beautiful when you smile. You’re beautiful all the time, but especially when you smile.”
Suddenly he was consciously aware of her, aware of every feature and detail. Her long, thick, dark blond hair, gleaming with highlights where the sun had lightened it, was held back out of her way with a thong. But it had a natural wave and loose strands that had escaped the leather binding curled around her tanned face; one fell down her forehead in front of her eyes. He restrained an urge to reach out and move it aside.
She was tall, a good match for his own six-foot, six-inch frame, and the lithe, flat, wiry muscles of real physical strength were sharply defined in her long arms and legs. She was one of the strongest women he’d ever met; as physically powerful as many men he knew. Thepeople who had raised her were endowed with an appreciably greater bodily strength than the taller but lighter-weight people she was born to, and though Ayla was not considered particularly strong when she lived with the Clan, she had developed a far greater strength than she normally might have, just to keep up. Coupled with years of observing, tracking, and stalking as a hunter, she used her body with ease and moved with uncommon grace.
The sleeveless leather tunic she wore, belted, over leather leggings fit comfortably, but did not hide her firm, full breasts, which could have seemed heavy but didn’t, or her womanly hips that curved back to her well-rounded and firm rear. The laces at the bottom of her leggings were open and she was barefoot. Around her neck was a small, beautifully embroidered and decorated leather pouch, with crane feathers along the bottom, which showed the bumps of the mysterious objects it held.
Hanging from the belt was a knife sheath made of stiff rawhide, the hide of an animal that had been cleaned and scraped but not processed in any way, so that it dried hard in whatever shape it was formed, though a good, thorough wetting could soften it again. She had tucked her sling into the right side of her belt, next to a pouch that held several stones. On the left side was a rather strange, pouchlike object. Though old and worn, it was obvious that it had been made from a whole otter skin, cured with the feet, tail, and head left on. The throat had been cut and the insides removed through the neck, then a cord was strung through slits and pulled tight to close. The flattened head became the flap. It was her medicine bag, the one she had brought with her from the Clan, the one Iza had given her.
She does not have the face of a Zelandonii woman, Jondalar was thinking; they would notice a foreign look, but her beauty was unmistakable. Her large eyes were gray-blue—the color of fine flint, he thought—and wide-spaced, outlined with lashes a shade or two darker than her hair; her eyebrows were somewhat lighter, between the two in color. Her face was heart-shaped, rather wide with high cheekbones, a well-defined jaw, and a narrow chin. Her nose was straight and finely made, and her full lips, curving up at the corners, were opened and pulled back, showing her teeth in a smile that lit up her eyes and announced her sheer pleasure in the very act of smiling.
Though her smiles and laughter had once singled her out as different, and caused her to restrain them, Jondalar loved it when she smiled, and her delight in his laughter, joking, and playfulness magically transformed the already pleasing arrangement of her features; she
was
even more beautiful when she smiled. He suddenly felt overwhelmed by thesight of her and his love for her, and silently thanked the Mother again for giving her back to him.
“What do you want me to give you for the raspberries?” Ayla said. “Tell me, and it’s yours.”
“I want you, Ayla,” he said, his voice suddenly ragged with feeling. He put the basket down, and in an instant he had her in his arms, kissing her with fierce emotion. “I love you. I don’t ever want to lose you,” he said
Suddenly he was consciously aware of her, aware of every feature and detail. Her long, thick, dark blond hair, gleaming with highlights where the sun had lightened it, was held back out of her way with a thong. But it had a natural wave and loose strands that had escaped the leather binding curled around her tanned face; one fell down her forehead in front of her eyes. He restrained an urge to reach out and move it aside.
She was tall, a good match for his own six-foot, six-inch frame, and the lithe, flat, wiry muscles of real physical strength were sharply defined in her long arms and legs. She was one of the strongest women he’d ever met; as physically powerful as many men he knew. Thepeople who had raised her were endowed with an appreciably greater bodily strength than the taller but lighter-weight people she was born to, and though Ayla was not considered particularly strong when she lived with the Clan, she had developed a far greater strength than she normally might have, just to keep up. Coupled with years of observing, tracking, and stalking as a hunter, she used her body with ease and moved with uncommon grace.
The sleeveless leather tunic she wore, belted, over leather leggings fit comfortably, but did not hide her firm, full breasts, which could have seemed heavy but didn’t, or her womanly hips that curved back to her well-rounded and firm rear. The laces at the bottom of her leggings were open and she was barefoot. Around her neck was a small, beautifully embroidered and decorated leather pouch, with crane feathers along the bottom, which showed the bumps of the mysterious objects it held.
Hanging from the belt was a knife sheath made of stiff rawhide, the hide of an animal that had been cleaned and scraped but not processed in any way, so that it dried hard in whatever shape it was formed, though a good, thorough wetting could soften it again. She had tucked her sling into the right side of her belt, next to a pouch that held several stones. On the left side was a rather strange, pouchlike object. Though old and worn, it was obvious that it had been made from a whole otter skin, cured with the feet, tail, and head left on. The throat had been cut and the insides removed through the neck, then a cord was strung through slits and pulled tight to close. The flattened head became the flap. It was her medicine bag, the one she had brought with her from the Clan, the one Iza had given her.
She does not have the face of a Zelandonii woman, Jondalar was thinking; they would notice a foreign look, but her beauty was unmistakable. Her large eyes were gray-blue—the color of fine flint, he thought—and wide-spaced, outlined with lashes a shade or two darker than her hair; her eyebrows were somewhat lighter, between the two in color. Her face was heart-shaped, rather wide with high cheekbones, a well-defined jaw, and a narrow chin. Her nose was straight and finely made, and her full lips, curving up at the corners, were opened and pulled back, showing her teeth in a smile that lit up her eyes and announced her sheer pleasure in the very act of smiling.
Though her smiles and laughter had once singled her out as different, and caused her to restrain them, Jondalar loved it when she smiled, and her delight in his laughter, joking, and playfulness magically transformed the already pleasing arrangement of her features; she
was
even more beautiful when she smiled. He suddenly felt overwhelmed by thesight of her and his love for her, and silently thanked the Mother again for giving her back to him.
“What do you want me to give you for the raspberries?” Ayla said. “Tell me, and it’s yours.”
“I want you, Ayla,” he said, his voice suddenly ragged with feeling. He put the basket down, and in an instant he had her in his arms, kissing her with fierce emotion. “I love you. I don’t ever want to lose you,” he said
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