Lady Kzuva was listening to Saranja talking about her time among the warlords, and at the same time, as she often did, casually fingering the brooch on her head-scarf. She must have noticed Maja watching her, because she smiled and said, “I think I shall wear it for the rest of my days.”
“I’m afraid it was much prettier with the horses,” said Maja.
“Yes, but that makes very little difference to me. It is not why I wear it. I can always put them there in my mind.”
“Do you want me to do something about that?” said Benayu.
They stared at him. Not once on the journey north from Larg had he shown the slightest interest in practicing his art, either for pleasure or purpose. He grinned.
“Got to start somewhere,” he said. “Touch it again, my lady. Now do what you said—put them there in your mind. Ready, Maja?”
One brief, easily endurable pulse, a twitch of Lady Kzuva’s arm, and the silver horses were back in their place beside the tree.
Benayu looked thoughtful for a moment, nodded as if confirming a decision, then yawned and stretched, as if waking from a long, soul-restoring sleep.
“Next stop, the mountains,” he said.
It was their last evening in the House of Kzuva. They had decided so after breakfast that morning. As far as Maja was concerned, she didn’t mind how long she stayed. She was already fond of Lady Kzuva. She felt a bond with her, like the family bonds she should have had, but never did. But Ribek had to get back to Northbeck. Though it would be a month or more before the time came to sing to the snows and close the passes, what harvest there was after the ravages of the horse people would be in by now and it was high time that the mill became busy again.
So far, Maja had assumed that she would go back with him, but after that the next few years, until she could marry him, were something of a blank for her. All her imaginings and longings had been focused on what came beyond that, and even the thought of that long wait, so close to him all the time, was beginning to make her vaguely uncomfortable. She would have put it off if she could.
But Saranja too wanted to get back to the Valley. She wanted to get the whole business of Woodbourne over and done with, so that she and Striclan could settle into their life together. And Benayu needed to get home in time for the great autumn sheep markets. So the time had come to move on.
Lady Kzuva had given them no hint of her own feelings, no sign either that she was wearying of their presence or that she wanted them to stay longer. Only, when they told her about their decision later that morning she sighed and said, “Well, I suppose you are right. And I too have business to catch up with. We will talk about it at supper this evening.”
The Orchard Room was Maja’s favorite among all the wonderful rooms in the house. It was medium-sized, pretty rather than grand, with carved panels on three walls. The fourth consisted entirely of windows that could be folded all the way back, opening onto a pillared verandah and beyond that the so-called orchard, which was really a flower garden with lawns running along the river. There were just enough fruit trees to justify the name. That evening the servants had hung hundreds of little lanterns among their branches.
“I cannot give you oyster-and-bacon pie so far from the sea,” said Lady Kzuva. “But my cooks have done the best they can. Nothing too rich, I told them, just before a journey. This wine, on the other hand, is the oldest I have. The grapes were harvested in the year I was born. I must warn you that it is very strong, which is why it has kept so well, so drink it sparingly, and take plenty of water.”
Maja had never tasted wine before the journey began, and then hadn’t cared for it much apart from the wine that Chanad had given them that evening on Angel Isle. They drank this one out of little silver goblets, only half filled. It was a deep greenish yellow. Intense odors fumed off it. She had no need to taste it before its inward magic exploded in her mind, so vividly that she seemed to be somewhere else, a landscape that she could feel almost as if she could see it, a steep, scree-strewn slope so barren-seeming that she would not have thought that anything could grow there. But there were the rows of vines, only shoulder-high to her, but heavy with fruit. The harvesters were working among them, singing. The river glistened below, with a little town on its further bank…
“Maja, come back,” said Ribek’s voice. “You haven’t even tasted it yet. It’s astonishing.”
Maja blinked and returned to the Orchard Room.
“I was there. Where the grapes were grown,” she said, and described the scene.
“Yes, you were there,” said Lady Kzuva. “What is more, you were there then, in the year of my birth. Next year those vines were stricken with a disease and had to be grubbed up and burnt before they infected the rest of the vineyards. They were very old, and all attempts to grow them elsewhere had failed. This wine will never be made again.”
Their chairs (which Lady Kzuva preferred because the piles of cushions that were the custom in most of the Empire were too low for her comfort) were arranged along one side of the table so that they could all see out. They ate and drank for the most part in silence, watching the stars come out and the lamps mimicking them more and more strongly below as dusk deepened into night. It isn’t only the wine, thought Maja. There will never be another evening like this. She sighed.
“You echo my thought,” said Lady Kzuva. “I rue your going, but I understand you must go. Before that, as I said, I have a proposal to put to you. Tell me, each of you, how you see your own immediate futures. Let us start with Saranja and Striclan—forgive me for assuming from what I have seen of you that you propose to share whatever future that is.”
Maja couldn’t see them from where she sat, but there was a pause—while they looked at each other, she guessed. Striclan must have nodded or something, because it was Saranja who answered.
“I don’t know. It depends what’s happened at Woodbourne. Presumably everybody thinks I’m dead. My brothers can’t inherit it, if either of them’s still alive, because it descends in the female line, so it would go to the nearest female cousin who can hear the cedars. I suppose one of my brothers might marry her. I just don’t feel I can leave it all up in the air. Anyway, I know I don’t want to live there, or like that. Striclan can do anything, so I suppose he could be a farmer, but I couldn’t. I don’t have the patience. That’s one of the reasons why my father was always so angry, besides the farm not actually belonging to him. He made himself a good farmer because he hated to see anything done badly, but it wasn’t what he wanted to be. I’m his daughter. I could easily go the same way. We’ve talked about it a lot, Striclan and I, but we haven’t got anywhere, except that if we can find someone to take over Woodbourne we’ll probably come back to the Empire. I don’t know what we’ll do.”
“A good spy can always find employment,” said Lady Kzuva. “Now Bennay—Benayu.”
“There’s one more thing I’ve got to do,” said Benayu. “I’ve been saving up for it. Resting. Getting ready. After that I’m going back to shepherding—a bit of hedge magic, perhaps, charms for sheep scab, that sort of thing. One day, perhaps, but nothing much bigger, not for a long while.”
“I think that is very wise,” said Lady Kzuva. “This is not good sheep country, and I know you would prefer to be among the mountains, but you will always be welcome under my roof. Perhaps you can use your lesser powers from time to time to bring yourself here for a short visit, and read in the library and talk to Stindul.
“Now, I have kept Ribek and Maja for the last. I am not going to pretend that I do not know—that all of us do not know—that Maja has strong feelings for Ribek, which perhaps when she is older Ribek will be able to return. And you in your turn may have detected that there is a special bond between Maja and myself. When you came to my door I used the word ‘intimate’ to describe it. I chose the word casually, but I was right. For a little over two days we were one person, distinct still in our oneness, but one despite that. The experience has left us with a tie that is stronger than that between twin sisters, closer than that between passionate lovers. It will last until I die….”