The cold, cruel eyes shifted to her. "And what will you do with him,
Varra? Haul him about on a string, like Bor with his wretched beast?"
"Perhaps--though I think it would need a stout chain to hold him."
Varra turned and looked at Stark, bold and bright, taking in the
breadth and the height of him, the shaping of the great smooth muscles,
the iron line of the jaw. She smiled. Her mouth was very lovely,
like the red fruit of the swamp tree that bears death in its pungent
sweetness.
"Here is a man," she said. "The first man I have seen since my father
died."
The two men at the gaming table rose, their faces flushed and angry.
One of them strode forward and gripped the girl's arm roughly.
"So I am not a man," he said, with surprising gentleness. "A sad thing,
for one who is to be your husband. It's best that we settle that now,
before we wed."
Varra nodded. Stark saw that the man's fingers were cutting savagely
into the firm muscle of her arm, but she did not wince.
"High time to settle it all, Egil. You have borne enough from me. The
day is long overdue for my taming. I must learn now to bend my neck,
and acknowledge my lord."
For a moment Stark thought she meant it, the note of mockery in her
voice was so subtle. Then the woman in white, who all this time had not
moved nor changed expression, voiced again the thin, tinkling laugh
he had heard once before. From that, and the dark suffusion of blood
in Egil's face, Stark knew that Varra was only casting the man's own
phrases back at him. The boy let out one derisive bark, and was cuffed
into silence.
Varra looked straight at Stark. "Will you fight for me?" she demanded.
Quite suddenly, it was Stark's turn to laugh. "No!" he said.