“To what purpose did he use your blood?”
She thought she’d been plain when she named the spells that the Prime Wizard worked. “I don’t understand.”
He took the dagger back from her, and Corrie was glad to release it to him before the magicked blade tasted her blood.
He watched the light dance up and down the long thin blade. “How did the ancient Elves get magick into metal? The dwarves could shape it and shape stone. They carved rocks to look like flowing water. But only Elves could forge metal with magick. They worked it into weapons and armor. Into the metal wire in that cord you’re wearing. Men have never discovered that skill—if skill it is. Most of the magickal weapons and talismans and sacred objects are in Thulestreigon. We guard them carefully.”
“Is that the reason you and Brom came south? You hunt Elvish metal?”
“We think Lord Hardraste and his wizards may be trying to create magickal weapons.”
All of her blood. A pit yawned before her. “You do not know this.”
“No, I do not. Do you know the purpose for Enstigorr’s blood-black spells?”
Corrie hadn’t wanted to know. Blood spells frightened her. After the Prime collected her blood in a gold-lined bowl, he would mutter over it. She had sensed the twisting of power even when the blood was hours removed from her body. “I was afraid to know.”
He handed her the brewed coffee. Sickened, she shook her head and looked away while he drank.
Magicked metal thread.
The snow resumed as she stared at the spell-binding cord, wrapped around her wrist like a gauntlet. And she remembered Sverr’s question from days before—although so much had happened since that it felt as if months had passed. Was the spell that bound power in the metal or the leather? Metal, she’d answered—only to be confused by his talk of inanimate metal and organic leather. But she remembered the bane spells in the dungeons. The shared element in constraining power was metal.
Magicked metal.
If she unbraided the cord and stretched out the wire, would she see Elvish runes engraved on the metal, so tiny to be nearly invisible while powerful enough to trap power?
What did her ability to work past the cords say about her own power?
Did Sverr think she had Elvish blood?
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
They rode in a twisting path around the stubby pines that grew along the border of the steppe. The snowfall had stopped, but only after it blanketed the land and weighted the tree branches. Clumps of snow fell from the occasional branch and landed with a soft thump. Freed of its burden, the limb sprang back into place while its mates remained weighted down.
Corrie’s breath fogged. She huddled into Sverr’s cloak and blanket and tried not to believe it was getting colder.
He drew up Smoke, and Fat Goose stopped. Chilled to shivering, Corrie didn’t want to dismount. The gelding’s heat kept her from freezing. She tucked her head into a swath of blanket and tried to ignore Sverr.
He stood in his stirrups and looked around, although what he could see beyond the wall of mazing pines Corrie couldn’t imagine. But he stared so long that she lifted her head from the breath-warmed wool. She worried that someone—some thing tracked them. She didn’t want another encounter with a ground-troll or any gobber. A flock of rooks was better choice—but no birds chased across the wintry sky.
He dismounted. She wanted to ride on to the bane witch. She wanted the interminable hours traveling in snow to be over.
He dragged her off the gelding.
“Sverr!”
“Good, you can say my name. I thought you frozen stiff.”
“You hurt me.”
“No, I didn’t,” and he gave that infernal grin—only for it to fade. Instead of the cheerful man of the past days, the cold warrior she’d first met had returned. “A troop came this way.”
“A troop? Here?” She glanced around. The snow had smothered all signs. “How can you tell?”
“Broken branches. Recent, maybe in the last hour.”
“Ahead of us?”
“Coming out.”
“Away from Mannemous? Looking for us?”
“Can’t say. Hope not.” A soft thump of released snow caught his attention. He checked the emptiness of trees and snow. “I can’t tell if the troop is raiders or soldiers.”
“If they go the way we came in, will they not cross our trail?”
“Snow’s covered our tracks by now. Besides, we came from the east.” She started to protest that the steppe was west, then realized the maze of trees had twisted her around. “They shouldn’t cross our back trail at all. Anything from the seal?” At her head shake, his brows drew together. “A day and a night without attack. And it’s getting late for one today.”
“Enstigorr’s mind games,” she said, but she didn’t want to think what new horror the seal would attract. Worse than gobbers or the ground-troll? Was anything worse than those horrors? “Do you not want this Mannemous to know we were on the steppe?”
“He mistrusts the steppe. He’s mountain-raised.” He massaged her cold limbs. “You’ve gone all dark under your eyes, sweetling. Do you feel ill?”
“Just cold. How much farther?”
“We’re close.”
“So, this troop is going east, and you brought us from the east.” She clung to that, still shivering, icicles trying to form in her joints, stiff with the wracking effort to keep from shaking off Fat Goose’s broad back. “Why east?”
“Mannemous is a superstitious old bird. He doesn’t like the steppe, and east means renewal, hope, birth.”
“While west means death?”
“North does. Icy death and the barren bones.”
“Yet he’s friend to a Norther like you?”
“Is that an insult?” He grinned to let her know he wasn’t affronted. He had stripped off his gloves and cupped her elbows. “Besides, he’s not my friend; he’s Brom’s. He tolerated me—after he nearly seared me with magick. He met Brom years ago, when he was questing in the Raikon Mountains. They were both after a talisman. Mannemous kept it. Won it, he said, which was not quite what Brom said.”
“He nearly seared you? And he’s so superstitious that we plan our approach?” Apprehension added its tremors to her shivers. “What will he think of me? Enstigorr’s seal marks me, and I’ve been deep in Hardraste’s dungeons. I probably still reek of those foul stones. And this spell-cord—. I’m hill-born and marsh-raised, and my hair—.”
He smoothed the offensive rag-mop back. “What’s wrong with your hair?” His voice had softened. “Except for the hack job, it’s pretty. I thought it was black in the tavern, but it’s got all these other colors in it.”
“It’s hacked off. Snossi cut it off for a spell. Your Mannemous will know that. He won’t trust me. And if he won’t trust me, he won’t remove Enstigorr’s seal.” The words tumbled out like a snow flurry. “The seal must come off, Sverr. We can’t go into the dungeons with his mark on me. We can’t! He can control—.”
“Mannemous will help you. I promise.”
She sucked in an icy breath, but it barely helped. “You can’t promise that. You can’t.”
“I can promise.” His big hands cupped her skull and tilted her face up. “He promised, Lyse Oyne. He owes debt to Brom, and helping Brom escape Hardraste’s dungeons will pay that debt.”
“But—.”
“Brom can’t escape without your help either. Mannemous will be cautious, that I grant you. So would I be if I were a bane witch living in the wilds not a day’s ride from the steppe. Highly superstitious, but what wizard isn’t always checking the weather signs and laying things down just so? I’ve watched you do it. You have your own little rituals, morning and night. You touch four points on the ground around you before you stand. You eat facing the south. Little things, but you want them just so. Brom’s the same way. I reckon you learn early on, not to spark power unnecessarily, and not to cross the ley-lines carelessly. Am I right?”
/> “You are saying I will be a superstitious old bird.”
“I look forward to seeing it, sweetling.”
She scowled at him for turning her worries into a comment about their relationship. Then she realized he talked about seeing her years from now. This wasn’t temporary for him?
As something shifted in her consciousness, she pursed her lips, refusing to be sidetracked. “What debt does he owe Brom?”
“That I do not know. It happened in Raikon. Brom was certain Mannemous would help him, if needed. He impressed that point on me before we parted.”
Even more so did she want to meet his brother. A wizard with great prescience. Would the weight of his power bear down on her the way Enstigorr’s had? Would Mannemous’ power also overwhelm her?
His icy fingers threaded through her ragged mop then into the swath of blanket and beneath the cloak, seeking contact with her skin. He splayed them across her shoulders, his thumbs resting on her collarbones. “Sweetling, what my brother expects he rarely shares. Only what he knows.”
“You are much alike,” she grumbled.
“I know Mannemous will help, Corrie.”
“After he leaves whip-trails of power across our backs.”
“That’s my girl. You don’t panic, Lyse Oyne. You look hollowed out.” His fingers tightened. “You feel hollowed out. Are you sure you’re not ill? You never let me check for a gobber bite.”
“A good night’s rest before a fire and safely under a roof will cure me.”
“I believe I have that cure—if you can trust a Norther swordsman and a bane witch. Kiss for luck?”
Surprised at this flirtatious return, she looked up, and he seized the opportunity.
Corrie did like kissing Sverr. The contact heated parts of her that she hadn’t realized were missing him. Her arms crept around his neck. He caught her closer. Seeking even more contact, she touched her tongue to his. He groaned. The kiss heated up, and she reveled in his passion. His tongue mimicked their love-making. His hands gripped her with such strength she knew she would have bruises.
He jerked back. “Gods, we can’t. We have to get to Mannemous.”
On tiptoe, she pressed a kiss to his scruffy chin, unshaved since they’d left the farm. At her boldness, he inhaled sharply then came back for more kisses, light ones, tasting her lips, her cheeks, her eyelids.
“Enough,” he said, but his arms still encircled her. He dropped his head to her shoulder. “You’re too tempting, Lyse Oyne.”
She borrowed his saying. “Pot and kettle, Sverr.”
His clear eyes held a flashing gleam, and they delayed even more minutes.
Soft snow fell around them. He set her from him with a rueful shake of his head. He tossed her onto Fat Goose and tucked the blanket into place.
But his hands lingered.
“Sverr,” she gently prodded, “we should get moving.”
“Slave driver, that’s what you are.”
Chapter 10
Once Corrie knew what to look for, she too could see the passage of riders. In some places where the stubby pines grew thick, the snow was swept completely from the branches. The seeping resin at the broken end of branches leaked the heady scent of pine. One time, the tips of a pine needle fan stuck out of the snow.
The birds were strangely quiet. Snow had driven them to cover, but even so a few would have fluttered around, and some would have chirped from their warm patch.
How did Sverr find his way through the maze of trees? She could see no path.
They had not ridden far when the wind picked up. A heavier purple cloud settled over the forest. Snow fell, drifting flakes that gave way to heavier ones driven ahead of the wind. The snow drove into their faces from the west and the steppe. The pines grew taller and denser. Denuded leafing trees began to appear. And still they rode.
Corrie smelled smoke long before she saw the cabin. They came into a cleared area, and there tucked against trees was a small building, box-style, of a type she had only seen on a venture years ago with her father, deep into the Raikon Mountains.
So young she’d been, Corrie did not even remember the reason for the journey, just her excitement at traveling so far from Mama and home. Along the way they’d seen many people. Papa traded his carved bone rings for metal disks and beads and such. Her brother had been jealous when they returned over a month after their departure. She remembered that. And Papa had left with Uncle Arne not long after—never to return.
Mountain-style, the cabin had unshaped logs chunked with mud. Stout trunks lay on their sides, like corded wood bound together. The logs were barked in places, smooth in others. A rock chimney on the north side climbed above the snow-sheeted roof. The front door faced east; she could see no windows. Not an abode worthy of a wizard of repute. Even Laienn, a mere root witch, had a little cottage with windows she could shutter and a wide doorstep where she set potted flowers. Laienn had white-washed her door and planted pink-bind to climb the porch posts. Only iron bracing ornamented this cabin’s door. To the south side of the house was a lean-to. Deeper in the trees Corrie spied a shed.
Mannemous had not emerged at their approach, but Sverr didn’t hesitate. He rode Smoke up to the cabin, and Fat Goose followed. Rosemary beside the door was swept free of earlier snow, but new snowflakes clung to the branches.
Sverr dismounted and came to her. “He’s not inside,” she warned him.
“Feel that, do you? He’s out in the trees, watching. Probably up one.”
She had sense enough not to lift her gaze and look around. “He’s that cautious?”
“As you should always be and weren’t last Spring.”
That stung. Deserved comments always did.
He helped her down and dusted snow off her hair. “Sorry. In your village you likely hadn’t heard Hardraste was collecting wizards and witches alike. He didn’t start until the snows cleared. A few weeks in, you had no reason to be more than ordinarily cautious.”
“Is that the reason you and Brom came south?”
“No. I’m taking the horses to the shed where they’ll be out of the wind. You go inside. Get warm by the fire. Don’t prowl, though.”
“I know that.”
She checked the single door for a ward before touching the latch. She checked again before she crossed the threshold. Heat flooded past her in a vain attempt to warm the cold. When Corrie shut the door, the room plunged into a darkness only relieved by the hearth embers.
She stood still, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness, taking in the single room.
Herbs. Cooking herbs. Healing herbs. Yesterday or the day before he’d worked with camphor. The remedy gave her an image of one old man locked up by stiff joints as Laienn had been once the frosts began. The room didn’t smell of old people, though. Perhaps he made an ointment for others. She smelled pine and cedar, as if he stored new wood inside—but what would be the purpose in that? She also smelled dirt.
And something faint, on the edge of identifiable but not familiar enough to name. It caught and tugged at memory, of warmth or of well-being—she couldn’t decide which.
Her sight had adjusted. Colorful mats covered the dirt-packed floor, but nothing else stood between her and the fireplace. A chair stood by the hearth, a stool on the other side. Rough shelving covered the walls. A curtain hung between two sets of shelves: his private room? Wishing she were braver, Corrie took a deep breath then took her first step beyond the door. When nothing happened, her steps to the hearth were surer.
Rocks extended the hearth. The earlier fire had them toasty-hot. After rekindling the fire and setting alight a charred log, Corrie sat on the stool. She planted her frozen feet on the toasty rocks then lifted her skirts to her knees to warm her legs. Then she unwound from the blanket and Sverr’s cloak.
Before she felt toasted, the door flung open. Not Sverr, too soon. She controlled the urge to look around. She did push her skirts back down and cupped her hands on her knees.
Power sparked,
and the room brightened from new sources of light. Corrie lifted her gaze to the light in her line of sight. A glass orb, now pulsing with energy. A neat trick, impressive to the untaught. She could have done it herself if she’d known the orbs waited for the energy to spark them.
The bane witch chuckled, which surprised her. “You have nerve, lass.”
She straightened a little but kept her profile to him. “Have I right to confront you when I am only a visitor?”
“Intruder,” he parried as he crossed to her, unwrapping his many coverings: cloak and scarf and gloves and a tunic of thick wool that she envied even though she could see it only from the corner of her eye.
“Visitor,” she insisted. He came to her left side, and she looked up, amending her counter to “Supplicant, for I have need of you, great Mannemous.”
A white mane flowed back from a high forehead. He was clean-shaven, though. A shadow crossed his eyes, preventing her from seeing them clearly. Arms akimbo, he countered, “Certainly not great yet.”
While his abode did not speak of wealth, the embroidered velvet jerkin over soft hide breeches did. The shirt beneath, revealed only in its meticulously stitched collar and placket, was moss-dyed woven wool. Even his boots, wet with snow, were richer than any she’d seen outside Hardraste Castle. His splendor contrasted with her travel-worn clothes, tattered and patched, of serviceable cloth and bare of any ornamentation. She felt very much the country mouse matching his richness.
“What need?” His accent matched his fine clothes. “You do not look injuried.”
“Look deeper, Mannemous, and you may see it.”
He cast his head back a little to study her, as if looking down his nose at her. She studied him as well. She tried to see past the clothing that sparked her envy. His white hair straggled, but that was all that looked unkempt, and she could lay that disarray to his removal of the long scarf. Age had lined him but not bent him.
“I see a darkness, not in you. On you. And a woman who thinks that spell-binding cords are a proud ornamentation.” He crouched beside her but didn’t reach out. “You know my name. May I know yours?”
More than a Wizard Page 13
