The Black Raven - Katharine Kerr [2]
Marka trotted off, panting a little for breath in the hot sun. All those pregnancies had buried the slender girl acrobat somewhere deep inside a thick-waisted matron who had to bind up her heavy breasts for comfort’s sake. At those moments when she had the leisure to remember her younger self, Marka hated what she had become. Especially when she looked at her husband—as she hurried along the cliffs, she saw him at last, strolling along and singing to himself a good safe distance back from the edge. Her relief mingled with anger, that he would still look so young and so handsome, with his pale blond hair and his pale grey eyes, his pinkish-white skin just glazed with tan and as smooth as a young lad’s. When he saw her, he smiled and waved.
“There you are, my love,” he called out. “Do you have need of me for something?”
“Oh, I was just wondering where you were.”
“Enjoying this glorious day under the dome of the sky. The sea’s full of spirits, and so is the wind, and they’re all enjoying it with me.”
“Ah. I see.”
Not of course that she did see the spirits teeming. He often spoke of spirits, as well as demons, portents, and visions, all of them invisible to everyone else. Still, she had to agree about the glory of this particular day, with the sea a winter-dark blue, scoured into whitecaps by the fresh wind.
“I’ve been thinking about the show,” Ebañy said. “I want to add something new to my displays, in the parts with the colored lights. I’m just not sure what yet.”
“It’ll come to you. I have faith.”
“Well, so do I.”
They shared a smile. Hand in hand they walked back to the camp while he sang in the language of far-off Deverry.
“A love song,” he said abruptly. “For you, my beautiful darling.”
And he did love her, of that she was sure. Never in their years together had he spurned her, never had he amused himself with the young women who performed in the troupe, not even once, no matter how old and thick and worn she’d become. For that alone she would always love him, even though at times, such as now, when he studied her face with a strange intensity, she wondered what he was seeing when he looked at her.
With a squeal of delight Zandro came trotting to meet them. Keeta strolled after, shaking her head, as if to say that he was beyond her control. It was one of the strangest things about the boy, that he could walk as well as a much older child, yet not be able to form a single word.
“Well!” Marka pointed them out. “Look who’s coming.”
“I see him, and a fine sight he is.”
When Marka said nothing, Ebañy paused to look at her.
“You’re frowning,” he said. “Why?”
“I’m just so worried about our Zan. He’s not right. We can’t go on hiding it from ourselves. I mean, he should be talking more, and then—”
“What? No, he’s fine for what he is. He’s a very young soul, just born for the first time. And he’s not human, truly. You can see it in his aura.”
He bent down and scooped the boy up. Laughing, Zandro buried his face in his father’s shoulder.
“What do you mean, aura?” Marka said.
“Look for yourself.” Ebañy waved his free hand around the boy’s head. “All the colors are wrong. What are you, my son? One of the Wildfolk, seeing what flesh feels like? Did you choose this, or did we trap you, my wife and I, when we were making a body for someone else to wear?”
Marka felt her hands clenching into fists as if she could pummel his madness into silence. When Ebañy looked into Zandro’s eyes, the boy stared steadily back.
“Not one of the Wildfolk,” Ebañy said at last. “But some spirit whose time has come to be born. You’ve a lot to learn, my darling, but now the world is yours and all its marvels too.”
Carrying Zandro, Ebañy walked back toward their tent. Marka lingered, fighting back tears, until Keeta laid an enormous hand on her shoulder.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “It’s so sad.”
“Yes.” Marka wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “It came on so slowly, didn’t it? I wonder now how long he’s been this way, and why I never would let myself notice.”
“None of us wanted to notice. Don’t berate yourself.”
“Thank you.