"The High Baron fell deeply in love with my mother. Possibly that may have been Nor-Zavin's idea from the start. But then everyone in Kendron-Urtah was in love with her, really. They still speak of her: she's become a legend."
"What was her name, my lord?" asked Maia.
"Her real name was Astara. But everyone called her 'Nokomis': that means 'The Dragonfly,' you know."
"What tongue's that, then? Never Beklan."
"Old Urtan--hardly anyone speaks it now--only a few peasants up in the north. The High Baron became my mother's lover. He told her," said Bayub-Otal, "and she told me--that he'd never truly loved any other woman in his life. I suppose a lot of people would laugh at that--it's what any philanderer says, isn't it?--but my father always had the reputation of a chaste and upright man. I doubt he'd ever had any other woman apart from his wife.
"My mother loved him as deeply as he loved her; and not just because he was the High Baron, rich and powerful. She understood him. They made each other happy, that was what it came to.
"You can guess how much his wife liked the dancing-girl from Suba. If only she hadn't been a dancer, perhaps she might have been able to conceal it when she became pregnant. But of course it became plain soon enough. And one day there was an attempt on her life which nearly succeeded. My father grew afraid for her and sent her back, secretly, to Suba: not to her own village--that would have been too dangerous; but to another place, more re-mote. He used to come and visit her there as often as he could. He came alone, or else with just one trusted servant. It was known, of course, in Kendron-Urtah--or suspected, anyway--that he went to Suba. But once across the Valderra, even a High Baron can disappear and no one could tell for sure where he might be. There's another saying, you know, in Suba: 'Plenty of long grass.'
"When I was born--a boy--my father was so happy that he couldn't keep the secret, though I dare say it would have been bound to leak out anyway. He made sure I was taken every care of. There's a lot of damp and fever in Suba, of course--not good for babies, very often. I can remember him--I must have been--oh, three, I suppose-- I can smell the river-mist now--striding through the door one night after dark, covered with mud to the knees, and my mother jumping up, crying for joy. Sometimes he'd stay as long as five or six days." Bayub-Otal paused. "I've never seen two people happier together than my father and mother.
"But it was always dangerous. We used to move continually from one village to another. I'd realized that we were in danger long before I was old enough to be told in so many words. My father was always afraid, you see, that his wife would find out where my mother was living. He didn't dare have it out with her openly, because he had to do his best to stay friends with Paltesh. I suppose that makes him sound like an underhand, crafty sort of man, but he wasn't. It was simply that he had a responsibility as a ruler: he had to put the good of Urtah before anything else. A High Baron can't be like ordinary people, you know.
"As I grew older, I came to love him dearly. He kept me company every hour he could. He taught me to read-- my mother couldn't read--and how to use a bow, and to fish and hunt. Often we'd be out together all day. That was the happiest time I can ever remember."
Bayub-Otal bit his lip. "Well, I'll get on a bit. I was ten years old. It was the end of summer--burning hot and everything dry as tinder. We woke one night to find the house burning. My mother--my mother died. The servant died. People dragged me out. My hand had been trapped under a burning beam. No one knew whether or not the fire was an accident.
"I lived for the next few weeks with an old couple near-by. They were kind enough, but it was a very bad time. Then news came that my father's wife had died. It can only have been a coincidence: he'd never have harmed her. She'd been ailing for some while. I've often wondered--suppose she'd died three months earlier? Well, no good thinking about that. And a few weeks later, when the decencies had been observed, and I'd recovered--or as much as I ever will--my father brought me to Kendron-Urtah and acknowledged me as his son. He said he wasn't ashamed of having loved a woman whom he knew all his people had loved too. And I've never heard anyone in Urtah say a word against either of them from that day to this.
"My father's always been fair and just to both his sons-- my half-brother Eud-Ecachlon and me. He's never favored either of us. When Eud-Ecachlon came to be twenty-one-- that was three years after his betrothal to Fornis of Paltesh had come to nothing--I was fourteen--nearly fifteen. My father called the two of us together and made us swear by the Streels of Urtah that we'd never--"
Bayub-Otal stopped and glanced quickly at Maia, at the same time making a swift, criss-cross gesture in the air with his forefinger.
"Do you know what the Streels are?"
"No, my lord. Leastways, that's to say--"
"Yes?" His voice was sharp.
"I just know what an Urtan girl at Lalloc's said when me and Occula was there. She said something about the curse of the Streels; and then she said it was a very dreadful thing and she shouldn't have let it out. That's all I know, my lord."
"I see. Well, you can take it from me that it's a strong oath for an Urtan, to say the very least. We swore to him that we'd never be rivals for power or try to harm each other. And then he told us that Eud-Ecachlon was to inherit Urtah; everything east of the Valderra. "That's just and right," he said, "for he's my elder son and the lawful heir. And you," he said to me, "for your dear mother's sake, you're to inherit Suba; all that lies between the Valderra and the Zhairgen. Swear to me now, both of you, that you'll never go against this or try to harm each other."
"We were both glad to agree to the wishes of so good a father. Eud-Ecachlon and I, we haven't much in common; but he's never grudged me the inheritance my father promised me. And the Subans--well, they were delighted. To them I've always been 'Anda-Nokomis'--the Dragonfly's boy. The year I was sixteen I traveled over almost every mile of the province--by boat, mostly--meeting the people, getting to understand their problems and dissensions and so on, as well as a youth of that age can. I was starting as I meant to go on."
Bayub-Otal drank deeply; then got up and began pacing the room, his light, cream-colored robes swishing softly each time he turned about.
"Well, you know what happened, I dare say?"
"No, my lord. You forget, I'm only sixteen and not been long in Bekla at that. You're talking to a girl from the Tonildan Waste."
"Well, Shakkarn be thanked for that!" answered he. "Nearly seven years ago--oh, I must be careful what I say, mustn't I?"
"Why, my lord?"
"You know why. And yet," said Bayub-Otal, stopping in his walk and looking directly at Maia where she sat at the table, her cloud of golden hair framing her face and shoulders, "and yet, why should I? My feelings--the High Counselor, the Sacred Queen--they'd be stupider than oxen, wouldn't they, if they hadn't known from the start what I felt when the King of Terekenalt took Suba with their connivance?"
"When was that, then, my lord?"
"When you were about eight or nine years old. That's to say, when the Leopards came to power."
Maia recalled what Occula had told her. "When the Sacred Queen first came to Bekla, my lord?"
"Ah, yes, the Sacred Queen! Fornis of Paltesh! Have you ever seen her?"
"No, my lord, that I never."
"Well, I dare say you
will before long. She was the only daughter of the High Baron of Paltesh, and when she became Sacred Queen--when Senda-na-Say was murdered and the Leopards made Durakkon High Baron of Bekla--King Harnat crossed the Zhairgen and took Suba for Terekenalt. Fornis had told him that Baltesh would offer no resistance. In return, he was to take no further advantage of the civil disturbances caused by the Leopard revolt. It was a very good bargain--for him. He knew Urtah couldn't resist him unsupported."
Stopping beside Maia, Bayub-Otal half-sat on the edge of the table and stared down at her bleakly, covering his mutilated hand with his other sleeve.
"But if you were the rightful heir of Suba, my lord," said Maia, "then why--" She stopped, overcome with embarrassment. Would he give her the same answer as Kembri? How did he see it? she could not help wondering.
"Why haven't they killed me? That's what you mean, isn't it?"
She nodded dumbly.
"Oh, no, Maia; why bother to make a martyr, when you've already got something much better--an ineffective, contemptible loser on public display? The High Baron's bastard son, who can't even draw a bow or cut up a chicken?--a fellow not worth the killing; unless he starts making a nuisance of himself, of course. Perhaps if I were to cross the Valderra into Suba--oh, yes, if I were just to go home, as any ordinary man's free to go-- that might be grounds for putting me to death, I dare say. But the dancing-girl's dispossessed son, a man who can't even see any way to avenge his own honor, left free to kick his heels--to take to drink, perhaps, or chasing worthless girls; to be a laughing-stock behind his back--"
Maia was genuinely moved to see tears in his eyes. She put a hand on his arm.
"What's the good, my lord? Trouble--the whole world's full of trouble; worse nor yours, and mine too. But we're here in a clean, warm room. We're not hungry or cold or ill. You've money, and wine--yes, and me, too, if you want. Far as we know, neither of us is goin' to die just yet. There's thousands as that'd be more than enough for."