Prue’s brain creaked back into gear. Over the past few days, she’d grown to like the fire witch, to enjoy the quiet humor and bright intelligence Cenda hid behind an unassuming manner. But now she came to think of it, she and Cenda had never been physically closer than about three feet. The other woman hadn’t been obvious about it, but she’d managed to keep her distance.
A cup of fragrant tisane appeared before her, Katrin’s hand touching her shoulder in reassurance. Prue cleared her throat. “The Technomage said . . . she said I broadcast a field, whatever that is. She wanted to know how. She was going to . . . to . . .”
Cenda muttered something under her breath and rills of flame sparked from her fingertips, wreathing up her arms. Under Prue’s astonished gaze, Gray reached over, his shadow following, and placed a hand over hers. The flames subsided.
Deeply shaken, Prue lifted her cup and took a sip.
“Ah yes, the tame Technomage.” Scowling, Deiter rummaged through the battered leather satchel that hung over the back of his chair. Coming up with a thick bundle of papers, he plunked it down on the table and undid the string tying it together. “There’s something here.” Pages rustled.
After a moment, he looked up. “Well, don’t just sit there, woman, go on, tell us the rest. But for the gods’ sake, start at the beginning.” He waved a dismissive hand at Katrin. “You can go, lass.”
“No.” Prue held his eye down the length of the table. “Katrin is my daughter. I trust her and I want her to understand.” Because then she might forgive me when I go.
With a rustle of skirts, Katrin settled herself beside Prue.
Deiter shrugged. “It’s on your head.” He aimed a gnarled finger at the young woman. “Your life is of no consequence, girlie, do you understand? Speak of the business of gods and Magick and I’ll obliterate you.”
Before she knew it, Prue was on her feet, her chair toppling with a clatter. “Not if I get to you first.” Blood boiling, she advanced on the old wizard. “Does it hurt yet?” she snarled.
Deiter’s face went a pasty shade of gray green. Prue took another step. He clutched his chest. “Cenda!” he gasped. “Fireball, quick!”
As if from a distance, Prue heard the fire witch say quietly, “I’d do the same. You’re on your own, Purist.”
Erik growled. The tisane pot rose a foot off the table and poised itself to pour, right over the old man’s lap. Gray laughed aloud.
42
“Mam!” Katrin’s shocked voice cut over the confusion. “Whatever you’re doing, stop it! You’ll kill him.” She tugged at Prue’s arm.
Shivering, Prue unclenched her fists. Her head reeled, stupid with confusion and the sickening remnants of murderous rage. “For a minute there, you looked just like Purist Nori,” she told the old man. “I thought she was going to die too.”
“Nori?” With trembling fingers, Deiter pushed the tisane pot aside, breathing a sigh of relief when it subsided gently to the table. Erik snorted.
“The first time I met her, at the theater. It was me that made her ill, wasn’t it? Something about me?” Horror washed over her in an icy, numbing wave. “The Necromancer knew. Oh gods, he wanted it, he wanted me.” Despite herself, her voice rose. “What am I?”
“Sshh, love.” Erik’s arm slid around her waist, guiding her back to her chair.
Deiter’s color had improved. “I’m not sure.” He sighed. “Nori and I are so old, Magick is all that holds us together. It’s painful to come undone, so to speak.” He shot her a keen glance from under shaggy brows. “Do you believe in Magick, Mistress McGuire?”
Prue rubbed her aching temples. “That’s what Purist Bartelm asked at the time.”
“And the answer?”
Five pairs of eyes regarded her with unwinking interest. “No, I don’t.” She gave a harsh laugh. “Or rather, I didn’t.”
Erik laid his hand over hers. “What about the gods?”
“I’ve told you before.” She looked into his face, seeing the concern there, the love. “If they exist, they haven’t done much for me.”
“I wasn’t going to say this.” Erik stroked her cheek. “Sweetheart, don’t be distressed, but I really did die.”
“You’ve got a strange way of showing it,” said Gray dryly. Cenda clutched his arm, her amber eyes bright with concentration.
Erik ignored him. “I thought I . . . I saw the gods, the Lord and the Lady.” He flushed. “I know it sounds mad, but I did.” He lifted his gaze to meet Deiter’s intent regard. “The Lady said there was a place even for a skeptic like a null witch.”
The old wizard stroked his tripartite beard. “A null witch.” When he snapped his fingers, Prue jumped. “That’s it! Wait, wait.” Sheets of paper fluttered across the table as he scrabbled. “There’s an eye-witness account of the way you killed the Necromancer. It’s here somewhere.”
Erik’s bellow shook the rafters. “You what?” The windows rattled and pots clanged together.
Prue shook her head. “But I didn’t. Or I don’t think so. He went into the water.”
Erik had gone pale to the lips, his eyes blazing cobalt blue. “You fought with him?”
“What do you think she did?” asked Deiter, amused. “You weren’t much use to her at the time.”
Erik shot him a poisonous glance. “I thought he must have run. There were so many people by the end.”
“Prue.” Cenda leaned forward, her golden brown eyes intent. “Just tell us in your own words, every action, every thought. It’s important.”
Except for Katrin, who sat in stunned silence, they all had questions, so it took longer than Prue expected. Every now and then, a wave of red would sweep over Erik’s golden skin and the table would rise an inch or so off the floor or all the papers would whirl around the room and have to be collected again.
But in the end, they established the salient points. Prue’s presence nullified Magick within a certain radius of her person, and the more frail the physical health of the witch or wizard, the more it hurt. When she’d touched the Necromancer, the shield of his Dark Arts had simply evaporated, exposing his true self.
Deiter had never heard of anything like it, which appeared to cause him considerable annoyance. But null witch was as good a term as any.
“I don’t know how you stood it,” said Cenda, her pretty mouth contorted with disgust. “I touched him once, when Deiter was teaching me to scry. It was . . . foul.” She shuddered and the salamander in her hair opened its tiny mouth wide and hissed.
“What about me?” asked Erik suddenly. He clasped the nape of Prue’s neck with warm, strong fingers. “I don’t understand. Why doesn’t she affect me?”
Deiter tugged at his beard in frustration. “You’re right. It’s an anomaly.”
“No, it’s not.” Gray rose, all lean, lithe grace, his shadow climbing the wall behind him. “Prue’s power comes from belief—either its presence or its absence. She has complete faith in Erik’s . . . ah, regard. So at some level, probably unconscious, she accepts his Magick too, because she believes unconditionally in him.”
When he smiled, Prue caught her breath. He’d been so quiet, she hadn’t really noticed him. Merciful Sister, he was a handsome man!
“It’s a soul connection, I think.” He glanced down at Cenda, his face alight with an expression so intimate and tender Prue felt she should avert her eyes. “Cenda and Shad and I complement each other. Together, we make a whole. I suspect Erik and Prue are the same. And that the gods intend it.”
Prue’s brows drew together, her logical mind tussling with the foolish part of her that wanted to dissolve into a happy puddle. “Sounds good,” she argued, “but what do you know of Magick, Gray? It’s Cenda who’s the fire witch.”
“I know enough,” said Gray softly, his eyes gleaming.
Her brain snagged on something else. “And who’s Shad?”
Gray grinned. “Allow me to introduce you.” He pushed his chair back and sauntered around the table, his shad
ow wavering behind him.
“Gray . . .” Erik’s growl held a warning. His hand closed hard over Prue’s.
Gray stopped and looked Erik in the eye. “We’re in this together,” he said. “Every single one of us, with whatever gifts we can bring. Deiter’s made that clear enough. She’ll have to know sometime.” He shrugged. “Might as well be now.”
His attention swung back to Prue, his head turning, but his shadow was strangely immobile, as if it searched Gray’s face still. “Shad is the name I give to my shadow, Prue.” He glanced at the man-shaped piece of darkness standing at his side. “Shad,” he said gravely, “this is Mistress Prue McGuire. Behave yourself.”
Under Prue’s astonished gaze, Gray’s shadow swept a deep bow, as elegant as any courtier. Prue’s jaw dropped. Katrin choked on her tisane, Deiter thumping her on the back in a helpful kind of way.
“Please, Prue.” Cenda came to stand between Gray and his shadow. She laid a slim hand on each shoulder and their arms crept around her waist. “Don’t be frightened. Shad would never hurt you. He’s dear and sweet and funny.” Shad’s head tilted, and Prue got the distinct impression he was laughing.
“You forgot to mention modest,” Gray said dryly, but his lips twitched.
Shad leaned in to nuzzle Cenda’s cheek, and Prue could no longer restrain herself. “But how—? I don’t understand.”
Gray shrugged, and his shadow turned to look at him. A second later, Shad shrugged too. It was uncanny. “Shad and I have been together for as long as I can remember. I’ve never known a time without him.”
“You’re a sorcerer of shadows,” said Deiter. “Face it, man. Once and for all.”
Again, that elegant movement of the shoulders. “To me, this is how it’s always been. Nothing unusual, nothing Magickal.” Gray’s smoky gaze shifted to where Shad was stroking Cenda’s cheek with long, dark fingers. “If I were a real sorcerer,” he said with some asperity, “you’d think I’d have better control over my . . . minions. Shad!”
Shad snuggled a grinning Cenda into his shoulder. Behind her back, he raised one finger in an unmistakable gesture.
At Prue’s side, Erik chuckled and the tension in the room relaxed. Then he said, “Shad smells different, sort of cool and dark, not like you at all, Gray.”
Gray and Shad appeared to exchange a glance, but before anyone could speak, Katrin said, “You’re not like the Purists at all, are you?”
Every head turned to stare. A scarlet flush soared up out the neck-line of her gown to stain her cheeks. “S-sorry. I mean . . . I only meant Mam doesn’t bother Gray. Not the way—”
Deiter reached out to clamp a hand on her shoulder. “Shut up, girlie. Let me think.”
Gray arched a dark, flyaway brow, but he said nothing.
At last, Deiter stirred. “Well,” he said, “if I’ve learned one thing in a long and misspent life, it’s that the gods exist. But also—” Obviously relishing the drama of the moment, he took a sip from his tisane cup, only to set it aside with a grimace. “Also that They are fallible. Whatever you call Them—the Lord and the Lady, the Brother and Sister, whether you believe in one or a plethora—They don’t know everything.
“In the Enclaves,” he went on, “the Purists teach that Magick is a gift of the gods. It’s conventional wisdom. True enough, I’m sure, but no one believes They literally hand it over.” Among the whiskers, his lip curled. “Like a prize in some ridiculous contest of virtue. Except . . .” His piercing gaze traveled from Erik to Cenda and back again. “They did with you two.” Planting both hands on the table, he leaned forward. “Didn’t They?”
Cenda flushed a fiery red. Erik’s mouth snapped shut. His fingers tightened on Prue’s so hard she winced.
“Look here.” With an impatient grunt, Deiter bent to extract a leather tube from his satchel. “Clear a space, lass,” he said to Katrin, and she hastened to obey. Using an unusual degree of care, the wizard eased out a thick parchment and unrolled it on the table.
Next to Prue, Erik inhaled sharply. On the thick, creamy surface was a Pentacle, magnificently rendered in colored inks and gilt—all except for one side, so lightly drawn as to be barely there. “Gods, it’s beautiful,” she said. “Where did you get it?”
Deiter shot her a narrow glance. “I made it.” A pause. “In a vision. I’ve been having them for about a year now.”
“But what does it mean? Why isn’t it complete?”
“Hasty piece, aren’t you?” He beckoned to the fire witch with an ink-stained finger. “Show her, Cenda.”
Slowly, Cenda came forward. With a muttered prayer, she touched her forefinger to the Pentacle. Immediately, it burst into flame, tongues of fire running greedily around the pattern.
“No!” Prue leaped for a dishcloth to smother the flames, but Gray’s arm barred her way.”
The fire subsided with a contented crackle. Sweet Sister, the parchment was untouched, save for one side of the Pentacle, but there . . . Prue resisted the urge to rub her eyes. Tiny salamanders, each one a perfect miniature of the one in the fire witch’s hair, danced back and forth, the essence of fiery joy.
“Now you, Gray,” ordered Deiter.
Gray shot him a glance. “You sure?”
“Bloody well get on with it, man!”
“Fine.” With a shrug, Gray placed a fingertip on the line that wasn’t there.
The diminutive salamanders turned as one and hissed their defiance, but beyond that, nothing happened.
“Right as usual,” said Deiter with satisfaction. “Whatever Magick you have, it comes from within, not from the gods.” Raising pouchy eyes, he smiled thinly. “Moment of truth, Erik.”
Erik’s jaw bunched. Without a word, he strode forward and slammed a big palm down on the parchment. “This what you want, old man?”
But Deiter wasn’t even looking at him, his eyes were fixed on the Pentacle. “Oh yes,” he breathed.
“Fuck!” Erik snatched his hand away, but the parchment was already rippling.
Prue squinted, staring. Was that—? Merciful Sister, it was! Dust motes danced in a gentle turbulence above the five-sided shape. A current of air made its chuckling, merry way around the Pentacle, again and again, faster and faster. It was perfectly visible because it was forming tiny, sparkling clouds that whirled with rainbow iridescence. Surely it was her imagination, but the air in the kitchen vibrated as if everything innocent and sacred had been distilled into pure joy—the gurgle of a baby’s belly laugh, a soaring hymn of adoration, true love’s whispered promise, the liquid trill of a night bird.
A blazing smile lit up Cenda’s face. The tiny salamanders capered about with delight. “That’s it, that’s what I felt. Oh, thank the Lady.” She touched Erik’s arm. “It is you.”
Erik stared down at her, his brow knotted. “What the hell are you talking about?” When Prue laid a cautious hand against his back, every muscle was rigid beneath her palm.
“Don’t give me that, Erik. You know. Deep inside, you’ve probably always known. You’re the second Side. Air.” Deiter studied the parchment, brooding. “Cenda’s Fire.” He tugged at his beard. “So where the fuck is Water?”
“Hold on, you’ve lost me.” Erik pinched the bridge of his nose. “What’s a Pentacle got to do with anything? And in case you hadn’t noticed, it has five sides, not three.”
The old wizard snorted. “Give me credit.” He took a hasty gulp from his wine jug, his wrinkled throat working.
“The elements,” said Prue slowly. “But aren’t there four? Fire, air, water—and earth? And what about the blank Side, the one that’s missing?”
“Only the gods know who or what the fifth Side is.” Deiter’s mouth took on a sour twist. “Of course, They haven’t seen fit to enlighten me, for all that I’m supposed to fight Their damn battles for Them.”
The wine jug rose six inches off the table and dropped abruptly. Deiter’s hand shot out with astonishing speed to break its fall. “Godsdammit, what’s wrong wit
h you?” He skewered Erik with a furious glare.
Erik stared right back, his jaw set. “I don’t have the faintest idea what any of this is about. It’s all fucking riddles.”
Deep offense flitted across the old man’s features. “I told you yesterday.” He folded his arms.
“When?”
“On the way upstairs.”
“I wasn’t listening.”
“Too bad.”
“It’s all right, Purist. I’ll do it.” Cenda stepped forward. “It’s simple enough—on the surface,” she said to Erik. “The gods have sent Deiter a . . . prophecy, I guess you’d call it. Or a warning. In the shape of a Pentacle.” She slipped her hand into Gray’s. “There’s a great evil out there, growing in strength, a spreading darkness.” The salamander in her hair stirred restlessly.
“There is always evil, wrongdoing,” said Erik. “It’s a part of life.”
“True enough.” Deiter shrugged. “But this . . .” Suddenly, he looked not only old, but frail. “It’s the very antithesis of all life, good and bad.” He struggled. “A great . . . emptiness, sucking everything down into the dark.”
Cenda said, “Deiter believes, and I do too, that we are pieces of a great Pattern, a game if you like, played between the gods. The Lady and the Lord at one end of the board, and . . . Their adversaries on the other.” She turned to Prue. “It’s not just the Sides of the Pentacle either. Gray and Shad saved my life.” She lifted their clasped hands to her cheek. “You’ve already played a significant part, Prue.” She grinned. “Thanks to you the Necromancer is gone.”
The old wizard grunted. “That’s too bloody easy.” Every head in the room swung toward him. “I can still feel him, the bastard. Like the smallest fleck of shit on the cheek of the Lady.”
Cenda paled. “Five-it, don’t talk like that. It’s . . . blasphemous.”
“So’s evil,” said Deiter. “And it gets worse.”
“Worse?” demanded Erik. “How can it be worse?”
“Bartelm sent me a note.” Deiter dug in his satchel and produced a crumpled piece of paper. “He was talking to a guard called Rhio something—”
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