Robb painted the pictures in his mind of all the places he wanted to see for himself and show her. Let Marcus settle in his little cottage with a wife and a dozen children. Robb still needed to see more of the world. He liked the idea of sharing his adventures with someone.
His breath caught for a moment. Vareena would make a comfortable traveling companion. But then, so would Margit, or Jack, or even some of the Rovers. He wondered if his attraction to Vareena was merely part of her talent to soothe and calm those in need.
“Robb.” Vareena looked up at him with puzzled eyes. “Robb, I thought you would take me to my land in Lord Andrall’s province.”
“We’ll go there to make your claim. But you’ve been trapped in this village all your life. Now you have the opportunity to view the world.” Why were people so fond of one hearth, one bed, one life mate when the entire world awaited them?
“I want to live on my land, work it, nurture it, know where my place is in this world. Can you understand that?”
“Yeah.” But he didn’t really. He withdrew his arm from her shoulder. “I think I understand. Marcus has the same dream.”
“I’m sorry, Robb, but I think I love the idea of owning something permanent more than I love you.”
“And I was just so grateful for all you’ve done for us, that I mistook it for love.” He had to look away from her.
After a moment he had the courage to face her again. “We’d best get the extra bread and head back. We’re still needed back at the monastery before we can pursue our dreams.” Separately.
Somehow removing Vareena from his view of the future didn’t hurt as much as he thought. Jaylor and the Commune still needed him in the field. He still needed to be in the field.
“I knew we should have talked last night,” he mumbled.
“If we had, we would still have ended up going our separate ways, but I would not have had the hope of you beside me in the morning to get me through that night of terrible dreams. Twice I considered killing myself—or someone else—just to end the dreams.” She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.
“Me, too. Thank you for that little bit of hope.” He kissed her temple and stepped up to the baker’s oven.
A wiry man turned from the opening where he shifted several loaves around with a wet wooden paddle. A young boy held out his arms, covered with thick padded cloths, to receive any finished loaves the baker retrieved.
“Master Baker, we appeal to your charity and your sense of responsibility to those in need,” Robb said quietly by way of introduction.
“Be off with you, filthy Rover!” Baker turned on him, waving the massive paddle at his head.
Robb leaned away from the blow but held his ground. “I am no Rover,” he said quietly.
“Thieves all of you!” Baker advanced with the paddle once more. His bellows had attracted the attention of others in the village. Some of them handled shepherd crooks and belt knives as if they intended to use them.
“Stop this all of you! Stop and think what you are doing. We need bread for the monastery. Nobles and warriors have come there as well as Rovers.” Vareena tried to step between Robb and the baker.
Robb held her back. He hadn’t her confidence that the locals would not attack.
“Mercenaries from SeLenicca,” a man with a crook shouted. He swung it like he knew how to use it for defense.
Robb brought his own staff to the ready. He didn’t want to blast these people with magic. Magic had a bad enough reputation in Coronnan without him adding more distrust and fear. But he’d bash a few heads if he had to.
“Why should we feed the enemy?” An older man with an air of authority stepped forward. He carried no weapon. He didn’t need to.
“Who told you Rovers and mercenaries from SeLenicca came to the monastery yesterday?” Robb asked.
“Didn’t need to be told. We saw them all arrive. Thieving Rovers can feed themselves.” The village elder stepped forward, fist raised. His people followed.
All of them had red-rimmed eyes and their gazes darted about warily. Some jumped in alarm as they brushed against their neighbors.
Could the ghost have sent his terrible nightmares this far?
If so, there would be no reasoning with these people until they’d had a good night’s sleep.
“Get away from here, Vareena,” Robb whispered as he pushed her behind him.
“I will not run from my own people. From my own father.” She stood her ground.
“Then you die with your Rover lover, for you are no daughter of mine.” The village elder advanced. He grabbed a knife and crook from his neighbor.
“You would kill me, P’pa?” Vareena still did not move out of range of the rocks some of the children picked up. Robb knew from experience that children often had the best throwing aim.
Sure enough a rock flew through the air directly at his head. He ducked, but it grazed his temple. Fire followed its path across his skull. Warm moisture oozed down his cheek.
“Robb!” Vareena screamed.
“Run, Vareena.” Robb threw up his magical armor around himself. But he couldn’t extend it to Vareena and fend off the press of bodies that followed the rocks.
He lashed out with his staff, tripping the closest man. He fell forward into Robb’s armor and bounced backward into his comrades. They clutched and scrambled for balance.
Robb used the diversion to put several arm’s lengths between himself and the irate villagers.
Stupidly, Vareena stood rooted in place. She held up her hands, begging her people to listen to reason. Her eyes showed her bewilderment at their actions.
“Just because you would never hurt a soul, doesn’t mean they won’t,” Robb muttered. His armor snapped into a wider circle to include her. He grabbed her around the waist and threw her over his shoulder.
He took off running, back to the haunted monastery. Back to all of the problems and anxious demands that had sent him out in search of bread.
“Time for a new plan,” he muttered.
CHAPTER 41
Margit sat in the shadowed ell between the lesser tower at the south end of the west wing and the exterior wall. She braced her feet against one of the few remaining foundation stones of the little temple that used to serve the monastic community. She needed the tension in her thighs and calves to maintain control of the emotions roiling in her gut.
Marcus didn’t love her.
She pushed harder against the stone before a tear could shatter her control.
One of the shadowy rovers—she could almost see these “ghosts” if she crossed her eyes and drew on every bit of magic she possessed—stood guard at the only ground floor entrance to the round structure at her back. More Rovers guarded the second-story and roof-top entrances. This lesser tower topped the exterior wall by only a few handspans and did not rise above the gloaming—the great towers on the western corners rose a full story above the defensive walls and pierced the constant haze. Inside the circular room at the base of the tower, Rejiia paced around and around her prison. Her footsteps and heavy sighs filtered through the stone to Margit’s extended senses. Sometimes she heard Rejiia climb the turret stairs and pound on the doors. Mostly she just paced.
She’d done this all night long after waking screaming from some pain or nightmare. Margit had listened from the observation platform atop the northwest tower where she had attempted to sleep. Never one to remain indoors if the weather were anything but the most hostile, Margit had rejected the tiny cells available. Better to fall asleep under the stars than trapped by four walls.
But sleep had eluded her. When she wasn’t crying over the loss of Marcus, a sense of airless dread had pursued her even to the open air. So she had listened with her magic to all of the inhabitants, looking for the source of her unease.
Everyone within the compound seemed to have awakened screaming, in a cold sweat at one time or another. And yet, even with her senses wide open, Margit couldn’t isolate the cause.
/> A loud thud within the lesser tower where Margit sat now sounded as if Rejiia had thrown her entire body as well as her magic at the door of her prison. The woman had a fierce temper if she still beat aimlessly at anything and everything that defied her.
Margit withdrew any lingering magic from her mundane sense to avoid touching the witch or being touched by her.
Yet she sympathized with Rejiia. Many times during her three years as Queen Rossemikka’s maid she had railed at the confinement of the palace. The only thing that kept her there for so long was the dream of advancing to journeywoman magician so she could wander the world at Marcus’ side.
But Marcus had had his fill of wandering. He also, it seemed, had had his fill of Margit.
She refused to be bound by his dream of hearth and home and dozens of children and apprentices. She had her own dreams.
She’d accept whatever quest Jaylor chose to give her, alone or in the company of another, as long as she did not have walls confining her or cats fouling the scant air within a building.
The ache in her heart spread to her head. Marcus had never considered her wishes in his plans. He’d never even asked what she wanted out of life. That betrayal hurt as much as the idea of spending the rest of her life indoors, cooking and cleaning for him and his brats. And he loved cats, frequently trying to arouse her sympathy for some stray whenever he visited the capital.
Some subtle variation in the light caught her attention. She sensed more than saw the Rover at the doorway shifting restlessly from foot to foot. He’d been there since before dawn. Margit would be restless and tired by now, too. Something about the changes in light around his ghostly outline made her open her magical senses again, straining to see his posture and possibly an aura.
At the same moment, she became aware of a subtle difference in the way Rejiia and her magic moved. The witch focused her beating against the magical and mundane chains that bound her. The wall at Margit’s back no longer vibrated from her assault. And yet a great deal of magic beat at her senses.
A subtle voice in the back of her mind suggested that the lock was open. She needed to shift it. She needed . . .
“Compulsions are illegal, Rejiia,” Margit chortled as she recognized the nature of the magic drifting around her. “The lock is in place. Shifting it will merely open it for you. Commune magicians are trained to be immune to magical coercion. But that Rover isn’t.”
She stood up, alert to any other changes in the compound. No more time to feel sorry for herself or worry about sleep loss. The best cure for a broken heart was action. She smiled, anticipating a fight. She twirled her staff, seeking the best defensive grip.
But if Rejiia relied on magic, Margit needed help. Marcus had not returned—probably wouldn’t for days. Robb had gone to the village with Vareena. That left Jack and the Rovers. By his own admission, Jack was half Rover, Zolltarn’s grandson. Her prejudices told her not to trust either man. But both had sworn oaths of loyalty to the Commune.
The Rover at the doorway drifted closer. His hands reached behind him. Margit couldn’t tell more because of the blasted haze that made the man nearly invisible. But she knew that no lock could resist a Rover for long.
She placed two fingers against her teeth and blew. A sharp whistle reverberated through the courtyard. Several shadowy outlines lifted their heads to look in her direction. Jack and Katrina among them.
At least Margit could see those two along with Miranda, her Rover lover, and Lanciar, the soldier from SeLenicca. None of them had passed into the gloaming.
With her magical senses extended, Jack and Katrina’s auras became fully visible to her. They complemented each other in shades of purple, silver, and white. Except . . .
Jack’s aura had a strange double layer; a reversed reflection of the purple and silver that could also be bronze and black depending upon how the light hit him. Queen Rossemikka’s aura also had a bizarre reflection that doubled the layers of energy about her. Jack did indeed have a problem.
He only took about three heartbeats to assess the position of the Rover. He turned his head toward the Rover guard. One of the indistinct outlines raised a hand and pointed at the figure outside Rejiia’s prison door.
Instantly the guard jerked as if coming awake from a doze.
Rejiia’s magic recoiled, too, as if she’d been stung by a bee.
That strange mind-to-mind link all Rovers seemed to share at work again. So why wasn’t Miranda’s lover a ghost, too?
And then Margit felt the faintest brush of tingling air against her arm. Instinctively, she swatted at the butterfly-light touch. Her hand encountered a barrier of energy extremely close. One of the ghosts stood next to her. She peered closer, letting her eyes cross, looking for distortions of light, a remnant of an aura, anything that might tell her who stood so close, so quiet she couldn’t even hear him/her breathe.
Jack and the ghost who was probably Zolltarn approached the guard. They stood for several moments talking to him in heated whispers in a language Margit did not understand. The ghost who stood next to her must be someone different. An unwanted eavesdropper.
One of the nobles or their servants? Jack and Lanciar had made certain they had all passed into the gloaming to keep them here until the situation was resolved.
“Why didn’t Rejiia try this earlier, while we slept?” Jack’s words came to Margit quite clearly.
“Time is distorted here,” Zolltarn said. His worried voice sounded as if it traversed a great distance, but was more distinct than his body. “If I have lost my planetary orientation, then so must Rejiia. She might not know what time it is. She might not have been able to control her temper until now.”
“I know what it’s like when the loss of one’s sense of where and when goes askew.” Jack shuddered visibly. “But Rejiia has always been able channel her temper into ruthless cunning. Why not now.”
“Because Ackerly has invaded all of our dreams and made us react without thinking,” Zolltarn replied.
“Who needs to think?” the invisible one next to Margit said on a breath. “Don’t think. Just turn your backs for one long moment.”
Margit almost didn’t hear her, but as soon as the words penetrated her consciousness she recognized the petulant tones of Ariiell, the pregnant one who thought the world owed her adulation.
Ariiell almost floated between the Rover guard and the door. She must have cloaked herself in some kind of invisibility spell for Jack and Zolltarn not to notice her. But the spell probably kept her from noticing anyone not in the gloaming.
Ariiell hunched over the lock and proceeded to fiddle with it.
“Oh, no, you don’t, you conniving bitch.” Margit launched herself at Ariiell in a full body tackle. She bounced against the barrier to the gloaming. Her entire front burned. But Ariiell stumbled away from the lock. A tiny bit of the mist that surrounded her faded along with her invisibility spell.
“Get away from me, you filthy peasant!” Ariiell screeched. She arched her fingers as if to claw at anyone who stood in her way.
“You won’t get that door open, Lady.” Zolltarn hauled her to her feet without regard to her delicate condition or sensibilities.
“Do not touch me, Rover.” Ariiell spat at Zolltarn’s feet. “And I am more than a lady. I carry the heir to the throne of Coronnan. I’ll have your head when I am regent.”
“You’ll have to wait for King Darville to die first. And now that we’ve been warned, we’ll protect him.” Margit inserted herself between the door and the guard, making sure Ariiell could get no closer.
“But . . . but you can’t. I have the coven backing me,” Ariiell spluttered. Her haughty demeanor drained out of her, leaving a greatly diminished and confused young woman.
“Oh, shut up, you ignorant twit!” Rejiia’s harsh voice came from behind the sealed door.
Just then Robb pushed his way through the crowd. “If you want your child to inherit the crown, then you have to stop using magic now, Ariiell.”
He leaned close to her, speaking each word distinctly. “Do you know what happens when a child’s magic is awakened prematurely because the mother thoughtlessly throws spells—if the child survives the ordeal of birth? Usually a premature birth.” Anger suffused his face with bright color.
Margit had never seen him display such passion. Usually he fell into a long pedantic lecture. Interest pricked, she noted that Vareena hung back from the confrontation. The air of possessiveness she’d displayed when they left this morning seemed to have blown away.
“Well, I’ll tell you what happens—what happened to Brevelan’s first child,” Robb continued with barely a pause for breath. “The child never speaks. He doesn’t need to because he has direct mind-to-mind communication with anyone who has a bit of magical talent. But he is totally incapable of communicating with mundanes. How can a king rule if he can’t communicate with his Council or the vast majority of his subjects. Those of us with magical talent grow up surrounded by other magicians, we seek out others of our kind when we are away from our comrades. So we expect everyone to be able to do what we do. But only one in one thousand is born with any magical talent at all. Only one in one thousand of those have enough talent to qualify for admission into the University. Only one in one hundred of those will ever reach master status.”
“Mundanes mean nothing.” Ariiell dismissed his tirade with a disdainful wave of her delicate hand.
“You’ve been working magic your entire pregnancy. I can smell it on you.” Rob did not let up. His eyes almost glowed with intensity.
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