Under the Green Star

Chapter 16 THE SECRET OF SIONA

Our position among the outlaws of Siona’s band was anomalous and never quite defined. We were not exactly captives, for we were permitted considerable freedom of movement and there were but few overt strictures placed on our conversation, our behavior, or our whereabouts. Nor were we precisely guests, for both of us were expected to shoulder our share of the work, Niamh the household tasks and myself guard duty and weapons practice, and we were both under the orders of our squad leader, Siona’s lieutenant, Yurgon. On the other hand, we could hardly be considered as new recruits, since we had neither volunteered to join the band of foresters nor had we been invited to do so.

For the time being, it seemed simplest to merely do as we were bidden without asking questions, voicing protests, or in any way drawing undue attention to ourselves. The question of our being permitted to continue on our way to Phaolon simply did not arise for discussion. Certainly, without active assistance of the outlaws it would have been impossible for us to do so, although it occurred to me several times that we could easily have escaped from the outlaw stronghold any time we wished, since we were never under guard at any given occasion and could move about as we wished.

I don’t know whether Yurgon and his fellows considered us to be prisoners or what, but there was certainly no need for him to place a guard over us. We had not the slightest idea of our whereabouts, nor in which direction lay the Jewel City that was our goal, and without information or the help of the outlaws we could not have traveled the distance and would have been completely lost in moments, had we been so foolish as to make the attempt unaided.

I did not mind the tasks assigned to me, for my muscular body demanded exercise and I was eager to continue learning the use of the Laonese weapons. A brief tour of guard duty every night or so was no great burden and I rather enjoyed the rough, manly camaraderie of the guards, so very different from the languid and effete relationships I had known at the court of the Princess of Phaolon. There, but for the sturdy fellowship I had enjoyed with my brave, loyal Panthon and the other guards assigned to my entourage, I had known nothing like this rough and ready masculine comradeship.

For Niamh, however, the life we shared with the outlaws of Siona’s band must have been very trying, although to give the gallant princess credit where credit is due, she allowed no word of complaint to escape her lips. Siona had, I think quite naturally, assigned the princess household duties such as were shared by the unmarried or underage women of the encampment. It was her task to keep the fires going, to share in cooking the meals and in serving them, and to clean the kitchen and the eating implements after their use.

Frankly, I thought little of this. It did not for any reason occur to me that Niamh was being singled out for rough or dirty or degrading work, since the same tasks were the common lot of the other women who worked cheerfully at her side. However, the delicately reared princess had never been accustomed to performing even the slightest household labor, having been reared in conditions of the greatest luxury, surrounded by maids and servants of every description, and the simple tasks that now fell to her lot must have been a bothersome burden to her. Doubtless she had little in common with the bold-eyed kitchen girls and it was not long before they sensed this from her queenly reserve and the maidenly reticence of her speech, which was very unlike the crude and bawdy language they employed, spiced with oaths and flavored with rude jests.

At any rate, even I, in my ignorance, soon became aware of a change in the way in which Niamh was being treated by the wenches—despite the fact that she never gave voice to a word of complaint when she was with me.

In particular, I noticed that she no longer ate with me during the daylight meals, and instead had become one of the serving girls who tended the tables. This did not seem to me to be worthy of comment, for without thinking much about it I naturally assumed that the kitchen girls were assigned to wait on tables according to some sort of rotation system. But she continued in this role and it soon became obvious to me that the task had been made hers in punishment.

I first became really aware of this when I noticed that she was exclusively waiting on Siona during these meals, and that the huntress more than once spoke sharply to her, upbraiding her for some clumsiness, either actual or fancied. These scoldings were loudly performed before the full company in such a way as to degrade and shame her even before the other kitchen women. And it shortly became obvious that Siona was going out of her way to mistreat and insult the dainty Princess of the Jewel City.

One evening in particular stands out in my memory. Niamh had been at work for many hours at the hot and wearisome task of turning the spit upon which our dinner meat was cooked over a slow fire. This singularly disagreeable task was generally reserved for those girls who had misbehaved in some manner and were being punished for their lapse. As the meats dripped continually into the spluttering fire, the girl assigned to tend the spit became splattered with grease from head to foot in no time, and Niamh was no exception to this.

While serving wine at Siona’s peremptory command, the wine beaker had slipped in Niamh’s greasy fingers, spilling purple liquid over Siona’s finery. Shrieking a particularly vile name, the Amazon girl sprang to her face, dealing Niamh a buffet on the cheek that sent her sprawling.

The wine beaker went flying, smashing to a thousand ringing shards on the wooden floor, which further enraged the huntress. She snatched a coiled whip from her ornate girdle and sent its lash singing about the slender shoulders of the hapless Niamh.

I leaped to my feet, almost overturning the bench, and was upon the raised dais where Siona was accustomed to dine alone in a single bound. Without pausing to consider the possible consequences, I caught Siona’s wrist in a crushing grip and tore the whip handle from her, flinging it away.

The outlaw girl stood, her breasts rising and falling in their cups of silver openwork filigree as she panted, cheeks flushing and eyes sparkling with rage. At her feet crouched the frightened and cowering Niamh amidst a litter of crystal shards, in a puddle of spreading wine. Her creamy shoulders were bare and a crimson stripe ran obscenely across them from the biting kiss of Siona’s whip. Neither of us spoke for a long, frozen moment, and the hall itself was silent, the rows of foresters staring at this tableau in tongueless astonishment.

Slowly I relaxed my fingers, freeing Siona’s hand. I was breathing heavily, my eyes misted with fury, and in my present state I did not trust myself to speak.

Siona’s glorious eyes narrowed to slits of cold, burning rage. Her voice became a sibilant hiss as she cursed me.

“If ever again you lay your clumsy paws on me, you stinking ulphio, I will have you and this bungling, cringing slut flogged until your backs are reduced to ribbons,” she said venomously.

I should perhaps add that an ulphio is a tree scavenger of singularly loathsome dietary habits and particularly repulsive appearance—the Laonese equivalent of a rat, you might say—and its name is commonly employed in invective to the same purpose.

I said nothing, but stood facing her calmly, my arms folded now upon my chest. Niamh, however, got silently to her feet and without so much as exchanging a look with the enraged outlaw queen went into the kitchens, from which ere long she returned with damp rags to begin cleaning up the spilled wine. Still panting with fury, Siona made as if to kick Niamh as she knelt to sponge up the mess. I caught her by the elbow and spun her off-balance so that the blow did not land.

The Amazon girl laid one trembling hand on the arm of her chair and looked at me with eyes like daggers.

“You dare to touch me!” she shrilled.

“I am a guest in your hall,” I said calmly, “as is my mate. However, should you ever again attempt to strike my mate for any reason, not only will I touch you, but I will take yonder whip to your back, as you sought to employ it on hers.”

Siona’s rage was amazing to see. Her beautiful eyes widened to wells of flame; her tanned face whitened, paling to the color of milk; she sank her white teeth in the ripe flesh of her full lips in the fury of her vexation, and dealt me a stinging slap across the mouth. It was not the dainty blow of an ineffectual girl, but a staggering buffet, delivered with all the sinewy strength of her strong young arm, and had I not been braced to receive it I might have been knocked back against the table. As it was, my ears rang and my face went numb, and, although I did not notice it at the time, the rings on Siona’s hand cut my lip and blood dribbled down my face.

“You-you-ulphio!” she spat.

“Ulphio or not,” I replied evenly, “I am a guest in your hall. And if this is to be an example of the hospitality you deal to your guests, I begin to think my mate and I might prefer the embrace of the devil flower from which, and perhaps unwisely, you saw fit to rescue us!”

A point touched the naked flesh of my side gently. The cold kiss of the transparent metal awoke me suddenly to the very great danger in which Niamh and I now stood. The beautiful, tempestuous young woman whose eyes blazed into mine in her towering fury was the absolute mistress of this band of cutthroats and condemned outlaws, and our lives at that moment perhaps hung on a slender thread. For Siona was perfectly capable of having both of us whipped—or slain out of hand—or of having us thrust out into the wilderness from which she had rescued us, which would doubtless have the same result as if she had slain us. There was, however, no way in which I could have acted differently under such circumstances and have retained my honor as a warrior and as a man. And on the whole I believe I had acted with admirable restraint under such extreme provocation.

Yurgon cleared his throat before Siona could speak again. He stood at my shoulder, the tip of his shortsword—a weapon not unlike the old Roman gladius—just grazing my ribs.

“Guest-right is guest-right,” he observed in a soothing tone, clearly audible the length of the hall. “An apology might perhaps serve to cool all tempers …”

Siona’s ripe lips writhed in a silent snarl; suddenly, and inexplicably, her eyes welled brimful of tears and her face crimsoned in a flaming blush. Without a further word, her eyes failing to meet mine, she turned and left the hall, and did not reappear again that evening.

Tension relaxed visibly. A few men chuckled under their breath and one or two expelled long-pent breaths in a deep sigh of relief. Yurgon grinned, put away his sword, and made a gesture as of wiping his brow.

“You were near death at that moment, friend,” he muttered with a smile.

“I do not doubt it,” I said. “And I will try to see that such an outburst does not again occur.”

He nodded and clapped me on the shoulder.

“It would be wise of you to do that,” he agreed; and we returned to complete our interrupted meal. The meats had grown cold and the wine had gone lukewarm, but my appetite had vanished anyway. I drank and chewed automatically, wondering again and again the reason for Siona’s inexplicable dislike and persecution of my beloved, and why her temper should have blazed up at me.

The secret of her behavior did not at once become apparent. To me, at least. I doubt not, in cool hindsight, but that everyone else in the hall knew the secret of Siona of which I, in my masculine obtuseness, remained ignorant.