He doubted that she could in fact scan space and time at once, so thoroughly. But no matter. He did not doubt that Nerigo kept his half-illicit arcanum and whatever came to it through his mirror that was not a minor well sealed against observation human and nonhuman. Whatever, gods had the scope and power to spy on him must also have much better things to do.

  Aiala’s glance lingered more than it pierced. “I do not really wish to destroy you, Cappen Varra,” she told him slowly. “You have a rather charming way about you. But — should you disappoint me — you will understand that one does have one’s position to maintain.”

  “Oh, absolutely. And how better could a man perish than in striving to serve such a lady? Yet I dare suggest that you will find my ditty acceptable.”

  The glorious eyes widened. The slight mercurial shivers almost ceased. “Sing then,” she said low.

  “Allow me first to lay forth what the purpose is. Unless I am grievously mistaken it is to provide an ode to nuptial joy. Now, my thought was that this is best expressed in the voice of the bride. The groom is inevitably impatient for nightfall. She, though, however happy, may at the same time be a little fearful, certain of loving kindness yet, in her purity, unsure what to await and what she can do toward making the union rapturous. Khaiantai is otherwise. She is a goddess and here is an annual renewal. My song expresses her rapture in tones of unbounded gladness.”

  Aiala nodded. “That’s not a bad theme,” she said, perhaps a trifle wistfully.

  “Therefore, my lady, pray bear with my conceit, in the poetic sense, that she sings with restrained abandon, in colloquial terms of revelry, not always classically correct. For we have nothing to go on about that save the writings of the learned, do we? There must have been more familiar speech among lesser folk, commoners, farmers, herders, artisans, lowly but still the majority, the backbone of the nation and the salt of the earth. To them too, to the Life Force that is in them should the paean appeal.”

  “You may be right,” said Aiala with a tinge of exasperation. “Let me hear.”

  While he talked, Cappen Varra, in the presence of one who fully knew the language, mentally made revisions. Translating, he had chosen phrasings that lent themselves to it.

  The moment was upon him. He took off his gloves, gripped the harp, strummed it, and cleared his throat.

  “We begin with a chorus,” he said. Therewith he launched into song.

  “Bridegroom and bride!

  Knot that’s insoluble,

  Voices all voluble,

  Hail it with pride.”

  She hearkened. Her bosom rose and fell.

  “Now the bride herself sings.

  “When a merry maiden marries,

  Sorrow goes and pleasure tarries;

  Every sound becomes a song,

  All is right, and nothing’s wrong! —”

  He saw he had captured her, and continued to the bacchanalian end.

  “Sullen night is laughing day —

  All the year is merry May!”

  The chords rang into stillness. Cappen waited. But he knew. A huge, warm easing rose in him like a tide.

  “That is wonderful,” Aiala breathed. “Nothing of the kind, ever before —”

  “It is my lady’s,” he said with another bow, while he resumed his cap and gloves.

  She straightened into majesty. “You have earned what you shall have. Henceforward until the propel winter, the weather shall smile, the dwellers shall prosper, and you and your comrades squall cross my mountains free of all hindrance.”

  “My lady overwhelms me,” he thought it expedient to reply.

  For a heartbeat, her grandeur gave way, ever so slightly. “I could almost wish that you — But no. Farewell, funny mortal.”

  She leaned over. Her lips brushed his. He felt as if struck by soft lightning. Then she was gone. It seemed to him that already the air grew more mild.

  For a short while before starting back with his news he stood silent beneath the sky, suddenly dazed. His free hand strayed to the paper at his belt. Doubtless he would never know more about this than he now did.

  Yet he wished that someday, somehow, if only in another theatrical performance, he could see the gracefully gliding boats of the Venetian gondoliers.

 

 

  Poul Anderson, The Lady of the Winds

 

 

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