Birdsong entered through the slatted blinds, and with it the fragrance of flowers and the airy tinkle of the wind chime. The last quarter-tones of the guitarrica danced in the air as if in answer to the gay water that spouted from the mouths of the bronze fishes atop the fountain.
Discontent settled upon her like the fine grey dust of the high plateau. She thanked the musicians, but waved them away before they could begin another ghazal. The young girls bowed and retreated, leaving her alone with the fountain and her thoughts.
Recline and watch the dance of the butterfly, Ashtra thought idly, and the dance of the heron.
She frowned and rose from the divan, her hands supporting her heavy belly. Her silks swished lightly on the cool marble as she walked to the tall window, and adjusted the blinds so that she could gaze out.
The city of Gundapur lay below her, its domes and towers bright against the sky. Beyond she could see green fields, and on a hill the white pavilion of the sultan. The Vale of Cashdan, the great cleft in the escarpment that led to the grey upland desert, was far away, invisible even from the city's tallest tower, but sometimes, when the wind was right, dust carried all the way from that plateau turned the sky the color of iron.
Farther still, months away, was the Womb of the World. A rider had come to the sultan with the message the Womb was now closed, a result of a war between the sorcerers on the other side. The opinion at the court was that this on balance was a good thing. "Fewer adventurers," her husband had proclaimed, "fewer bandits, fewer wars."
Fewer magicians, she thought.
Idly she tapped one heavy sapphire ring against the cypress windowsill. Its facets cast sunlight on the ceiling.
Her husband had proved to be considerate, even lavish. He had given her silks, jewels, and a large household staff. He gave her a generous allowance, and—for Gundapur—a fair amount of freedom.
But in this decisive man she could see no trace of the boy she had married seven years before. And though he was generous, he didn't have the gift of intimacy. He spent little time in her company, preferring the society of other merchants or of companions he had made on his long journey. From excursions with his friends he returned late, if at all. He remained a stranger.
So, at times like these, when the dim sun's heat hung heavy in the air, and the wind chime rang softly to the fitful, uncertain breeze, she thought of the swordsman and sorcerer she had met on her journey from County Toi, and recalled the hours spent beneath the willows next to the oasis where her caravan had tarried for fear of the evil Priests of the Venger . . .
Lucky, she thought, that the child she carried was her husband's. She had counted the days, and was certain.
But with that anxiety faded, Ashtra could afford to indulge her fantasies.
He had called her "Ashtra of the Sapphire Eyes." He had made verses for her. Her husband had never done such things, and never would.
Was he truly a prince in disguise? She liked to think he was. He was certainly more princely than the sultan, who she had now met on several occasions, and found a coarse, greedy man, too fond of the consumption tax, the bastinado, and the strangler's bowstring as instruments of state policy.
By contrast, the sorcerer Aristide would have graced the sultan's court, or any other. It was he, after all, who had inspired the expedition that destroyed the Priests of the Venger, and killed two of them in person even though others were afraid even to approach. The expedition, staggering down from the Vale with laden camels, had brought astounding wealth to Gundapur. The sultan had confiscated much of this for his own use, but enough was left that the price of palaces in the city had risen sharply, and drunken, boasting caravan guards had been a feature of urban life for two months before the city's vice dens finally cleansed their purses . . .
Ashtra wondered if Aristide had returned to the Womb in time to pass through it before it was destroyed. She wondered if he was even now engaged with other sorcerers in some unimaginable combat for unimaginable stakes, on some unimaginable world full of unimaginable treasures and the monsters that guarded them.
She wondered what would have happened if she had accepted Aristide's offer and traveled to the Womb. Would she now be princess of some foreign land, crowned with gold and jewels? Or would she have been caught in the war, or trapped on that side of the Womb when it was destroyed?
Would she now be at the window of another palace, her belly heavy, staring out at the world and waiting for her sorcerer-husband to return from another of his adventures?
If there is a child, he had said, I desire you send it to the College . . . particularly if it is a girl.
She had been dwelling on these words of late. Ashtra had the feeling that her child would be a girl, and she suspected her husband would be indifferent to anything but a healthy son. The girl wouldn't be the magician's child, but Aristide wouldn't know that, nor would the scholars of the College. She knew of her own experience the limited opportunities faced by girls of her own class.
At the very least, a girl educated at the College would prove more valuable, and raise a larger bride-price from any future husband. She could only think her new merchant family would approve of that.
Of course, she thought, the College might not survive the closing of the Womb. Time would tell. But if it lasted, and if the child was a girl, then she would have to think seriously of this plan.
It would be necessary, Ashtra considered, for her husband to think it was his own idea . . .
She tapped her sapphire ring on the cypress-wood sill, and thought again of Aristide, his intense face, his precise hands.
She wondered again what would have become of her if she'd gone with him, on his quest toward the Womb of the World.
Ashtra indulged her fantasies a long moment, and then she drew away from the window and walked across the cool marble floors.
He would probably have abandoned her, she thought, in some mud-walled town. Got her with child and abandoned her.
All in all, she decided, things had probably worked out for the best.