by Karen Miller
“Deenie?” Charis inched closer as the men continued to brangle. “We should sneak away while they’re not looking. ’Cause there’s only two of us and we’re girls. What if they—”
“They won’t,” she said. “I told you. We can trust him. Ewen.”
Now Charis was glaring. “And you’re sure of that, are you, after knowing him such a long time?”
“You, there! Girl!”
She turned. Ewen was going to have to stop calling her that. “Deenie,” she said, and put a snap in her voice.
Leaving his men, he came back. His sword was in its scabbard now, but one hand was on its hilt. “Deenie. You understand me?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Hold up three fingers, so I’m sure.”
Sighing, she held up three fingers. “See? I can count, too.”
His lips twitched. “It’s strange, your tongue—but you’re being sassy, I say.”
“Sassy? That’s a new word. Where I come from I think you’d say slumskumbledy.” She shrugged. “Either way, I won’t apologise. I used to be a mouse once, but that Deenie got herself drowned on the way here.”
“Stop your nattering,” he said. “No point to it, is there, when I can’t understand you?”
“No,” she said. “I s’pose not.”
He looked at the dead beast, his eyes grim. “Sorcery was it, that killed them?”
Ah. Now here was a sticky bit. “You could call it that, I s’pose.”
He glared. “Yes or no?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
They could understand that much of her, then. His men muttered, dangerous, and every sword came up.
“Sorcery,” said Ewen. There was murder in his eyes.
Not shifting her gaze from his face, she knelt before him then tugged aside her damp tangle of hair, baring her throat. “I won’t hurt you, Ewen.”
“Deenie, what are you doing?” Charis demanded. “Do you want him to cut off your head?”
“He won’t,” she said, her heart pounding. “I frighted him. That’s all.”
“And now you’re frighting me!”
“I’m sorry. Don’t fratch. We’ll be all right.”
“Deenie—”
Still, she looked at him. “Mama was prophecy’s keeper, remember? And I’m her daughter. I dreamed him. He won’t hurt me.”
“And what about me? I don’t want my life in his hands!”
“It’s not, Charis,” she said steadily. “It’s in mine.”
Charis groaned. “Deenie, I could smack you! Fine. But if it looks like manky business then you drop him like you dropped those beasts. I mean it. You have to.”
Fingers still on his sword-hilt, Ewen was frowning. “Charis, she is? She’s afraid?”
“Yes.”
“Are you afraid, Deenie?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Sorcery,” he said, close to growling. “I should put you down, girl.” Then his gaze flicked to the dead beast. “But it’s our lives we owe you.”
She sank onto her heels. “You’re welcome.”
Doubt was churning in him. “Who are you, girl? Where are you from? Iringa? Trindek? Feen?”
“We’re Olken, from Lur.”
“Lur? That’s your country? I don’t know it.” He dragged a hand down his face then, surprising her, dropped to one knee. Took her chin between his thumb and finger and stared hard into her eyes. “Trust you, girl, can I? Or will you murder us in our sleep?”
He might not understand her words, but with luck he’d sense that she wasn’t a threat. “No, Ewen. I won’t.”
He let go of her. “Spirit,” he muttered. “It’s glad I am Tav’s not here.” In a single, smooth motion he stood. “Get up. You and Charis are safe, you are.”
“What? What did he say?” Charis demanded.
“That we’re safe,” Deenie said, standing. Ewen watched her, and didn’t offer a helping hand.
Charis snorted. “And I suppose no man ever said that and broke his word?”
“We’ll bide here ’til sunrise, we will,” said Ewen, glancing at his men. “Come dawn, you ride with us.”
“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” said Charis. “We’re his prisoners?”
“He thinks we are,” Deenie murmured.
Ewen pointed at the cottage. “Going to sleep in there, were you?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“This stretch of rough country’s rotten with beasts, it is,” he said. “I’ll watch you, I will.” He turned to his men. “Make yourselves some torches, then get the horses settled and—”
“No need for torches,” said Deenie, and with a snap of her fingers called glimfire. To a man they cried out—even Ewen was startled—and suddenly every sword was pointed at her throat.
Ewen spat on the grass. “Sorcery.”
“No,” she said. “It’s just light. But if you don’t like it?” She snapped her fingers again, and the glimfire went out.
In the dying firelight he blinked at her. Scowled at the darkness. Glanced at his men. Scowled at her.
“Bring it back.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Please.”
“What?” he said, baffled. “Girl—Deenie—bring it back. We can’t watch for beasts in the dark.”
Sighing, she summoned several balls of glimfire, spread them about so everyone could see properly, then took Charis’s arm and turned for the cottage.
“He’s going to nursemaid us. We’ll have to talk later.”
Their own bobbing ball of glimfire showed them the cottage’s doorway and the bare, clean floor within. With Ewen a few paces behind them they ducked inside and sat themselves with their almost-empty haversack, then watched as he sat by the empty doorway opposite, his drawn sword across his bent knees and his back to the wall. His gaze roamed the cottage’s small, single room. Sadness again, swiftly suppressed. And then it settled.
“It’s a strange girl you are… Deenie.”
Deenie shrugged. “No stranger than you, Ewen.”
“What’s he saying?” said Charis.
“Nothing important.” She patted Charis’s hand. “Get your head down. You can have the haversack for a pillow. Just—wait a moment—”
But as she tugged her stiff, folded leathers out of the haversack, to use for her own pillow, her fingers brushed against Barl’s oilskin-stitched diary. An odd shivery sensation went through her, waking the other, kinder magic she’d absorbed from the reef. On impulse, or instinct, she shoved the diary between her leathers’ folds and pulled both out together.
With a last, baleful glance at Ewen, Charis slithered onto the floor. “I’ll not sleep, you know,” she grumbled. “Not with him glooming there.”
Smiling, she bumped Charis’s shoulder. “Yes, you will. If you stop wittering.”
Charis huffed. “I really did like you better when you were a mouse!”
But she settled down and in a little while, because she was weary, she slept, soft flutter-snores filling the hushed cottage. And that left her and Ewen, her dream man of the dark red hair and green-gold eyes, in the glimlight, in the silence.
Well, Da. What now?
CHAPTER TWENTY
The girl was dozing, knees pulled to her flat chest, arms folded on them, face buried. Shoulders pressed to the cottage’s rough wall, fingers lightly curled about the hilt of his sword, Ewen watched her through half-closed eyes.
Deenie.
What kind of name was that for a girl? But then, what kind of girl could kill beasts with a word?
A sorcerer, that’s what kind. Tav would tell me to kill her, he would.
But she was a sorcerer, so how could he? If he tried to hurt her she’d drop him, like she’d dropped those beasts. Besides. He had to do what he thought was right, no matter what he knew Tavin would bluster.
The tiltyard’s behind us now. I rode into the rough a son in search of his father, I did. And when I rode back I was a man with a crown.
Still
, he missed Tavin’s counsel. Hip-deep in their desperate plans to save Vharne’s people from Morg, the swordmaster had only fought a little against being left in the king’s seat a second time, and so soon. He knew there was no other choice. With Murdo’s nephews dead, no more of his blood in the Vale, there wasn’t another man to be trusted. Well, save Clovis. And Clovis was busy.
You’ll blade my arse when you hear of this, Swordmaster. I can hear you now, I can. No sorcery in Vharne, boy. Kill this girl. Find a way.
Only he didn’t want to.
Maybe because she’d saved their lives. Maybe because he might need her to save them again. According to the king’s secret map there were no spirit paths to hide them from beasts and wanderers in this part of the rough. And there wasn’t time to run about testing that. Morg was expecting him, and it was Vharne’s people who’d pay the price if he was late.
Or maybe it’s because she knelt at my feet, she did, and bared her slender throat to my blade.
She could have killed him, but she made herself vulnerable. When she looked at him he’d seen something compelling in her eyes. And her voice, it was kindly. He couldn’t hear any cruelty in it.
It’s a scrawny thing, she is. And she’s plain as a mouse. But when she looks at me…
He didn’t want to think about that.
The strange light she’d created hovered high in the corner. She’d snapped her fingers and dimmed it so her friend Charis could sleep. And the girl was sleeping. She was snoring. Even a beast might not start her awake. Deenie easily could’ve left the light bright.
Light with a finger-snap? How was that possible?
How is it possible to kill with a word?
The girl—Deenie—breathed in deeply, and lifted her dark-haired head. Her blurry gaze sharpened, then softened. She smiled. “Ewen.”
Wary, he nodded. “Deenie.”
She said something else. Not a single word of it made sense. She was from Lur? Where was that? Not in the blighted south. Nothing lived there. She had to be lying. She was Feenish. Or maybe from Brantone.
She was staring at him, her straight brown eyebrows pulled low in a scowl and her bottom lip caught between her small, white teeth. As she stared, thinking, her hand strayed almost stealthily to the stiff, mishandled leathers she’d tried to use as a pillow but quickly abandoned. Her fingers crept between the folds then crept out again, holding an oilskin-wrapped packet.
Startled, she looked at it. As though she hadn’t realised it was there—or hadn’t realised she wanted it. The expression on her thin, angular face was strange as she traced her fingertips over the packet. She was strange. Small and slight and fearless.
And every word I say, she understands, she does.
Sorcery.
“Girl,” he said. “Deenie. What’s that you hold?”
She made an impatient sound, her eyes narrow. Said something scornful. And of course she was right. Hadn’t he scolded her for nattering when they both knew he’d never understand? Shaking her head, she reached for the blade belted at her hip. He’d not taken it from her, or the blade from her snoring companion, thinking it might ease their distrust of him.
Tavin would say that was a mistake.
He raised his sword. “Girl—”
She said something else, her voice soothing this time. Using his name. He felt himself relax, which was foolish. He had no business trusting her.
So I must be brain-rotted, because I do.
For a moment she did nothing with the knife, just held it loosely while she stared at the packet. That dimmed, sorcerous light showed him a hint of tears in her eyes. Showed him fear and confusion in her shadowed face. Revealed to him a sad, grim resolve. He felt his own sleeping pain wake, seeing it.
She said something else. She was talking to someone. Not him. Her voice was wistful. Yearning. Then her face tightened, hardened, and she pushed her pain inside.
I do that, I do.
Ignoring him, she used the tip of her blade to cut the oilskin wrapping’s stitches—and then she put the knife on the hard dirt floor, its point turned away from him. A message, was it? I mean you no harm.
He watched her pull the oilskin off the thing it protected, which proved to be a thin, leather-bound book. Her eyes said it was important and frightening. And if it frightened her, a sorcerer…
“Should I fear it?” he said. “That book. Maybe I should burn it.”
Shocked, she shook her head then rattled words at him. They sounded threatening.
His fingers tightened on his sword. “Girl—”
“Deenie!” she snapped.
Her outlandish name. How he hated it being the only word of hers he for certain understood. “Deenie, will that book hurt me? Will it hurt my men?”
She wanted to say no, he could see the struggle in her, but instead she lifted her skinny shoulders in a shrug. Maybe. So did that mean she was an honest sorcerer, that she wouldn’t tell a lie?
I want to believe her, I do. Is that a spell? Has she beasted me, on the inside, where no-one can see?
“Give it to me,” he said, and held out his hand.
She stared at him, her eyes wide and faintly hostile. Shook her head again as her slender fingers clutched the book. So it frightened her—but it was important.
If I try to take it she might kill me.
“Deenie, do you mean to hurt me with that book, do you?”
Another headshake. She said something, sounding earnest, one hand pressed to her heart.
“I’m to trust you on that, am I?”
She nodded. “Ewen,” she said, and pressed her heart a second time.
“But you won’t trust me.”
Dropping her gaze to the book, biting her lip again, she touched her fingertips to its mottled cover. Not a word spoken, but her answer was clear enough.
Not with this, I won’t.
If he had his way they’d soon be riding the rough together. But he couldn’t keep her under his nose every step. And if she didn’t trust him she might get them all killed, not with sorcery but argument. Maybe if he did a kind thing for her…
The leathers she’d discarded were clearly unwearable, and she should be wearing them. Travel in the rough needed leathers, not wool and linen.
“Bide here,” he said, and put down his sword. “I’ll be back, I will.”
Her eyebrows lifted but she didn’t reply.
The sorcerous balls of light she’d created still glowed outside the cottage, brightly enough that he could see to walk without turning his ankle. He made his way to the horse-line, his own leathers soft and supple. The horses were unsaddled and drooping, their tack neatly stacked to one side. He found his saddle-bags, rummaged for what he sought, pulled out a measure of dried beef after it then went to be certain all was well with his barracks men. His surviving barracks men. Two dead, to be burned come the sunrise: Grame, his Dirk on this journey, and young, feisty Drooe. His heart ached to think of them, lost. And now he’d have to choose himself a new right hand.
I’ll think on that come sunrise, I will.
His barracks men looked to him, solemn, as he joined them at the fire they’d kept alive with fresh wood.
“All good out here, is it?”
“All good, Highness,” said Robb, most likely the man he’d choose for his new Dirk. Him or Hain. “We’ll—”
“Captain, not Highness,” he said sharply. “Our business is ours. Hold your tongues around those girls, you should.”
“Not girls,” Neel mumbled. Cross-grained as bad timber, he was, but one of the best swords Tavin ever trained. “Trouble, they are.”
He frowned. “Maybe. But I’ll mind them, I will. Keep beast watch and rest. We’re riding on at sunrise, we are.”
Leaving the men to mutter, he returned to the cottage. The girl Deenie looked up as he ducked back inside. She was still holding the book. Her friend Charis kept on sleeping. A poor barracks man, she’d make.
Eased to the floor again, he held out his han
d. “Give me your leathers.”
Her straight eyebrows lifted.
“I’ll give them back,” he said. “Steal them, would I? When they won’t fit?”
She hesitated, then tossed them. This would be a task—they felt like old tree bark. He shoved dried beef in his mouth to silence his belly’s rumbling, then opened his grease bag and got to work. Likely he’d use up every dab of it. He’d have to beg more from his barracks men to keep his own leathers soft.
Her eyes were on him as he suppled her trews enough so she could wear them. Glancing once at her, he caught a kindness in her eyes. That made her look down. Light colour touched her cheeks.
After a time, she opened the book. Her shocked gasp had him dropping his grease bag and reaching for his sword.
“What’s wrong, girl? Sorcery?”
Her breathing came in short sharp pants, but she shook her head.
“What then?”
She said something, trying to explain, then pulled a face.
A pain in the arse, this was. If it was sorcery let her understand him, why couldn’t she fix it so he could understand her?
“Deenie. Not sorcery? It’s sure, you are?”
This time she nodded.
Shake for no, nod for yes. He could understand her that much, at least.
“Not beasts?”
She shook her head again.
“Harm to any of us?”
Another headshake. And when he kept staring, patted a hand to her heart, her eyes pleading.
Trust me.
He lowered his sword, slowly. “You say,” he muttered and then, uneasy, kept on greasing her leathers.
She returned to the book, working through it page by page. From her quick breathing, and the look on her face, he thought it amazed her. Strange, that was. Didn’t she know her own book?
At last, with a sigh, she let it fall to her lap.
“Ewen.”
“What?” he said, still wary. There was a gleam in her eyes that made his blood stir, not pleasantly.
She thought for a moment. Then she pressed a hand to her heart again and lifted those straight, purposeful eyebrows. A question.
“Do I trust you?”
She nodded, pleased.
He wasn’t pleased, not at all. “To do what, girl?”