Elizabeth Moon - Surrender None

“I have to tell you about this,” said Mali, struggling upright for a moment. He looked at her; she had one hand to the mark on her face. “I’m no beauty, besides my loud tongue. Many call me ugly, for this scar if nothing else.”

“What happened?” It was a chance to breathe, to remind himself of the customs of his people.

Mali made a curious noise that Gird could not interpret, somewhere between a sniff and a snort. “I wish I could claim it came from defending my cousin against the magelords—it happened the same day—but in fact it was my own clumsiness. I was carrying a scythe to my brother in the fields, and tripped. When I came running back, looking for sympathy, there was my cousin in the lane. No one had time for me then, and no wonder. I thought to save my grandmother trouble by treating it myself, but failed to put herin in the poultice, so it scarred. My own fault.” She laid her warm hand on his. “But I will understand if you change—I mean, it’s not fair. I’ve landed on you this night like a fowler’s net on a bird. You must have a free choice, a chance to make up your own mind. See me in daylight and then if you still wish—”

Contending thoughts almost silenced him. Gird eyed her. “Is it that you think you can get nothing better than the coward of the count’s own village? Was I just a last chance for you, is that what you’re saying?”

She sat bolt upright. For an instant he thought she was going to hit him again; the place she’d slugged him before still ached. “You fool! If you don’t want me, just say so. Don’t make it my fault.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did.” She was breathing fast, angry, and he waited. Finally she went on. “I was curious. I’d heard—what I told you. For myself, barring I like a roll as well as anyone, I’d live alone rather than marry anyone’s last chance. Then meeting you—Amis said you were gentle, but he didn’t say how you sang.” Her voice trailed away. “And you’re no coward, whatever you think.”

“You don’t think a man knows himself best?”

Laughter burst out of her again. “Who could? Can water know it’s wet, or stone know it’s hard? What could it measure itself against? I know my feelings, but my grandmother knew I was meant for herblore, not needlecraft or weaving. So with you—did your father or mother think you would make a soldier?”

Surprise again. “I—don’t know. Not really, I suppose, although they feared I could be—”

“Cruel?” He could see her head shake in the starlight. “No, not like that. You can do what you must, but you take no pleasure in giving pain.” He was eased by that, and his suspicions fled. A strange girl, like no girl he’d known (but what girls had he known?) but not a cunning one. If she said she liked him, then she did. Gird cleared his throat.

“I would like to—” Lady’s grace; he didn’t even know how to ask. But Mali had moved nearer to him again, her shoulder against his, her fragrant hair once more against his face.

“You should wait until sunrise,” she said. “You might change your mind.”

Gird laughed. “Sunrise,” he said, “is too far away. Or do you want to go back and find witnesses to make it formal?”

“I want no witnesses,” she said, in a low voice that was almost a growl. “Not for this.” She folded her shawl, and lay back upon it, arms wide. “I swear by the Lady, that for this night I am content.”

And content were they both by sunrise. Gird had thought he knew how it went between men and women; it was no secret after all, and any child saw it often enough growing up. But Mali’s body, sweet-scented and warm on the cool hillside grass, was nothing like his imaginings—or far more. He could not get enough of touching her smooth skin, her many complex curves all ending in another place to enjoy with tongue and nose and fingers. And she, by all evidence, enjoyed it all as much as he did. They had fallen asleep at last, to be wakened by the loud uneven singing of Gird’s friends on their way home. Mali chuckled.

“They want to let you know it’s time to go, but without interrupting. You know, Gird, they are your friends. You must forgive them someday.”

Right then he would have forgiven anyone anything, or so he felt, A pale streak marked distant sunrise. With a groan, he pulled his clothes together. “I don’t want to leave.”

Mali was already standing, shaking out her shawl. “If you wish, you know where.”

“You know I want to marry you.”

“I do not k now. I know you enjoyed my body, and I enjoyed yours, but there’s more to marriage than that. But I like you, Gird. I say that now, after hearing you sing, laugh, and cry—more than many girls do, before they wed. Look on my face in daylight, and decide.” She turned away to start home. Gird caught her arm.

“Why not now?”

“What of your work today? What of your family? Go home, lo—Gird. Go home and think whether you want a big, clumsy, loud-voiced wife with a scarred face. If you do, come see me in daylight. Ask me then—”

“I’m asking now!”

“No. I’ll not answer now. Daylight for both of us then.” And she pulled away and was gone. Gird stared after her, then followed the distant voices of his friends toward home.

He caught up with them within sight of home. By then it was light enough to see their expressions; he could feel himself going red. Amis elbowed Jens.

“You see I was right. He just needed to get a little fresh air—”

“He got more than fresh air, I’ll warrant. Look at his face. If I’d gone out like that with Torin—”

“You wouldn’t. You’ll be learning how in your marriage bed, Jens.”

“I know how.” Jens shoved Koris, who shoved back. “It’s just that with her father—”

“Come on, Gird,” said Amis, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “Tell us—you drag the girl out in the middle of the dancing, did you just throw her on the ground, or what?”

He could hear the undertones in their voices—they weren’t sure if he was going to be angry, or sulk, or what. He felt like singing, and instead burst out laughing.

“That’s new,” said Amis. “I like that—Gird laughing again.”

“Be still,” he said, ducking away from Amis’s arm and the finger that was prodding his ribs. “You were right: I admit it. I needed to go dancing—”

“You didn’t dance,” said Jens.

Gird shrugged. He could feel more laughter bubbling up, like a spring long dry coming in. “I did well enough,” he said.

“Watch him go to sleep behind the hedges today.” Koris grinned, but it had no bite to it. “You may be tired by nightfall, eh?”

Gird grinned back. He felt that the bad years had never happened; he felt he could work for two days together. He drew a long breath—sweet, fresh air of dawn—and said nothing more. He had never expected to be happy again, and now he was.

He came in through the barton, aware of the stale, sour smell of the cottage after the freshness outside. All very well to fall for a girl, to marry her—but where would they sleep? He’d have to build a bed. He’d have to earn the marriage fee for the count, and the fee to her family for her parrion. He’d have to—

“You’re looking blithe this morning,” said Arin, from the flank of the red cow. Milk hissed into the bucket. Arin’s voice had sharpened, in the difficult years, but he sounded more worried than angry.

“Sheepfold last night,” said Gird. He took down the other milking stool, and a bucket.

“You? I thought you’d gone to Kirif’s.”

Gird washed the cow’s udder with water from the stable bucket and folded himself up on the milking stool. The brindle cow flapped her ears back and forth as he reached for her teats, and he leaned into her flank and crooned to her. “Easy, sweetling—I was at Kirif’s first, and then Amis came along and we went over to the fold—”