A Princess of the Chameln by Cherry Wilder Page A

while Nazran was absent in the capital. Lady Maren’s household was very small; there were few visitors. When riders or vehicles struck out from the road towards the manor, there was always a moment of tension until the newcomers were recognised. When pedlars came in spring or autumn or the Pilgrim Brothers in any season, she did not show herself. If they caught her out in the open air, she kept her distance or rode Telavel up onto the barrow.
    One evening in late summer, the Hazelmoon, after she had been at Thuven half a year, Lady Maren came to her in Nazran’s study.
    â€œYou had better come down,” she said.
    Lady Maren half frowned, half smiled; as they walked onto the landing, she put her finger to her lips. Aidris peered through the railing and looked down into the hall. Two hunters stood below holding the carcase of a young white deer. They were both bearded men, well-proportioned and muscular, their hair dressed in shining curls and tresses; they wore deerskin tunics and sturdy boots. They were tiny men; they stood little more than waist high to Maith, the kedran on duty; they were hunters of the Tulgai.
    Aidris walked slowly down the stairs, unable to keep from smiling, and the hunters smiled back at her, teeth flashing in their dark, snub-nosed faces. The older man, whose beard was streaked with white, spoke up.
    â€œA gift for the heir of the Firn!” he said in the Old Speech.
    They laid the deer on the flagstones of the hall, and stepping forward, they knelt down at her feet. Aidris felt a rare moment of pride and delight.
    â€œRise up,” she said. “ I thank you from my heart, brave hunters of the Tulgai.”
    They stood before her, blinking a little in the lighted hall.
    â€œMy greeting to the Balg,” she said. “Let me send a gift to him in return for the white doe.”
    As they heaved up the deer again and headed for the kitchen, Aidris called after them, “Did the birds tell you I was here?”
    The younger hunter smiled over his shoulder, shy and fierce.
    â€œWe have heard . . .” he said.
    â€œWhat will they be given?” she asked Maren.
    â€œHoney,” she said. “Salt. A firkin of apple brandy as your gift to the Balg. They come in about once every two years.”
    At Thuven she began to sleep peacefully; her nightmares went away. She began to think of her fear as a childish thing she had outgrown. In spite of reading, riding, caring for the horses, apple picking, her life seemed pleasantly empty. She waited eagerly for Nazran and for the dispatches he sent. She treasured up the news from Achamar, from Lien and Mel’Nir, and the stories of Athron and its delights, which were common in this border country.
    Bajan came in her sixteenth year and stayed for the year’s end: for the Ashmoon, the month of changes, the five days of the Winter Feast, and the Tannenmoon, Old Man’s month, the first month of the new year. It was a time of so much rejoicing that she became anxious. Could this be herself, Aidris Am Firn, who woke every morning, eager and unafraid, and looked from the window only to see if more snow had fallen?
    She began to work her own magic. On the day that Bajan took his leave, the snows of a mild winter were still patchily covering the ground. She rode out with Bajan and his northern escort beyond the pines of the windbreak, far on to the plain. Parting he leaned from his horse and kissed her formally on both cheeks; they clasped gloved hands. She wheeled Telavel and galloped back again, then turned up the path to the top of the barrow. She did not look at the small cavalcade heading northward across the plain.
    On the summit she dismounted and sat on one of the large boulders that crowned the barrow. She pulled her snow-colored cloak of lynx and fox, Bajan’s gift, around her, right to her toes, and felt herself invisible. After digging a place in the half-frozen ground with the bone knife, she planted an acorn