girl, with a ribbon or two for her hair, now quite long and shining black after the auburn of her childhood. She packed what she thought she would need, and sat by one of the pools of Rein one day, looking into it, straining to tell if people would think she was worth looking at.
That night, the night before they were due to leave, Mariarta found herself, in dream, sitting by that pool, gazing into the water. Not a breath of breeze troubled it. The pale glacier-tumble of stone at its bottom seemed darker for a change, so that she could see her face more clearly. Another face she saw as well, as if someone leaned over her shoulder, gazing into her reflection’s eyes. Mariarta shuddered deliciously at the feel of the breath on the back of her neck: warm, soft, the touch of the föhn at its gentlest, when it comes down the mountain in the late summer to stroke its fingers through the ripening corn and stir the leaves on the vines. She could not see clearly the face which gazed at her. Mariarta got an impression of grey eyes, and a cool expression in them: though the breath stirring her hair, and what seemed in the dream like the soft touch of fingers brushing the back of her neck, conveyed another message entirely. She stretched in slow pleasure in the dream, but did not dare to turn around to look her visitor—her wooer?—in the face.
Have you forgotten me, then?
Not in words, but through the touch, through the warm breath, came the sense of what was said. It was like when the wind whispered in her ear, but more intimate.
Mariarta shook her head. Never, she said.
But you do not come to be with me as you did. The touch wandered lower, stroking, gentle. It was warm here in the sunshine, and the stream murmured drowsily, murmured her name as she had heard the wind do: not in demand or promise, but soft-voiced, like a wooer indeed. Mariarta leaned back against the boulder, closed her eyes better to hear the voice, feel its sweet warm breath. Odd to lie here bare-skinned under the sun, but no one would disturb them. She had a protectress, someone hers alone.
Yours alone, said the other. Warmth breathed about her, the wind stroked her, and Mariarta moaned softly with the pleasure of it, the other’s closeness, the sweetness of being touched. It has been hard, I know. But you are almost ready for me. Soon there will be nothing you cannot have, nothing I will not do for you. Only wait, and be strong. I will be yours as you will be mine, wholly. Nothing will be denied you. Not this, or anything else. You will see.
Mariarta gasped at the feeling which began to fill her, like the wind, rising. The breath stirred warm about her face. Do not forget the best way to be with me, the other said. Remember the shooting. That was how we came to meet. That is how we will meet again, fully, this time. No more hints and promises. Power, and life. Remember it.
Mariarta lay helpless in the pleasure. One last long stroking: then silence, and the rush of the water turned suddenly into wind in the trees outside her window, in the light of the long twilight before dawn. She blinked, and pulled the covers close about her, cast forlorn on the shores of a dream of eternal summer, and suddenly cold.
•
There was nothing left to do in the morning but go. Nevertheless, her mother was in the kitchen wrapping food for them, more than they would need even if every inn between here and Aultvitg had been eaten bare. Mariarta wandered in, dressed and ready.
“What’s in the bag, dear?” her mother said.
“Nothing, just room for more food.” Mariarta picked up the smaller bags that already lay on the table, loading her own bag with them.
“Good, that’s the old cheese there, you can put that at the bottom. Ah, zaffermess , is that the biggest skin we have, Baia?”
“The other one’s wormholed.”
“Nuisance,” Mariarta’s mother said, handing Mariarta the smaller wineskin. “You two won’t have a drop to drink after
That night, the night before they were due to leave, Mariarta found herself, in dream, sitting by that pool, gazing into the water. Not a breath of breeze troubled it. The pale glacier-tumble of stone at its bottom seemed darker for a change, so that she could see her face more clearly. Another face she saw as well, as if someone leaned over her shoulder, gazing into her reflection’s eyes. Mariarta shuddered deliciously at the feel of the breath on the back of her neck: warm, soft, the touch of the föhn at its gentlest, when it comes down the mountain in the late summer to stroke its fingers through the ripening corn and stir the leaves on the vines. She could not see clearly the face which gazed at her. Mariarta got an impression of grey eyes, and a cool expression in them: though the breath stirring her hair, and what seemed in the dream like the soft touch of fingers brushing the back of her neck, conveyed another message entirely. She stretched in slow pleasure in the dream, but did not dare to turn around to look her visitor—her wooer?—in the face.
Have you forgotten me, then?
Not in words, but through the touch, through the warm breath, came the sense of what was said. It was like when the wind whispered in her ear, but more intimate.
Mariarta shook her head. Never, she said.
But you do not come to be with me as you did. The touch wandered lower, stroking, gentle. It was warm here in the sunshine, and the stream murmured drowsily, murmured her name as she had heard the wind do: not in demand or promise, but soft-voiced, like a wooer indeed. Mariarta leaned back against the boulder, closed her eyes better to hear the voice, feel its sweet warm breath. Odd to lie here bare-skinned under the sun, but no one would disturb them. She had a protectress, someone hers alone.
Yours alone, said the other. Warmth breathed about her, the wind stroked her, and Mariarta moaned softly with the pleasure of it, the other’s closeness, the sweetness of being touched. It has been hard, I know. But you are almost ready for me. Soon there will be nothing you cannot have, nothing I will not do for you. Only wait, and be strong. I will be yours as you will be mine, wholly. Nothing will be denied you. Not this, or anything else. You will see.
Mariarta gasped at the feeling which began to fill her, like the wind, rising. The breath stirred warm about her face. Do not forget the best way to be with me, the other said. Remember the shooting. That was how we came to meet. That is how we will meet again, fully, this time. No more hints and promises. Power, and life. Remember it.
Mariarta lay helpless in the pleasure. One last long stroking: then silence, and the rush of the water turned suddenly into wind in the trees outside her window, in the light of the long twilight before dawn. She blinked, and pulled the covers close about her, cast forlorn on the shores of a dream of eternal summer, and suddenly cold.
•
There was nothing left to do in the morning but go. Nevertheless, her mother was in the kitchen wrapping food for them, more than they would need even if every inn between here and Aultvitg had been eaten bare. Mariarta wandered in, dressed and ready.
“What’s in the bag, dear?” her mother said.
“Nothing, just room for more food.” Mariarta picked up the smaller bags that already lay on the table, loading her own bag with them.
“Good, that’s the old cheese there, you can put that at the bottom. Ah, zaffermess , is that the biggest skin we have, Baia?”
“The other one’s wormholed.”
“Nuisance,” Mariarta’s mother said, handing Mariarta the smaller wineskin. “You two won’t have a drop to drink after
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