Ho! and off to Thamber Meadow to see the beautiful golden witch.
Her hut was a simple affair of woven reeds — a low dome with two round windows and a low door. He saw Lith at the pond bare-legged among the water shoots, catching frogs for her supper. A white kirtle was gathered up tight around her thighs; stock-still she stood and the dark water rippled rings away from her slender knees.
She was more beautiful than Liane could have imagined, as if one of Florejin’s wasted bubbles had burst here on the water. Her skin was pale creamed stirred gold, her hair a denser, wetter gold. Her eyes were like Liane’s own, great golden orbs, and hers were wide apart, tilted slightly.
Liane strode forward and planted himself on the bank. She looked up startled, her ripe mouth half-open.
“Behold, golden witch, here is Liane. He has come to welcome you to Thamber; and he offers you his friendship, his love …”
Lith bent, scooped a handful of slime from the bank and flung it into his face.
Shouting the most violent curses, Liane wiped his eyes free, but the door to the hut had slammed shut.
Liane strode to the door and pounded it with his fist.
“Open and show your witch’s face, or I burn the hut!”
The door opened, and the girl looked forth, smiling. “What now?”
Liane entered the hut and lunged for the girl, but twenty thin shafts darted out, twenty points pricking his chest. He halted, eyebrows raised, mouth twitching.
“Down, steel,” said Lith. The blades snapped from view. “So easily could I seek your vitality,” said Lith, “had I willed.”
Liane frowned and rubbed his chin as if pondering. “You understand,” he said earnestly, “what a witless thing you do. Liane is feared by those who fear fear, loved by those who love love. And you —” his eyes swam the golden glory of her body “— you are ripe as a sweet fruit, you are eager, you glisten and tremble with love. You please Liane, and he will spend much warmness on you.”
“No, no,” said Lith, with a slow smile. “You are too hasty.”
Liane looked at her in surprise. “Indeed?”
“I am Lith,” said she. “I am what you say I am. I ferment, I burn, I seethe. Yet I may have no lover but him who has served me. He must be brave, swift, cunning.”
“I am he,” said Liane. He chewed at his lip. “It is not usually thus. I detest this indecision.” He took a step forward. “Come, let us —”
She backed away. “No, no. You forget. How have you served me, how have you gained the right to my love?”
“Absurdity!” stormed Liane. “Look at me! Note my perfect grace, the beauty of my form and feature, my great eyes, as golden as your own, my manifest will and power … It is you who should serve me. That is how I will have it.” He sank upon a low divan. “Woman, give me wine.”
She shook her head. “In my small domed hut I cannot be forced. Perhaps outside on Thamber Meadow — but in here, among my blue and red tassels, with twenty blades of steel at my call, you must obey me … So choose. Either arise and go, never to return, or else agree to serve me on one small mission, and then have me and all my ardor.”
Liane sat straight and stiff. An odd creature, the golden witch. But, indeed, she was worth some exertion, and he would make her pay for her impudence.
“Very well then,” he said blandly. “I will serve you. What do you wish? Jewels? I can suffocate you in pearls, blind you with diamonds. I have two emeralds the size of your fist, and they are green oceans, where the gaze is trapped and wanders forever among vertical green prisms …”
“No, no jewels —”
“An enemy, perhaps. Ah, so simple. Liane will kill you ten men. Two steps forward, thrust — thus!” He lunged. “And souls go thrilling up like bubbles in a beaker of mead.”
“No. I want no killing.”
He sat back, frowning. “What then?”
She stepped to the back of the room and pulled at a drape. It swung aside, displaying a golden tapestry. The scene was a valley bounded by two steep mountains, a broad valley where a placid river ran, past a quiet village and so into a grove of trees. Golden was the river, golden the mountains, golden the trees — golds so various, so rich, so subtle that the effect was like a many-colored landscape. But the tapestry had been rudely hacked in half.
Liane was entranced. “Exquisite, exquisite …”
Lith said, “It is the Magic Valley of Ariventa so depicted. The other half has been stolen from me, and its recovery is the service I wish of you.”
“Where is the other half?” demanded Liane. “Who is the dastard?”
Now she watched him closely. “Have you ever heard of Chun? Chun the Unavoidable?”
Liane considered. “No.”
“He stole the half to my tapestry, and hung it in a marble hall, and this hall is in the ruins to the north of Kaiin.”
“Ha!” muttered Liane.
“The hall is by the Place of Whispers, and is marked by a leaning column with a black medallion of a phoenix and a two-headed lizard.”
“I go,” said Liane. He rose. “One day to Kaiin, one day to steal, one day to return. Three days.”
Lith followed him to the door. “Beware of Chun the Unavoidable,” she whispered.
And Liane strode away whistling, the red feather bobbing in his green cap. Lith watched him, then turned and slowly approached the golden tapestry. “Golden Ariventa,” she whispered, “my heart cries and hurts with longing for you …”
The Derna is a swifter, thinner river than the Scaum, its bosomy sister to the south. And where the Scaum wallows through a broad dale, purple with horse-blossom, pocked white and gray with crumbling castles, the Derna has sheered a steep canyon, overhung by forested bluffs.
