Ashling

by Isobelle Carmody

  But it was not enough for me to admire words and ideas as beautiful abstractions. I had to see how they could be applied. And I knew only too well that what worked in words was often very different when you tried to apply it to a real situation. In essence, freedom of choice sounded a fine and noble thing. But in reality?

  Putting away hammer and brushes, and making my way back upstairs into the safe house, I admitted wryly that it was difficult to be philosophical about Maruman and his right to freedom when I only knew I loved him and wanted to protect him.

  The kitchen was filled with the exquisite fragrance of freshly baked bread, and Kella and Matthew were so engrossed in examining the results of their afternoon's work, that they did not notice my entry or, a moment later, Dragon's.

  "The first one was like a lump of stone," Matthew laughed. "I will take it back to Obernewtyn and offer it to Gevan as a new kind of weapon."

  I had crossed quietly to the fire when I caught a movement at the door. I turned to watch Dragon glide into the room, hollow-eyed and pale underneath her murky skin-stain. Her eyes swept the room, coming to rest inevitably on Matthew, but there was no vestige of the adoration that had hitherto marked her regard for him. She stared at the Farseeker ward as if he were a window opened on a barren landscape, whose existence she had not before noticed.

  Something in her bleak regard chilled me to the bone.

  Matthew sensed her eyes, but the moment he looked up, she looked away. Kella gave an exclamation and hurried over to her.

  "How do you feel, love? Does your head still hurt?" She rubbed her floury hands on her apron to clean them, then curled an arm around the empath's shoulders, drawing her close.

  "Hurts," Dragon echoed dully, standing passive in the healer's embrace.

  Kella's brow creased in thought, and she shifted to her bench and riffled through a disordered pile of herb parcels to mix another herbal infusion. Once this had been swallowed to the last drop, the healer tried to get Dragon to eat something, but the girl showed no interest. She said listlessly that she would rather go back to sleep, and the healer led her out.

  Frowning, Matthew lay a damp cloth over two more loaves he had just kneaded. Only men, when he was done, did he notice me standing by the fire.

  He flushed and I wondered at his thoughts.

  Kella came back and, noticing me, offered to slice some bread for supper. I nodded and moved to help her.

  "What will Brydda do if Daffyd doesn't come tonight?" she asked.

  "He will come," I said firmly, refusing to give voice to my fears. "In the meantime, when we have eaten, I am going to take our gypsy home."

  XXII

  Daffyd had not come by the time I was ready to leave, and resolutely I dismissed him from my mind.

  "I am taking you to your people, Iriny," I told the gypsy.

  She started at hearing her name, but her strange twin-colored eyes were defiant and shuttered. "Do as you will," was all she would say.

  I explained that we had given her a sleepdrug so that she would not be able to tell where she had been kept, nor how long the journey had taken to the gypsy camp.

  "I don't care if you give me poison," she said, and there was a flash of pain that told me her mind was on her bondmate. Her eyes closed as Kella imposed another sleep-seal.

  It was strange, watching her fall into a deeper sleep. The gypsy had been with us for almost three sevendays, yet we knew as little of her now as when she had come among us. There had been no true exchange. Now we would never know, for there was scant likelihood of our ever meeting again.

  Matthew and Kella carried her between them down to the cart and installed her safely in it while I changed into the elaborate Twentyfamilies attire Maire had given me. The loose, wide-necked shirt was designed to slide off one shoulder or the other, but it exposed the bandages on my back. The other shirt she had given me was stained with blood so, after a moment's debate, I unwound the bandages gingerly, reasoning that since there had been no pain, the wounds must be a good way to healing. To my surprise, they had healed completely. I was unable to feel any scabbing; I would ask Maire about the ingredients she used in her miraculous ointment. It must be that, in absorbing and dissipating the pain of the whipping, the salve had also healed with uncanny swiftness. Roland would give much to have the recipe for an ointment that would enable the draining of built-up pain without danger.

  Buckling a thick belt with its dagger pouch about my waist, and sliding a knife into it, I came down to the rig to find Kella packing blankets around the unconscious

  gypsy. She stood back to survey her handiwork critically. "You should be fine," she murmured.

  Matthew was in front of the wagon, holding out the leather harnessing so that Gahltha could back into it. His skin twitched with loathing as the farseeker buckled the straps that bound him to the false gypsy rig.

  "Well!" Kella said, her eyes widening in admiration as she noticed the elaborate gypsy clothing.

  I laughed self-consciously and flipped the full Twenty-families skirt to reveal a multitude of red and green petticoats. "Elaria has never been so well dressed."

  "If only Rushton could see you like that," she giggled, then she flushed at my astonished look and began to fuss with the blankets.

  "Let us go," Gahltha sent tersely. "I/Gahltha do not like the feel of this funaga bond."

  We departed and though the moon had risen early, it was low on the horizon and, as on the previous night, ragged drifts of dark cloud made the evening a matter of shifting ambiguities and anonymous shadow. I set about erecting a formidable coercive enhancement of the rig to make it seem more fitting as transport for a Twentyfamilies gypsy. The last thing I wanted was to be stopped because the rig did not match the rest of me!

  As it happened this was hardly necessary, for there appeared to be no soldierguards about and the few people hurrying along, huddled deep in their coats and cloaks, paid no attention to me. It was a freezing evening and I found myself shivering in the light gypsy attire. I had not worn a cloak because I wanted the Twentyfamilies clothing to be completely visible. I dragged a blanket around my shoulders from the back.

  With little to do but sit and shiver, my thoughts wheeled back to Kella's words and their meaning.

  The healer had long been aware that something lay between Rushton and myself; perhaps because we had traveled on expeditions before, and because she possessed empath as a secondary ability. No doubt her relationship with Domick had given her some insight into such matters. Sadly, they seemed to have come the full circle—beginning at utter odds, but gradually caring for and respecting one another and now distant strangers.

  What would Rushton make of the gaudy Twentyfamilies clothes? He had told me once the gypsy clothes made me look like another person: wilder and more reckless. In truth, I did feel bolder in gypsy clothes, but the Twenty-families attire made me feel different again; more than El-speth Gordie and more than Elaria the halfbreed.

  In my mind's eye, I saw Rushton standing in the misty mountain dawn, watching me ride away, his expression brooding. A waiting look, yes, but also a questioning look. And what sort of answer would Elaria of the Twentyfamilies make to that unspoken query, dressed as I was?

  "Funaga play too many games/hide much," Gahltha sent. "Beasts have not somany/faces for truth-hiding. Whynot say what is true, be what is true, be what is true? Why hiding/pretending/untruthtelling?"

  "I don't know," I sent soberly. "Perhaps because the truth is sometimes frightening."

  "Truth is fair/light/bright. Lies are darkness/fear/ignorance."

  I could not argue with that. "Sometimes it is hard to know what the truth is. And sometimes truth is pain. Easier to hide the truth and make a secret of it, than to face it."

  "Truespoken," Gahltha sent.

  We came out from a narrow street and I was glad to see before us the dark wilderness that was the largest of the city greens at night. Fires bloomed like orange flowers in the darkness, illuminating here the side of
a great shaggy tree, or there the edge of a wagon. The faces of the gypsies were as pale blobs clustered about each separate campfire, hemmed about by ragged shadow, the spaces in between fires pitch dark. The green had seemed smaller when I had come there in the daylight, and more ordered.

  As Gahltha picked his way down the uneven rows of gypsy wagons parked in clusters with a little cooking fire at the center, the darkness was filled with spicy food smells and strains of music—singing and the languid strum of gitas, sprinkled with frequent bursts of laughter. At one campfire, I saw a girl and a boy dancing closely, spinning away and back to one another in graceful accord.

  "Gypsies dance for a lover.... " The gypsy's words came to me like a caress and I thought of his kiss and flushed, thrusting the memory from me.

  A warmth and a camaraderie filled the night around me. I squinted my eyes as we wove about, trying to distinguish the elaborately carved wooden rig that belonged to Maire. We passed several Twentyfamilies rigs, but none resembled hers.

  After a time I began to despair, for aside from the difficulties of seeing in the dark, the wagon rows were crooked and folded hither and thither about on themselves. This meant several times we had found ourselves going the same way we had passed already.

  "Gahltha/I can farseek Sendari?" Gahltha offered.

  At the same moment, an older Twentyfamilies gypsy stepped from the darkness and called out to ask my name. I chose my words very carefully. "I... I call myself Elaria." This was true enough.

  He came nearer and I had the same sensation as I had with Maire, that he was looking not at me, but somehow around me. Suddenly, I was very glad of the darkness.

  "I am seeking Maire, the healer," I said, feeling myself tense in case the name provoked a reaction.

  The man nodded mildly. "Well, she is here, but that is all I can tell you. Usually she sets her wagon over yonder."

  I nodded my thanks. Even so, we needed directions from Sendari to find the wagon, which was parked under a tree that seemed to wrap its branches around the rig protectively. A fire had been lit, and thick cuts of wood set on end about it as rough stools.

  The gypsy man who had rescued me from the whipping was seated at the fire. Beside him sat a plump, dark-haired gypsy girl and opposite were two gypsy men, one like enough to be the girl's brother. The three were clearly Twentyfamilies—richly clad and with a certain haughtiness in their bearing. I wondered if one of them were Swallow. There was no sign of the old woman, Maire, but I supposed she was inside the wagon.

  Hearing Gahltha whinny to the other horses as we drew closer, the gypsy man looked up casually, then his eyes widened. He jumped to his feet, dismissing his companions with an imperious flick of his fingers. The two men went at once, giving me impassive looks, but the girl glared, first at the gypsy, then at me, before flouncing off into the darkness.

  "You look better in these than in the boyish trews you wore last," he said, when we were alone.

  If I had been Maruman, hackles would have risen on my neck. "I have brought Iriny," I said tartly, climbing down. "She is in the back of the wagon."

  I moved to open the curtain and show him, but he caught my arm to stay me and looked about before letting me go. "Have a care. We do not want anyone seeing her."

  "You could have said so without mauling me." I rubbed my arm, though in fact he had not held me tightly. I merely wanted to make the point that I did not want him grabbing at me.

  He smiled, flashing white teeth, but before I could think of something cutting to say to wipe the leer from his mouth, he had crossed to Maire's wagon and hammered on the carved panel.

  "Maire!"

  The old gypsy emerged in a pale night dress and woolly shawl, her white hair hanging long and loose like skeins of cloud about her neck and shoulders. Her expression sharpened when she caught sight of me. "You have brought her?" she asked eagerly, climbing down with sudden agility.

  I nodded and, to my astonishment, she flung her arms around me and pressed me to her withered bosom. "Lud keep you, girl!"

  After another long look around, she and the man lifted the unconscious woman from the cart carefully, laying her gently on the ground by the fire. Maire knelt by her and opened her eyelids with a gnarled finger.

  Finally she looked up at me. "Is she drugged?"

  "No," I said. "She is sleeping. Our healer said she would wake tomorrow."

  Maire looked impressed. "She is so accurate at diagnosing?"

  I shrugged, and let her make what she would of that as an answer. To my relief, she bent and continued to examine Iriny, paying especial attention to the scarred inner forearms.

  "These are healing well," she said approvingly.

  I was gratified for Kella's sake. "I daresay they'll heal faster with your miraculous potions."

  "Is she all right then?" the man demanded, interrupting our courtesies in an impatient voice.

  "Haven't I just said so, you idiot," Maire snapped, with a sudden return to her old manner. "Are you going to stand there huffing like a fool, or get her into the wagon before she dies of cold?"

  Obediently, he bent to lift Iriny gently into his arms, staring down at her with a tender expression far removed from his earlier supercilious haughtiness. He climbed into Maire's rig and the old healer followed, leaving me alone.

  The dark grass and the flickering flames of the campfire bent beneath a cold wind that plucked hair from my plait and flapped the elaborate gypsy skirts about my knees. Suddenly I felt very alone.

  "Not/never alone," Gahltha sent from the darkness with all the intensity of a vow.

  The gypsy man climbed from the wagon, a glint in his eyes that I did not trust. "I suppose you want your reward now?"

  "Since you will leave tomorrow, yes," I said. "First, I want to know who Swallow is. Maire said I could meet him."

  "And so you have," the gypsy said. "Swallow is one of my names."

  I tried to hide my surprise. "One of your names? What does that mean?"

  "Nothing more than I said. Swallow is one name, just as Elaria is one name. But there might be others a person would wear in different circumstances."

  I scowled. "What does Swallow signify, then?"

  "Swallow is the man you see before you."

  "Then you will not keep your bargain?"

  He crossed his arms over his chest. "You asked to meet Swallow. Here is Swallow."

  I wanted to shout at him for playing words against me, but I was too busy wondering why knowing who he was could save my life. Perhaps he was less important than whatever this name signified. I used the name Elaria to hide my true identity. Maybe Swallow did the same. Well, it was clear enough he had no intention of telling me more about the name and I had surely fulfilled Maryon's quest. I had returned the gypsy woman to her people and I had learned what Swallow meant.

  I put my hands on my hips. "There was another part to this bargain, Swallow. You promised to paint onto my arm one of those pictures you have on yours. Unless you have found reason to renege on that promise now."

  Instead of becoming angry at my implication that he was a cheat, his smile merely broadened. "Gypsies always keep their promises. But perhaps we should discuss it first.... "

  "There's nothing to discuss," I snapped.

  He gave me an amused look and shrugged. "Very well."

  His tone was so meek that I was instantly suspicious.

  "Sit down and I will prepare what is needed," he murmured.

  I sat, watching warily as he went over and reached into a trunk set on the side of Maire's rig. He came back with a woven box somewhat smaller than the healer's box of potions, and sat opposite me. Opening it, he withdrew a series of sharp needles and some little glass bulbs of color.

  "Where are the brushes?" I demanded.

  "Brushes?" The gypsy gave me an innocent look, but the flames reflected in his eyes danced.

  "The ... the brushes you use to paint the design on. And what are those?" I pointed to the sharp little skewers laid out nea
tly alongside the box. They reminded me unpleasantly of the little spikes Roland had used to inoculate us against the plague.

  "They are what I use to apply the design," the gypsy said, attaching a spike deftly to the top of one of the bulbs of color. "The picture is created by a series of tiny stabs, which allows the color to seep beneath the skin and set. First I prick out an outline of the design, and then I fill in the color. Usually the process is carried out over many days, but since you want the whole thing at once, it will take the entire night."

  I felt foolish and angry. "You did not tell me.... "

  His eyebrows tilted up. "No? It must be because you did not want to be told anything. Traditionally the designs are marked onto Twentyfamilies gypsies when we are swaddled babes and too small to be afraid."

  I bridled. "I'm not afraid. What are you doing?"

  "Putting them away," he said calmly.

  I took a deep shaky breath and did not speak until I was certain my voice would be steady. "Not before you keep your promise." I pulled up the sleeve on my shirt and held out my arm.

  He stared at me, for once apparently bereft of witticisms.

  "Well?" I snapped, angry because I was beginning to feel sick with apprehension. "If it is going to take all night, you had better get started."

  "You want me to use these on you?" he held up one of the sharp spikes.

  I nodded, not trusting to the firmness of my voice.

  His eyes glimmered and slowly he took out the bottles and needles that he had put away.

  I swallowed a great lump of terror and looked away from the needles into flames that seemed to shudder with fear.

  "In the Beforetime, it was called a tattoo," Swallow said. There was no mockery in his voice or his eyes now, but I would not have cared if he had sneered openly at me.

  My arm felt as if it were on fire. Some obscure pride had made me endure the pain rather than sealing it away behind a mental net. Each single prick had not been so terrible, but now my arm felt as if it had been savaged by a hive of virulent bees. Only the strange, long story he had told me as he worked had helped me bear it. Garth would be fascinated to hear that, contrary to common gossip, the gypsies had come from the sea, led by one who had vanished when they reached the land. And though it had taken hours to tell, I sensed there was much left unsaid.