The Blue Sword (Damar #2)(60)

Here was a vast hall, taller than the ancient trees of the forest she had just walked wearily through, with windows cut at the very heads of the walls to open above the lower roofs of the sleeping corridors. At one end of this space was a fireplace that in any room less immense would have been itself enormous; here it looked insignificant. There were several massive wooden chairs before it, and a long trestle table beyond these; the rest of the chamber was empty. Opposite the fireplace wall were doors, thrown open to admit sunlight and birdsong and the rustle of leaves. She looked up at the ceiling. Curiously, there was no sense of oppression built by the stone and space; rather there was peacefulness, the quiet of repose.

Contented simply to be less tired than she had been the night before, she stood a moment, drinking in the sense of relaxation. For the first time since the confrontation with Corlath, the thought of the northwest pass left her freely, without her straining to push it aside; even the knowledge of the coming war, of her part in her first battle, did not trouble her at present. Of the latter she did know it would trouble her later - soon; but she would attend to it later. For now she smiled. Her mouth felt stiff.

She brought her gaze down from the ceiling and directed it again toward the fireplace. Sleep and peace were all very well, but she smelled food, and she was hungry.

The man with yellow hair who had stood talking with Corlath the night before was sitting in one of the great wooden chairs; she did not notice him till she was quite near. Her footfalls dropped gently to silence; no sullen echoes ran up the walls to disturb the birdcalls. She stopped. There was a tiny fire, barely two hands' breadth, burning at the front of the cavern of the hearth. Over it hung a large silver pot on a chain, and on a stool nearby were a stack of deep silver bowls, and a heap of shining silver spoons.

"Breakfast," said the man with yellow hair. "I've had mine; eat as much as you like. I flatter myself it's quite good, although I admit I'm not much accustomed to cooking for so many, and one begins to lose count of how many potatoes one has already put in after the first armful." She sat down with her bowl, feeling that formal introductions were not wanted and that he would be amused if she tried to be conventionally polite; and she was so hungry. As she sat, he brought up a leather bag from the far side of his chair and poured into a flagon discovered at his feet. He handed it to her: "Goat's milk," he said. There were brown flecks of spices floating in it. She smiled, not so stiffly this time.

She looked at him as she ate; and while she was sure he knew she watched him, he kept his eyes on the small leaps and dance steps of the flame beneath the pot, as if letting her look her fill was a courtesy he did her along with filling her belly.

He was tall, she knew; sitting, he looked even taller, for he was so slender. His arms were spread wide from his sides to rest on the is of the chair; but his long fingers reached well over the curled fronts of the armrests, and his knees were several inches beyond long seat of the chair. He wore a dark green tunic, and a brown shirt beneath it, with long full sleeves gathered at the wrists with gold ribbons. He wore tall pale boots that reached just above his knees, where the tunic fell over them. The tunic was slit up the side to his waist, and the leggings beneath it were the gold of the ribbons. He wore no sash; rather a narrow band of dark blue cloth made a cross over his breast, and wrapped once thinly about his waist. The ends of it were tassels, midnight blue shot with gold. A huge dark red stone hung on a chain around his neck.

His face was thoughtful as he stared at the fire. His nose was long and straight and his lips thin; his eyes were heavy-lidded and blue. His hair was curly as well as bright gold, and it grew low over his collar and ears although he was clean-shaven. He should look young, Harry thought. But he did not. Neither did he look old. He turned to her as she set down her bowl and cup, and smiled. "Well? Did I know when to stop adding potatoes?"

Hill potatoes were golden and far more flavorful than the pale Homelander variety that Harry had eaten obediently but without enthusiasm when she was a child, and here they blended most satisfactorily with the delicate white fish that was the basis of the I stew. It was the first time she had eaten fresh fish since she had left her Homeland, where she had often brought supper home after a few hours beside a pool or stream on her father's estate; and she was pleased, now, to notice that remembering this fact caused no nervous ripples of emotion about her past or her future. "Yes," she said peacefully.

Their eyes met, and he asked, as though he were an old friend or her father, "Are you happy?"

She thought about it, her gaze drifting away from his and coming to rest on the tip of Gonturan, as she leaned against her sol's chair; for she had, without thinking about it one way or another, slung Gonturan around her as soon as she stood up from her bed. "No, not precisely," she said. "But I don't believe I wish to complain of unhappiness." She paused a minute, looking at the thoughts that had been with her constantly for the weeks since she had left her old life as a bundle across Fireheart's withers. "It is that I cannot see what I am doing or why, and it is unsettling always to live only in the moment as it passes. Oh, I know - one never sees ahead or behind. But I see even less. It is like being blindfolded when everyone else in the room is not. No one can see outside the room - but everyone else can see the room. I would like to take my blindfold off."

The man smiled. "It is a reasonable wish. No one lives more than a few moments either way - even those fortunate or unfortunate ones who can see how the future will be cast; and perhaps they feel the minute's passing the most acutely. But it is comforting to have some sense of ... the probability of choices, perhaps?"