gently
sloped hill beyond which her house lay. She knew that she would go
around them.
And that it would make no difference.
Dusk was the time of shadows.
Night, and the Lady's moon was brilliant against the speckled
backdrop of cool, dark blue. Day, and the Lord's face turned a
merciless, necessary heat upon the greens and the golds, the reds and
the browns, the earth's colors.
But at dusk, with neither Lord nor Lady in ascendance, the
light and the darkness intertwined and every possible path was a step
into the unknown.
She could not sleep.
And sleepless, she left the sanctity of her single-room
dwelling to stand a moment in the wash of a sky that was caught, in
crimson, between two shades of blue. Beneath that sky, crossing the
footpaths that had been worn by time and the steady movement of sturdy
heels, was a lone figure, illuminated from behind by the lamp that hung
across her left shoulder by the shaft of a long pole. The figure's face
was in shadow, but she did not need to see it to feel the apprehension
of recognition.
Fate.
Ashaf waited numbly as the figure came closer.
Yollana, the wisewoman of the Havalla Voyani.
But here, she felt a strange thing: not fear, as she had
expected, and not even resignation, although its touch was heavy upon
her unbent shoulders. No, she felt kinship; the kinship of those weary
with the burdens of the responsibilities they have chosen—and wearier
still with the loss of them.
The Yollana of her youth was gone in that instant; her perfect
midnight hair bleached everywhere by the touch of harsh sun and time.
Her pale skin was lined now, although not furrowed; it was no longer
translucence defined. But if she did not have the slenderness of youth,
she had the muscled, sturdy appearance of one who has been tried and
tested without breaking.
As if she had expected no less, Yollana looked up from the
ground's even slope as she at last approached the house, nodding at the
younger woman who waited. Her eyes were the eyes that Ashaf remembered.
"Well met," the Voyani wisewoman said, bowing low enough that
the folds of her voluminous shirt obscured the wide, red sash across
her midriff.
"And you," Ashaf said softly. She waited a long moment, and
then looked away. "I have no water to offer."
"I do," Yollana replied, and she lifted the skin from the
folds of her wide skirts. Those skirts could hide many a thing: water,
gold. A dagger. "Will you drink with me?"
It was formal; an offer of sorts. But of what, and for what,
Ashaf could not guess. She nodded quietly. "Night is coming," she said.
"I should sleep soon." But she turned quietly and opened the door to
her home, inviting by gesture this third visitor for whom she felt such
ambivalence.
The lamp was bright enough to illuminate the four walls of her
life; to cast a shadow around the sagging cotton mats upon which she
lay night by night; to show the marks and stains and scratches in the
wood of the small table before which she knelt to eat. To pray.
She crossed the room and knelt there now, taking from a small
shelf beside the table the delicate clay bowls that had been a gift
from her husband and placing them upon the worn wooden surface. After a
moment, Yollana joined her, unhooking the lamp and placing it on the
floor by her bent knees. They stared at each other a moment in uneasy
silence; it was the Voyani woman who spoke first.
Yollana's smile was crooked. "You've aged," she said. She took
the skin from her belt, uncapped it, and poured. She was skilled, and
it was clear from the way that she watched each drop that she had
traveled in the Lord's heartlands.
"And you," Ashaf replied. "But more gracefully."
"Voyani blood." Carefully lifting a bowl, she offered the
sweet water to Ashaf.
Ashaf took it and lifted it to her lips, accepting the
visitor's gift as if there was nothing unusual about such a visit. "All
blood is red," she said softly. Then she stopped; the water that
touched her tongue was sweet and cool—it
sloped hill beyond which her house lay. She knew that she would go
around them.
And that it would make no difference.
Dusk was the time of shadows.
Night, and the Lady's moon was brilliant against the speckled
backdrop of cool, dark blue. Day, and the Lord's face turned a
merciless, necessary heat upon the greens and the golds, the reds and
the browns, the earth's colors.
But at dusk, with neither Lord nor Lady in ascendance, the
light and the darkness intertwined and every possible path was a step
into the unknown.
She could not sleep.
And sleepless, she left the sanctity of her single-room
dwelling to stand a moment in the wash of a sky that was caught, in
crimson, between two shades of blue. Beneath that sky, crossing the
footpaths that had been worn by time and the steady movement of sturdy
heels, was a lone figure, illuminated from behind by the lamp that hung
across her left shoulder by the shaft of a long pole. The figure's face
was in shadow, but she did not need to see it to feel the apprehension
of recognition.
Fate.
Ashaf waited numbly as the figure came closer.
Yollana, the wisewoman of the Havalla Voyani.
But here, she felt a strange thing: not fear, as she had
expected, and not even resignation, although its touch was heavy upon
her unbent shoulders. No, she felt kinship; the kinship of those weary
with the burdens of the responsibilities they have chosen—and wearier
still with the loss of them.
The Yollana of her youth was gone in that instant; her perfect
midnight hair bleached everywhere by the touch of harsh sun and time.
Her pale skin was lined now, although not furrowed; it was no longer
translucence defined. But if she did not have the slenderness of youth,
she had the muscled, sturdy appearance of one who has been tried and
tested without breaking.
As if she had expected no less, Yollana looked up from the
ground's even slope as she at last approached the house, nodding at the
younger woman who waited. Her eyes were the eyes that Ashaf remembered.
"Well met," the Voyani wisewoman said, bowing low enough that
the folds of her voluminous shirt obscured the wide, red sash across
her midriff.
"And you," Ashaf said softly. She waited a long moment, and
then looked away. "I have no water to offer."
"I do," Yollana replied, and she lifted the skin from the
folds of her wide skirts. Those skirts could hide many a thing: water,
gold. A dagger. "Will you drink with me?"
It was formal; an offer of sorts. But of what, and for what,
Ashaf could not guess. She nodded quietly. "Night is coming," she said.
"I should sleep soon." But she turned quietly and opened the door to
her home, inviting by gesture this third visitor for whom she felt such
ambivalence.
The lamp was bright enough to illuminate the four walls of her
life; to cast a shadow around the sagging cotton mats upon which she
lay night by night; to show the marks and stains and scratches in the
wood of the small table before which she knelt to eat. To pray.
She crossed the room and knelt there now, taking from a small
shelf beside the table the delicate clay bowls that had been a gift
from her husband and placing them upon the worn wooden surface. After a
moment, Yollana joined her, unhooking the lamp and placing it on the
floor by her bent knees. They stared at each other a moment in uneasy
silence; it was the Voyani woman who spoke first.
Yollana's smile was crooked. "You've aged," she said. She took
the skin from her belt, uncapped it, and poured. She was skilled, and
it was clear from the way that she watched each drop that she had
traveled in the Lord's heartlands.
"And you," Ashaf replied. "But more gracefully."
"Voyani blood." Carefully lifting a bowl, she offered the
sweet water to Ashaf.
Ashaf took it and lifted it to her lips, accepting the
visitor's gift as if there was nothing unusual about such a visit. "All
blood is red," she said softly. Then she stopped; the water that
touched her tongue was sweet and cool—it
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