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scant experience of women, he thought them all scolds till proved otherwise.
Her forbearance raised his opinion of her even higher.
After eating, they started south again. Rhavas had feared they would run into
hordes of Khamorth swarming toward the fallen, the shattered, Skopentzana, but
they saw hardly any plainsmen all that day, and those only at a distance.
Maybe the earthquake had disrupted the nomads even more than he'd suspected.
Aftershocks kept making the ground shake under their feet. Some were barely
perceptible, others considerable quakes in their own right. Each time the
earth trembled, Rhavas knew a fresh spasm of panic. How long would the shaking
last? How bad would it be? Even when he was in the open, where nothing could
possibly fall on him, the unthinking terror would darken his wits.
And not his alone after one of the harder aftershocks, Ingegerd said, "This is
one of the hardest things I
have ever borne. Hard winters I know, and likewise war. But when the very
ground beneath my feet betrays me . . ." She shook her head. "Such a thing
should not be possible."
"They do happen." Rhavas tried not to admit his own fear even to himself.
"They are more common in the south, but they can come anywhere."
Ingegerd looked at him with awe in her eyes. "And this one came at your
command, very holy sir."
"I do not believe that. You too would do better not to believe it." Even more
than aftershocks, the prelate feared that what she said might be true. If his
curse had stricken Toxaras, if his curse had called up the quake and crushed
the Khamorth, what had his curse done to him
? What would it do to him?
"Very well. Let it be as you say. I will not believe the earthquake came at
your command," Ingegerd answered obediently. But mischief sparked in her eyes.
"Only because I do not believe it, that does not mean it is untrue."
"Heh." Past the chuckle that came from him involuntarily, Rhavas didn't
dignify that with a reply.
Ingegerd looked smug, as if she knew she had won the point. Maybe she did. And
maybe she had, too.
They trudged on. Rhavas had only a vague notion of where the next town would
be. He hadn't gone far from Skopentzana all through his tenure. He was a city
man both by birth and by inclination. Even
Skopentzana hadn't been city enough to satisfy him fully, not when he'd come
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from the imperial capital.
But he'd never seen any reason to leave it for the semibarbarous
countryside not till now.
The sun slid across the sky. Days were still short, though noticeably longer
than they had been right around the time of the solstice. "We had better look
for shelter," Ingegerd said as afternoon drew on toward evening. "I would not
care to sleep in the snow tonight."
"Nor I." Rhavas' shiver was not altogether artificial. "That would all too
likely mean our deaths."
"Oh, no." The Haloga woman shook her head. She looked surprised. "A man with
only a cloak can pass the night well enough. Do you not know how?"
"I fear not," the prelate answered.
"Well, it is so." Ingegerd spoke with an assurance that compelled belief. "And
with the warmth of two of us and with all we have, it would be easy." If
sleeping in the snow meant no choice but sleeping in each other's arms, Rhavas
suddenly hoped all barns and farmhouses would disappear. If he had to do it to
survive, it could not possibly be sinful for him . . . could it? Ingegerd went
on, "But, easy or not, it would not be so comfortable as a farmhouse, or even
a barn."
"No doubt you are right." Rhavas hoped he didn't sound too mournful. Evidently
not, for Ingegerd just nodded briskly and walked on.
When Rhavas spotted the farm off to the side of the snow-covered road, he
pretended for a few heartbeats that he had not. It availed him nothing, of
course, for Ingegerd saw the place, too. "If anyone dwells there, we can beg a
place by the hearth," she said. "If not, it is ours to do with as we will."
"So it is," Rhavas said resignedly.
"Do we halloo?" Ingegerd asked as they drew near.
"I see no horses tied close by," Rhavas said. "Where there are Khamorth, there
will be horses." He paused to see if she would disagree. When she didn't, he
went on, "This being so, I think we may safely call."
They did. No one answered. Ingegerd found another question: "With these cursed
quakes continuing, dare we shelter there this night?"
"You were the one who said you would rather not spend the night in the open.
Neither would I," Rhavas replied. "The risk is worth taking. If the farmhouse
hasn't fallen yet, it probably won't."
When they went in, they found the Khamorth had been there before them. The
plainsmen had butchered the family that lived on the farm; only the winter
weather kept the bodies from stinking. By all the signs, the nomads had amused
themselves with the farm wife and her daughter before killing them. Rhavas and
Ingegerd both sketched the sun-sign without realizing they did it. Neither
said a word as they dragged the dead outside. As silently, Ingegerd set the
woman's clothes, and the girl's, to rights before moving them.
Even after the corpses were gone, bloodstains made the place grimmer than
Rhavas cared for. As much to herself as to him, Ingegerd remarked, "We do not
what we would, but what we needs must."
"Just so," Rhavas said heavily. "Yes, just so."
The fire in the hearth was as dead as those who had kindled it. Unlike them,
though, it could be brought back to life. Rhavas brought in wood from the pile
behind the farmhouse. As twilight quickly faded toward night, Ingegerd fumbled [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]