Free Land of the Burning Sands by Rachel Neumeier Page B

this angle the house lay far below, a gracious presence at the heart of a gracious countryside. He found a decent rock to sit on and padded it with the blanket. He ate the apples and a strip of dried beef. Watched the house.
    There was no unusual bustle that he could see. People moved around, going about the ordinary business of the day. A shepherd and two dogs brought in a small flock of sheep; a boy chased and caught a goose; women carried baskets of apples in from the orchard. No one hurried; no one seemed to feel any urgency about their chores. No one, as far as Gereint could tell, had followed him or tried to track him into the hills. There was no sign that the freedom Eben Amnachudran had offered had been any sort of deceit or trap.
    The sun slid across the sky. Gereint dozed. Woke. Read some of Berusent’s
Historica
. Dozed again. At dusk he finally stood up and stretched. Folded up the blanket and put it back in his pack, along with the book. Picked his way down the hill alongside the little stream, skirted the new pond with its raw-clay bank, and came back to the courtyard gates. The gates were standing open. He went through them.
    A man-at-arms posted by the gates moved in the dimness. Gereint stopped.
    The man-at-arms looked Gereint up and down. Said, expressionless, “The honored Amnachudran said he’s expecting you. I am to ask, do you wish the gates left open tonight?”
    Gereint stared back at him. “Not if your custom is to close them.”
    The man-at-arms shrugged. He said, “There’s a man to show you where to go.”
    There was in fact a servant woman, who looked Gereint up and down in quite a different manner than the man-at-arms had, smiling in appreciation of his height. Being looked at by a woman was an entirely different experience without the brand. The woman said cheerfully, “The family is dining in the little hall. I’ll take you there. May I take your pack? I’ll put it safe in your room…”
    Gereint let her take it.
    The little hall turned out to be a spacious room with a single table and long sideboard, appointed in rich wood and dark, quiet colors. The table was covered with dishes of sliced beef and bread, late carrots and early parsnips, beans with bits of crisp pork… Gereint’s mouth watered, despite the apples he’d eaten earlier.
    Amnachudran was at the head of the table. The “family” consisted of Amnachudran, Lady Emre, a dark-bearded man of about thirty—one of their sons, Gereint assumed—and, at least tonight, no one else. The family evidently served itself; there were no servants in the room. The son glanced up at Gereint with friendly curiosity; Gereint guessed his father hadn’t told him every detail of his recent adventures. Lady Emre smiled a welcome. Amnachudran himself smiled in welcome and what seemed relief. So the man had not been as confident of Gereint’s return as he’d seemed. That was, in a way, reassuring.
    An extra place was set at the table. Amnachudran gestured an invitation that was not merely kindness, Gereint understood. It
was
kindness; he didn’t doubt the man’s natural sympathy. But it was also a test, of sorts. Of whether he could use tableware like a civilized man? Or, no. More of whether he could put off a slave’s manner and behave not merely like a civilized man but like a free man. He did not even know the answer to that question himself.
    Gereint nodded to Emre Tanshan and again to the son, walked forward and took the offered chair. Lady Emre passed him a platter of beef; the son shifted a bowl of carrots to make room for it.
    “Your day was pleasant?” Amnachudran asked politely.
    “Very restful, honored sir,” said Gereint. He took a slice of the beef and a few carrots.
    “Take more beef,” Lady Emre urged him. “One needs food after hard healing.”
    Gereint took another slice of beef, nodding polite thanks when Lady Emre handed him the bowl of beans, and said courteously, “You are yourself, like your husband, a