"Ah, well, but I didn't, did I? What's gone's gone; and now's now."
"Yes," he said agitatedly, "now's certainly now; very much so. That's the rest of what I felt I had to say."
She waited--truth to tell, with some little apprehension, for she knew her man, and this loss of self-possession was so much unlike him as to be disturbing. He seemed to need time to choose his words; hanging his head, plucking at the grass and once or twice looking up as though making a false start. Finally he said, "To decide'to go back to Suba: that shows exceptional courage, too."
Another silence. "You see, there'll be those who don't know what you and I know. They'll only know about the-- about the Valderra."
"Doesn't matter," she answered listlessly, her thoughts already straying.
"It would matter to me if they killed you; it would matter very much, Maia."
But not to me. O Lespa, I believe my heart's breaking! Why do I have to undergo all this talk of Suba and what's going to happen when Zenka's gone? Can't I find some way to get this man to go away?
Just as she was about to thank him for his kindness and ask him to leave her to sleep, he spoke again.
"Your loyalty to Suba--your loyalty to me, too--they do you more credit than I can express, Maia. I've come to realize that you're like me--you're not a person who asks for favors, are you? You prefer to let deeds speak for themselves. But I can't believe that it hadn't already crossed your mind that in choosing to go back to Suba you'd be in danger."
Why can't he go? she thought.
"I felt sure it must have been worrying you, even though you're too courageous to talk about it or let anyone see it. That's why I came to speak to you tonight; to spare you any further worry as quickly as I could."
As she shook her head uncomprehendingly, he took her hand in his.
"Maia, I love you. I've come to admire you and love you more than any woman I've known since my mother died. I've come to ask you to marry me--to be my wife in Suba. You'll be safe then; and happy, too, I sincerely hope and intend."
She was taken so utterly by surprise that she could only stare at him. The idea of Anda-Nokomis as a lover--as any woman's lover--now seemed so incongruous, so anomalous as to seem totally out of character. It was as though he had said that he had decided to sell himself into slavery or become a priest of Cran. She realized now that she had never--no, not even at the time when Kembri had first put her in his way--thought of Anda-Nokomis as a sexual being; as someone naturally capable of feeling desire.
Yet she felt no impulse to laugh, as Nennaunir might have. Whatever else he might or might not be, Anda-Nokomis was a man of the most dutiful responsibility, a man of his word, who never spoke more than he felt, or intended to perform. If he said he loved her, what he meant was that he had formed the purpose of committing himself to being her loyal husband for the rest of his life: and also, as he had made clear, that he had considered the position she was bound to find herself in if she returned to Suba, and was ready to identify himself with it and make it his own personal concern.
The next thought that occurred to her was that, unlike Eud-Ecachlon, he did not stand to gain anything at all from marrying her, apart from herself. From the point of view of his public position she would, initially at all events, be the gravest possible liability. It was an enormous--an overwhelming--compliment; by far the greatest ever paid to her in her life. What he intended was nothing less than to invoke on her behalf the full weight of his authority as Ban of Suba, to reinstate and vindicate her in the eyes of those who would otherwise kill her. Yes, and to put that authority at risk, too, for it would take a fair old bit of carrying off, would that. They might not be so keen on him when he turned up with her and made it clear that he meant it. She could imagine the reaction of Lenkrit, for example, upon learning the news. But if she knew Anda-Nokomis, he had already thought about this. He said he loved her and he meant just that. She had in all actuality won his heart. Well (she couldn't help adding), what there was of it. For his, as she well knew, was a heart incapable either of glowing with warmth or sparkling with humor.
What a lot of strange and different things men meant when they said "love," she thought: Tharrin, Elvair-kaVirrion, Randronoth, Anda-Nokomis. Pity they can't boil them all down together--sport, pleasure, generosity, de-sire, respect. If I had any sense I'd accept this offer from a high-born, honest man who means what he says and won't ever change. But I haven't any sense--either that or else too much. I don't love him--I can't feel anything for him--so what can it matter to me? Once, in Melvda-Rain, Maia, you had a gold crown, studded with diamonds: but it's gone, gone; so what would you prefer now--bronze, lead or copper? What do I care?
She began to cry from sheer mortification, seeing in her mind's eye Zen-Kurel, the way he walked,'the curl of his hair, his trick of opening and closing his hand when he was considering a problem. Oh, don't go through it again! Don't start going through it all again, what the two of us said to each other that night in Melvda-Rain! Don't!
Anda-Nokomis was speaking. "Oh, Maia, I'm sorry to have upset you. I only meant to relieve you of anxiety by speaking as soon as possible."
She was trying to imagine herself as his wife. She could not--even though she respected him, even though it might make all the difference between safety and a death not so very different from Meris's.
Such was her distress and confusion that she could only cling to him, sobbing.
"Maia--"
"I can't say anything, Anda-Nokomis. Not now. Leave me, please! Just leave me!"
At this moment, while the poor, perplexed man, who plainly did not know what to make of it, was still holding her silently in his arms, there were sudden sounds of alarm and commotion outside the grove. A voice shouted, "Stand to!" followed by other voices, running footsteps and the clattering of arms hastily snatched up. Then came actual sounds of fighting, angry cries and the clang of weapon on weapon.
These, however, ceased quickly, as though a scuffle had broken off short. Tolis's voice called, "Tryzatt Miarn, get everyone on their feet!"
Bayub-Otal, without haste or the least sign of disquiet, gently released Maia and stood up. Having listened for a few moments, he said calmly, "I suppose I'd better go and see what's happening," went over to the gap by which he had entered and stepped outside.
"What is it, sentry?"
"Robbers, sir--something o' that. Tried to rush us, I reckon, but looks like the lads have seen them off."
Bayub-Otal returned. "I'll have to go. I'm sorry to leave you, Maia, but at least I know you're equal to it. I'll come back as quickly as I can."
Left alone, Maia did not take long to decide against remaining where she was. Wrapping her cloak round her, she got up and went outside. Her sentry was standing with his back to her, looking out through the trees,- Beyond, she could make out hurrying figures and firelight. She pushed quickly through the bushes as far as the sentry, who checked her with a movement of his arm.
"I wouldn't go out there, saiyett. Don't let them see you. Might just set 'em off again, like."
"Don't worry, I won't show myself," she answered. "I only want to find out what's happening. You can come with me if you like."
They went cautiously forward to the edge of the grove. In the light of the setting half-moon she could see Tolis standing to one side and in front of his men, who were drawn up in extended line. On the ground immediately in front of them lay two bodies: they were without armor and did not look like soldiers. From beyond, out in the dim scrub and fern, came intermittent taunts and cries of defiance.
"Go on, be off with you!" shouted Tolis. His voice, though clear and confident, was somewhat high in tone, and a mocking falsetto echoed, "Be off with you!" followed by jeering laughter.
"You'll get nothing here," cried Tolis again, "unless a few more of you fancy being killed."
At this the hubbub died down, and then a voice shouted, "All right, then; give us food and we'll go."
Tolis made no reply. A few ston
es came flying out of the darkness, together with a clumsily-made arrow which one of the soldiers turned aside with his shield.
"Kind of an awkward situation, sir," said the tryzatt.
"You'd better get the men back," said Tolis. "They're too exposed. The only reason I put them out there was because I hoped it might frighten the bastards away."
As the men, still maintaining line, came backing in among the trees, the same voice out of the darkness shouted, "If you won't give us food we'll have to come and get it. We've had nothing for two days."
"That's not our fault," called back one of the men. "Think we're going to waste our food on a pack of thieving swine like you?"
"We're not thieving swine," answered the voice. "We're respectable men, give us a chance. We're starving, that's what."
It was the soldiers' turn to jeer in reply to this; but suddenly above the clamor rose a new voice. "Where are you from?"
Maia started. It was Zen-Kurel, somewhere over to her left. Getting no answer, he repeated, "I asked where have you come from?"
After a short pause someone in the dark answered "Belishba."
"Why?" asked Zen-Kurel.
"You'd bin there you wouldn't ask why." Another voice added, "They're free men in Sarkid, aren't they?"
"Runaway slaves," said Tolis to the tryzatt. "I thought as much. I dare say they are desperate, poor bleeders."
"You say you're respectable men," called Zen-Kurel. "Well, now's your chance to show it, because I'm going to take you at your word."
Next moment he had stepped out from among the trees and was walking purposefully out into the dark scrubland. Anda-Nokomis's voice called, "Zenka, come back!"
Zen-Kurel turned for a moment and waved his hand; then he continued on his way.