“Thanks,” he said.
“What’s wrong with your knees?” asked the smith.
Tier grinned at him. “A bunch of wizards took a club to them when I was trying to save the Emperor.”
It was the truth, but he wasn’t surprised to see the smith laugh. Tier had, after all, just spent the last few hours telling stories that sounded more probable.
“As if wizards would bother using a club,” the smith said, shaking his head as he let Tier brace himself until he was certain his knees would hold him upright.
“They said the club would hurt more,” said Tier lightly.
Days of hiding in the hut momentarily blinded Aliven as he stepped outside, with Tier leaning on his shoulder.
Looking down to save his eyes, all he saw at first was a confusing clutter of horses’ hooves. It caught his attention because he’d never yet seen so many Travelers mounted. They generally came afoot and left that way, too—curling their lips at people who let horses do all their traveling for them.
As his eyes adjusted he looked up, and the confusion sorted itself into a group of about ten men and three women. All except Tier’s son Jes were pale-haired, some yellow-blond, others the strange ash-grey blond that belonged only to the Travelers. One of the women was old, older than anyone the smith had ever seen. They all looked grim and cold as Travelers always did—a marked contrast to Tier’s warm good cheer.
Aliven, who had been slowly moving forward under the gentle pressure of Tier’s hand on his shoulder, stopped.
“Benroln,” said Tier, stopping beside him. “I didn’t expect you to come yourself. I didn’t know that mistwights were so dangerous as to require half the clan’s fighting men.”
In someone else’s voice, the words would have been sarcastic or biting, but Tier made them cheerfully teasing.
One of the younger of the men grinned and, evidently being the Benroln that Tier had addressed, said, “Our experts tell us mistwights who have a taste for human flesh are nasty dangerous: smart, with a few magic tricks up their a—” He gave a nervous glance to the old woman who sat beside him, mounted on the spotted horse Tier had sent back with his sons, and cleared his throat. “With a bit of magic, anyway. Your wife assured us that between Ravens and Falcon they could take care of it, but the rest of us decided not to let them have all the fun. There would have been more of the clan here if we had the horses.”
Tier stepped forward a little. “Benroln, may I present Aliven Smith? Aliven this is Benroln, Clan Chief and Cormorant of the Clan of Rongier the Librarian.”
Cormorant was one of those magical birds Tier had spoken of, Aliven remembered belatedly, though he didn’t remember which. He didn’t know how to respond to the introduction without giving offense, so he ducked his head and hoped it was sufficient.
Apparently it was. The young man slid off his horse and shook the smith’s limp hand briskly. “We’ve met,” he said. “Though we’ve not been formally introduced.”
It was possible, Aliven knew. But all those blond heads and subtly foreign features tended to look alike to him.
Tier gave the young Traveler a sharp look.
Benroln laughed and shrugged, flushing a little. “Just to trade for grain, Bard. Nothing more.”
The horses shuffled, and a man came to the side of the old woman. Aliven was almost certain it was Tier’s blond son, though it could have been some other Traveler—he hadn’t paid so much attention to Tier’s second son, not after the dark boy had come into the hut.
“I like this horse, Bard,” the old woman said to Tier. “Like me, he’s still kicking when his contemporaries have had the self-respect to die off.” Now that he looked, Aliven could see hollows above the horse’s eyes that told a different story than the sinewy hindquarters and alert stance.
Tier bowed to her, a low, sweeping bow that was court-polished. “The both of you are too stubborn to give in to time any more than you’d give in to anyone else. Brewydd, this is Aliven Smith. Aliven, this is our Lark, Brewydd.” With his face carefully turned so that only Aliven could see, Tier mouthed the word healer and winked.
“Lehr, get me off this poor creature’s back before we both fall down dead and are no use to anyone.” The old woman hadn’t acknowledged the introduction with so much as a glance.
Tier’s son—for the old woman had called him by the same name as Tier had called his son—reached up and held her steady as she swung one leg over the horse’s spotted rump with surprising grace. When she had both legs on one side, he caught her at waist and shoulder and set her gently on her feet.
She looked at Aliven for the first time and smiled gently. “Don’t let this mob worry you, my lad,” she said, taking the smith’s arm. “They just want to see the mistwight.”
It took Aliven a moment to realize that he was the “lad” she referred to. No one had called him “lad” since his da died some fifteen years ago.
The old woman’s words, for no reason that Aliven could discern, seemed to be the signal for the whole party of Travelers to hop off their horses and take them away to tie up somewhere.
“I’m going to quit sending you out on your own, Tier,” said one of the younger women, handing off her horse to Tier’s dark-haired son. She wasn’t very tall, but carried with her an aura of power that made her seem larger than she was. If Travelers aged as regular folk did, she was younger than Tier. Only the fine lines around her eyes aged her at all.
Tier laughed and approached her with a quick stride that showed no sign of limp. He put his hands on her waist and swung her around once.
When he set her down, she continued, every bit as self-possessed as she’d been before Tier had assaulted her dignity. “I let you go hunting, and you got yourself kidnaped. I let you out to play with your boy-soldiers and, if not for Lark’s help, you’d have been crippled. You left to get grain, and you find a mistwight who has taken up eating people instead of frogs and fish.”
“It was either let me out to do some trading or suffer that some poor clansman be talked to death,” Tier teased, then gave her a quick, smacking kiss in the middle of her forehead.
Beyond Tier’s shoulder, Aliven saw a few of the Travelers lose their cool self-possession enough to smile.
“Solsenti bastard,” said the woman without affection, staring at Tier as if he were something found in a midden.
“Not at all,” he assured her. “My parents were married. Brave man, my father, just like his son.”
She tried to hide it, but Aliven saw the corners of her mouth try to turn up.
“Where’s Gura?” he asked, glancing around.
“We left him behind,” she said. “The mistwight would make short work of any dog, no matter how big or ferocious. He was not happy with us when we left.”
“I’d bet not,” Tier said dryly. “Seraph, this is Aliven Smith, whose child was killed by the beast. Aliven, this is my wife, Seraph, Raven of the Clan of Isolde the Silent—though we’re traveling with the Librarian’s Clan at present.”
To the smith’s discomfort, Tier’s wife stepped forward and touched his face, making him conscious of the grime of the past few days that covered his skin.
“We will deal with the mistwight,” she said, “that it trouble you and yours no more.”
There was such certainty in her voice that he found himself believing her.
“And you and I will tend your wounded,” said the old woman on the smith’s arm. She tugged him imperiously as she pointed her finger at one of the men. “You come, too. You’ll be more help to me in healing than to the hunting of the mistwight. Bring my packs.” If there was no sharpness in her voice, there was no politeness either. Aliven was surprised to see the man bow respectfully, then hurry to take a pair of largish saddlebags off the spotted horse.
“Brewydd.”
The old woman paused to look at Tier.
“There are a pair of children in there who’ve been through a great deal. Be gentle with them.”
The heale
r smiled, displaying a surprisingly complete set of teeth. “I’ll bear that in mind, my boy.”
Tier waited until the healer had Aliven in the hut before he said, “Something tells me that the mistwight’s not going to be so easily gotten rid of.”
Seraph nodded. “They’re not easy. Smart and tough.”
“I’ve never heard of one killing people,” said Tier. “Though I know that people who live near them tend to leave them alone.”
“When they are young they hunt fish, frogs, and other small animals,” said Hennea, returning from tying her horse.
Hennea was a Raven like Tier’s wife. She looked a decade younger than Seraph and was easily the more beautiful. There was a peacefulness in her face that Seraph had never managed, his wife’s temperament not being well suited to peace.
“As they age,” she continued, “they begin to go after larger prey. Usually they go to the sea and hunt the larger fish, but some turn inland and hunt raccoon or otters. I’ve never heard of one that fed on human flesh.”
“The shadow taint explains that well enough,” said Seraph. “Mistwights aren’t as smart as humans, quite. But it’s had several centuries to learn.”
“Centuries?” asked Tier.
“Mistwights have been known to live four hundred years or more,” said Hennea. “Since Jes says that this one is shadow-tainted, it might be even older. All of them have some magic of their own, which is probably why they live so long. Some wizards live halfway into their second century, and several of the Colossae wizards were four or five hundred years old.”
“Or so it is said.” Seraph caught his look and laughed, “Oh, not me. The Orders don’t prolong life”—she cast a speculative glance at the hut where Brewydd had disappeared—“except, maybe, for Lark. When you’re an old, old man, my love, I’ll be an old woman.”
Seraph and Hennea began pacing a double circle around the well in which Lehr told them the creature was living. Hennea took the outer ring and Seraph the inner.
“It killed easily,” said Seraph.
“It’s done this before. Doubtless Lehr would be able to track it back from one isolated farm or small settlement to another. If we hadn’t stumbled upon it here, it might have continued for another few centuries before it attracted a Traveler’s attention.”
“Are you certain that it’s in the well now?” asked Tier.
The Travelers from Benroln’s clan had taken up a shady spot not too far away to watch. Not willing to risk Seraph getting eaten, Tier walked with the Ravens, careful to stay out of their pattern making.
He kept a weather eye on the well and noticed that Jes was doing the same. Lehr had taken a post not too far from the other Travelers, where he could see the wellhead. He had his bow strung and an arrow ready for flight.
“Hopefully,” said Hennea. “Seraph and I will establish a net”—she waved her hand vaguely to indicate the paths they’d been establishing—“that will stifle its magic.”
“What kind of magic does a mistwight have?”
Hennea shrugged. “Some illusion, a bit of water magic.”
“They are nasty enough without their magic,” Seraph said. “We’ll hamper it any way we can. The most trouble we’ll have with it is getting it out of the well since it almost certainly knows that we’re here. It fed not long ago, so it won’t be hungry.”
“I, for one, have no intention of climbing down a well to face a tainted mistwight. What are we going to do about the well?” Hennea didn’t sound overly concerned.
“Fire is nice,” said Seraph. “It won’t hurt the well itself.”
“Can’t it just submerge?” asked Tier.
Seraph pursed her lips. “Not without magic. They can’t breathe underwater or hold their breath for long. If I scorch him fast enough, he’ll not have a chance to call magic.”
She stopped walking, and Tier’s knees informed him it was none too soon.
“We’ve walked the round,” she said. “Hennea, are you ready?”
He didn’t see what they did, but he felt the magic right enough, sweeping through him like a cool wind.
“I thought you didn’t need ritual for your magic,” said Tier. “Isn’t that the main difference between you and a solsenti mage?”
“We don’t need it,” Seraph told him. “But sometimes a few runes or a ritual walk to establish a warding is quicker and more efficient than doing it by brute force.”
“Let’s give a closer look to the well,” Hennea said.
As they approached the well, Tier pulled his sword and dogged Seraph’s heels again. Hennea had a wolf at her side—Jes sometimes became one of any of a number of predators when the mood struck him.
It looked like any other well to Tier. A three-sided building, much like a smaller version of the smithy, protected the well from weather and dust. A stout mud-brick wall ringed the wellhead about waist high on Tier. Before they came quite to the well, Jes put his front paws on the lip of the well and growled.
“Good,” said Seraph. “It’s there.” She turned to Hennea. “I’ll do the fire; you can deal with the mistwight.”
Hennea usually held to her serene mildness under all circumstances, so the edge of fierceness that touched her smile surprised Tier.
“It’s always nice to have plans,” she said.
The wall of the well wasn’t high, but neither was Seraph. Tier lifted her from the ground to the top of the well wall with a hand on each hip. He steadied her until she was stable with one hand on the post that held up the roof.
She gave him a quick, distracted smile for his help, then looked into the dark hole. Perched flat-footed on the old wall, she had to dip her head a little to avoid hitting the roof.
She was magnificent.
Her moonlit-colored hair was caught up in an elaborate crown of braids that he’d seen other Traveler women wear. Until this past month, she’d always adopted the simpler styles of the Rederni. The braids suited her, he thought. She was wearing Traveler clothing, too: loose trousers and a long loose tunic that hit the bottoms of her knees.
Hennea was beautiful, but Seraph stirred him more than a woman who was merely beautiful ever could. She had such inner strength that he was sometimes surprised by how small she was. He’d once seen her back down a roomful of angry men with nothing more than the sharpness of her tongue.
Watching her as she quivered with eagerness, like a fine hunting hound awaiting the horn, he was struck with a sudden, wrenching understanding.
This was his wife, his Seraph, who’d given up everything she was to escape from the endless battle her people fought against things like the mistwight. She’d married him hoping that it would keep her out of battles just like this one. Oh, she said now that it was because she loved him—but he knew Seraph. If she had not dreaded returning to the duties of a Raven, she would never have accepted his offer of marriage.
He’d always felt that he’d helped to save her from something terrible, but she didn’t look like someone who needed rescuing.
She held her hands palm down over the well: tension flowed up her body from toes to fingertips, and the sharp, sparkling feeling that was magic brushed over his skin in an uneasy caress. With a hollow boom that shook the ground he stood upon, flame boiled suddenly out of the well in a searing wave of destruction. The roof caught fire first, then the walls of the sheltering building, the frail strands of weeds that surrounded the well house, followed an instant later by the post Seraph held on to.
Heedless of his damaged knees, Tier dove through the flames and caught Seraph around the waist, jerking her off the well and away from the fire. He had her on the ground and rolled her over twice before he realized that her clothes had not kindled and she was laughing.
He released her abruptly, but she sat up and kept her hands on him, brushing over his sleeves and quenching the smoldering fabric.
“I overdid it,” she said, with a grin he recognized as the expression of action-drunk joy that sometimes caught warriors in the height
of battle. He’d never seen her look more lovely.
He’d never been so angry with her, either—she could have killed herself.
There was a sharp crack of sound behind them, and Tier jerked around to see Seraph’s flames whoosh out of existence as quickly as they had come, leaving the shed that protected the well blackened but unharmed.
As Hennea lowered her hands to her side after quenching the fire, something dark and smoking slipped over the rim of the well. It darted past Tier in an attempt to reach the nearby woodland; its pace so rapid he was left with scattered impressions of sparse wiry hair over wrinkled skin and sapphire eyes. The wolf who was Jes was only a little slower.
“The wight!” shouted Benroln.
An arrow intercepted the beast before Benroln finished the last syllable of its name. The thing rolled end over end several times, and Jes was upon it.
Dust and fur and darkness tangled until Tier couldn’t tell one creature from the other. But evidently Lehr had no such problem. A second arrow found flesh, then a third and fourth.
Jes separated himself, then shook his fur to rid it of dust and dried grass. The mistwight struggled weakly for a few seconds more, three of Lehr’s arrows stuck up from hip, neck, and rib. A fourth, broken off a handspan from the tip, protruded from its eye. Its ribs rose twice more and stilled.
Dead, it seemed to take up much less space than it had alive.
Seraph lay back down and laughed. She turned to Tier, and the smile slid from her eyes. “What’s wrong, Tier?”
He forced a smile and shook his head. She didn’t deserve his anger. It wasn’t her fault that she enjoyed the spice of danger—he knew the feeling himself, but it unsettled him to see it in his wife. Not just because she had risked her life, either.
“Nothing, love. Let me give you a hand up.”
This is what she had been born to do, he thought, as they strode back to the smith’s hut like a small triumphant army after Hennea disposed of the mistwight’s body with another bout of flame.
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