Lamma's Night (anthology)

play the spring queen in the planting dance, but one could temper his whim by leaving unwed children out of the range of choice. Had the god stayed around too long after the dance, and swept Samon away while leaving a thought-shadow in his place?

'No, indeed,' Lenda said, reminiscing. She sounded fond of him, as she stared past Vinory through the door at the bright autumn sunshine. 'Couldn't keep hands to himself, no, not if they were tied behind him. He needed a strong woman to keep him in line. Not that women here aren't of sound mind,' she added, warningly, in case Vinory would think they were all vow-loose, 'but none wanted to say no to him.'

I could, Vinory thought.

The presence teased at her the next day as she rooted through the cottage's storerooms. It seemed to have a courtier's manners, going here and there with her, moving aside while she was walking, crouching close as she knelt to examine a box or basket. It certainty was not a god, since when Vinory had chosen to ward herself the night before, she was not troubled by the dreams or the mysterious touch. Instead, Vinory could feel the presence hammering unhappily at the wards she had set up, pleading to come in until she drew a veil across her thoughts so she could sleep. Who or what could the presence be?

'I don't know whether it would have been a pleasure to know you or not, Master Samon!' Vinory said, sorting through a bag of dyed threads. 'Dallying with children, though I grant you lived up to your responsibilities afterward. You stood right on the fulcrum of the great Balance, didn't you?' The presence said nothing, but she was beginning to feel that it might indeed be Samon lingering here.

What had taken his life? Over the years, she had sat up many nights with patients. Sometimes she'd caught what disease they had, but she always manifested the usual symptoms. The women said there were no signs at all, and yet Samon's soul had fled. Vinory's mind spun with unanswerable questions. Could Samon have been ripped from his body by some powerful force? A curse? Could what happened to him happen to Vinory? Should she flee this place while she could? No wonder the townsfolk were so desperately glad to have her stay.

When she went to bed that night, she surrounded herself with wards and protections so thick that the cat couldn't find a place on the bed. He hunkered down next to it, grumbling.

The next morning, the sun poked a gleaming finger through the curtains of the cottage window and tickled Vinory's nose until she woke up with a sneeze.

Goodness, she thought. I hope I'm not coming down with Bilisa's cold. A few experimental sniffs proved that her nose was clear. That was a relief.

The cottage was tidied nearly to the homey stage. Vinory thought that today she would ask the fuller or the blacksmith for a little polishing sand to shine up the fine metalwork that decorated the doors and cupboard fastenings. That would be the finishing touch that would make all perfect. She could perform some small service for the craftsmen in exchange, but so far everyone had been too shy to ask their due. That courtesy would pass soon enough, Vinory knew, so she would keep offering so as not to seem arrogant in her power.

Vinory thought a slice of bread and some broth boiled from the dried meat would taste nice this morning. The black and white cat wound between her feet while she put the pot onto the fire and made her toilet for the day. She gave him a piece of the meat. He gulped it down and begged for more.

'There, now,' she said, picking up a cloth to swing the hook holding the pot out of the fire, and flicked it at him. 'You've had your bounty. Go and catch something for yourself. Fresh meat's better for you anyhow.' The cat sat down and nonchalantly washed his shoulder to prove to her that he didn't care. Smiling, Vinory ladled broth into her bowl and took it and the remains of the loaf to the table.

Beside her plate was a yellow flower. Vinory hadn't noticed it before, but that did not mean it hadn't been there when she arose. She was touched by the gesture, thinking that a villager had decided to show her a kindness by leaving her a posy of autumn flowers. Then she took a close look at the bloom. It was a daffodil. Another sunflower, not heavy with autumn, but fresh with the dew of springtime. She'd always known it as a gage of the laughing young god, in his youngest and most playful incarnation. And yet, she reminded herself that the dancer was also faithless, flitting from woman to woman, whoever would have him. There were no daffodils in the village. They withered by May. July was long past their season. Who had reached through time for this lovely thing?

I, the voice said. I would please you. The warm touch brushed her hand again and encircled her wrist with a lover's touch.

Vinory started, afraid. Samon was still here, and not only was he tied to this place, he was now tied to her as well! Abandoning bowl, loaf, and hunger, Vinory rushed out into the sunshine.

At least the ghost didn't follow her beyond the walls. She ran down the hill toward the fields where all the able-bodied villagers were helping to bring in the hay. The good folk greeted her gladly, offering her bread, cheese, and meat from their own breakfasts. She accepted only enough to keep from getting lightheaded.

'Now you're here, will you bless the coming harvest, lady?' the blacksmith said, leaning heavily on his scythe. He swept a hand around to show her a valley filled with dusty gold and dark green. Poppies of that astonishing red clustered at the edge of the cropline.

'How hard you have worked,' Vinory said, sincerely. The villagers straightened up with pride. 'Of course I will give the blessing. The gods have been good to this place. It will be a bountiful year. I need a handful of each of the young produce.' Two boys ran off and came back with handfuls of grain, fruit, and tiny, perfect vegetables. Vinory exclaimed over their beauty. 'Good. And now I...I need wine, salt, a small bowl, and a crust.'

There were a few odd glances exchanged, and one or two people looked up the hill at her cottage, only a few hundred yards away. Vinory was ashamed to admit she was afraid to go back for her basket, so she waited and smiled politely until somebody gathered the components of the harvest prayer for her. At least her knife was in her belt.

Beckoning the workers together, Vinory sprinkled salt in a circle around them, then advanced to the sunrise side with the wine and bread. The headman, who had witnessed many a harvest rite, came forward with a large, flat stone, which he set down at her feet.

Chanting the ritual words, Vinory poured the wine into the bowl and crumbled the bread into it. She held up the bowl to the sky, and let the Veil open ever so slightly.

The powers of nature were formidable, but most folk only saw the merest wisp of that influence. It was only during rituals and festivals that they had the opportunity to see what Vinory and the magekind saw every day. The headman and his villagers were agog as a mouth opened in the sky and drew the wine and bread up to it in a garnet stream. A beam of light issued down on Vinory and her makeshift altar. The offering was acceptable. Now she filled the bowl with the fruits of the harvest. As she continued her chant of praise and entreaty, the golden light covered the bowl. In a blinding flash, the offering was gone. The light faded into Vinory, leaving her glowing in front