“Would he be angry with you?”
“He’d be disappointed in me. It would seem I gossiped.”
“You still haven’t said why you refer to him as ‘the Cyncaidh.’ ”
“It’s simply custom. Whoever is head of the family is referred to as ‘the Cyncaidh.’ ”
Varia examined what he’d told her. In Farside terms, it was equivalent to learning that a reconnaissance patrol, a squad, was being led not by a sergeant or lieutenant, but a general—a general who was also governor of New York! And she was his prisoner. “Then why,” she asked, and waved vaguely southward, “was he leading this patrol?”
“My lady, I don’t know; truly I don’t. And if I did, I couldn’t talk about it. Nothing against you, you understand; I admire you as much as he does. But it wouldn’t be proper.”
Admire you as much as he does. The comment introverted her. After a minute Caerith spoke again. “We should go back to the inn now. This conversation has outgrown us.”
I’m not sure “outgrown” is the word, she thought as they walked, but I certainly don’t know where it might take us from here.
The next day they replaced their packhorses, and each day after that made at least twice the distance they had on any day south of the river. They traveled by daylight, no longer had to make and break camp, and the summer solstice was at hand, so the days were long. And happily cool, with skies that held only small and transient clouds. On the third such day, they arrived for a late supper at Fort Ternass, where an imperial garrison was stationed. They’d resupply there, Caerith said, and get fresh horses, ylvin horses. They had, he commented, a long way to travel yet.
* * *
Before they left the next morning, Cyncaidh brought a young woman to Varia, a girl lightly tanned and rather pretty, with honey-blond hair. “My lady,” he said, “this is Hermiss. Her father is a professor, supervisor of the local commons school. I’ve obtained her services as your traveling companion and lady-in-waiting; it’s time to give Lieutenant Caerith other duties. Hermiss has been employed as the companion of Colonel Faimler’s daughter, who’s at Port Arligh just now, visiting her grandmother. I trust you’ll enjoy each other’s company.”
The move took Varia completely by surprise. She wondered if Caerith had asked his commander to be relieved. Meanwhile Hermiss crossed her hands on her chest and dipped a slight bow. Varia didn’t know whether to reply in kind, then decided not to; she was, after all, “your lady.” The girl’s act was probably the equivalent of the curtsies she’d read about on Farside, and seen in movies. “I’m happy to meet you, Hermiss,” she said instead. And thought: I have absolutely no idea how to relate to you, girl. We may look the same age, but I’ve got perhaps twenty-five years on you, and twenty times the experience. Our lives have been totally different.
It struck her then that she’d never before spoken with a woman in this world except Sisters; this girl had a whole area of experience that she didn’t. Her smile surprised both Hermiss and Cyncaidh. “I’m sure we’ll have some interesting conversations,” she added.
Fort Ternass was on another major crossroads, and instead of continuing north, they turned west. The weather turned too, from dry and pleasantly cool, to sodden and cold. At intervals they met thunderstorms, and between storms it still rained, sometimes hard. The countryside seemed abandoned. Most travelers had holed up in inns, and farmers were staying indoors. In the pastures, cattle and horses grazed humpbacked, rain streaming from them.
Cyncaidh’s party was the exception; they rode despite the rain, as if they had to be somewhere by a certain time. Which might have been true; no one had confided in Varia. She’d thought of asking Cyncaidh, then decided not to; she felt too ill at ease with the attraction he held for her. She also thought of asking Caerith, but told herself no; if she wasn’t willing to ask Cyncaidh, she’d do without knowing.
At least they stayed at inns.
As for the interesting conversations she’d expected with Hermiss—on the road they were too rain-beaten to talk much, and the first two evenings they’d ridden late. The third day started a bit better, with snatches of sunshine in the morning, and they did talk a bit. But after noon, sporadic showers fell, soaking their breeches where their knees peered from their rain capes, the moisture proceeding coldly upward by capillarity to their hips, chilling their spirits as well as their bodies.