I explained about how I destroyed the name-cards and the volumes of numbers, and all that evil stupid junk that made up the Law in the Wolf Tower. Burnt them. And burnt my message in the wall: NO MORE LAW. And about how Argul got me away, and then we saw the City let off all those fantastic fireworks, celebrating its freedom. And I thought after that there’d be nothing much to write, because though I could cover page after page saying Argul, Argul, Argul, how wonderful he is, how happy I am – I could live that, didn’t need to write it.
I did think I might put down an account of our wedding day, so I could look at it years later, my dress, Argul’s clothes, our vows, what we ate, what everyone said, and the games and dances – that kind of thing. A keepsake.
Well, I can’t even do that, can I. The marriage never happened. And Argul—
I suppose, if you did exist, and were still patiently reading, you’d prefer me to tell you all this in the right order.
But … maybe I won’t do it just yet …
THE UN-WEDDING DAY
That morning the weather was beautiful. Teil said it would be, the night before, because of the sunset.
‘Red sky at set,
Sheepers not wet.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Oh, Claidi. Don’t you know that old rhyme?’
‘I only know about the Sheepers being very dodgy. And anyway, their language is all baa-baa-baa!’
‘Well, yes. But it’s an ancient translated saying of theirs. A red sunset means it won’t rain tomorrow. Which is perfect for your wedding day.’
Then Dagger strode into the tent. She’d just turned eight years old two days before, and looked fiercely motherly.
‘Claidi – I want you to have this.’
‘Oh – but Dagger – it’s your dagger.’
‘Yes. You can peel oranges with it really well, too.’
I put it in pride of place with the other things – I wish I’d kept it by me. I don’t expect it would have made much difference.
People had been bringing me gifts for the past six days. It’s the Hulta custom, so the bride can build up her store of useful things for her wagon. But really Argul’s wagon had tons of everything, pots, plates, knives, clothes (some of which had been his late mother’s, when she was young, and fitted me). There were even books, I mean printed ones.
Still, the gifts touched me. I felt shy. I was an outsider, but no one ever made me feel that. Once Argul wanted me, and they’d seen a bit of who I was, they made me part of the Hulta family.
Wonderful to be liked. As opposed to having some special horrible power over people, as in the City, when I’d been Wolf’s Paw, that short, foul while.
Anyway, Argul arrived then, and we went to supper at the camp’s central fire.
I remember – won’t ever forget – the firelight glowing on faces, the last scarlet at the sky’s edge, jokes, stars, eyes gleaming in bushes and Ro wanting to throw a stone because they were ‘leopards’, only they weren’t, they were fireflies—
And alone with Argul, and how he said, ‘Are you happy? You look happy, Claidi. Cleverly disguising your misery, no doubt.’
‘Yes, I’ve been just crying my eyes out at the thought of marrying you.’
‘Mmn. Me too.’
‘Shall we call it off?’
‘Can’t disappoint the rest of them,’ he gloomily said.
We held our faces in grim expressions. I burst out laughing first.
‘I never thought I’d keep you,’ he said. ‘You’re such a maddening, mad little bird.’
‘Mad, I’ll accept. Maddening. I’m not so little.’
‘I could put you in a nutshell and carry you about in one hand,’ he said, ‘oh Claidi-baa-baa!’
I remember my wedding dress. Well, I suppose I can say about that. After all, like Argul’s ring, it’s even here with me. I came away in it.
It’s white, with embroidered patterns of green leaves. White for luck and green for spring, the Hulta bride’s wedding colours. And Argul was to wear sun-yellow, for summer, the groom’s colours. (Spring and summer were seasons. We don’t really have them now.)
With his tea-colour skin and black hair, he would have looked incredibly splendid.
Only I never saw that.
No.
Anyway, the night was cool and still, and in the morning the sun came up and the sky was golden clear, and it was warm, as Teil had promised.
We’d been travelling about fifty, sixty days, since leaving Nemian’s City.
First there’d been the flat grey plain by the River, and the thin mountains in the distance. Then we’d crossed the River, which was probably only river by then, by an old bridge I hadn’t noticed when Nemian and I came down that way – or else it was higher up, beyond the marsh. (I didn’t notice quite a bit of the journey.) Next we turned more south, and then our wagons were in another of those desert areas, which went on and on (only this time, with Argul, I didn’t care).
The weather gradually got nicer, though. Lots of sunny days. Then there were grasslands, not as pretty or lush as at Peshamba, but still lovely. There were stretches of woods and orchards in blossom, and streamlets gloogling merrily by, and deer feeding and other dapply things with long necks, whose names I can’t recall. We held races. (Siree, my black mare, went so fast I actually won twice.)
There were villages too, made of painted wood, with grass-thatched roofs. Smiling people came out waving, and we bartered with them. And once there was a big stone circle on a hill, where no one could go in, only stand outside and look, because a wind god
