Attaroa spun around to see who had thrown the spear. From the far edge of the field that was just outside the Camp, she saw a woman coming toward her riding on the back of a horse. The hood of the woman’s fur parka was thrown back, and her dark blond hair and the horse’s dun-yellow coat were so nearly the same color that the fearful apparition seemed truly of one flesh. Could the spear have come from the woman-horse? she wondered. But how could anyone throw a spear from that distance? Then she saw that the woman had another spear close at hand.
A chilling wash of fear crawled up Attaroa’s scalp, the sensation of her hair rising, but the cold tingling terror that she felt at that moment had little to do with anything so material as spears. The apparition she saw was not a woman; of that she was certain. In a moment of sudden lucidity, she knew the full and unspeakable atrocity of her heinous acts, and she saw the figure coming across the field as one of the spirit forms of the Mother, a munai, this one an avenging spirit sent to exact retribution. In her heart, Attaroa almost welcomed Her; it would be a relief to have the nightmare of this life ended.
The headwoman was not alone in fearing the strange woman-horse. Jondalar had tried to tell them, but no one had believed him. No one had ever conceived of a human riding a horse; even seeing it, it was hard to believe. Ayla’s sudden appearance struck each person individually. For some she was only intimidating because of the strangeness of a woman on horseback and their fear of the unknown; others looked upon her uncanny entrance as a sign of otherworldly power and were filled with foreboding. Many of them saw her as Attaroa did: their own personal nemesis, a reflection of their own consciences about their wrongdoings. Encouraged or forced by Attaroa, more than one had committed appalling brutalities, or allowed and abetted them, for which, in the quiet moments of the night, they felt deep shame or fear of retribution.
Even Jondalar wondered, for a moment, if Ayla had come back from the next world to save his life, convinced at that moment that if she had wanted to, she could. He watched her unhurried approach, studying every detail of her, carefully and lovingly, wanting to fill up his vision with a sight he had thought he would never see again: the woman he loved, riding the familiar mare. Her face was ruddy with cold and streamers of hair that had escaped the restraining thong at the nape of her neck whipped in the wind. Wispy clouds of warmed air streamed forth with each breath exhaled by both the woman and the horse, making Jondalar suddenly conscious of his exposed flesh and chattering teeth.
She was wearing her carrying belt over her fur parka and, in a loop of it, the dagger made from the tusk of a mammoth that had been a present from Talut. The ivory-handled flint knife he had made for her also dangled in its sheath, and he saw his hatchet in her belt, too. The worn otter skin of her medicine bag hung down her other side.
Riding the horse with easy grace, Ayla seemed dauntingly sure and confident, but Jondalar could see her tense readiness. She held her sling in her right hand, and he knew how swiftly she could let fly from that position. With her left hand, which he was sure held a couple of stones, she supported a spear, set in place on her spear-thrower and balanced diagonally across Whinney’s withers from Ayla’s right leg to the mare’s left shoulder. More spears stuck up from a woven grass holder just behind her leg.
On her approach, Ayla had watched the tall headwoman’s face reflecting her inner reactions, showing shock and fear, and the despair of her moment of clarity, but as the woman on horseback drew closer, dark and deranged shadows clouded the leader’s mind again. Attaroa narrowed her eyes to watch the blond woman, then slowly smiled, a smile of twisted, calculating malice.
Ayla had never seen madness, but she interpreted Attaroa’s unconscious expressions, and she understood that this woman who threatened Jondalar was someone to be wary of; she was a hyena. The woman on horseback had killed many carnivores and knew how unpredictable they could be, but it was only hyenas that she despised. They were her metaphor for the very worst that people could be, and Attaroa was a hyena, a dangerously malignant manifestation of evil who could never be trusted.
Ayla’s angry glare was focused on the tall headwoman, though she was careful to keep an eye on the entire group, including the stunned Wolf Women, and it was fortunate that she did. When Whinney was within a few feet of Attaroa, in the periphery of her vision Ayla caught a stealthy movement off to the side. With motions so swift they were hard to follow, a stone was in her sling, whipped around, and flung.
Epadoa squawked with pain and grabbed her arm as her spear clattered to the frozen ground. Ayla could have broken a bone if she had tried, but she had deliberately aimed for the woman’s upper arm and checked her force. Even so, the leader of the Wolf Women would have a very painful bruise for some time.
“Tell spear-women stop, Attaroa!” Ayla demanded.
It took Jondalar a moment to comprehend that she was speaking in a strange language because he found that he had understood her meaning. Then he was stunned when he realized that the words she spoke were in S’Armunai! How could Ayla possibly know how to speak S’Armunai? She had never heard it before, had she?
It surprised the headwoman, too, to hear a complete stranger address her by name, but she was more shocked to hear the peculiarity of Ayla’s speech that was like the accent of another language, yet not. The voice aroused feelings Attaroa had all but forgotten; a buried memory of a complex of emotions, including fear, which filled her with a disquieting unease. It reinforced her inner conviction that the approaching figure was not simply a woman on a horse.
It had been many years since she’d had those feelings. Attaroa hadn’t liked the conditions that first provoked them, and she liked even less being reminded of them now. It made her nervous, agitated, and angry. She wanted to push the memory away. She had to get rid of it, destroy it completely, so it would never come back. But how? She looked up at Ayla sitting on the horse, and at that instant she decided it was the blond woman’s fault. She was the one who had brought it all back, the memory, the feelings. If the woman was gone—destroyed—it would all go away and everything would be fine again. With her quick, if twisted, intelligence, Attaroa began to consider how she could destroy the woman. A sly, crafty smile spread across her face.
“Well, it seems the Zelandonii was telling the truth after all,” she said. “You came just in time. We thought he was trying to steal meat, and we have barely enough for ourselves. Among the S’Armunai, the penalty for stealing is death. He told us some story about riding on horses, but you can understand why we found it so unbelievable …” Attaroa noticed her words were not being translated and stopped. “S’Armuna! You are not speaking my words,” she snapped.
S’Armuna had been staring at Ayla. She recalled that one of the first hunters who had returned with the group carrying the man had revealed a frightening vision she’d had during the hunt, wanting her to interpret it. She told of a woman sitting on the back of one of the horses they were driving over the cliff, struggling to gain control of it, and finally making it turn back. When the hunters carrying the second load of meat talked about seeing a woman riding away on a horse, S’Armuna wondered at the meaning of the strange visions.
Many things had been bothering the One Who Served the Mother for some time, but when the man they brought in turned out to be a young man who seemed to have materialized out of her own past, and he told a story of a woman on horseback, it distressed her. It had to be a sign, but she had not been able to discern the meaning. The idea had preyed on S’Armuna’s mind while she considered various interpretations of the recurring vision. A woman actually riding into their Camp on the back of a horse gave the sign unprecedented power. It was the manifestation of a vision, and the impact of it put her in a turmoil. She hadn’t been giving her full attention to Attaroa, but a part of her had heard and she quickly translated the headwoman’s words into Zelandonii.
“Death to a hunter as a punishment for hunting is not the way of the Great Mother of All,” Ayla said in Zelandonii when she heard the translation, though she had understood the gist of Attaroa’s statement. S’Armunai was so close to Mamutoi that she could understand much of it, and she had learned a few words, but Zelandonii was easier, and she could express herself better. “The Mother charges Her children to share food and offer hospitality to visitors.”
It was when she was speaking in Zelandonii that S’Armuna noticed Ayla’s speech peculiarity. Though she spoke the language perfectly, there was something … but there was no time to think about it now. Attaroa was waiting.
“That is why we have the penalty,” Attaroa smoothly explained, though the anger she was fighting to control was evident to both S’Armuna and Ayla. “It discourages stealing so there will be enough to share. But a woman like you, so good with weapons, how could you understand the way it was for us when no woman could hunt. Food was scarce. We all suffered.”
“But the Great Earth Mother provides more than meat for Her children. Certainly the women here know the foods that grow and can be gathered,” Ayla said.
“But I had to forbid that! If I had allowed them to spend their time gathering, they would not have learned to hunt.”
“Then your scarcity was of your own doing, and the choice of those who went along with you. That is not a reason to kill people who are not aware of your customs,” Ayla said. “You have taken on yourself the Mother’s right. She calls Her children to Her when She is ready. It is not your place to assume Her authority.”
“All people have customs and traditions that are important, and if their ways are broken, some of them require a punishment of death,” Attaroa said.
That was true enough; Ayla knew it from experience. “But why should your custom require a punishment of death for wanting to eat?” she said. “The Mother’s ways must come before all other customs. She requires sharing of food, and hospitality to visitors. You are … discourteous and inhospitable, Attaroa.”
Discourteous and inhospitable! Jondalar fought to control a derisive laugh. More like murderous and inhuman! He had been watching and listening with amazement, and he was grinning with appreciation for Ayla’s understatement. He remembered when she couldn’t even understand a joke, much less make subtle insults.
Attaroa was obviously irritated; it was all she could do to contain herself. She had felt the barb of Ayla’s “courteous” criticism. She had been scolded as if she were a mere child; a bad girl. She would have preferred the implied power of being called evil, a powerfully evil woman to be respected and greatly feared. The mildness of the words made her seem laughable. Attaroa noticed Jondalar’s grin and glared at him balefully, certain that everyone watching wanted to laugh with him. She vowed to herself that he would be sorry, and so would that woman!
Ayla seemed to resettle herself on Whinney, but she had actually shifted her position unobtrusively in order to get a better grip on the spear-thrower.
“I believe Jondalar needs his clothes,” Ayla continued, lifting the spear slightly, making it apparent that she held it without being overtly threatening. “Don’t forget his outer fur, the one you are wearing. And perhaps you should send someone into your lodge to get his belt, his mitts, his waterbag, his knife, and the tools he had with him.” She waited for S’Armuna to translate.
Attaroa clenched her teeth but smiled, though it was more a grimace. She signaled Epadoa with a nod. With her left arm, the one that wasn’t sore—Epadoa knew she would also have a bruise on her leg where Jondalar had kicked her—the woman who was the leader of Attaroa’s Wolves picked up the clothes they had struggled so hard to pull off the man and dropped them down in front of him; then she went inside the large earthlodge.
While they waited, the headwoman suddenly spoke up, trying to assume a friendlier tone. “You have traveled a long way, you must be tired—what did he say your name was? Ayla?”
The woman on horseback nodded, understanding her well enough. This leader cared little for formal introductions, Ayla noticed; not very subtle.
“Since you put such importance on it, you must allow me to extend the hospitality of my lodge. You will stay with me, won’t you?”
Before either Ayla or Jondalar could respond, S’Armuna spoke up. “I believe it is customary to offer visitors a place with the One Who Serves the Mother. You are welcome to share my lodge.”
While listening to Attaroa and waiting for the translation, the shivering man pulled on his trousers. Jondalar hadn’t thought too much about how cold he was before, when his life was in immediate jeopardy, but his fingers were so stiff that he fumbled to tie knots in the severed cords that held his legwear on. Though it was torn, he was grateful to have his tunic, but he stopped for a moment, surprised, when he heard S’Armuna’s offer. Looking up after he pulled the tunic over his head, he noticed that Attaroa was scowling at the shaman; then he sat down to put on his foot-coverings and boots as quickly as he could.
She will hear from me later, Attaroa thought, but she said, “Then you must allow me to share food with you, Ayla. We will prepare a feast, and you will be the honored guests. Both of you.” She included Jondalar in her glance. “We have recently had a successful hunt, and I cannot allow you to leave, thinking too badly of me.”
Jondalar thought her attempt at a friendly smile was ludicrous, and he had no desire either to eat their food or to stay in this encampment a moment longer, but before he could voice his opinion, Ayla answered.
“We will be happy to accept your hospitality, Attaroa. When do you plan to have this feast? I would like to make something to bring, but it is late in the day.”
“Yes, it is late,” Attaroa said, “and there are some things I will want to prepare, too. The feast will be tomorrow, but of course, you will share our simple meal tonight?”
“There are things I must do for my contribution to your feast. We will be back tomorrow,” Ayla said. Then she added, “Jondalar still needs his outer fur, Attaroa. Of course, he will return the ‘cloak’ he was wearing.”
The woman pulled the parka up over her head and gave it to the man. He smelled her female scent when he pulled it on, but he appreciated the warmth. Attaroa’s smile was pure evil as she stood in the cold in her thin inner garment.
“And the rest of his things?” Ayla reminded her.
Attaroa glanced at the entrance to her lodge and motioned to the woman who had been standing there for some time. Epadoa quickly brought Jondalar’s gear and put it on the ground some feet away from him. She was not happy about returning his things. Attaroa had promised some of them to her. She had particularly wanted the knife. She had never seen one so beautifully made.
Jondalar tied on his belt, then put his tools and implements in their places, hardly believing he had everything back. He had doubted if he’d ever see them again. For that matter, he had doubted that he’d ever leave alive. Then, to everyone’s surprise, he leaped up behind the woman on the horse. This was one Camp he would be glad to see the last of. Ayla scanned the area, making sure no one was in a position to try to prevent them from leaving, or to cast a spear after them. Then she turned Whinney and left at a gallop.
“Follow them! I want them back. They aren’t getting away that easily,” Attaroa snarled to Epadoa, as she stomped into her lodge in a hot rage, shivering with cold.
Ayla kept Whinney at a fast pace until they were some distance away and heading down the hill. They slowed when they entered a wooded stretch at the bottom, near the river, then doubled back in the direction they had come, toward her camp, which was actually quite close to the S’Armunai settlement. Once they settled into a more steady pace, Jondalar became aware of Ayla’s closeness, and he felt such an overwhelming gratitude to be with her again that it almost took his breath away. He put his arms around her waist and held her, feeling her hair on his cheek and breathing in her unique warm woman-scent.
“You’re here, with me. It’s so hard to believe. I was afraid you were gone, walking in the next world,” he said softly. “I’m so grateful to have you back, I don’t know what to say.”
“I love you so much, Jondalar,” she replied. She leaned back, pressing herself even more into his arms, feeling such a relief to be with him again. Her love for him welled up and filled her to overflowing. “I found a bloodstain, and all the while I was following your trail, trying to find you, I never knew if you were alive or dead. When I realized they were carrying you, I thought you must be alive, but hurt bad enough that you couldn’t walk. I was so worried, but the trail was not easy to follow, and I knew I was falling behind. Attaroa’s hunters can travel very fast, for being on foot, and they knew the way.”
“You got here just in time. It’s a good thing you arrived when you did. A little later and it would have been too late,” Jondalar said.
“I didn’t just get here.”
“You didn’t? When did you arrive?”
“I came right after the second load of horsemeat. I was ahead of both of them at first, but the ones carrying the first load caught up with me at the river crossing. It was lucky that I saw two women going to meet them. I found a place to hide and waited for them to go past me, and followed them, but the hunters with the second load of meat were closer than I knew. I think they might have seen me, at least from a distance. I was riding at the time, and I rode away from the trail fast. Later I went back and followed again, but I was more careful, in case there was a third load.”
“That would explain the ‘commotion’ Ardemun was talking about. He didn’t know what it was, he just knew everyone was nervous and talking after they brought in the second load. But if you’ve been here, why did you wait so long to get me out of there?” Jondalar asked.
“I had to watch for a long time, waiting for a chance to get you out of that fenced keeping place—what do they call it, a Holding?”
Jondalar made a sound of assent. “Weren’t you afraid someone would see you?”
“I’ve watched real wolves in their den; next to them, Attaroa’s Wolves are noisy and easy to avoid. I was close enough to hear them talking most of the time. There’s a knoll behind the Camp, up the hill. From there you can see the whole settlement and directly into that Holding. Behind it, if you look up, you can see three big white rocks in a row high in the hillside.”
“I noticed them. I wish I’d known you were there. It would have made me feel better every time I saw those white rocks.”
“I heard a couple of the women call them the Three Girls or maybe the Three Sisters,” Ayla said.
“They call it the Camp of the Three Sisters,” Jondalar said.
“I guess I don’t know the language very well, yet.”
“You know more than I do. I think you surprised Attaroa when you spoke in their language.”
“S’Armunai is so much like Mamutoi that it’s easy to get a sense of the words,” Ayla said.
“I never thought to ask if the white rocks had a name. They make such a good landmark, it seems logical that they would be named.”
“That whole highland is a good landmark. You can see it from a long way. At a distance it resembles a sleeping animal, even on this side. There’s a place ahead with a good view, you’ll see.”
“I’m sure the hill must have a name, too, especially since it’s such a good location for hunting, but I’ve only seen a little of it, when we went to funerals. There have been two of them, just in the time I’ve been here, and the first time they buried three young people,” Jondalar said, ducking his head to avoid the bare branches of a tree.
“I followed you to the second funeral,” Ayla said. “I thought I might be able to get you out then, but you were too closely watched. And then you found the flint and were showing everyone about spear-throwers,” Ayla said. “I had to wait until the time was right, so I could surprise them. I’m sorry it took so long.”
“How did you know about the flint? We thought we were careful,” Jondalar said.
“I was watching you all the time. Those Wolf Women really aren’t very good watchers. You would have seen that and found a way to get out yourself, if you hadn’t gotten distracted with the flint. For that matter, they aren’t very good hunters, either,” she said.
“When you consider that they didn’t know anything to start with, they haven’t done badly. Attaroa said they didn’t know how to use spears, so they had to chase animals,” Jondalar said.
“They waste their time going all the way to the Great Mother River to chase horses off a cliff, when they could hunt better right here. Animals following this river have to go across a narrow stretch between the water and the highland, and you can easily see them coming,” Ayla said.
“I saw that when we went to the first funeral. The place they were buried would be a good lookout, and someone has signaled with balefires from up there before, though I don’t know how recently. I could see the charcoal from large fires,” Jondalar commented.
“Instead of building surrounds for men, they could have made one to hold animals and chased them into that, even without spears,” Ayla said, then pulled Whinney to a halt. “Look, there it is.” She pointed to the limestone highland outlined against the horizon.
“It does look like an animal sleeping, and look, you can even see the three white stones, the Three Sisters,” Jondalar said.
They rode in silence for a while. Then, as though he had been thinking about it, Jondalar said, “If it’s so easy to get out of the Holding, why haven’t the men done it?”
“I don’t think they have really tried,” Ayla said. “Maybe that’s why the women have stopped watching so closely. But a lot of the women, even some of the hunters, don’t want the men kept in there anymore. They are just afraid of Attaroa.” Ayla stopped then. “This is where I have been camping,” she said.
As if to confirm it, Racer nickered a greeting as they entered a small secluded space that was clear of brush. The young stallion was tied securely to a tree. Ayla had set up a minimal camp in the middle of the copse each night, but she had packed everything on Racer’s back in the morning to be ready to leave immediately if it was necessary.
“You saved both of them from going over that cliff!” Jondalar said. “I didn’t know if you had, and I was afraid to ask. The last thing I remember, before I was hit on the head, was seeing you on Racer’s back, having some trouble controlling him.”
“I had to get used to the rein, that’s all. The biggest problem was that other stallion, but now he’s gone and I’m sorry. Whinney came to my whistle as soon as they stopped herding her away from me,” Ayla said.
Racer was just as glad to see Jondalar. He dropped his head, then flipped it up in greeting, and he would have walked to the man if he hadn’t been tied. The stallion, his ears forward and his tail lifted high, whinnied to Jondalar with eager anticipation as he approached. Then he lowered his head to nuzzle the man’s hand. Jondalar greeted the stallion like a friend he thought he would never see again, hugging, scratching, stroking, and talking to the animal.
He frowned when he thought of another question, one he almost hated to ask. “What about Wolf?”
Ayla smiled, then pierced the air with an unfamiliar whistle. Wolf came bounding out of the brush, so glad to see Jondalar that he couldn’t keep still. He ran to him, wagging his tail, barked a little yip, then jumped up and put his paws on the man’s shoulders and licked his jaw. Jondalar grabbed him by the ruff as he’d seen Ayla do so many times, roughed it up a bit, then pressed his forehead against the wolf’s.
“He’s never done that to me before,” Jondalar said, surprised.
“He missed you. I think he wanted to find you as much as I did, and I’m not sure I would have been able to track you without him. We’re quite a distance from the Great Mother River, and there were long stretches of rocky dry ground that showed no tracks. But his nose found the trail,” Ayla said. Then she greeted the wolf.
“But he was waiting there in that brush all the time? And he didn’t come until you signaled? It must have been hard to teach him that, but why did you?”
“I had to teach him to hide because I didn’t know who might be coming here, and I didn’t want them to know about him. They eat wolf meat.”
“Who eats wolf meat?” Jondalar asked, wrinkling his nose with repugnance.
“Attaroa and her hunters.”
“Are they that hungry?” Jondalar asked.
“Maybe they were once, but now they do it as a ritual. I watched them one night. They were initiating a new hunter, making a young woman part of their Wolf Pack. They keep it a secret from the other women, go away from the lodges to a special place. They had a live wolf in a cage and killed it, butchered it, then cooked it and ate it. They like to think they are getting the strength and cunning of the wolf that way. It would be better if they just watched wolves. They’d learn more,” Ayla said.
No wonder she seemed so disapproving of the Wolf Women and their hunting skills, Jondalar thought, suddenly understanding why she didn’t like them. Their initiation rites threatened her wolf. “So you taught Wolf to stay in hiding until you called him. That’s a new whistle, isn’t it?” he said.
“I’ll teach it to you, but even if he does stay in hiding—most of the time—when I tell him, I still worry about him. Whinney and Racer, too. Horses and wolves are the only animals I’ve ever seen Attaroa’s women kill,” she said, looking around at her beloved animals.
“You’ve learned a lot about them, Ayla,” Jondalar said.
“I had to learn everything I could, so I could get you out of there,” she said. “But maybe I learned too much.”
“Too much? How could you learn too much?”
“When I first found you, I only thought about getting you out of that place, and then getting away from here as soon as we could, but now we can’t go.”
“What do you mean we can’t go? Why not?” Jondalar said, frowning.
“We can’t leave those children living in such terrible conditions, or the men, either. We have to get them out of that Holding,” Ayla said.
Jondalar became worried. He had seen that determined look before. “It’s dangerous to stay here, Ayla, and not just for us. Think what easy targets those two horses would make. They don’t run away from people. And you don’t want to see Wolf’s teeth hanging around Attaroa’s neck, do you? I want to help those people, too. I lived inside that place, and no one should have to live like that, especially children, but what can we do? We are only two people.”
He did want to help them, but he feared that if they stayed, Attaroa might harm Ayla. He thought he had lost her, and now that they were back together he was afraid that if they stayed, he might really lose her. He was trying to find a strong reason to convince her to leave.
“We are not alone. There are more than the two of us who want to change things. We have to find a way to help them,” Ayla said, then paused, thinking. “I think S’Armuna wants us to come back—that’s why she offered her hospitality. We must go to that feast tomorrow.”
“Attaroa has used poison before. If we go back there, we may never leave,” Jondalar cautioned her. “She hates you, you know.”
“I know, but we have to go back anyway. For the sake of the children. We won’t eat, except what I bring, and only if it doesn’t leave our sight. Do you think we should change our camp or stay here?” Ayla said. “I have a lot to do before tomorrow.”
“I don’t think moving will help. They will just trail us. That’s why we should leave now,” Jondalar said, clasping both her arms. He looked into her eyes, concentrating as if trying to will her to change her mind. Finally he let her go, knowing she wouldn’t leave and that he would stay to help her. In his heart it was what he wanted to do, but he had to be convinced that he couldn’t persuade her to go. He vowed to himself that he would let nothing harm her.
“All right,” he said. “I told the men you would never stand for anyone being treated like that. I don’t think they believed me, but we will need help to get them out. I admit I was surprised to hear S’Armuna suggest that we stay with her,” Jondalar said. “I don’t think she does that very often. Her lodge is small and out of the way. She is not set up to accommodate visitors, but why do you think she wants us to go back?”
“Because she interrupted Attaroa to ask. I don’t think that headwoman was happy about it. Do you trust S’Armuna, Jondalar?”
The man stopped to think. “I don’t know. I trust her more than I trust Attaroa, but I guess that’s not saying much. Did you know S’Armuna knew my mother? She lived with the Ninth Cave when she was young, and they were friends.”
“So that’s why she speaks your language so well. But if she knows your mother, why didn’t she help you?”
“I wondered that myself. Maybe she didn’t want to. I think something must have happened between her and Marthona. I don’t remember that my mother ever talked about knowing someone who came to live with them when she was young, either. But I have a feeling about S’Armuna. She did treat my injury, and though that’s more than she’s done for most of the men, I think she wants to do more. I don’t think Attaroa will allow it.”
They unpacked Racer and set up their camp, although both of them felt uneasy. Jondalar started the fire while Ayla began to prepare a meal for them. She started with the portions she usually estimated for both of them, but then she remembered how little the men in the Holding had been given to eat and decided to increase the quantity. Once he started eating again, he was going to be very hungry.
Jondalar hunkered near the heat for a while after he had the fire blazing, watching the woman he loved. Then he walked over to her. “Before you get too busy, woman,” he said, taking her into his arms, “I’ve greeted a horse and a wolf, but I haven’t yet greeted the one who’s most important to me.”
She smiled in the way that always evoked a warm feeling of love and tenderness. “I’m never too busy for you,” she said.
He bent down to kiss her mouth, slowly at first, but then all his fear and anguish at the thought of losing her suddenly overcame him. “I was so afraid I would never see you again. I thought you were dead.” His voice cracked with a sob of strain and relief as he held her close. “Nothing Attaroa could have done to me would be worse than losing you.”
He held her so tight she could hardly breathe, but she didn’t want him to let her go. He kissed her mouth, then her neck, and he began to explore her familiar body with his knowing hands.
“Jondalar, I’m sure Epadoa is following us …”
The man pulled back and caught his breath. “You’re right, this is not the right time. We’d be too vulnerable if they came upon us.” He should have known better. He felt a need to explain. “It’s just that … I thought I’d never see you again. It’s like a Gift from the Mother to be here with you, and … well … the urge came over me to honor Her.”
Ayla held him, wanting to let him know that she felt the same. The thought occurred to her that she had never heard him try to explain why he wanted her before. She didn’t need an explanation. It was all she could do to keep herself from forgetting the danger they were in and giving in to her own desire for him. Then, as she felt her warmth for the man growing, she reconsidered their situation.
“Jondalar …” The tone of her voice caught his attention. “If you really think about it, we are probably so far ahead of Epadoa, it will take a while for her to track us here … and Wolf would warn us …”
As Jondalar looked at her and began to perceive her meaning, his frown of concern slowly eased into a smile, and his compelling blue eyes filled with his wanting and his love. “Ayla, my woman, my beautiful loving woman,” he said, his voice husky with need.
It had been a long time, and Jondalar was ready, but he took the time to kiss her slowly and fully. The feel of her lips parting to give access to her warm mouth encouraged thoughts of other parting lips and warm moist openings, and he felt the strivings of his manhood in anticipation. It was going to be difficult to hold back enough to Pleasure her.
Ayla held him close, closing her eyes to think only of his mouth on hers, and his gently exploring tongue. She felt his turgid heat pressing against her, and her response was as immediate as his; an urge so strong that she didn’t want to wait. She wanted to be closer to him, to be as close as only the feel of him within her could be. Keeping her lips on his, she slipped her arms down from around his neck to untie the waist closure of her fur leggings. She dropped them down, then reached for his ties.
Jondalar felt her fumbling with the knots he had had to tie in the leather thongs that had been cut. He straightened up, breaking their contact, smiled into eyes that were the blue-gray color of a certain fine-quality flint, unsheathed his knife, and cut through his lacings again. They needed to be replaced anyway. She grinned, then held up her lower garment long enough to take a few steps to the sleeping rolls, then dropped down on top of them. He followed her while she unlaced her boots, then untied his own.
Lying on their sides, they kissed again, as Jondalar reached beneath her fur parka and tunic for a firm breast. He felt her nipple harden in the middle of his palm, then pushed up her heavy garments to expose the tantalizing tip. It contracted with the cold, until he took it in his mouth. Then it warmed but did not relax. Not wanting to wait, she rolled to her back, pulling him with her, and opened to receive him.
With a feeling of joy that she was as ready as he was, he knelt between her warm thighs and guided his eager member into her deep well. Her moist warmth enveloped him, caressing his fullness as he entered her depths with a moaning sigh of pleasure.
Ayla felt him inside her, penetrating deeply, bringing him closer to the core of her being. She let herself forget everything except the warmth of him filling her as she arched to reach him. She felt him pulling back, caressing her from within, and then he filled her again. She cried out her welcome and delight as his long shaft withdrew and penetrated again, in just the right position so that each time he entered, his manhood rubbed against her small center of pleasure, sending shocks of excitement through her.
Jondalar was building quickly; for a moment he feared it was too quickly—but he could not have held back if he’d tried, and this time he didn’t try. He let himself advance and retreat as his need directed, sensing her willingness in the rhythm of her motion matching his as he moved steadily faster. Suddenly, overpoweringly, he was there.
With an intensity that met his, she was ready for him. She whispered, “Now, on now,” as she strained to meet him. Her encouragement was a surprise. She had not done it before, but it had an immediate effect. With the next stroke, his building force reached an explosive rush and burst through in an eruption of release and pleasure. She was only a step behind, and, with a cry of exquisite delight, she reached her peak a moment later. A few more strokes and they both lay still.
Though it was over quickly, the moment had been so intense that it took the woman a while to come down from the culminating summit. When Jondalar, feeling his weight on her was becoming too much, rolled over and disengaged, she felt an inexplicable sense of loss and wished they could stay linked together longer. Somehow he completed her, and the full realization of how much she had feared for him, and missed his presence struck her with such poignancy that she felt tears sting her eyes.
Jondalar saw a transparent bead of water fall from the outside corner of her eye and run down the side of her face to her ear. He raised himself up and looked at her. “What’s wrong, Ayla?”
“I’m just so happy to be with you,” she said, as another tear welled up and quivered at the edge of her eye before it spilled over.
Jondalar reached for it with a finger and brought the salty drop to his mouth. “If you are happy, why are you crying?” he said, though he knew.
She shook her head, unable to speak at that moment. He smiled with the knowledge that she shared his powerful feelings of relief and gratitude that they were together again. He bent down to kiss her eyes, and her cheek, and finally her beautiful smiling mouth. “I love you, too,” he whispered in her ear.
He felt a faint stirring in his manhood, and he wished they could start all over again, but this was not the time. Epadoa was certain to be trailing them, and sooner or later she would find them.
“There is a stream nearby,” Ayla said. “I need to wash, and I might as well fill the waterbags.”
“I’ll go with you,” the man said, partly because he still wanted to be close to her, and partly because he felt protective.
They picked up their lower garments and boots, then the waterbags, and walked to a fairly wide stream, nearly closed over with ice, leaving only a small section in the middle still flowing. He shivered with the shock of freezing water and knew he washed himself only because she did. He would have been content to let himself dry off in the warmth of his clothes, but if she had any opportunity at all, even in the coldest water, she always cleaned herself. He knew it was a ritual her Clan stepmother had taught her, although now she invoked the Mother with mumbled words spoken in Mamutoi.
They filled up the waterbags, and, as they walked back to their campsite, Ayla recalled the scene she had witnessed just before his lacings had been cut the first time.
“Why didn’t you couple with Attaroa?” she asked. “You damaged her pride in front of her people.”
“I have pride, too. No one is going to force me to share the Mother’s Gift. And it wouldn’t have made any difference. I’m sure it was her intention all along to make a target out of me. But now, I think you are the one who has to be careful. ‘Discourteous and inhospitable’ …” He chuckled; then he became more serious. “She hates you, you know. She’ll kill us both, if she gets the chance.”