Lara lay silent but wakeful. Vartan was sleeping soundly. She considered her earlier words, and now felt like a fool. Why had she been so sure he wanted to share pleasure with her? He had made no suggestive overtures. She realized, to her dismay, that she did not trust most men. Her own father had sold her into slavery to advance himself, and she had been willing because she saw no other way and she loved him. Now she wondered if he had ever really loved her, or if her striking resemblance to her mother had but added soreness to his broken heart. But he had been a good father when he was there. She had no complaints. He had never beaten her.
But her experience with the Forest Lords had been distasteful at best. She had become hard, Lara realized, in order to survive their brutality and stupidity. Yet Og had been kind to her, and without him she would have never escaped the Forest. And Kaliq had been gentle, patient and generous to her. He had taught her the meaning of passion. But there had to be more to the relationship between a man and a woman than just pleasure for the body. Was that what this love people talked about was?
In the morning, Evin’s wife fed them a hearty breakfast of porridge, eggs and ham with fresh bread. She wrapped slices of bread and meat in a cloth, giving it to Lara for it would be afternoon before they reached Doane, the next village. They rode the long morning, stopping briefly to eat again. Evin’s wife had not only packed meat and bread, but there was cheese and two pears as well. They sat in the grass while the horses grazed placidly within their sight. Vartan asked Lara to tell him about her life in the City. She was surprised by his curiosity, but complied nonetheless. He listened with open interest, and as she came to the end of her recitation he handed her a piece of pear. The juice drizzled down her chin as she bit into it, and she was startled when he leaned forward to lick the nectar from her skin.
“You are bold, my lord,” she said quietly.
“I will always think of you as tasting of pears,” he said as quietly.
“What is it you want of me, Vartan of the Fiacre?”
“Everything!” he answered her.
“I cannot give it to you.”
“You can, and you will one day,” he replied with an assurance that amazed her.
“We should go,” she said, rising to her feet and whistling for Dasras.
“Shall I save the other pear for tonight?”
“If it pleases you to do so,” she replied, feeling her cheeks grow warm as she pulled herself back into her saddle.
Vartan smiled up into her eyes, but said nothing more.
In midafternoon they reached Doane, another flourishing village. They remained but a brief while, as all was in order. Next they came to Calum village, where again the lord of the Fiacre was greeted warmly and there was no difficulty to be had. The last village was Rivalen, and they reached it just before dark to be greeted by Sholeh, the headwoman.
“My lord!” She came forward smiling, a big-boned woman with dark red hair that hung to her broad hips. “Welcome! I did not know if you would come today. We had heard that you were villaging.”
Vartan slid from his stallion, and wrapped an arm about Sholeh. “Each time I see you, my girl, you are more of an armful.” He kissed her cheek noisily.
Sholeh laughed heartily. “Away with you! I already have enough children to raise and care for, my lord.” Her glance swung to Lara. “And who is this dainty beauty you travel with, Vartan, lord of the Fiacre? She is faerie or I miss my guess.”
“She is Lara, daughter of Swiftsword, and only half faerie.” Vartan lifted Lara from her saddle. “Eventually I will make her my wife.”
“Eventually I will slice you in two,” Lara snapped.
Sholeh laughed again, and flung an arm about Lara’s shoulders. “I am going to like you, Lara, daughter of Swiftsword,” she said. “The key to a successful mating is to never let the man have the advantage. Come in to my hall. You are most welcome!” And she led the way, her arm still about Lara.
The hall into which she led them was large with a great peaked roof. There was a large stone fireplace burning with fragrant woods. They had no sooner been seated at the high board than the servants began to hurry forth with the meal. Lara was surprised, for it was a generous offering. There was salmon and trout from the river that flowed through the village of Rivalen. There was beef, ham, duck, capon and a rabbit stew. There were braised lettuces, asparagus, fresh breads, butter and cheeses of several kinds. And there was Frine and ale both.
“Sholeh is a member of my family,” Vartan explained, seeing Lara’s surprise. “We are cousins. She is the widow of the former headman here. When he died, the villagers asked that she be put in charge over them.”
“She is a woman,” Lara said, puzzled.
“She is a competent woman,” Vartan replied. “Do not women hold positions of responsibility in Hetar?”
“Not really,” Lara said. “They are always responsible to men for their actions. The Pleasure Mistresses, for instance, do not own the houses over which they preside. Those are always owned by a magnate, and magnates are always men.”
“Who manages the Pleasure Houses then?” Sholeh asked having overheard their conversation.
“The Pleasure Mistresses do. That is their duty,” Lara replied.
“So these women handle all the daily business of the Pleasure Houses? They make certain the girls are happy and healthy? They order the proper foods, wines and other supplies, and yet they are subordinate to those who own the houses, and collect the profits, eh?” Sholeh concluded. “I don’t think I like that.”
“It is our way,” Lara explained. “Are you not responsible for Rivalen and its people to Lord Vartan?”
“It is different,” Sholeh said. “Rivalen is mine. It is part of the Fiacre clan family holdings, and Vartan, its overlord, is responsible for our protection in the event of war. I give him my allegiance, but I am a free woman with my own lands.”
“I have never heard of such a thing before,” Lara said. “I like it much better than the way it is done in the City.” Again she thought that these Outlanders were not barbarians in any sense. But perhaps the Fiacre was different from the other clan families. Perhaps they were the exception.
Sholeh’s hall was filled to capacity. She was the mother of seven sons and two daughters, all of whom lived with her, and she had twenty-two grandchildren as well. The dogs snuffled beneath the tables hoping for scraps. Two cats, one a large marmalade, and the other an equally large black, lay head-to-head before the fire. There was much good-natured bickering back and forth, but no one fought. And again she was aware of how very respected Vartan was.
Several of Sholeh’s grandsons wrestled bare-chested for their lord’s amusement. There was an old Devyn in the hall who entertained them in a reedy voice, but his fingers on his instrument were yet sure, and the music was sweeter than any Lara had heard before. She did not notice until afterward that Vartan had taken her hand beneath
