“Where are you from?”
“Oh, I came through Novgorod, as traders from my parts do, by river, lake, portage, to here. Ahead He the great Dniepr and its falls—hardest of the portages, that, and our military escort much needed in case of raiders off the steppe—then the sea, and at last Constantinople. Not that I make the journey every year. It’s long both ways, after all. Most cargoes are transshipped here at Kiyiv. I return to Swedish and Danish ports, or ofttimes to England. However, as I said, I want to travel as much as I’m able. Have I answered you windily enough?”
She shook her head. “No. I meant, what is your nation?”
He spoke with more care. “Rufus and I—Cymriu, the dwellers call that country. It is part of the same island as England, is the last of the ancient Britain, best for me because nobody there would mistake me for English. Rufus doesn’t matter, he’s my old retainer, he’s gone by the nickname so long that he’s well-nigh forgotten any else. I, though—Cadoc ap Rhys.”
“I’ve never heard of those lands.”
“No,” he sighed, “I didn’t expect you had.”
“I’ve a feeling you’ve traveled more than you just said.”
“I have wandered quite widely, true.”
“I envy you,” burst from her. “Oh, I envy you!”
He raised his brows. “What? It’s a hard life, often dangerous, always lonely.”
“But free. Your own master. If I could fare like you—“ Her eyes stung. She swallowed hard and tried to lay hold on the tears before they broke loose.
Turned grave, he shook his head in his turn. “You do not know what becomes of camp followers, Svoboda Volodarovna. I do.”
Understanding washed over her. “Y-you are a lonely man, Cadoc,” she said around a thickness. “Why?”
“Make the best of that life you have,” he counselled. “Each in our own way, we are all of us trapped in ours.”
“You too.” Your strength must fade, your pride shall crumble, in one more blink of time you will go down into the earth and soon after that your very name will be forgotten, dust on the wind.
He winced. “Yes. Thus it seems.”
“I’ll remember you!” she cried.
“What?”
“I— Nothing, nothing. I am shaken and weary and, and I think a little drunk.”
“Do you wish to sleep till your clothes are ready? I’ll stay quiet— Svoboda, you weep.” Cadoc came around the table, stooped over her, laid an arm across her shoulders.
“Forgive me, I’m being weak and, and foolish. Not myself, please believe me, not myself.”
“No, certainly not, dear venturer. I know how you feel.”
His lips brushed her hair. Blindly she turned her head toward him, and knew he would kiss her. It was gentle. Her tears made it taste like the sea.
“I am an honorable man, of sorts,” he said against her cheek. How warm were his breath, his body. “I’d not force you to anything.”
“You need not,” she heard through the great soft thunders.
“I depart shortly after dawn, Svoboda, and your marriage awaits you.”
She gripped him hard, nails into his coat. “Three husbands I have had already,” she told him, “and sometimes, at the lakeside, the spring feast of Kupala— Oh, yes, Cadoc.”
For an instant she saw that she had let out too much. Now she must somehow answer his questions, with her head awhirl… But he gave her his hand, it was as if he lifted her to her feet, and went by her side to a bed.
Thereafter she was again in a dream. Her wanting him had come over her as a torrent. If she foresaw anything whatsoever, it was a slaking. He was not a big man, but he might be strong, he might take a while to finish, long enough, and then she could topple into sleep. Instead, he took the robe from her through a time that swayed on and on, and guided her to help him off with his garb, always his fingers and his mouth knowing what to do, what to evoke; and though the bed was narrow, when he brought her down upon it he still stroked and touched and kissed until she wailed for him to open the heavens and unloose the suns.