The Valley of Horses (62 page)

She had a long neck, with a small scar at the throat, a graceful jawline, full mouth, straight narrow nose, high cheekbones, and wide-set blue-gray eyes. Her finely chiseled features were combined in elegant harmony, and her long lashes and arching eyebrows were light brown, a shade darker than her loosely falling waves of golden hair gleaming in the sun.

“Great Bountiful Mother!” he breathed.

He strove to think of words to describe her; the total effect was dazzling. She was lovely, stunning, magnificent. He had never seen a more breathtakingly beautiful woman. Why did she hide that spectacular body under a shapeless wrap? Keep such glorious hair tied up in braids? And he had thought she was merely pretty. Why hadn’t he seen her?

It wasn’t until she crossed the distance of the stone ledge and drew near that he felt himself becoming aroused, but then it came upon him with insistent, throbbing demand. He wanted her with an urgency he’d never known before. His hands itched to caress that perfect body, to discover her secret places; he longed to explore, to taste, to give her Pleasures. When she leaned closer and he smelled her warm skin, he was ready to take her, without even asking, if he
had been able. But he sensed that she wasn’t someone who could be taken easily.

“Don-da-lah! Back is … fire …” Ayla said, searching for the right words for his glowing sunburn. Then she hesitated—stopped by the animal magnetism of his gaze. She looked into his intense blue eyes and felt drawn in deeper. Her heart pounded, her knees were weak, her face grew warm. Her body quivered, bringing a sudden dampness between her legs.

She didn’t know what was wrong with her, and, wrenching her head aside, she tore her eyes away from his. They dropped to his rearing manhood outlined by his breechclout, and she felt an overpowering urge to touch, to reach for it. She closed her eyes, breathed in deeply, and tried to still her quaking. When she opened them, she avoided his look.

“Ayla help Don-da-lah go cave,” she said.

The sunburn was painful, and the time outside had left him tired, but, as he leaned on her during the short difficult walk, her naked body was so close that it kept his fierce desire inflamed. She settled him down on the bed, hurriedly looked over her store of medicine, then suddenly ran out.

He wondered where she had gone and understood when she returned with hands full of large gray-green downy burdock leaves. She stripped the leaves from the heavy middle vein, tore them in shreds into a bowl, added cool water, and pounded them to a mash with a rock.

He had been feeling the discomfort and heat of the sunburn more, and when he felt the soothing cool mash on his back, he was again grateful she was a woman of healing.

“Ahhh, that’s much better,” he said.

Then, with her hands gently smoothing on the cool leaves, he became conscious that she had not stopped to put on a wrap. As she kneeled beside him, he felt her nearness like some palpable emanation. The smell of warm skin and other mysterious female odors encouraged him to reach for her. He ran his hand along her thigh from her knee to her buttocks.

Ayla froze at his touch and stopped the motion of her hand, acutely aware of his hand caressing her. She held herself rigid, unsure of what he was doing, or what she was supposed to do. Only sure that she did not want him to stop. But when he reached up to touch a nipple, she gasped at the unexpected jolt that coursed through her.

Jondalar was surprised at her shocked look. Wasn’t it perfectly natural for a man to want to touch a beautiful woman? Especially when she was so near they almost touched anyway? He pulled his hand away, not knowing what to think. She acts like she’s never been touched before, he thought. But she was a woman, not a young girl. And from the stretch marks, she had given birth, though he saw no evidence of children. Well, she wouldn’t be the first woman to lose a child, but she must have had First Rites to make her ready to receive the Mother’s blessing.

Ayla could still feel the tingling aftermath of his touch. She didn’t know why he had stopped, and, confused, she got up and walked away.

Maybe she doesn’t like me, Jondalar thought. But then why had she come so close, especially when his desire was so obvious? She couldn’t help his desire, she had been treating his sunburn. And there had been nothing suggestive in her manner. In fact, she seemed oblivious to her effect on him. Was she so accustomed to that response to her beauty? She didn’t behave with the callous disregard of an experienced woman, yet how could any woman who looked like that not know her effect on men?

Jondalar picked up a mashed piece of wet leaf that had fallen off his back. The Sharamudoi healer had used burdock for burns, too. She is skilled. Of course! Jondalar, you can be so stupid, he said to himself. The Shamud told you about the tests of Those Who Serve the Mother. She must be forgoing Pleasures, too. No wonder she wears that shapeless wrap to hide her beauty. She would not have come close to you if you hadn’t been sunburned, and then you grab like some adolescent boy.

His leg was throbbing, and although the medication had helped, the sunburn was still uncomfortable. He eased down, tried lying on his side, and shut his eyes. He was thirsty, but he didn’t want to roll over to get the waterbag just when he had found an almost bearable position. He was feeling miserable, not only because of his aches and pains, but because he thought he had committed some gross indiscretion, and he was embarrassed.

He hadn’t felt the humiliation of social blunders for a long time, not since he was a boy. He had practiced smooth self-control until it was an art. He had gone too far again and been rejected. This beautiful woman, this woman he had wanted more than any, had rejected him. He knew how it
would go. She would act as though nothing had happened, but she would avoid him whenever she could. When she couldn’t stay away, she would still put a distance between them. She would be cool, aloof. Her mouth might smile but her eyes would tell the truth. There would be no warmth in them, or worse, there would be pity.

Ayla had put on a clean wrap and was twining her hair, feeling ashamed that she had allowed Jondalar to get sunburned. It was her fault; he couldn’t get in out of the sun himself. She had been enjoying herself, swimming and washing her hair, when she should have paid closer attention. And I’m supposed to be a medicine woman, a medicine woman of Iza’s line. Hers is the most honored line of the Clan—what would Iza think of such carelessness, such lack of feeling for her patient? Ayla was mortified. He had been so badly wounded, was still in great pain, and she had added more pain.

But there was more to her discomfiture. He had touched her. She could still feel his warm hand on her thigh. She knew exactly where it had reached and where it had missed, as though he had burned her with his gentle caress. Why had he touched her nipple? It tingled still. He had been full in his manhood, and she knew what that meant. How many times had she seen men give the signal to a woman when they wanted to relieve their needs. Broud had done it to her—she shuddered—she had hated seeing him hard in his manhood then.

She didn’t feel that way now. She’d even like it if Jondalar would give her the signal …

Don’t be ridiculous. He couldn’t, not with his leg. It was barely healed enough to put weight on.

But he had been hard in his manhood when she got back from swimming, and his eyes … She shivered thinking about his eyes. They are so blue, and so full of his need, and so …

She couldn’t express it to herself, but she stopped twining her hair, closed her eyes, and let herself feel his pull. He had touched her.

But then he stopped. She sat up straight. Had he given her a signal? Had he stopped because she had not acquiesced? A woman was always supposed to be available to a man in his need. Every woman of the Clan was taught that, from the first time her spirit battled and she bled. Just as she was taught the subtle gestures and postures that might encourage
a man to want to satisfy his need with her. She had never understood why a woman would want to use them before. Now, she suddenly realized, she did.

She wanted this man to relieve his needs with her, but she didn’t know his signal! If I don’t know his signal, he won’t know my ways either. And if I refused him without knowing, he might never try again. But did he really want me? I’m so big and ugly.

Ayla finished tucking her last braid under itself, then went to stir up the fire to make some pain medicine for Jondalar. When she brought it to him, he was on his side resting. In bringing him something for pain so he could rest, she did not want to disturb him if he had already found some comfort. She sat down with crossed legs beside his sleeping place and waited for him to open his eyes. He didn’t move, but she knew he was not sleeping. His breathing lacked the regularity, and his forehead showed discomfort he would not have if he was deep in sleep.

Jondalar had heard her coming and shut his eyes to feign sleep. He waited, muscles tensed, fighting an urge to open his eyes to see if she was there. Why was she so quiet? Why didn’t she leave? The arm he was lying on started to tingle from lack of circulation. If he didn’t move it soon, it would go numb. His leg throbbed. He wanted to shift it to ease the strain of holding it in one position so long. His face itched with the stubble of new beard; his back burned. Maybe she wasn’t even there. Maybe she had gone and he just hadn’t heard her move. Was she just sitting there staring at him?

She had been watching him intently. She had looked directly at this man more than she had ever looked at any man. It wasn’t proper for women of the Clan to look at men, but she had indulged in many improprieties. Had she forgotten all the manners Iza had taught her, as well as proper care of a patient? She stared down at her hands holding the cup of datura in her lap. That was the correct way for a woman to approach a man, sitting on the ground with head bowed, waiting for him to acknowledge her with a tap on the shoulder. Perhaps it was time to remember her training, she thought.

Jondalar opened his eyes a crack, trying to see if she was there without letting her know he was awake. He saw a foot and quickly closed his eyes again. She was there. Why was she sitting there? What could she be waiting for? Why didn’t she go and leave him alone with his misery and humiliation.
He peeked again through lowered eyelids. Her foot hadn’t moved. She was sitting cross-legged. She had a cup of liquid. Oh, Doni! He was thirsty! Was it for him? Had she been waiting there for him to wake up to give him some medicine? She could have shaken him; she didn’t have to wait.

He opened his eyes. Ayla was sitting with her head bowed, looking down. She was dressed in one of those shapeless wraps, and her hair was tied up in multiple rows of braids. She had a fresh-scrubbed look. The smudge on her cheek was gone; her wrap was a clean, unworn skin. She had such a guileless quality, sitting with her head bowed. There was no artifice, no coy mannerisms or suggestive sidelong glances.

Her tight braids contributed to the impression, as did the wrap with its folds and bulges which camouflaged her so well. That was the trick, the artful concealing of her ripe woman’s body and rich lustrous hair. She couldn’t hide her face, but her habit of looking down or aside tended to divert attention. Why did she keep herself hidden? It must be the test she was undergoing. Most women he knew would have flaunted that magnificent body, worn such golden glory to show off to its best advantage, given anything for a face so beautiful.

He watched her without moving, his discomfort forgotten. Why was she so still? Maybe she didn’t want to look at him, he thought, bringing back his embarrassment and his pain as well. He couldn’t stand it, he had to move.

Ayla looked up when he rolled off his arm. He couldn’t tap her shoulder to acknowledge her presence no matter how well mannered she wanted to be. He didn’t know the signal. Jondalar was amazed to see contrite shame in her face, and the honest open appeal in her eyes. There was no condemnation, no rejection, no pity. Rather she seemed embarrassed. What did she have to be embarrassed about?

She gave him the cup. He took a sip, made a face at the bitter medicine, then drank it down and reached for the waterbag to wash the taste out of his mouth. Then he lay back down, not quite able to get comfortable. She motioned for him to sit up, then straightened, smoothed, and rearranged the furs and skins. He did not lie back down immediately.

“Ayla, there’s so much about you I don’t know and wish I did. I don’t know where you learned your healing arts—I
don’t even know how I got here. I only know I’m grateful to you. You saved my life, and, more important, you saved my leg, I’d never get back home without my leg even if I had lived.

“I’m sorry I made such a fool of myself, but you are so beautiful, Ayla. I didn’t know—you hide it so well. I don’t know why you want to, but you must have your reasons. You are learning fast. Maybe when you can talk more you will tell me, if you are free to. If not, I’ll accept that. I know you don’t understand everything I’m saying, but I want to say it, I won’t bother you again, Ayla. I promise.”

“Say me right … ‘Don-da-lah.’ ”

“You say my name just fine.”

“No. Ayla say wrong.” She shook her head vehemently. “Say me right.”

“Jondalar. Jon-da-lar.”

“Zzzon…”

“Juh,” he showed her, articulating carefully, “Jondalar.”

“Zh … dzh …” She struggled with the unfamiliar sound.

“Dzhon- da- larrr,” she finally got out, rolling the r.

“That’s good! That’s very good,” he said.

Ayla smiled with her success; then her smile changed to a sly grin. “Dzhon-da-larr ob da Zel-ann-do-nee.” He had said the name of his people more often than he said his own name, and she had been practicing in private.

“That’s right!” Jondalar was genuinely surprised. She hadn’t said it quite right, but only a Zelandonii would know the difference. His pleased approval made all her effort worth it, and Ayla’s smile of success was beautiful.

“What means ‘Zelandonee’?”

“It means my people. Children of the Mother who live in the southwest. Doni means the Great Earth Mother. Earth’s Children, I guess that’s the easiest way to say it. But all people call themselves Earth’s Children, in their own language. It just means the people.”