“Well, the day’s greetings, Daviot Storyman,” she returned. “I am Pele.”
She was tall as I, and slender, her features delicate. Strands of silky, honey-colored hair escaped from beneath a headscarf. I saw that her eyes were green and somewhat slanted and realized with a shock that she was Changed, a cat-bred female. I hid my surprise behind a courtly bow, at which she chuckled and said, “We’ve little ceremony here, my friend.”
She showed none of the deference the Changed customarily granted Truemen. I let my eyes move past her to the others. I saw that of the seven women, three were Changed. Yet it was Pele who spoke for all, and she who named the Trueman females. It was as if, in the absence of their menfolk, all there regarded her as leader.
Pele brought me to her cottage and poured me a mug of very good ale. It was the midpart of the afternoon and I had eaten, but from courtesy and a desire to avoid affront I accepted the platter of cold pork and a wedge of bread she offered me. As I ate, she busied herself with domestic tasks, talking the while. Her daughter, who was named Alyn, assisted her when the child was not studying me with huge eyes that made me think of kittens. The cottage was small but built sound. It would hold off the cold of winter; now the single window and the door stood open.
“So what brings you here?” asked Pele. “We see few strangers in these wild parts, and never a Storyman before.”
“I was at Thornbar Keep,” I said. “I thought to wander the hinterland awhile.”
She nodded, as if this were not at all strange. She said, “Sometimes the Truemen go in to Thornbar.”
“To sell your produce?” I asked.
She said, “Yes, and to buy such tools and stuff as we cannot make or grow.”
“It’s a lonely place,” I said.
She laughed at that, reaching up to brush an errant strand of golden hair from her eyes. She was kneading bread, and she left a white smear of flour on her forehead. She said, “There’s company enough. But still-a Storyman shall liven the evening, do you elect to stay.”
“Do you offer such hospitality,” I said, “I’ll gladly accept.”
“’Tis yours for the asking.” She gestured at our surroundings. “You’ve the choice of a room shared with Tyr and Alyn, or the hearthside.”
“The hearth is good enough for me,” I said.
“Then be welcome. Save …” She paused a moment. I thought her, albeit on only short acquaintance, unusually hesitant. “Not all approve of us. Perhaps you’d best reserve your decision until Maerk returns.”
I asked, “Your husband?”
She answered, “My man. We’re not wed in the Church’s eyes.”
I laughed then and said, “That matters nothing to me. I’ve not the niceties of some mantis.”
“It’s not that,” she returned me, and looked me straight in the eye. “Maerk’s a Trueman.”
I could not conceal my surprise, and she saw it. Her fine features darkened a fraction; not, I thought, with embarrassment, but with defiance. I swallowed a mouthful of ale. Alyn studied me solemnly.
I said, “Is that why not all approve of you?”
Pele nodded. “And why we seldom visit Thornbar. There’s some would see us punished. It’s why we live here; in part, at least.”
I shall not tell you I was not taken aback. That would be a lie. It was not unknown for Truemen and Changed to consort casually. Indeed, there had been establishments in Durbrecht that boasted the exoticism of Changed cyprians, and I had heard tales of women who enjoyed the services of Changed lovers. But it was not a thing done openly. It was a thing denounced by the Church, furtive, and marriage was unknown. The slurs Barus had cast my way were indicative of the common feeling: a couple such as Pele and Maerk must inevitably find themselves outcast. I could not help but glance at Alyn.
Pele saw the direction of my gaze and shook her head. “I was wed before,” she said softly, “and widowed. My babies are both Changed; Maerk bought us after.”
My brows must have risen at that. Certainly the thought entered my mind that Maerk had purchased himself a cyprian of a kind. I think it did not show, but Pele was quick as any feline, and as good at gauging mood. She reached beneath her blouse and drew out a disk, held around her slim neck by a leather thong. Silently, she held it toward me: it was such a disk as freed Changed were given, stamped with the marks of authority. I had seen such disks in the hands of beggars.
Pele said, “He was a carpenter then. He saved and borrowed until he was able to buy me. Then he set me free. His family cast him out for that.”
Her voice challenged me to object. I said, “He must be a good man.”
She said, “He is. And more-he loves me; and I him. Can you understand that, Daviot Storyman? Do you know what love is?”
I said, “I know what it is. In Durbrecht …”
I shrugged, and could not help the sigh I vented. I had believed my memories of Rwyan under tighter rein, but this story brought them back. I thought that we might have found some refuge such as this hamlet, some lonely place far from our duties. Then I thought of the secret I carried and knew that once duty is accepted, it cannot be escaped. I said, “She was a sorcerer. They sent her to the Sentinels, and me here.”
Pele nodded as if she understood. I suppose she did. She said, “Perhaps you’ll find her again.”
I said, “I think not.”
She drew me another mug and stood before me then. “We are not the only ones,” she said. “Of the families in this place there are two Changed and three Trueman. Two are of mixed blood-Maerk and I, Durs and Ylle. Durs is of canine stock.”
Perhaps she anticipated outrage, or criticism, but I felt none. I was, as I have said, surprised, but I had witnessed stranger things of late, and to express disapproval of such arrangements would have been a betrayal of my belief that there was, in truth, no longer very much difference between my kind and hers. Still, she seemed to expect a response. I am not sure why I said what I did; the words sprang unpremeditated from my mouth: “I had a friend in Durbrecht of canine stock. His name was Urt.”
She said, “A friend?”
Her tone was casual, neutral. Perhaps purposefully so. She looked at me with her head cocked slightly to one side. That I was Trueman and she Changed meant nothing, and everything. I do not believe she judged me, but I felt a tremendous need to explain: I told her of my friendship with Urt.
When I was done, she nodded and returned to her bread. After a while she said, “He was a good friend.”
I said, “Yes. Perhaps the best I’ve known-he risked much for me.”
“And was rewarded with exile.”
She glanced up as she said that, watching me with enigmatic eyes. I did feel judged then, as if I stood in place of all my Trueman kind. I answered her, “That was not my choice. I argued it.”
Again she nodded. Then she smiled and said, “I think Urt found a good friend in you, Daviot.”
I returned her smile, but mine was cynical. “It seems my friendship brings poor reward,” I said.
“The same might well enough be said of Maerk and I.” Pele shrugged. It was a lazy, feline movement. “This world deems us different and would not see Trueman and Changed together. Save as master and servant.” “Or dragon bait,” I said.
“That was long and long ago.” She chuckled. “So long ago, none but you Storymen remember those old ways.”
“And yet,” I said, “Ur-Dharbek still stands a barrier between this country and the land of the dragons.”
“Old habits die hard,” she said. “And Ur-Dharbek is not much different now to the Forgotten Country, I think.”
I said, “Save the wild Changed dwell there in freedom.”
I looked to cast a hook in the waters of her knowledge. This was no sorcerer, but a woman of the Changed who appeared to me entirely open and honest. I thought perhaps to land a catch of information.
Instead, I got a laugh, a shrug, and, “So it is said. But I’ve no idea.”