Touched By Magic (The King's Wolf Saga)

by Doranna Durgin

  "Maurant?" Reandn repeated blankly. He'd barely heard of it—the southernmost boundary of Keland, lined by the sea...it was barely dependent on goods from the north and stocked with a most independent crew of minors, those pesky town officials who were too bureaucratic to truly fit with into the Highborn. Maurant?

  "Don't take it too hard, son," Pa-Farren said, his bright eyes crinkling at their outer edges. "You're a long way from home, but aside from part of a boot, you've made it in one piece. And that includes," he added more soberly, "the condition of your mind, although it's taken two weeks to bring you back. Not many who take the Wizard's Road without preparation come through it sane."

  Reandn snorted. Sane. With the loss of Kavan and Adela lingering like a terrible aftertaste in his heart and mind. With an old man working magic, still at the keep, still threatening those Reandn loved. And how much could a wizard make a man believe? Perhaps, at this very moment, Reandn was still trapped in the tower with Adela beside him, her frozen expression pleading through the silence.

  The coolness of the ring on his little finger brought him out of his uncertainty.

  He had seen it, had known the truth despite his denial. The cry of grief and helplessness he'd felt at the moment this ring dropped to the ground was something Ronsin could never simply produce.

  The ring was real.

  Adela was dead.

  ~~~~~

  He'd done it again. Fallen asleep, without the faintest intent to do so. Not much of a Wolf, after all. He lay twisted around the light cover sheeting, and the formerly comfortable air hung heavy with heat. Cracking his eyes open, he found himself alone in the room except for the woman Lina, who sat in one of the chairs with a bundle of material in her lap, a needle flashing. In the next room, an animated conversation started, and she tilted her head to catch the words.

  His strongest impulse was to curl up around his aching body and go back to sleep, but his wistful stomach thought otherwise.

  And it was time to find out just how things stood around here.

  The conversation faded; the woman resumed her relaxed posture with a sigh, and a small shake of her head. The ever-active needle now slowed, and came to rest halfway through a stitch.

  She was watching him, Reandn realized. Instead of the distrust and anger that had settled on her face earlier, now she watched with concern—and something close to pity. Reandn lowered his slitted lids, shutting out the sight while he tried to interpret it. Failing, he feigned waking with a stretch his muscles begged for, rotating the elbow that bothered him the most. When he opened his eyes again, she was sewing.

  "Do you want something to eat?" she asked, not looking up.

  "I'd rather have my clothes, and the use of your facilities." Reandn swung his legs over the edge of the bed, deliberately not thinking about who had attended those personal needs while he'd been sick.

  At her nod, he found his clothes folded neatly on the floor beside the bed; he dressed, matter-of-factly, while she pointedly tended her sewing. When he stood, she stood, too, watching as he tried to find his feet. "The knife," he said, not surprised to have found it missing. "And then I'll go."

  She hesitated, weighing her words. "Pa-Farren would like you to stay for a while. So get you out back to the little building, and I'll have a meal and a shave prepared when you return."

  Reflexively, Reandn ran his hand along the bristles of his chin, proof enough of his time here. But as his hand dropped back to his side, he lifted his head and said, "I won't be held here."

  She snorted, stabbing the needle into the fabric to punctuate the sound. "That's just the sort of thing I'd expect from someone like you," she said, laying the fabric atop the trunk that sat between chairs. "We took you in—we saved your life!—and yet you respond with threats because Pa-Farren needs to ask some questions. We're just simple folk, here, meir Wolf, and we treat one another civilly."

  Perhaps she expected him to act like a scolded child; she probably had that control over her family. Reandn held her gaze unmoved. "I'm grateful for your help," he said. "But I won't stay."

  She was silent for a moment as she reached over to rearrange a fold of the fabric. She said quietly, "Think you can take care of yourself, do you?"

  After that he could hardly ask for more specific directions to the correct outbuilding. He headed for the darkened corner that held the back door.

  The view outside shattered what foolish lingering hope he had of finding himself anywhere near home. The house was surrounded on both sides by nearly identical dwellings, but behind the outhouse the yard faded into scraggly bushes; beyond those loomed tall, soft-needled pines, and no sign of any attempt to tame the land. Fishing culture, he reminded himself. This close to the shore, the large garden beside him counted as farming. Even now, a whiff of breeze in the otherwise leaden air brought him the scent of the sea.

  The houses were set too closely together to see between to the street, their long, narrow yards unfenced and merging peacefully into adjoining lots. The houses sat uniformly low, each with a door under the obtuse angle of its roof peak, leading onto a second story porch. Circled by a carefully carved railing, the platforms extended beyond the houses, creating pillar-strewn caves beneath.

  Reandn suddenly felt the heat of the sun on his shoulders, beating against his dark blond hair. Sweat already trickled down the side of his face, and he finished his little expedition with more alacrity. Back inside, the dim, relative coolness of the building washed over him like a balm.

  Lina had gone, but metal glinted from her chair—his knife. He replaced it at his side with dispatch. Beside the chair sat boots, the soft sides folding neatly down over hard leather toes and soles.

  It merely confirmed his scattered memories to find that the left boot was without heel or half its sole—and drove home reality as well. Weeks of travel from home, no boots, and just enough coin for a meal or two. Earning enough for provisions would keep him here much longer than he wanted to consider.

  He retrieved his boot knife, slim lines a familiar comfort in the curve of his hand, and left the useless footwear as he headed for the door to the front area.

  Tailors. They couldn't be anything else. Not when mountains of neatly folded material framed the doorway, creating a path to the front of the room; several people unseen discussed the suitability of a particular material for a particular dress. He stalked the narrow path, marking but not pausing at the sudden coolness of flat stone beneath his unsteady feet. Light shone from the front of the room as brightly as it had beat against his eyes outside. Too much, too soon—his vision grayed in warning. He leaned against the nearest pile of bolts, breathing deeply.

  "Pa-Farren!" The warning cry came from a youthful throat, much too close.

  Reandn snapped his eyes open to a charging, lanky shape, no more than a colliding blur in a frenzied attack—shoving him back, raining down blows, grabbing at his arms. Training so deep as to be instinct kicked in; Reandn wrested himself free to reverse position, snarling, taking blows in exchange for the advantage—shoving his assailant against the cloth with the nearly forgotten knife at his throat.

  The assailant froze. As far as Reandn could tell, everyone froze.

  Except there went his knees, giving way to the grey—dragging them both down as he tightened his grip, desperate to maintain control—unknown room, unknown enemies, unknown attacker... Damn.

  They knelt locked together, panting and trembling—one from weakness, one from fright—until Reandn's vision slowly cleared and he found himself staring into eyes as startled as his own, young and filled with the folly of impetuous action.

  The rest of the room held its tense silence—but not long enough. Not time for him to get a sense of the layout, of the occupants, of the danger. Not before someone moved up behind him.

  Because there were wizards involved, nothing was to be taken for granted—his own safety least of all. Reandn tightened his grip again, forcing the boy's head back, his eyes rolling—his face going from fl
ushed to pale.

  "Tanager," came a voice dripping with sibling disgust, "you are living proof that boys are dumber than flatfish." Maurinne's sardonic voice broke through the tension, leaving behind it the quickly quelled whispers of women.

  "Son." The voice of the footsteps was Pa-Farren. "Tanager created this situation—I understand that. But you must release him—you must release him now."

  It was meant to be authoritative and meaningful. Reandn found himself irritated. "Back away," he said, his voice a growl.

  "If I had magic," the older man said calmly, "I could reach you from anywhere in this shop."

  "Pa-Farren!" Lina's horror resounded in her voice. "Do as he says!"

  The older man eyed Reandn...the knife...the boy. He inclined his head, and backed away—one step, then another. If not quite to the other side of the shop, far enough so he wouldn't reach Reandn—not physically—before Reandn could do something about it.

  Even in this condition.

  Slowly, Reandn relaxed his grip, pinning the boy with his gaze alone, expression dark with warning. Tanager slid sideways; Reandn shifted to keep him in view. By the time the boy stood and walked on obviously shaky knees to stand beside the old man, Reandn had his first full view of the room.

  Light streamed in from the open wall in the front of the shop, framed by shutters and two carefully hung tunic samples. Silhouetted in that light were several indistinguishable figures. Closer, close enough so the light illuminated rather than shadowed his features, was Pa-Farren.

  No one else. No weapons in evidence.

  It was indeed only a tailoring shop, if filled with people he didn't trust. Reandn sat back against his heels, the knife resting along his thigh, knowing better than to rise. Not yet.

  "Tanager," Pa-Farren said, resting a brief glance on the youth, "there is a difference between courage and absurdity."

  "He had a knife!" Tanager's wounded pride rang loud. "He was sneaking in on us with a knife!"

  Surprise must have registered on Reandn's face, for the old man shook his head, a hint of a smile there. "He is Wolf, Tanager. It is merely the way of them."

  "He should speak for himself." Haughty tones, Highborn phrasing, a figure lost against the bright light; it came forward to resolve into a stately woman. "You took this man in without the benefit of consulting my husband, and see what it has brought you."

  "Nothing has happened," Pa-Farren said mildly, as Maurinne and her mother moved in to join them.

  "But something almost did," the woman said, not a whit put off. Reandn marked her fine clothes, and the expensive scent that drifted his way. Her hair— too evenly brown to be anything but dyed against grey—looped in braids around her head, an ostentatious display of length and a study in contrast with Lina and Maurinne, who hovered behind the woman in short-cropped hair and plain one-layer skirts.

  "We don't need a man like this in Maurant," the woman told Farren, then stared directly at Reandn. "This is a peaceful town. You don't belong here."

  Reandn had no hesitation. "And I don't want to be here."

  Pa-Farren's lips pressed together as the woman—he suspected her to be the minor's wife, with such intently Highborn stylings—widened her eyes at the affront. "I'm sure we can remedy that," she said, stiff dignity straightening her back. "When my husband hears of your unwarranted attack on the boy—"

  "Tanager started it!" Maurinne said, a loud protest gone unheeded.

  "—I'm sure he'll personally attend to the problems you have created. First the women's wash, bold as you please. Now this. As long as Savill is minor of this town, we'll not have intrusions—"

  Reandn listened a few more tedious moments, and then glanced with some annoyance at Pa-Farren—surprised to see humor in the man's eyes—as well as no small understanding. And then, since the woman still berated him, he did that which came naturally—the same grin, the same feral challenge that had earlier so offended Lina. Silent. Succinct. Filling in for the fancy words he'd never learned to say.

  The woman's mouth shut, and then opened again just long enough to promise further attention to this matter. She swept out of the shop, snapping open a small shade parasol.

  "Wow," said Tanager. "Will you teach me that?"

  "No!" Maurinne exclaimed. "He will not. You get into enough trouble as it is."

  "Farren," Lina said under her breath, a quiet demand.

  Reandn climbed carefully to his feet, his eyes on Pa-Farren. The suppressed smile licking around the corners of the old man's eyes now faded; the expectant expression that so irked Reandn returned in its place. The same questions that the Highborn would have asked.

  "Boot knife," Reandn said, and glanced pointedly at his bare feet. "No boot." He shook his head. "I'm not stupid enough to start something when I'm in this condition."

  "That, I can believe," the old man said. "But you, my friend, still don't know which way stands help and which stands hindrance. Come back inside, before Jilla spreads her tale and false customers arrive to gawk at you. I'll explain as I can, and then perhaps you'll be willing to return the favor."

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Chapter 7

  Pa-Farren left him then, moving into the back room with Lina. Tanager, reluctant, followed at a stern look from his mother. Maurinne stayed behind to watch the store, although for the most part she seemed to be watching Reandn.

  Well, then. Reandn climbed to his feet with slow, careful moves, testing his legs...breathing deeply. The crisp scent of clean new material and the underlying smell of oily wool overlaid the ever-present smell of the sea—and the stacks leading back to the living area were just the half of it. All along the back wall, similar mounds of batiste and poplin, wool and batiked cotton rose waist high; folded neatly upon these were pre-made items. Next to them stood Maurinne, her formerly unabashed stare more subtle now.

  He nodded at her. "You kept that from being worse than it could have been." A little adolescent screaming during the scuffle could have escalated the encounter past reconciliation, but instead Maurinne had managed to defuse the tension. She sent him a startled but pleased smile, and then turned away, suddenly quite busy, to fold material.

  He returned to the living quarters on careful feet, wiser than to take his legs for granted. A bowl of chicken dumplings waited for him—as well as a circle of watchful family members. The chicken he accepted gratefully; the scrutiny he returned with skepticism.

  "You haven't really met Tanager," Pa-Farren said. The light tone in his voice sounded forced, Reandn thought. "His given name is Farren, but one of those in the house was enough."

  The youth cast Reandn a baleful look, undiluted by adult sensibilities. His slick black hair was as short as Pa-Farren's; beneath it, the family resemblance came through clearly.

  "You've met Lina," Pa-Farren said, nodding at the woman; her expression was more guarded than her son's, but its meaning was clear. "She's the mother of those two incorrigibles, and I'm her father. As you've no doubt surmised, we handle the tailoring of the outer edge of Maurant." He rubbed his carefully trimmed beard, thoughtful about his next words.

  Reandn ate. He did not care who these people were, beyond knowing their names for a proper expression of gratitude. He'd pay them what he could and he'd be out of their household—finding his way back to his own life. Back to protecting his keep and his people.

  Pa-Farren didn't appear discouraged. "You," he said. "You're a Wolf. You arrived quite unconventionally in Maurant—in the outer chambers of the woman's common bath, by the way, just as Jilla accused. Other than that, we know nothing—and I think I've made it clear how important it is that I learn more. Your name, for instance, would be appreciated."

  Reandn perched on the edge of the bed, balancing the trencher on his knees. "Jilla acts like she thinks she's somebody."

  Tanager laughed despite his general disapproval of Reandn; Lina cut him short with a quick glare, and then chose her words with care. "She married above herself. She's not a bad sort...she just hasn
't learned how to carry it."

  "After fifteen years, I don't look for any improvement," Pa-Farren said dryly. Tanager muffled another snicker.

  Reandn gave Pa-Farren a long and measuring look. "Reandn."

  "Thank you," Pa-Farren said, with only a tinge of sarcasm.

  Reandn spared him the response that sprung to mind and instead spooned up another chunk of chicken, surprised by the sudden twinge in his elbow.

  The old wizard didn't miss a thing. "Lina can get you something for that. Although you arrived here with quite an assortment of old bruises, by now you've probably discovered new pains."

  Reandn gave him a sharp look, straightening the offending joint. "What do you know about it?"

  "Just what I should," the older man replied evenly. "You've been moved from one place to another in an abrupt and unkind manner—and against your will, I'm sure, or you'd be much more pleasant about the results. It will take your body some time to recover. Whoever sent you must have been in a terrible hurry to dispense with the safeguards that would have kept you away from that door."

  Nothing but a thinly veiled prod for information.

  All of which Reandn would keep to himself. Ronsin had, after all, deliberately sent him here—after years of obscuring his deadly potential behind the facade of an ineffective old man. Directly into the hands of another wizard. And Pa-Farren wasn't nearly as successful at obscuring his true nature. He'd already exposed the hard glints beneath his apparently kind exterior, his expectations of deference...

  "I'll leave in the morning," Reandn said, without preamble. "I don't have enough to pay you for the lodging, but I'll give you what I do have, and bring the rest before I leave Maurant."

  Pa-Farren didn't hesitate. "The only way to repay us is to tell me what you know."

  Reandn held the old man's direct stare. "I can't help you."

  There was silence in the little house, during which Tanager looked from one man to the other, his expression wary. But Pa-Farren sat quietly, his thoughts hidden behind blankly schooled features. A slight breeze stirred the air, ruffling through Reandn's hair and lifting the short strands of Pa-Farren's greying blond before fading back into the hot, heavy air.