I did not know if you would come today. We had heard that you were villaging.”

  Vartan slid from his stallion, and wrapped an arm about Sholeh. “Each time I see you, my girl, you are more of an armful.” He kissed her cheek noisily.

  Sholeh laughed heartily. “Away with you! I already have enough children to raise and care for, my lord.” Her glance swung to Lara. “And who is this dainty beauty you travel with, Vartan, lord of the Fiacre? She is faerie or I miss my guess.”

  “She is Lara, daughter of Swiftsword, and only half faerie.” Vartan lifted Lara from her saddle. “Eventually I will make her my wife.”

  “Eventually I will slice you in two,” Lara snapped.

  Sholeh laughed again, and flung an arm about Lara’s shoulders. “I am going to like you, Lara, daughter of Swiftsword,” she said. “The key to a successful mating is to never let the man have the advantage. Come in to my hall. You are most welcome!” And she led the way, her arm still about Lara.

  The hall into which she led them was large with a great peaked roof. There was a large stone fireplace burning with fragrant woods. They had no sooner been seated at the high board than the servants began to hurry forth with the meal. Lara was surprised, for it was a generous offering. There was salmon and trout from the river that flowed through the village of Rivalen. There was beef, ham, duck, capon and a rabbit stew. There were braised lettuces, asparagus, fresh breads, butter and cheeses of several kinds. And there was Frine and ale both.

  “Sholeh is a member of my family,” Vartan explained, seeing Lara’s surprise. “We are c
ousins. She is the widow of the former headman here. When he died, the villagers asked that she be put in charge over them.”

  “She is a woman,” Lara said, puzzled.

  “She is a competent woman,” Vartan replied. “Do not women hold positions of responsibility in Hetar?”

  “Not really,” Lara said. “They are always responsible to men for their actions. The Pleasure Mistresses, for instance, do not own the houses over which they preside. Those are always owned by a magnate, and magnates are always men.”

  “Who manages the Pleasure Houses then?” Sholeh asked having overheard their conversation.

  “The Pleasure Mistresses do. That is their duty,” Lara replied.

  “So these women handle all the daily business of the Pleasure Houses? They make certain the girls are happy and healthy? They order the proper foods, wines and other supplies, and yet they are subordinate to those who own the houses, and collect the profits, eh?” Sholeh concluded. “I don’t think I like that.”

  “It is our way,” Lara explained. “Are you not responsible for Rivalen and its people to Lord Vartan?”

  “It is different,” Sholeh said. “Rivalen is mine. It is part of the Fiacre clan family holdings, and Vartan, its overlord, is responsible for our protection in the event of war. I give him my allegiance, but I am a free woman with my own lands.”

  “I have never heard of such a thing before,” Lara said. “I like it much better than the way it is done in the City.” Again she thought that these Outlanders were not barbarians in any sense. But perhaps the Fiacre was different from the other clan families. Perhaps they were the exception.

  Sholeh’s hall was filled to capacity. She was the mother of seven sons and two daughters, all of whom lived with her, and she had twenty-two grandchildren as well. The dogs snuffled beneath the tables hoping for scraps. Two cats, one a large marmalade, and the other an equally large black, lay head-to-head before the fire. There was much good-natured bickering back and forth, but no one fought. And again she was aware of how very respected Vartan was.