The Seeker - Isobelle Carmody [111]
“There now,” she said kindly, handing me a drying towel.
I turned to set the towel down and caught sight of myself in the mirror. I gaped. My face was barely visible for filth—I scarcely looked human. My clothes were stiff with dirt, and my long hair was one lank rat tail. I had not bathed since Gahltha’s riding lessons. With a grimace, I stripped off my clothes and slid into the soapy water. I scrubbed thoroughly, massaging gritty dirt from my hair and ears. Kella handed me a thick calico robe like the one she wore as I clambered out.
“Was it the Druid?” she asked worriedly.
I nodded. “Did you notice anything else since we came here?”
Kella sighed. “You too? I hoped your powers would be strong enough not to be affected. What do you think it is?”
“Some sort of machine, but no one mentioned it. Maybe this is how they test people to find out if they are Misfits. Yet I’m almost certain they believe we’re real gypsies.”
“Rilla won’t be long. I think she’s been told to keep an eye on us. What are we going to do?” Kella asked urgently.
“I’m going to try breaking through the barrier as soon as I have a moment alone. If that doesn’t work, I’ll have to get to the machine and damage it or switch it off somehow. If only Pavo were here. I wonder why we’ve been separated?”
“Didn’t they say anything to you about this nightmeal?” Kella asked.
Puzzled at her tone, I said, “We’re to eat with the Druid. What else should I be told?”
“We are to eat with the Druid and all unbonded men,” Kella said pointedly. “Have you noticed how few women there are around here? Rilla let it slip. Tonight we are going to be looked over like batches of scones. For bonding.”
Rilla returned carrying a green dress in one arm and a blue one in the other. “These will match your eyes,” she said. Her own eyes widened. “Well, ye do clean up nice an’ proper.”
I had never seen such fine clothes before, let alone dreamed of wearing them. But where had such finery come from, if not Sutrium? And how would an exiled Herder priest obtain such luxuries?
“These will make ye pretty fer tonight,” Rilla said, holding out the dresses.
“Pretty as lambs to the slaughter,” I murmured sarcastically. I held mine up as if it were a shroud cloth. And well it might be, for I had no intention of being bonded to anyone.
9
IT WAS AN odd, strained occasion.
The Druid and his guests were formally attired, and the courses of food were lavishly presented. It was hard to believe we were in the middle of the White Valley.
The Druid’s armsmen, as those of Gilbert’s type called themselves, drank heavily, both red and white fements as well as a spicy warmed cordial. The latter could be made anywhere, but the highlands were no place to grow the delicate fement grapes. Like the dresses Kella and I wore, the fements could only have come from the lowlands, probably Arandelft.
The Druid had the head of the table, and his daughter, Erin, sat by his side, clad in a dazzling blood-red dress. Her long hair was elaborately plaited and beaded around her head.
Beside her, Gilbert smiled in welcome. “So, gypsy girl, how are you finding our rough-and-ready camp?”
Laughter met his words. All the Druid’s captives were probably equally astounded at the lavish way the Druids lived. Gilbert was hardly recognizable in a fine white shirt and black velvet jacket, though he was less extravagantly clad than many of the other armsmen. None of the white-robed Druid acolytes were present.
“What? No words for us, gypsy girl? Have we disarmed you at last? Perhaps the fire was quenched when the dirt was washed off,” Gilbert teased.
Erin laid a dainty hand on his arm. “Dirt will wash away, Gilbert, but that particular hue of skin will remain the same grubby gypsy color, no matter how hard she scrubs.”
The table fell silent, but before I could draw breath to respond, Gilbert laughed, smoothly