Free Raetian Tales 1: A Wind from the South by Diane Duane Page B

Washing it, brushing it, talking to it. Finding it the choicest bits of greenery, bringing them to it in its stall. He sleeps with it, apparently.”
    Paol said easily, “The usual thing. The boy’s realized how valuable it is. Wants to make sure it grows up.” His voice lowered to a growl. “I can understand why. Some of the other boys—”
    “Jealous,” Flurin said.
    “Aye. Heard a few plots being hatched about spiriting the lamb off somewhere to throw a scare into Urs. Something else, nastier, about leading it onto high ground, having it come to grief.” Paol poured himself another cup. “I beat the boys I caught plotting—told them you would know who was responsible if anything happened to the beast. So now you know.”
     “Yes, well,” Mariarta’s father said, “never mind it now. What are we going to do about poor Nonna?  This is the second time this month that Mudest’s blacked her eyes—”
    Mariarta wrote. Next morning, after her father was off on his rounds, she went to Paol’s barn, where Urs kept the lamb until it was time to take it to pasture in the morning.
    She was shaking all over. At first it had seemed simpler to let Urs be angry at her. But the longer this went on, the worse it would get. If she didn’t do something soon, there would never be any chance of getting things back the way they were—
    —but then what?  Mariarta moaned softly to herself. Urs would surely want her to let him woo her. Her father would not permit it, lamb or no lamb. It would all start again.
    But she couldn’t bear him being angry at her—
    So now she made her way  to Paol’s barn. Urs was there: she heard bumping inside the stall, rustles of sweet hay being put in a manger. And the voice. “Alvaun,” it said, “my little Alvaun, my honey, my sweetheart, eat up, sweetheart.”
    Mariarta opened the barn door.
    It took her eyes a while to get used to the dimness. Urs had just straightened after arranging the new-cut grass and hay. The lamb, shining in the dimness, was eating from its manger. Urs stared at Mariarta.
    “I wondered when you would come,” he said. “Come on and look. He doesn’t bite.”
    “I know that,” she said, and went to pretend to look.
    “Everybody else came a long time ago,” Urs said. It was hard to tell whether his voice meant to be matter-of-fact, or wistful.
    “I’ve been busy,” Mariarta said.
    “Yes, we’ve heard.” Urs laughed. “The great writer to the mistral ’s council!   Misterlessa. ”
    “It wasn’t my idea.” I came to tell him I was sorry about how wrong things have gone: why isn’t anything coming out that way?   “Urs, listen—”
    “But you didn’t say no. Well, there are more ways to be important than scribbling!”
    Mariarta opened her mouth, but never had a chance. “I can be rich, with Alvaun!” Urs cried. “I can have anything I want, in a few years, when I have a big herd of white sheep, all my own!  I can have any girl I want, build a house—”
    “What you wanted once,” Mariarta said quietly, “was me.”
    Urs turned away to caress the lamb. “Not any more,” he said. “I have Alvaun now. He’s my friend, he loves me.”
    “I’m your friend!” Mariarta cried.
    “But you don’t love me,” Urs said. “You don’t love anything but your high-and-mighty old father the mistral . Not enough to—” He went silent.
    “To what?” Mariarta cried. “To make him do something he thinks would be stupid?  Just to please your pride, so you can show everybody how important you are, that you caught the mistral’s daughter?  Caught her by threatening her, by trickery?”
    The lamb was rooting in its manger. Urs peered in, and after a moment muttered, “He loves me.”
    Unhappily Mariarta thought, This was the care he wanted to give me. If he can’t give it to me, he’ll give it elsewhere— Urs straightened. “He wants more grass.”
    “He’s not a person ,” Mariarta said, desperately.
    Urs glared. “He is