Blood Seed: Coin of Rulve Book One (8 page)

“Oh God, I love you too.” The words poured out before he could stop them. He had all he ever wanted in his arms, but the pain of an inevitable future loss kept his eyes tight shut against her blowing hair.

At the end of Acorn, when the fields had been harvested and a few golden leaves still dangled from the ash trees and the rest pooled like sunlight beneath them, the big market-fair was held in Ferce. It was a social event for young and old alike; and not only did the neighboring farmers come, but also peddlers from as far away as Ullar-Sent. Mariat had sewn a new skirt for the occasion, and after setting aside a store for both Tarn’s and Moro’s families, announced she had all her honey pots filled and sealed. Sheft packed his woodware in a box, ready to be taken to the fair.

The paper sheets dried at last; but then, two days before the fair, Etane was invited to spend a few days with the family of Leeza, the young lady he’d met in Ferce. Moro would not leave Ane, so Mariat was left without an escort. Since no respectable young woman ever traveled alone, Sheft knew she faced bitter disappointment. Pushing away the thought of confronting a gauntlet of suspicion and hostility in a strange town, he offered to take her. Moro gave his solemn permission.

Most of Sheft’s thoughts now revolved around Mariat. It was as if the night clouds under which he lived had thinned, and he glimpsed a high and lovely star. She could have had her choice of several young men in At-Wysher, yet she had chosen him. This wonder had come upon him as a gift unbelievably great.

But it was a gift he should never accept.

The morning of the fair dawned cold, although there had not yet been a frost, so he put on his sheepskin jacket and, full of both joy and dread, loaded the box of woodwares and toys into the wagon.

When he arrived at Moro’s house, smoke was rising out of the chimney into the chilly air, and Mariat was waiting for him, wearing her brown wool cloak. She whisked it aside to show him her skirt. It was a chestnut color, with thin strips of burnt orange, yellow, and scarlet woven in.

“What do you think? Do you like it?”

She was so beautiful that he hardly ever noticed what she wore. “I do. But I like the person who’s wearing it better.”

She laughed, and they loaded the wagon with three boxes of her honey jars, each one sealed with wax, covered with leather, and wound with a cord. 

They set out, the sun came up pink and gold, and it looked to be a fine autumn day. It may as well have been drizzling, however; because, sitting so close to one he needed so badly, he knew that the very love he felt for her demanded he stay far away from her. 

He cleared his throat. “Mariat, I’ve been thinking.”

“Thinking what?”

“Well, that we might be somewhat—somewhat mismatched.” He groaned inwardly at the inadequacy of the word, at the blunt way he had begun this conversation.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re the prettiest girl in the village, and the kindest. You have so much to offer, but that’s not—not the case with me. I can’t give you much of a future.” He could give her no future. He wanted to enfold her in his love, lay his strength at her feet; but life with a hated foreigner would be a life of misery and humiliation.

“Oh, Sheft.” She took his arm and rested her head against his shoulder. “Of course we have a future together. You’ve worked a successful fieldhold all your life, and you know paper craft. My beehives and knowledge of herbs will help too. Our future will be just fine.”

“It’s not that. You know I’m not—not accepted around here.”

“I
accept you. My father and mother and brother accept you.”

But none of them knew the deeper truth. None of them knew what was drawn to his blood. Mariat looked up at him with a slight frown. “All this talk about being mismatched. Are you trying to get rid of me, and I’m too stupid to notice?”

“
Rid
of you! Mariat, that’s just—”

She put a finger over his lips. “All right then. We love each other, and that’s what counts.” She snuggled beside him until other vehicles appeared and forced her to sit up more properly. “You worry too much, sweetheart. Always so serious. I’ll make it my duty to cheer you up.”

The wagon creaked along, and in the face of her smile, he couldn’t bring himself to continue telling her their relationship would only hurt her.

They arrived at mid-morning. The market was set up in a large field between the Village House and the Meera and the entrance fee made a fine profit for the Town of Ferce. There were two wagons ahead of them, and by now his hands were sweating. What if they wouldn’t let him in? He winced away from the thought, a blunt example of what he had tried to explain to Mariat. They drew up to the man collecting the toll, and he gave Sheft a sharp look.

“Where are you from?”

“Ullar-Sent,” he answered truthfully. He held out ten coppers, double what was needed.

The man looked around quickly, took the coins, and pocketed half. “Find any place you want,” he said, motioning for the next wagon to approach.

With a sigh of relief, Sheft drove slowly through the crowd. Open wagons, carts, and tents were lined up in rows, and the paths between them were already crowded with customers. Mariat soon gave up her idea of finding a place in the shade, and they pulled into a spot between a large wagon full of crates of squawking chickens and a cart laden with baskets of purple onions. Behind them were the sheep pens. Sheft unhitched Padiky and led her to the pasture fenced in for the occasion, where he had to pay yet more coppers to yet another sharp-eyed and frowning Fercian.

When he returned, he set up their wooden trestle tables and stacked them with the honey pots and woodware. Mariat discovered the wooden toys and, delighted, put all of them out. They would, she declared, attract children—followed by mothers with coin-filled pouches. On every side farmwives bustled by, clutching large bags and holding toddlers by the hand, young men flirted with pretty girls, and excited children ran between the stalls. Sellers shouted out praise for their goods and men led bleating sheep or cows with clanging bells around their necks.

Soon Mariat’s first customer appeared. Sheft sat in the back of the wagon, facing the sheep pens, where most people would not see him. He glanced over his shoulder from time to time, keeping an eye on Mariat, who conducted a fairly brisk business. Twice he came forward to help, but after one look at him, mothers pulled their children away and moved on. So he returned to his seat, brought out his carving knife, and began working on another wooden hay-mouse. A few children who had come to look at the sheep noticed him and gathered to watch. One small boy wanted a carving lesson, so Sheft sat him on his lap and, guiding his right hand with his own, showed him how to hold the knife. The boy lost interest when he discovered carving was harder than it looked and ran off.

As Mariat had predicted, the toys did indeed draw the attention of children. She had to rescue a carved fish as it disappeared over the edge of the table and into a child’s grasp. There were several whining requests for purchases, and one temper tantrum from a young girl whose mother wouldn’t buy anything. Within a few hours, much of the woodware, all but three carved toys, and most of the honey pots were gone. The day grew warm, and Mariat tucked her cloak and Sheft’s jacket into a corner of the wagon.

When they smelled meat grilling and pan-bread frying, and when customers drifted towards the booths selling food and ale, Mariat brought out their lunch. They sat in the front of the wagon, eating their boiled eggs and bread and sharing the water jug.

Mariat nudged him. “A drama in the making,” she said, nodding toward a group of shoppers across from them.

A small boy, about three years old, sat by his mother’s feet while she haggled over some unbleached cloth. Next to him stood the pot of honey she’d just purchased. Holding one of Sheft’s wooden ducks under his arm, the boy uncovered the pot. He dipped the duck’s bill deep into it, made gobbling sounds, then pulled the duck out and slurped the honey off. Sticky liquid ran down his chin. They watched, holding back their laughter, until the mother looked down with a horrified squeal.

“It looks like all our customers are eating lunch,” Mariat said. “Including your duck there. Now’s our chance to visit some of the other stalls.”

That would not, he knew, be a good idea; but she looked so disappointed he decided that if they didn’t go far and he kept his eyes lowered, he could risk it. “All right.”

Her eyes sparkling, Mariat quickly made arrangements with the onion lady to watch their booth, scooped the coppers they had earned into her pocket, and took his hand. They threaded past the poultry, pigs, and vegetables and headed toward the center of the fair. There they marveled at the great choice of candles, medicinals, furs, mugs, and pots of all kinds. Sheft discovered a display of woodcarving tools and, at Mariat’s urging, used several coppers from his morning’s profits to purchase a short curved blade, perfect for etching. They stopped to admire a pile of wool blankets dyed in unusual colors. Mariat bargained hard with the seller, using a talent that surprised Sheft, and purchased a pale yellow blanket for Ane. It looked like the morning sun, she said, and would cheer her mother up. 

Carrying the blanket over his shoulder, Sheft wandered with her to another stall. He studied a jar full of long sticks, each one topped with a miniature claw-like hand. “Look at these creepy things. What could they be for?”

“Observe.” Mariat selected one, stuck it down her boot, and scratched. “I would think it also works on backs.”

The stall owner popped up from where he had been napping behind the table. “That’ll be one ducat.”

“One ducat!” Mariat exclaimed. “I could just use a stick.”

“Yeh, and have it crack off in yer boot or leave splinters. This here’s solid ash.”

“My friend here makes carvings far better and sells them for less.”

The man looked at him, squinting. “He’d have to, wouldn’t he?”

“Let’s move on.” Sheft pulled Mariat away.

About halfway down the row, she stopped again and pointed at a green and white striped tent at the far end, set up under a tree. “Look there. Miramakamen the Marvelous.”

“Who’s he?”

“I don’t know. But the sign says ‘marvelous,’ so we must see!”

The flap was closed, but a large sign outside proclaimed:
Miramakamen the Marvelous. Fortunes told. Palms read. Know the future. Only three coppers.

The tent stood quietly under the sun. No sound came from within. As he watched, one of the fabric walls rippled in a breeze, then all was still again.

“I don’t want to know my future,” he said.

“Well, then wait here for me. I’m going in.” With that, she opened the tent flap and disappeared inside. Sheft stood under the tree and waited. Soon he noticed glances shooting his way, and he hoped Mariat would hurry. A farm wife at a nearby booth peered out from between the harnesses and bridles she was selling to stare at him. He moved back into the shadows.

At last Mariat emerged.  Her cheeks were flushed, and she looked thoughtful. “Go in, Sheft. It’s—well, you’ve got to try it.”

The farm wife had gotten her husband, and now both were craning their necks toward him.

He thought it might be prudent to disappear for a while, so he gave Mariat the blanket, pushed the tent flap aside, and ducked in.

The warm, canvas-filtered light threw sun-washed green stripes over the grass floor. Ragged blankets strung on a sagging rope served as a wall between two rooms. A short, well-worn path led toward a bench, which faced a rough-hewn table. There, with his back to him, sat an old man with long grey hair. He was wearing an extraordinary dark blue robe embroidered with gold stars and quarter-moons, and he seemed to be rummaging through a pouch on his lap.

“With the tinkling of the coins,” he said, indicating with one knobby finger a bowl on the table behind him, “Miramakamen commences.”

Sheft dropped three coppers into the bowl, making sure they tinkled.

Not turning around, the old man apparently found what he was looking for in the pouch and popped it into his mouth. “Be seated,” he said, leaning back against his chair and cracking his knuckles. “Now then. You will be going on a long journey. In a far-off village you will meet the”—he glanced over his shoulder and Sheft saw that his beard was as long as his hair—“the girl of your dre—” He stopped, and without getting up or taking his eyes off Sheft, hitched his chair completely around. “Oh my,” he said.

Sheft lowered his head.

“No, no,” the man said impatiently. “It’s not about what you look like, only who you are. We must talk.” He drew the small pouch from his lap and placed it on the table in front of him. “But first, care for some cheese? Bread? An apple perhaps?” As he spoke he withdrew these objects from the bag that seemed too small to contain them. “No? A mouse? Oh, there you are, Pippit.” He placed a small grey mouse on the table and looked up at Sheft apologetically. “Of course you would not like a mouse. Now, you were saying, S’eft?”

His smile fell away. “What did you call me?”

The old man looked at him with eyes that glistened on the surface but reached down to unknowable, brown depths. “I have called you by your name, my son. Surely there is nothing to fear in that.”

But there was everything to fear. With that name came bad memories, the suspicious looks of his own mother, and the dread of finding that a dark door, best kept locked, now stood ajar.