He left so swiftly that he could not learn what had become of Haimya, and he regretted missing the wedding mostly for missing the chance to do that. It did not ease his spirits that autumn, when Grimsoar One-Eye found his way to the village where Pirvan was living and said that Haimya had not been at the wedding.
“Or at least if she was, she was so well disguised that even a man who’d seen all of her-”
“My hospitality is not without limits, Brother Grimsoar.”
“Oh, sorry. But you’ve let a good one get away, I say that-”
“I say that you ought to keep your tongue off Haimya, if you cannot talk sense about her.”
After that it was a while before a sullen Grimsoar would talk, but good wine and a better stew at the local inn brought him into a better humor. As he watched the grooms finishing work on the horse that would take him back to Istar and his ship, he clapped Pirvan on the back.
“Brother, Istar may be closed to you for five years, but that’s no cause to spend them all here in this fleabite of a town. Or are you casting eyes on the maid at the tavern? I wouldn’t say that red hair is all real, but-”
Pirvan punched his old comrade lightly in the ribs. “See a healer when you return to town, my friend. Even about other women, your tongue runs away with you.”
“Then you are waiting for Haimya?”
“Yes, curse you! But if you spread that tale all over the land and sea, I will hunt you down and cut out your tongue and other parts, then burn them in front of your eyes.”
“I shall be the soul of discretion.”
“It’s not your soul that I worry about, Grimsoar.” Pirvan hesitated, remembering Haimya’s admonition that she should be able to find him if she wished. He had hoped that “if” meant “when;” that hope was fast diminishing.
But perhaps it should not be lost.
“I still fear treachery from Istar,” he said, “but if the sea barbarians-at least those friendly to Jemar-and the brothers and sisters know where I am-it should do no harm.”
“Maybe even some good,” Grimsoar said softly, then broke off to shout at the groom’s boy for not heating the horse’s drinking water.
Pirvan had bought a yeoman’s cottage just outside the village, not cut off from it except in the worst weather. It had some fields and a large kitchen garden attached, and come spring he would hire labor, plant, and plough. He had not spent so freely thus far that anyone suspected him of hidden wealth; that would change if he did nothing to bring in silver for another year.
Meanwhile, he did well enough for himself, with an elderly manservant who slept in the barn except when he drank so much he could not walk that far. Pirvan had grown used to cleaning up after the old man; when sober, he worked well enough, and he did not deserve to end facedown in a mud puddle. One could not imagine him unleashing evil dragons and twisted Frostreavers on the world, no matter how much he drank.
Autumn had turned into winter, and the roads had turned to icy ooze, when they were not iron-hard ruts. The wind now blew against the shutters without the skitter and crackle of dead leaves driven before it. Pirvan and his servant had patched enough of the cracks so that no cold air trickled in to chill the stew or awake Pirvan even before the neighbors’ cocks crowed.
The servant was gone, carrying his blankets and a kerchief full of bread, hard cheese, and a leg of chicken left over from dinner. Pirvan sat on the bench opposite the fireplace, a cup of wine nestled in his lap.
It was good wine (this village lived by coopering barrels for the winegrowers of the area), but it might have been vinegar for all the pleasure it gave Pirvan. He was tempted to toss it into the fire, but feared that would put out the flames and condemn him to sleeping cold or relighting the damp wood.
Best count the kindling and the firewood tomorrow, he thought.
He rather hoped they would come up short, even if it might be thanks to the neighbors’ boys stealing again. A good day chopping wood was as much exercise as he had these days, always leaving him able to eat well, sleep soundly, and forget how alone he was.
He set the cup on the rough-hewn table that was the only piece of furniture in the cottage when he had moved in. It might be a pleasant change to sleep in the hall tonight, in front of the fire. The bedchamber was smaller and easier for its own fireplace to heat, but he’d grown weary of falling asleep and waking up with the same pattern of cracks in the plaster before his eyes.
He had finished distributing the pallet, blankets, and furs on the hall floor when he heard the knocker clatter. Probably the old man coming back, with an eye to raiding the wine cellar-and every cup he drank was one less that Pirvan could not be tempted to toss down.
The figure in the door was not the old man. It was taller, less stooped, and showed a youthful face and figure almost lost in a hooded gray cloak of fine wool that must have cost more than the old man’s wages for a year-and Pirvan was not holding back on those wages.
“Good evening, traveler,” Pirvan said. “If you are lost, I can show you the way to the village. The inn there is more comfortable than anything I can offer, though on a night like this I would not turn anyone away.”
“Good,” the traveler said, and threw back the hood of the cloak.
“Haimya!”
Pirvan’s arms rose of their own will, but he forced them down. The woman stepped forward.
“Aren’t you glad to see me?” It was a question as artless as a child’s, but Pirvan heard depths that no child could have learned.
At least his arms knew the answer. He embraced her, feeling the chill dampness of her cloak but with her warmth inside it, glowing like a coal in a snowdrift.
He did not trust himself to speak. He did not quite trust his own senses. This could not be happening, or if it was, it would end suddenly and he would be standing there in the wind from the open door, embracing nothing, and looking like an idiot.
Without breaking the embrace, Haimya reached back with a foot and kicked the door shut. When she regained her balance, she tightened the hold, then kissed him.
“Pirvan, you-we have stood apart as long as we need to. Unless you think otherwise.”
Pirvan did not. Both his body and mind were now sending him the message that this moment was real; he should seize it and make it last, even for a whole lifetime.
He hoped it would be that long. Also, he would not have sent Haimya away even if he had doubted what they might have after tonight. A look into her eyes, the same clear blue, told him that it would be better to die himself than to inflict such a wound.
“No, Haimya. Let us stand close.”
She swallowed. “Then help me off with my … cloak.”
The help did not end with her cloak, or his tunic, and before long they were not standing at all.
“Why weren’t you at Eskaia’s wedding?” Pirvan asked. He had to pose the question three times, because his mouth was partly muffled in Haimya’s hair. She had grown it longer than he had ever seen it, and running his hands through it gave all sorts of new and exquisite sensations.
“I was, but not at the public ceremony. Eskaia understood.”
“I hope so. May I ask where you’ve been since then?”
“Several places. Mostly Karthay. Remember, my mother was Karthayan. There were family matters I had put off too long, for all that Eskaia would have been glad to send an Encuintras factor to settle it. I suppose I was too proud to accept her aid. So I ended by doing most of the work myself, and spending a good part of my pay for the quest on the way.”
Pirvan tightened his grip. She laid a hand over his eyes.
“No, Pirvan. I am not poor, not yet. If-If I live here, I can pay my own way.”
The thought of having Haimya in his arms every night made Pirvan’s blood race. She sensed it, and rolled over on top of him, brushing her hair across his face as her hands roamed.