Finding Destiny (7 page)

Sort of. Her next words disillusioned him as to why, thankfully.

“Doesn’t it get in the way when you talk? Or when you eat, or swallow?” she asked under her breath, propping her cheek on her palm. “And what about when you kiss? You have such lovely diction, how can a tongue that big not interfere with things like eating and speaking and such?”

Ah. Lovely. Rather than thinking of me as a sexual novelty, she’s thinking of me as a freak, a demonic aberration from a Netherhell.
Thankfully, the date wine in his system did a good job of blunting any possible sting accompanying that thought. Eduor shrugged. “It’s just ... there. It’s always been there. I’m used to it.”

“Yes, but it’s in
your
mouth, where you’re used to it. If you put it in a woman’s mouth, wouldn’t it get in her way?”

“No, I’m usually careful with it. A good ... kiss isn’t about trying to shove it down someone else’s throat.”

Her free hand came up, the edge of her finger brushing the underside of his chin. He liked the feel of her hand, warm, dry, and slightly calloused from the occasional non-priestly bit of labor. Chanson, like all the residents of Oba’s Well, was not afraid to get her hands dirty. Like that time, a couple of months ago, when she had offered to clean him up after his ignominious adventure in the mud and thornbushes.

“You don’t sound happy when you say that. Haven’t you had any good kisses lately?”

Eduor choked on an unhappy laugh. “As
if
. I haven’t had
any
kisses, good or bad, in a couple of years. Unless you count the exceptionally wet one little Amalie planted on my cheek a few weeks ago, but then she’s only three and I’m quite sure that doesn’t count.”

Stretching for her cup, she picked it up and drained it dry, then smiled at him. A teasing, feminine smile. Undoubtedly some of it came from the date wine, but enough of her own warmth infused it that it enthralled him. “Maybe you just need a beautiful young woman to kiss. An
adult
young woman, I mean.”

It took him a few moments to register what she was saying. At least, until her next words scattered his wits.

“Do you think
I’m
pretty enough to kiss?” Chanson asked him.

Eduor shook his head, but in agreement, not denial. “Definitely. Young, and pretty, and beautiful. But a kiss ...”

She pouted. Eduor stared, fascinated by the slight pucker of her lower lip. Normally, Chanson was brisk, efficient, and sassy. Much more lively and opinionated than any Mandarite woman dared to be, and far more warm and welcoming than any Natallian woman he’d seen. But a pouting Chanson was undeniably charming.

“It’s the wine, isn’t it?” She sighed, toying with her empty cup. “I’ll admit it’s given me the courage to speak, but it’s been on my mind all the same. I like you. Now that I’ve gotten to know you, of course.”

It was Eduor’s turn to glance furtively around. No one was looking their way, tucked into the back of the courtyard as they were, by one of the cisterns not yet tapped for use. Assured they weren’t drawing undue attention, he leaned close, cupped her cheek, and kissed her. Dry lips to dry lips, and no hint of his tongue, but a kiss all the same.

She was warm, she was soft, and she was feminine. She also sighed again, leaning into his kiss with an encouraging little nibble. Eduor enjoyed his first real kiss in years ... until the ugly thought popped into his head that his last “real kiss” had been with a concubine slave. By the coldest definition, not a free, willing woman.
The wine may loosen her inhibitions, but it also loosens her good sense . . . and I like her far too much to let her regret any of this in the morning. Other than the hangover; that’s unavoidable
.

Pulling back with a sigh of his own, Eduor looked down at the table. In the glow of the lights strung across the courtyard, candles sheltered from the night breezes in carefully crafted paper globes, his now deeply tanned hands didn’t look that much paler than hers. Parts of him were still quite pale, particularly from waist to knees, but months of laboring in the fields as a farmer had bronzed his skin as dark as it could go. He was happy to be a farmer, too. Happy to be here in the modest little village of Oba’s Well, somewhat off the main caravan routes and thus quiet and peaceful.

He didn’t want to ruin the life he was building by doing or saying the wrong thing. Still, he knew he had to say something.

“I like you, Chanson. A lot. More and more as the days go by. But, more than that ... I respect you.” He glanced up at her, wanting to gauge her reaction, to see if she knew just how important those three little words were. She looked a little surprised, yes, but also touched. Something inside him relaxed.
She does understand ...
Nodding, he shrugged. “That’s why I don’t think we should do this. Um, not under the influence of date wine. But later, when we’re both sober ... I’d like to try again.”

The smile that blossomed on her beautiful dark face made a small corner of his mind regret the decision to wait. The rest of him felt relief, knowing that it was the right choice.

“You,” Chanson murmured, lifting a finger so she could slide it down the length of his nose, “are a romantic. Aren’t you?”

It wasn’t a question. Blushing, Eduor ducked his head. Deciding it was best to make a tactical retreat, he carefully stood, mindful of the wine he had drunk. Then, because he couldn’t resist, he swooped down and kissed her. And very briefly, very quickly, licked her lips with his tongue.

After all,
he thought as he pulled back, leaving her smiling and dreamy-eyed,
if my tongue is going to get me into yet more trouble ...

The music stopped. Eduor became aware that all three of the musicians were staring at the two of them. Their stares and their silence were drawing more attention.
Definitely time to retreat.

He didn’t get very far. Chanson’s mother, a matronly figured woman in bright brocaded green, bustled up to him, a cup of date wine cradled casually in one hand. She poked him with her other hand, alarming the young man. The older a woman got in this corner of Sundara, he had learned, the more inclined she was to speak her mind. Apparently, this particular middle-aged mother intended to speak it to him.

“You,” Marison stated crisply, “are something. You are one, and a total, total one, at that!”

“Milady, I
swear
my actions were not meant to offend anyone,” Eduor replied under his breath. Her confrontation was embarrassing and awkward, and drawing a lot of interest from the other adults still up this late. The last thing he wanted to do was raise his voice and let the others know what was being discussed.

“What?” She frowned at him, then sighed and shook her head. “No, no, no, boy! You are
something
. A better something than that Falkon was. Why, when he was courting my little girl, he always treated her like the girl next door! He took her for
granted
. Just look at him!” She flipped her hand expressively at nothing, both emphasizing her point and dismissing the man in question, then sipped from her cup. “Run off to fight. Silly man. The desert’s a hard enough life without adding warfare to strife ... mmm, heh, that rhymed ...

“But as I was saying,
you
are something. You have substance!” She clapped him on the shoulder, and being a somewhat large, well-built woman, made him stagger a little. Chuckling, Marison saluted him with her cup. “Make sure
you
stick around.”

Turning, she sashayed away, gathered skirts swaying with each step. A glance at the others still lingering at the celebration showed them smiling. Apparently, if Marison gave her approval, everyone else would. Eduor swayed a little from the sensation of being accepted by this community. Either that or it was the wine, but he felt good about tonight all the same.

“She’s right, you know,” Chanson murmured from right behind him, so close that Eduor jumped a little. She smirked at him as he glanced over his shoulder at her. “You
are
something, and I would like you to stick around. Preferably a good, long time.”

Her hand touched his back, then slid down to pat the curves of his buttocks through the brocaded purple of his festival
thawa
. It made him jump a second time, alarmed by the touch.
That
was what Midalla had done to let him know she ...
This is
not
that dead hag of a merchant, nor her harridan niece,
Eduor reminded himself firmly.
Chanson will
not
demand I satisfy her, nor withhold everything else in my life until I comply. She is nothing like those two harpies ... for which, I thank the Gods.

It helped that when he looked at her, all he saw was a beautiful young woman with deep brown skin and nut brown eyes. Her twist-rolled locks had been swept up into a sort of dark cockscomb and confined in place by the length of sky blue linen wrapped around her head, nothing like the silky brown or blond tresses of a Natallian woman. When she walked, she walked with the same feminine sway to her hips that her mother used. Her ankles were bare beneath the straps of her sandals instead of covered in hose, and her arms decked with brass and silver bangles that clinked musically whenever she made some gracefully gestured point. Everything about the lovely
dyara
Chanson was different from the women haunting his past.

Tempted to follow her, Eduor reminded himself that they were both a little bit past the slightly drunk point and carefully headed for his temporary home instead.
That’s another thing I have to think about. There isn’t a lot of arable land around Oba’s Well. If and when that Falkon fellow comes back, the land would likely revert to him.
If
he comes back before the next planting season,
Eduor remembered fuzzily.
Something about the queen a couple reigns back declaring that any landowner who abandoned his land for a full year ... something about losing the rights to own the land, or something . . . I can’t remember. It’s in the village records, I’ll bet.

The thought of leaving threatened to sober him. Sighing, Eduor shook his head.
No ... I’ll figure something out. I can always spend my time being a teacher and a scribe, though there isn’t much calling for the latter around here. I can try claiming further soil for farming at the far edge of the village, but that would need extra irrigation support ... or I could try my hand at Mandarite engineering.

There has to be a better way these people can irrigate their fields than what they’re doing now. They use open ditches, but it’s inefficient, since it’s subject to evaporation. Maybe a system of troughs, made out of wood or even pottery, graded for a gentle slope, and a holding tank with, what, a water-screw to lift water to the top, so all three
dyara
don’t get tired out from casting their water-magics all day?

Heh. Maybe I should just put boards over the tops of all those ditches? That’d be the easiest solution . . .
Chuckling at the somewhat silly idea, Eduor took himself off to bed.

FIVE

Caught in the middle of polishing the brazier holding the Flame of Sundra, Chanson looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps. This close to the harvest season, it was unusual for anyone to enter the temple in the morning hours. Midday, yes, as the farmers gathered in the courtyard for half an hour before their midday meal to praise Sundra and pray for the right mix of weather. They wanted clear skies for the wheat harvest, followed by gradual light rains so the various fruits would ripen and the cisterns would refill. They didn’t always get it—the world was shared by many lands and many Gods with many people and many needs—but it never hurt to pray.

She did not expect to see Eduor. He looked like he was freshly scrubbed, dressed once again in his bright purple festival
thawa
, his hair freshly washed and separated into the thin braids which were the best imitation he could give of Sundaran twist-locks, given the fine, straight strands of his hair. Balancing two stacked baskets in his hands, he padded up to the end of the reflection pool, then dropped to his knees and lifted the baskets high. Offering them formally, she realized.

Quickly giving the underside of the brazier one last rub with the polishing cloth, Chanson hurried down the length of the sanctuary courtyard. “Eduor? You’re bringing something to the temple?”

Lowering the baskets, he grinned at her. “I bring the first fruits for the Goddess, and the second fruits for the
dyara
.”

Bemused, she took the baskets from him, allowing him to rise. He took back the top basket, accompanying her toward the brazier. She eyed him as they walked. “I thought the consensus among the farmers was that most of the wheat wouldn’t be ready for harvesting for two or three more days.”