The whole village was a place of cheerful noise. They talked and laughed much, and apart from that there were the bells. They had a passion for them. They wore small bells on their clothes, and larger ones hung outside the huts, to jangle with each puff of wind, and inside on intricate arrangements of cords which could be agitated by the touch of a hand or even by the chance pressure of a footstep. They were so delicately balanced that they would go on sounding long afterward.
Hans’ wounds healed fast: perhaps because of the ointment the women put on them and perhaps to some extent through the happiness and contentment we found here. I had often heard it said that a wound stays angry where a warrior has an angry wife. It may be the opposite is true also.
The days passed easily. I practiced wearing these skis of theirs and in due course went out with the men to hunt, following clumsily and falling a lot in the snow but managing on the whole to keep up with them. We killed deer and boar, stabbing them with long sharp knives—even in deep winter this was good country for game. (While hunting they silenced the bells they wore with strips of cloth.) We saw the tracks and spoor of polyhounds, too, but the trails were old ones.
One night, having watched the women see to Hans’ leg, I said to Jok:
“He is well enough to travel. It is time we bade you farewell.”
He was silent and I did not think he had heard me: the tintinnabulation of the bells was very noisy. I started to repeat myself but he said:
“I was not born of the Tribe.”
It did not seem to have anything to do with my own remark but I listened politely. He went on:
“Sometimes strangers are accepted among us. I was such a stranger once.”
I still did not take his drift and remained silent. He looked at me, smiling:
“Stay with us, Luke.”
I was astonished. I said: “It is a kindness and an honor. But should not the rest of your people be consulted?”
He laughed. “Do you know us so little yet? Each speaks for all.”
I said awkwardly: “Then I am grateful for the offer. But I cannot stay.”
“Why not? You are happy here.”
He spoke with calmness and certainty. And there was more to it than the words by themselves might convey. He meant also that among his people a man would know happiness of a kind that he would find in no other place; and wild though the boast might seem, I could not disbelieve it.
I said: “And Hans?”
“He, as well.”
“A dwarf?”
“We would not keep a babe so stunted, but he has grown to manhood. His legs are short but his body is strong. We welcome Hans also.”
I shook my head. “It is no good. I must go on.”
“For what reason?”
At last he was curious—curious that any should refuse the gift of their comradeship. I hesitated. The hopes and plans of the High Seers would make no sense to him—they meant little enough to me at this moment. So I said nothing of that, but spoke of the wrongs I had suffered: of friendship and trust betrayed, that city lost which was mine by right. Jok listened. At last he said:
“We can heal you of this sickness, Luke.”
“Sickness? I am not sick.”
“Very sick. Those who have been born in the Tribe would not understand you, but I do. I remember things like jealousy and pride and hatred of one’s fellow man. Or woman. They are distant memories, almost forgotten but not quite. The Tribe healed me, and can heal you. Already these wrongs you fancy were done you are less important: is that not true?”
I could not deny it. During recent days I had scarcely thought of Edmund and Blodwen and Harding. My nights had been unbroken, my dreams happy.
“Stay with us,” Jok said. “Forget your ambitions and angers. We have much to give you: an end to loneliness and misery, a peace of heart such as you can only guess at now.”
That too was true. Even after this short time of living with them I knew it to be so. It was absurd on the face of it that I, who had been Prince of three cities, should be tempted by the thought of living, with neither rank nor glory, among a primitive tribe of hut-dwellers; but I was tempted. To forget all wretchedness of the past, for the first time in my life to be at peace . . .
But I summoned up two faces, hers and his, and summoned my resolution with it. I said harshly:
“You mean well, and I thank you for it. But it does not serve my purpose.”
“No?” He put his hand on mine, the touch in itself a token of all he had promised. “Then stay only for a few days longer. Your revenge will wait.”
It would wait, but waiting it might die, withered by this warmth of giving and sharing. And I knew that in my deepest heart nothing—no peace or happiness or goodness—counted with me as this did.
I said: “We leave tomorrow.”
“So be it.” He shook his head slightly. “We could have healed you. Go in what peace you can know. Maybe in the end you will heal yourself; but you will suffer for it.”
• • •
Since Klan Gothlen was a city without walls, there was no guard to challenge us as we entered it. We walked through the streets, with the domed and spired and turreted buildings rising on either side, their colors looking more gaudy still against the snowy hills beyond. People looked at us with interest as we passed, but that meant nothing. The Wilsh were always inquisitive about new things, new faces. Dirty and travel-worn as we were, it was scarcely likely that we would be recognized as Luke, the slayer of the Bayemot, and his servant Hans.
The guard on the palace did not know me either, until I spoke. Then he dropped his spear and let me through. I asked a footman where I would find the King, and he told me in the red chamber. He would have announced me but I told him I would find my own way there. He bowed and stood aside: my reputation was still a passport in this place. I wondered how much longer that would be true.
It was warm after the cold outside: too warm. I remembered Cymru telling me that in winter they heated the floors with fires that warmed air beneath them. Within moments I was sweating. At the door of the red chamber I was challenged again, and passed again. I went through into a hum of talk, which stopped on my appearance.
Cymru was there, lying among cushions on a couch of crimson velvet matching the crimson of the wall hangings. I saw many others I knew: Kluellan, the Colonel of the Guard, Snake, Cymru’s polymuf Chancellor with tentacles for fingers and strangely jointed limbs, Bevili, the Perfumer Royal with his scarlet lips . . . a dozen or more nobles of the city. Snake was the first to address me. He said:
“Luke of Winchester! So our hero returns. But you look as though you have had a hard journey here.”
I had, I knew, offended against Wilsh etiquette by coming into the King’s presence dirty and disheveled. But it seemed to me this was no occasion for etiquette. I eased the pack from my shoulders and let it drop.
Cymru said: “What brings you to us in the full of winter? And in such a state?” He raised himself from his cushions and stared at me. His dark face had no smile of welcome. “Where is Blodwen?”
“In Winchester, sire.”
He frowned. “You have left her there, unguarded?”
“I had no choice.”
His eyes went small. “Do you say so? We put her into your protection.”
“Will you hear me, sire?”
Cymru said grimly: “We will hear you.”
I told my story, sparing nothing. Cymru and the Wilsh nobles watched me as I spoke. There was shock and amazement in their faces but I could not read what else. When I finished there was a pause before Cymru spoke.
“You have lost your city,” he said, “and you have lost Blodwen to one of those Captains who deposed you. What brings you here? Do you seek an audience for your tears? Or perhaps a pension?”