Two to Conquer by Marion Zimmer Bradley Page B

the youngster was terrified. It was easy to think of Beltran as younger than himself, although in solid fact there was less than half a year between them; Bard had always been so much the larger of the foster brothers, the strongest, always best at swordplay and wrestling and hunting, their unquestioned leader.
    So he made occasion to speak to Beltran about his fears that the men would mutiny, and asked Beltran to go among them and try to sound out their mood as they rode.
    “You are their prince, and you represent the will of their king. A time might come when they would not obey me, but they would not be willing, I think, to defy their king’s own son,” he suggested guilefully, and Beltran, looking at Bard with a sullen scowl—after all, should he take orders from Bard?—finally nodded and drew back to ride alongside first one, then another of the men, asking questions, talking to one after the other. Bard watched, thinking that perhaps in this task Beltran had put aside his fears—
    and perhaps that touch of personal concern from their prince had quieted the men’s rebelliousness.
    And still the snow continued to fall. It was up, now, to the fetlocks of the horses, and Bard began seriously to worry about whether the horses could get through. He asked Master Gareth to send out the sentry birds, but received the halfway expected answer that they would not fly in such weather.
    “Sensible birds,” Bard grumbled. “I wish I needn’t! Well, is there any way to find out how far from us the caravan is traveling, and whether we will come up with them today?”
    Master Gareth said, “I will ask Mirella; this is why she is with us, so that she can use the Sight.”
    Bard watched as Mirella, seated on her horse amid the falling snow, her hair showing bright copper through the thickly salted flakes on her braids, sat staring into her crystal. The light reflected, faintly blue, on her face; the only light, it seemed, anywhere in that dismal day, was the blue light and the flame of her coppery hair. She was muffled in cloak and shawls, but they could not hide the slender grace of her body, and Bard found himself, once again, letting his mind linger on her beauty. She was, doubtless, the most beautiful young girl he had ever seen; next to her Carlina was a pale stick. Yet Mirella was completely beyond his reach, sacrosanct, a leronis , vowed virgin for the Sight, and there were uncanny warning tales about what could befall the manhood of any man who would assail the
    virginity of a leronis against her will. He told himself that he could, with his gift, assure himself that it would not be against her will, that he could force her to come to his bed willingly…
    But that would make an enemy of Master Gareth. Damn, there were enough willing women in this
    world, and he was handfasted to a princess, and anyway this was no time to be thinking of women at all!
    Mirella sighed and opened her eyes, the blue light dimming from her face, and her glance rested on him, shy, serious, so direct that Bard wondered, a little abashed, if she could read what he had been thinking.
    Instead she only said, in her still neutral voice, “They are not far from us, vai dom . Three hours’ ride over that ridge yonder—” She pointed, but the ridge she spoke of was invisible in the falling snow.
    “They have encamped because the snow has fallen deeper there, and thicker, and their carts cannot move. They are up to the hubs of the wheels, and the draft animals cannot move. One broke a leg in the harness and the others tried to stampede and nearly kicked themselves to death. If we ride on as we are going now, we will come upon them soon after midday.”
    Bard rode to relay this news to his men, and found them grim, not at all pleased by the news.
    “That means we have to fight in deep snow, and what do we do with the caravan when we have
    captured it, if their pack beasts are not working?” one old veteran inquired sourly. “I suggest we make