A Time of Omens - Katharine Kerr [95]
He didn’t see her again until late that night, long after the feast was over. On the opposite side of the camp from the herds some of the People had cleared a space for dancing by cutting the long grass down to a reasonably even stubble. By torchlight the musicians gathered off to one side, a rank of harpers backed by drummers and a couple of those elven bundled-reed flutes that produce drones. The People danced in long lines, heads up, backs straight, arms up and rigid while their feet leapt and scissored in intricate steps. Sometimes the lines held their position; at others they snaked fast and furiously around the meadow until everyone collapsed laughing on the cool grass. On and on the dancing went, till the older and less energetic began to drop out, Rhodry among them.
Out of breath and sweating, he flung himself down near a tall standing torch, far enough away from the music to hear himself think, and watched the dance spiral past. A pack of gray gnomes flopped into manifestation around him and lay on their backs, panting in imitation of their elder brothers. When Rhodry laughed, they all sat up and grinned, then began pushing and shoving each other to see who would sit on his lap. All at once one of them drew his lips back from his teeth and pointed at something behind Rhodry; the rest leapt up and snarled; they all disappeared. Rhodry slewed round where he sat to see the honey-haired woman standing behind him. In the torchlight her eyes seemed made of beaten gold.
“And a good eve to you, my lady.” He rose to his knees. “Won’t you join me?”
She smiled, then knelt down facing him rather than sitting companionably. For a long moment she studied him in a silence as deep and unreadable as the night sky. He was struck all over again by the sense she gave of distance, as if she were a painted image on a temple wall, looking down upon him from a height. In her presence the camp seemed far, far behind him.
“Uh, my name is Rhodry, son of Devaberiel. May I have the honor of knowing yours?”
“You may not, truly.” Much to his shock, she spoke in Deverrian. “My name’s not for the giving, though I’ll trade it for that little ring you have.”
Reflexively he looked down at his right hand, where he wore on the third finger a silver band, about a third of an inch wide and graved with roses.
“Well, now, you have my apologies, but I’ll not surrender that, not even to please a lady as beautiful as you.”
“It’s made of dwarven silver, did you know?”
“I do. It’s the same metal as this silver dagger I carry.”
“So it is, and both were made by a dwarf, too, many a long year ago.”
“I know the man who made the dagger, and dwarven he is, but this ring is elven.”
“It’s not, for all that it has elven writing inside it. It’s the work of the Mountain Folk, and not a fit thing for an important man of the People like you, Rhodry Maelwaedd.”
“Here! No one’s called me by that name for years and years.”
She laughed, revealing teeth that seemed oddly sharp and shiny in the flickering light.
“I know many a name, I know all your names, truly, Rhodry, Rhodry, Rhodry.” She held out her hand. “Give me that ring.”
“I will not! And who are you, anyway?”
“I’ll tell you everything if you give me that ring.” She smiled, her mouth suddenly soft with a thousand promises. “I’ll do more than tell a tale, truly, for that ring you wear. Give me a kiss, Rhodry Maelwaedd, won’t you now?”
Rhodry stood up.
“I won’t, my thanks. Many a year ago now a dangerous thing happened to me for being too free with my kisses, and I’ll not make the same mistake twice.”
In cold fury she crouched, staring up at him while he wondered if he were daft for treating one so beautiful so coldly.
“Rhodry!