“That is why I did not recognize you,” he said with satisfaction. “You pull your hair like that all the time, I’ve seen you do it.”
She tensed, waiting for the laughter. Instead he grunted as he struggled to a sitting position, then wrapped the furs around him again because the morning was damp and foggy. “Are you Ulfadan’s daughter? I’ve seen you at his fire.”
“No. My father and mother are dead. Merrith lets me help her.”
“The marag landed on Ulfadan, knocked him to the ground. We speared it but it was too late. His neck was broken. It was a big one. One swipe with the tail broke my leg. We should have had more death-sticks with us. It was the only thing that stopped the ugly thing.”
He couldn’t blame himself. In fact it was his order that every hunting party have a hunter with a death-stick to prevent something like this happening. But one wasn’t enough among the trees. From now on hunting parties would have at least two hèsotsan with them.
But all thoughts of hunting and murgu were banished in an instant when Armun came close. Her hair brushed his face as she bent to pick up the empty water bowl; he could smell the sweet woman smell of her. He had never been this close to a girl before and the excitement of it stirred him. Unbid, the memory appeared, Vaintè above him, close to him. It was unwanted, disgusting, and he pushed all thoughts of that away.
But the memory lingered, tantalizing, for the feelings he had felt then had been very much like those he was experiencing now; the same excitement. When Armun bent again to pick up the tray he put his hand on her bare arm. It was warm, not cool. Soft.
Armun stopped, trembling, feeling his hand on her flesh, not knowing what to do. Without thinking she turned to look at him, his face close to hers. He did not laugh or turn away. Then the voices outside, coming closer, penetrated the silence.
“How is Kerrick?” It was Herilak who spoke.
“I go there now,” Fraken answered.
The strange moment ended. Kerrick dropped his hand and Armun hurried away with the tray. Fraken pushed his way into the tent, his old eyes blinking in the darkness, Herilak close behind him. Fraken pulled at the leather straps that held Kerrick’s leg tight to the wooden frame and nodded happily.
“All as it should be. The leg will heal straight. If these straps hurt you must pad them with dry grass. I go now to sing about Ulfadan.”
Kerrick would have liked to have been there when the old man sang. The more hunters who chanted the happier Ulfadan’s tharm would be. When the singing was finished Ulfadan’s empty body would be wrapped in soft leather and tied high in a tree to dry in the wind. The body did not matter any more, once the tharm of the hunter had gone. Still, it would not have been proper to leave it where the carrion eaters could find it.
“I would be with you,” Kerrick said.
“It is understood,” Herilak said. “But it would not do to hurt the leg any more.”
When they had gone Armun came from the rear of the tent, but still stood hesitatingly to one side. When he turned towards her she reached quickly for her hair—then let her hand drop because there was still no laughter in his face when he looked at her. It had happened and she did not question it. But she was still unaccustomed to being stared at.
“I heard you when you talked about being captured by the murgu.” She spoke quickly, trying to hide her confusion. “Weren’t you frightened, alone like that?”
“Frightened? In the beginning, I suppose I was. But I wasn’t alone, they had also captured this girl, I forget her name. But they killed her.” The memory was still just as clear, the emotion just as strong. The murgu with the girl’s blood on it turning towards him. Vaintè. “Yes, I was afraid, very afraid. I should have kept quiet, but I talked to the murgu. I would have been killed as well if I hadn’t talked to the one who held me. I did, I was that afraid. But I should not have talked.”