The troops stared, the black drums beat. Clor, of course, was still drunk from the leave-feast. He lolled across his bird’s crupper. There was the business of farewell to the escort. The girl wept as she embraced her father, then smiled tremulously as he rode away. She couldn’t keep the smile off her face for long at a time, the afternoon sky was paling to the faint green horizon. The sun was pink as through a mist; its pink rays struck on the girl’s dress. Her favourite colour is pink. The rich smell of cooking spiced the whole camp.

The Beauty’s white bird was soon before us.

On it she glowed like a jewel. She wore blue, blue with a depth to it like the sea I used to watch from my high tower, her black hair streamed over her shoulders. Her big white breasts tautened the low-cut blue of her bodice, her full pale mouth pouting as she fixed her gaze on him.

“How late you are!” she complained. “Come to the tent at once, I’ve prepared as good a rest for you as I can. After your journey you must eat and drink. Did everything go well with the treemen or whatever they are?”

She rode to him and drew her white fingertips caressing down the side of his face. One corner of his mouth quirked sardonically. He stilled the hand by taking it in his but was otherwise unresponsive as she continued. “You are tired? Did they demand tribute?”

“A lot,” he said.

The little girl was watching them unblinking, her face as pink as her dress. The Beauty rode beside him, leaning on him, her hands possessively in his hair. The commanders had gone to their own parts of the camp; the soldiers had left us. Only we, the nucleus of the group, continued towards the tent. From it the noise of the usual mirth and music floated out. We reached the doorway. The Beauty, from Zerd’s side, signalled me impatiently to lift the flap. Hesitating, I obeyed. The Beauty, magnifcent as a sapphire, swayed fondly and sensuously towards Zerd for him to lift her from her bird: he took the pink princess’s hand in his, and helped her carefully down. The Beauty, sitting still ignored on her bird, seemed to notice her for the first time. The brows twitched a little; she asked, “Zerd, who is this?”

“This, my dear,” he replied over his shoulder, “is the Forest Chieftain’s daughter Lara, my wife.”

CHAPTER THREE

THE HIGH TENT

No one mentioned to Lara that she is not, strictly speaking, any legitimate wife of Zerd’s; no one mentioned that he already has a wife, a King’s daughter, waiting behind him in the great Northern kingdom. None of the commanders thought it necessary; none of the entourage dared to, even at their cattiest; the Beauty did not; I did not.