Raimurri daVicenna." Publican Vicenna gestured to the girl, whose rigid bob of a curtsy strained the bounds of politeness. "You will kindly forgive her," he continued smoothly. "She is apprehensive about the journey."
Raimurri looked away from her father in silent negation. Her lips tightened further, and her hands on the tray she carried.
Apprehensive? I didn't think so. She looked angry. They'd argued, I guessed, with Raimurri the loser. My hopes for an easy ride filled with pleasant conversation faded into disappointment.
At a signal from her father, Raimurri served dessert while Marrec and Vicenna reviewed security precautions for the caravan. The bowl in front of me held a green fruit with the skin peeled back into four pointed petals. The pink sections had been teased apart like a hot-house flower, then drizzled with cream and honey.
Vicenna excused himself, and Raimurri followed, the firelight glinting off the beads in her hair. When I picked up my spoon, I found that Marrec had stolen the fruit-blossom away.
"You," he said, placing a hard, green apple on the table in front me, "are partial to apples, remember?"
* * * *
We left Remidia two days later. Coastal fog hung light and low in the valleys, and the sunny morning promised excellent weather for travelling. The passing wagons brushed the vegetation at the side of the road, filling the air with the scent of rosemary.
I kept my eyes on the blue-green hillsides. This helped me ignore Raimurri, who rode at my side, and whose vigorous brushing of her long, dark hair helped her ignore me.
I'd greeted her with a polite word when the caravan assembled, holding up my hand with the fingers splayed in the gesture we Minders use to greet the ones we Mind. The barest touch of her fingertips would have strengthened my senses, tuning them to her above all others. Instead, I could see in the curl of her upper lip and the narrowing of her eyes that I might as well have offered her a handful of dung from the gutter.
"Let us understand each other, Mr. Oxley." She leaned close and kept her voice low. "Duty commands me to Djefre, but I am not a child. I don't need a nursemaid, and I don't need you."
I thought I was past being stung by the words of a girl, but the heat in my cheeks disagreed. "Duty, is it? Then you understand that I'll be guarding you whether you need it or not."
We'd mounted after that, me studying the scenery while Raimurri applied the brush to her hair.
* * * *
There was a jovial air in camp that night. The stars were bright, and the first hint of winter's chill made the fire seem cheerier by comparison. The drovers started a song about a recalcitrant mule that had everyone joining in for the chorus.
Vicenna's generosity included fresh beef sizzling over the fire—my mouth watered at the smell—and several small casks of ale and cider. We'd be down to trail food by the end of journey, but tonight we were warm, well-supplied and enjoying the fellowship of the road. Even Raimurri seemed happy. That is, until she caught me watching her, which made her glare and look away.
The second day was much the same —pleasant weather, easy riding, and proud-necked silence from Vicenna's dark-haired daughter. The hair brushing had become a daily ritual. Each morning when we mounted, she fetched out her rosewood brush, twisted her thin braids into a knot, then brushed out the loose tresses with long, languid strokes.
The process seemed meditative for her, as if her thoughts soared free while the brush was in motion. When she finished, she plucked the bristles clean and released the tangled strands into the air where they floated on the wind like fluff from a cottonwood tree.
That night, Marrec seated himself on one of the casks, refusing to let it be tapped until he'd rehearsed us all for next day's crossing of the Tirn River.
Raimurri ignored me. Unused to sleeping rough, she'd looked rumpled and wan this morning.
Taking care to stay in Raimurri's earshot, I
Raimurri looked away from her father in silent negation. Her lips tightened further, and her hands on the tray she carried.
Apprehensive? I didn't think so. She looked angry. They'd argued, I guessed, with Raimurri the loser. My hopes for an easy ride filled with pleasant conversation faded into disappointment.
At a signal from her father, Raimurri served dessert while Marrec and Vicenna reviewed security precautions for the caravan. The bowl in front of me held a green fruit with the skin peeled back into four pointed petals. The pink sections had been teased apart like a hot-house flower, then drizzled with cream and honey.
Vicenna excused himself, and Raimurri followed, the firelight glinting off the beads in her hair. When I picked up my spoon, I found that Marrec had stolen the fruit-blossom away.
"You," he said, placing a hard, green apple on the table in front me, "are partial to apples, remember?"
* * * *
We left Remidia two days later. Coastal fog hung light and low in the valleys, and the sunny morning promised excellent weather for travelling. The passing wagons brushed the vegetation at the side of the road, filling the air with the scent of rosemary.
I kept my eyes on the blue-green hillsides. This helped me ignore Raimurri, who rode at my side, and whose vigorous brushing of her long, dark hair helped her ignore me.
I'd greeted her with a polite word when the caravan assembled, holding up my hand with the fingers splayed in the gesture we Minders use to greet the ones we Mind. The barest touch of her fingertips would have strengthened my senses, tuning them to her above all others. Instead, I could see in the curl of her upper lip and the narrowing of her eyes that I might as well have offered her a handful of dung from the gutter.
"Let us understand each other, Mr. Oxley." She leaned close and kept her voice low. "Duty commands me to Djefre, but I am not a child. I don't need a nursemaid, and I don't need you."
I thought I was past being stung by the words of a girl, but the heat in my cheeks disagreed. "Duty, is it? Then you understand that I'll be guarding you whether you need it or not."
We'd mounted after that, me studying the scenery while Raimurri applied the brush to her hair.
* * * *
There was a jovial air in camp that night. The stars were bright, and the first hint of winter's chill made the fire seem cheerier by comparison. The drovers started a song about a recalcitrant mule that had everyone joining in for the chorus.
Vicenna's generosity included fresh beef sizzling over the fire—my mouth watered at the smell—and several small casks of ale and cider. We'd be down to trail food by the end of journey, but tonight we were warm, well-supplied and enjoying the fellowship of the road. Even Raimurri seemed happy. That is, until she caught me watching her, which made her glare and look away.
The second day was much the same —pleasant weather, easy riding, and proud-necked silence from Vicenna's dark-haired daughter. The hair brushing had become a daily ritual. Each morning when we mounted, she fetched out her rosewood brush, twisted her thin braids into a knot, then brushed out the loose tresses with long, languid strokes.
The process seemed meditative for her, as if her thoughts soared free while the brush was in motion. When she finished, she plucked the bristles clean and released the tangled strands into the air where they floated on the wind like fluff from a cottonwood tree.
That night, Marrec seated himself on one of the casks, refusing to let it be tapped until he'd rehearsed us all for next day's crossing of the Tirn River.
Raimurri ignored me. Unused to sleeping rough, she'd looked rumpled and wan this morning.
Taking care to stay in Raimurri's earshot, I
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