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Jarrod nearly falls into the water, so surprised is he. He steadies himself on the cane. "What did you say?"
"Oh, nothing too serious," says Sarah. There is a trace of bitterness in her voice. "And it depends on your
consent, of course."
"What do you mean, nothing too serious? Did you say mate?"
"Yes. That is, copulate." She takes a strand of her own hair in her fingers, twists it. "And now do you
think us so very refined and civilized?"
"I hardly know what to think." Jarrod picks up the cane from the water. Puts it back down on the stream
bottom, where it was before. Stands still in the current.
"It's a tradition. Tradition is everything here in the valley, in case you haven't noticed. But to be bred like
a goat I can tell you that at times I think that tradition goes too far."
"Why me? I don't. What about the men? What about Macon?"
"Macon? Don't be ridiculous. And in any case, Macon has far more important things to worry about.
Macon is not of the court. He's to be the next king in all likelihood."
"But he calls your father Uncle."
"And he calls me sister. We are not related. He's a child of the Quitman court, the one that came before
us, the Polletas. Now he's a commoner. I am a Polleta."
Sarah wanders farther down the creek, too deep to splash. After a moment, Jarrod steps from the water
and sits back down on the bank. He pulls on his socks and boots and walks after her beside the bank.
With the water slowing her, their gaits match.
"So why me? I'm even lower than a ... commoner, aren't I? Why not another commoner? Are they too
lowly for such as you?"
"The commoners," Sarah says without looking directly at him, "are the reason the court exists. My father
does not forget this. I know it."
Ahead, the creek flows over a small shoal and makes a little waterfall of maybe a two-foot drop. Sarah
moves to the side just above it and watches the water as it surges over the rock and into the air. Jarrod
realizes that she has been walking barefoot down the creek. The souls of her feet must be leather-tough
to step among the creek stones so lightly. Again, Jarrod feels tired. He goes below the little falls to where
a log has been deposited in high-water times and he sits on it. They must speak loudly to each other to be
heard above the tumble of the water.
"I'm a Princess of the Valley," she says. "A princess is at the whim of the majority of her subjects the
commoners, as you put it. I am their collective will, as far as I am able to be. That is how we live here,
how we keep ourselves from becoming like ... the others. You've been with the others."
"Yes."
She reaches and plucks a twig from the bank, turns it for a moment in her hands, then sets it in the current
and sends it over the falls. "At least that's what I tell myself when I think about the Draining of the Lees."
"What?"
"The Lees. It is a ceremony we have every twelve years, the time it takes to make a fine old red. Then all
the old barrels are broken and reworked. Everyone comes from miles around, and brings the best of
their household. The food it is unbelievable how wonderful the meals are then. I remember from when
I was a little girl. It was music and eating and my uncle Kim whirling me around and around under the
lights in the trees."
Sarah's voice becomes softer, and Jarrod must strain to hear her over the water. She is quiet for a while,
watching the falls, and then she steps from the water and comes to sit beside him.
"You've spent the morning getting ready to tell me these things," Jarrod says.
"And half the night."
He breathes out long, breathes in moist air. The fog is beginning to burn off, and the creek water sparkles
here and there.
"Tell me the rest," he says.
"There is a cave, in the hills, not far from here. The opening faces directly east. It's a very beautiful place
just after dawn. We call it the Grotto of the Lady. That is where we go to die."
"What?"
"The entire court. At the end of the Lees. We all drink poison and walk to the Lady's Grotto. Well, some
of us are carried, if the poison makes us too weak. But that is a women's mystery that I'm in charge of.
I'll make the poison just right so that the timing will work out. Hermes Androgynous. She flows to my
bidding."
"Mercury?" Jarrod says.
"Among other things. The Laughter of the Lady. That is the secret name for the poison. No man can
know."
"You're telling me."
"And you are a man. I know. You spilled yourself on the sheets while you were in the fever dreams.
Before the pills worked against the ... bacteria."
"I can't remember that. But "
"It's all foolish ritual," Sarah says. "Like the shunning that has been placed on you."
"But you die. You voluntarily die. No one asks this of us."
"Don't they? From the way you describe the life of rangers, you are constantly at war with your
neighbors."
"But the fighting is mostly waiting, preparing, getting ourselves fed," Jarrod says. "Mostly, we spend our
time in the trees."
"And mostly we make wine and cheese. Grow our gardens. Tend the animals." Sarah stands up, takes a
step back toward the water.
"Oh, why am I defending this?" she says. "I told you we were barbarians. I hate it. I love my life and I
hate the thought of leaving it, losing it. They put food in the grotto with us, then seal it up for a year. Time
enough for the worst of the rot to pass."
"Why don't you run away?"
"Where should I run to? Toward the Cougars and their ilk? Away south into the madness?"
"No."
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