She said that to herself several times, too. (Off with this group, off with that, Juni had not spoken to her for forty minutes.) Pryn felt lonely and thought, really, she ought to go now. She wondered why she stayed.
Sitting on a rock beside some bushes out of sight of the road where the wagons pulled up, she listened to the neighing horses and pictured them nosing one another. She could hear them beyond the ridge. She also thought about her father, whom she had never seen — who, indeed, had been absent from her speculations almost as long as her aunt.
What would he have her do?
Then she thought: Really, her aunt, her mother, Old Rorkar, Yrnik, even Cyka in the eating hall, any real father she might have had, Madame Keyne, the Liberator — even the earl, however vindictive, however despicable. (Was it only power that allowed him to reinterpret reality like that? Pryn suddenly knew: if she’d known what Juni had later told her in the wagon, lost in an attempt to find the nature of the slave’s true guilt or the lord’s true reason, she would never have cut the old woman free!) Yes, all of them were authorities for her. She did what they seemed to ask when they confronted her. When they were not there, she found herself still doing what they might want, as though all of them only stood for that obsessive, absent father who was with her always. Oh, he listened to them and modified his concerns in the light of their demands, to be sure. But he was the real enforcer of any submission, overt or intuited. For what, she wondered, did he stand —
Among the youngsters playing in the shallows, in retaliation to a splashing, one skimmed her forearm over the water, sending up white gold into the sun. On her rock, Pryn started with a momentary image of a gold wing rising from the waters — till it shattered about the girl’s shrieking pursuers; and perspective, with the fixing of attention, returned.
It still set Pryn’s heart pounding.
She had a momentary intuition of all the conflicts between the north and south of all Nevèrÿon contoured by such jeweled eagles, such gilded dragons. But then, what could such fanciful beasts actually do, save finance a bit of the real power wielded by a Rorkar, a Madame Keyne, even a Gorgik, or a provincial earl more powerful than them all. Such power seemed rather paltry before her father not there…
A kind of madness…?
Pryn stood up from her rock, determined to leave that moment — and saw several real and solid reasons to stay.
Over a rock-walled furnace out on the sand, a man turned a triple spit, each tine set with several trussed fowl. In dull dresses too long for the heat, which had already grown notable, women carried shovels full of smoking coals to a shallow pit a few feet off, over which, on a crusted, blackened grill, two split kids barbecued. At the trees, people rolled out dripping barrels, from where they’d been stored the night in some stream, and set them on rough tables in the shade. A dozen people stood about with mugs, sampling what was clearly Rorkar’s contribution to the Festival. With a long journey ahead and little money, it might be wise to eat first and take a bag of food with her — if she could put one together unobtrusively.
At another fire lay several sacks of yams. Some children gingerly placed the red, rooty nodules about the flames.
A grizzled man came down the beach, a net sack over his shoulder filled with what looked like flat, gray stones. A youngster ran from the water to accompany him to a fire, where a large earthen pot had been set to boil. (Save her single afternoon at the Old Market, Pryn, who was after all a mountain girl, had never seen a clam. And despite all auxiliary roastings and grillings, the Labor Festival was essentially a clambake.) The net was dumped into the steaming pot; two women pushed a circular board cover over the top.
People applauded.
The net was thrown down on the sand. Pryn thought: Maybe I can get one of those, when they’re finished boiling their rocks…
Someone was lugging another off toward another pot.
As the morning went on, the beach became all cooking, all eating, all noise. People with instruments covered with leather heads pounded them. People plucked drawn strings over hollow gourds and shells, yodeling accompaniments.
Men drank beer, gossiped, and boasted about themselves.
Women drank beer, gossiped, and boasted about men and women not there.
Pryn drank beer, ate some roast chicken…and a clam. ‘If you don’t like it,’ Juni said, having turned up at the same fireplace, ‘you don’t have to eat them! Oh, what a face! Here, I’ll take your bucket! There’s lots of other things to try. Weka?’ who was about eleven, all black eyes and freckles. ‘Weka, take Pryn and make sure she gets some baked sweet potato! And don’t forget to let her dip it in the honey!’ So Pryn went with Weka and peeled back the flaking skin from a hot potato and dipped it in a large, messy honey pot with a few leaves and some sand in it, and ate a piece of barbecued goat…and three more steamed clams, which she decided were not that bad. Just…different. Besides, who knew what the fashion in foods might be when she got back to Kolhari.
The sun burned the fog from the hills. (Was that thing that seemed part of the mountain on the other side of the water his Lordship’s home? Yes, someone said.) It also burned away some of her fatigue.
She managed to find a discarded cloth sack, in which were some bread crumbs, which she carried about wadded up under her arm. For a while, she despaired of getting anything into it, without being obvious. Finally she managed to get in two roasted potatoes; then several cuts from a roasted goat’s leg; and three separate quarters from three roast ducks, from three different fires. It was too full to carry under her arm now; she just dangled it from one hand.
Ambling round a bend, Pryn now saw the beach was longer than she’d thought. There was as much activity down this stretch as there’d been on the former hundred or so yards. The ground here, she saw as she walked along the muddy sand by the water, split into an upper and lower level. A six-meter earthen slope widened between, its black dirt stuck about with roots, rocks, and small brush. She walked along the lower strip, swinging her sack and looking at the people strolling at the edge of the upper. There was music above, whose source she couldn’t see.
What stopped her were the tops of two rocks over the upper ledge. Both were chalky white. One was substantially taller than the other. They looked like two giant, aged fingers prodding at blue air…
Three little girls came barrelling down the slope, shrieking. Pryn began to scramble up. She grasped at roots with her free hand — now she climbed over a weedy tide-line; for a while she went crabwise.
People were cooking at the rim, right where she came over. Someone offered her a hand at the top, and Pryn thanked her, while the others stood laughing, and did she want a bucket of clams?
‘No, no thank you. No. Not right now…’
Between the two rocks a colorfully painted wagon had parked. One side had been let down into a platform. Drummers and musicians sat at either edge of a stage decorated with fantastic props. A very fat man was just finishing an energetic dance with a tall, supple woman. Breathing heavily, feathers shaking on his shoulders and gold paint in wings about his eyes, he walked to the front of the platform and bowed. ‘Thank you! Thank you, ladies and gentlemen!’ Then he said something in the barbarian language, which may have meant the same thing — but it made one group in the audience standing about laugh loudly. ‘This will be our last show for the day,’ the fat man went on. ‘Afterward, we’ll pack up to head off north. But you’ll see us again next summer, at your wonderful, joyous, generous Labor Festival! But we’re not finished! There’s more to come — so you can be generous with your gifts as our musicians pass among you. Please be generous! And now our show continues…!’ He turned sharply, clapped his hands over his head, and skipped ponderously from the stage.