Damiano (32 page)

After minutes or hours she sighed, putting the images away.

The young man—the boy—stood unmoving, staring stupidly down at the piled stones and the shards of wood and silver. The heel of the staff dangled limply from his hands. His mouth was open. Finally he dropped the stick and rubbed his face in both hands. He cleared his throat.

“It's what he wanted, Saara. Ruggerio, I mean. He had a chance to kill me, but he chose instead to try to break the staff. Well, no one but I myself could do that, while I am alive.” He turned to her, squinting as though the light was too bright.

“My lady Saara, you are so beautiful! A beautiful witch and a beautiful woman. It's not just the witch power. When I came up the meadow, you were beautiful then, too, but you didn't give me a chance to mention it.”

Saara took a deep breath, sorting the chaos within her. “I don't want all this,” she said to him. “Only what was mine. Take back what is yours.”

He shrugged and dropped his eyes. “I can't. Besides, I don't want it anymore. Your song, my lady, was never meant to be bound in wood—it wasn't happy with me—and as for mine, well I give it freely, so it won't make any fuss. Please accept it; it's like a homeless dog. It can't survive alone.”

Saara stepped forward, letting the blanket slip from her shoulders. Her embroidered dress shone gaily under a sun that was growing warmer. Rags fell, leaving her feet pink and bare. She touched Damiano.

“This is too much to understand,” she said, and he nodded.

“I find it so myself. But, lady, I trust you with power more than I trust myself. I told you so once before.

“Besides—what is all power but fire? And I have had too much of fire, lately.” He stepped away, then glanced again at her, one hand scratching the side of his head.

“Please forgive me,” he said, “for all I've done to you. It was never the way I wanted it.” And he walked away.

“Wait,” Saara called. She opened her mouth to sing his feet still, but shame stopped her. Instead she ran after Damiano, her bare feet splashing over the wet ground. “Where are you going, like this?” she demanded. “You're helpless as a baby.” He turned to her in surprise.

“I'm going west,” he said. “I thought to Provence, or as far as I get. And, my lady, don't worry. I'm no more helpless than any other man.”

“Go home instead, if you can,” she countered. “Or if that general will not let you, then stay in Ludica.

“You'll learn what it is to be alone, now, Dami. Cold and
alone. Believe me: a witch without power...”

He scratched his tangled head again, and he grinned at her. “Don't worry, I said. I know what cold is like already. I've had a lot of practice.

“And alone? Saara,
pikku
Saara! Our closest friends are sometimes those we cannot see.”

He leaped one coil of the broad, choked stream that cut the meadow into islands. Landing, he slipped and fell on one knee, then stood again, laughing at himself. He met the Fenwoman's gaze, he squinting with the distance between them. “What a body this is; nothing seems to work right.” Then his grin softened. “Look at me, Saara. I'm happy. Haven't you eyes to see?”

Then he turned on his heel and darted across the meadow. Saara watched him until, slapping a low branch with his hand, he faded into the dark trees. When he had vanished, she lifted her head to the high, singing brilliance that went with Damiano, shining above the pine wood.

She had the eyes to see.