“Think anything you damn please! If you believe that, you’ll believe anything!”
“Mag, I didn’t say I believed-”
“You’re a fool, Peter,” she said in disgust. “Do you really believe no woman could be loyal to another woman out of common humanity and integrity? Jaelle saved my life; and do I have to remind you that if she had not risked hers to cross Scaravel Pass with an unhealed wound, you would still be counting the days to midwinter-night in Rumal’s dungeons? And you want me to leave her, not even knowing if she will live or die, or be scarred for life?”
“Do you need to remain? I thought these people were her closest kinfolk!”
“Yes,” Magda said, “but by oath she has had to renounce all her kinfolk; as her oath-daughter I am the closest kin she has beneath this roof.” She said this with absolute certainty, knowing that, in spite of Rohana’s deep affection for Jaelle, she would have said the same thing. Rohana had taken it for granted that Magda had a duty, and a right, to stay with Jaelle and care for her; more than Rohana’s own right. Camilla had said, jesting, that Rohana was still ignorant about the ways of Free Amazons. But she had her finger on the very pulse of what they meant to one another; more, Magda knew, than she herself did.
Peter’s anger had been short-lived, as always. He said, “Probably you know best, Mag; you usually do. And midwinter-feast is the time for hospitality; probably a couple of extra guests will never be noticed.” He walked to Jaelle’s side, and stood looking down at her.
“How beautiful she is,” he said softly, “or how beautiful she would be, without that terrible scar! How could a woman like that renounce love and marriage?”
Jaelle opened her unbandaged eye; her vision was blurry and unfocused. She said, “It is not love we renounce . . . only marriage . . . bondage . . ..” she stretched out her hand, and Peter knelt beside the bed, taking her hand in his. Her eyes fell shut again, but she kept hold of him.
He was still kneeling there when the door opened again and Lady Rohana came in, with dom Gabriel’s sister, who had been described to Magda as a leronis. The title translated, usually, as “soceress” or “wise-woman”; Magda suspected it meant, in this case, “healer.” Her name was Alida. She was a small, slight woman with flaming red hair, younger by some years than Rohana, and with a kind of indefinable arrogance which made Magda, for some reason, think of Lorill Hastur.
Lady Alida inclined her head in the faintest of courteous greetings to Magda. She ignored Peter. She pulled back Jaelle’s blankets and began to unfasten the cutaway nightgown; then looked, in unmistakable command, at Peter. He had been brought up in the mountains near Caer Donn and understood perfectly well; actually it was even somewhat scandalous that he should have been in the room when Magda was not fully dressed. He let go Jaelle’s hand, but she quickly clasped it again, opening her eyes.
She said, “I want him to stay!” She sounded like a child, and Magda wondered if she were delirious again.
Lady Alida shrugged. “Stay, then, if she wants you. But take her other hand, and keep out of my way.” Peter obeyed, and Alida, with some minor help from Rohana, got the bandages undone to examine the ugly wounds. Even Magda could see that they were not healing properly, but were swollen and festered. The clean slash on the face had spread and reddened, the nick in the eyelid so swollen that Jaelle’s eye was shut.
“This is a poisoned wound! How came she by it?”
Briefly, Magda recounted their fight with the bandits. Lady Alida made a fastidious grimace. “That is no work for women!”
Jaelle flushed with anger. She said pettishly, “I do not need to be told you do not approve of my way of life, kinswoman, but courtesy should prevent you from insulting my sister and guest before me!”
Rohana said in haste, “Alida meant no offense-did you, kinswoman?”
Alida paid no attention to either of them. “What has happened to your wound, mestra?”