Cold Magic (Spiritwalker 1)

“Would that be right? Usually people go to a temple scribe to have it done.”

“Why would it not be right? Usually they go because they cannot write. Maester Lewis once told me that anyone who knows the proper act can make the offering.”

She fished out a little pot of ink and the quill pen we had purchased earlier with a blank journal book and other necessities. She had a neat hand, and I watched in fascination as she tucked the blessing symbols in among the cat’s whiskers and almond eyes, and the fox’s big triangular ears and whitened muzzle, and flowed the charms like ribbons through the more crudely painted patterns on the faces.

“There,” she said. “Now I feel I have not taken without leaving something in return. It binds you, you know, to take without giving.”

“Unless they plan to turn us in to the constabulary for a handsome reward.”

“Have you heard any criers on the street announcing our escape? Now that I see these crowds, I wonder if they can even risk it. The crowds are already agitated at the prospect of the Northgate Poet going on a hunger strike, so how do you think the mob will react to news that the militia and cold mages have allied to hunt down two young women? If I were the prince, I would send out spies and seekers to hunt very quietly.”

“You would hire Barahals, you mean.”

She grimaced as she cleaned the tip of the quill pen. “Yes, exactly. Barahals to hunt Barahals. Then they would close in and take us without anyone being the wiser that we were being hunted.”

“Maybe. But I admit, I’m very tired. I’m willing to take the chance to rest tonight. We’ll take turns on watch.”

But after we took off our boots and crawled into the alcove bed and decided on a turn of watch each, the clangor and bustle from the kitchen lulled us. Or maybe it was the sound of ink drying. We must both have fallen hard asleep, for I woke to silence and no idea how much time had passed. I heard not even the pop and rustle of fire. With the curtain drawn, we lay in darkness except for a line of light where the curtain’s edge did not quite meet the wall. Day had therefore come, but the inn, it seemed, now slept.

No. Someone waited in the scullery, a presence notable for its measured but not precisely calm breathing. A chair scraped softly as it was moved. Bee lay between me and the wall; I hooked a finger at the curtain’s corner and twitched it back just enough to see out.

Andevai Diarisso Haranwy sat in a chair with his back straight, his feet flat on the slate floor, and his hands in loose fists on each thigh. He looked like the kind of academy student who pays close attention in class not necessarily because he is actually interested but because he is determined to do well. There was no fire; I heard no sounds of life, nothing. Just him, sitting there with his greatcoat slung over the chair’s back, and Bee’s steady breathing behind me, and a cat’s questing meow from out of doors.

“I was raised in a hunter’s village,” he remarked to the dust motes swirling in the frigid air, “and furthermore, having followed you through the spirit world, I am more visibly chained to you, magically speaking, of course, than might otherwise be the case.” He touched a gold locket hanging at his throat, which he had not been wearing the last time I had seen him. “Also, I have a strand of your hair. In case you are wondering how I tracked you down.”

He paused.

Naturally I made no reply. Honestly, I could not understand why he would suppose I would be stupid enough to say anything. Also, he wore a jacket in the oranges and browns favored by working men, only his was so particularly tailored to his build that few working men could ever have afforded such style, and the fabric was such finely woven damask that it shimmered in a way to make a person wish to trace its shape on his body. His boots, if somewhat smudged by the dirt of back streets, had the gloss of finest leather, in fact, they were utterly gorgeous with a creamy black finish. In other circumstances, I would have been struck dumb in admiration.

This was not one of those times. I was merely speechless with anger at my own self for being careless enough to get caught.

“As it happens,” he went on, “you are being hunted through the city by the allied forces of the mansa of Four Moons House and by the militia and constabulary of the Prince of Tarrant. That they have not yet found you is only because an unlawful assembly has gathered at the council hall square this morning. Naturally the prince has had to mobilize his militia there to protect the city from disruption. Even so, I have come to the unfortunate conclusion that you will be apprehended if I do not assist you.”

Bee popped up over my back. “Do people really talk like that?” she demanded as she swept the curtain out of my hand and opened it wide.

Seeing Andevai, she said, in an altered tone, “Oh.”

“So at this point,” he concluded, without appearing to have heard her, for although his gaze briefly took her in, he fixed on me, “I feel obliged because of past missteps to render aid.”

His complete lack of surprise in seeing Bee gave me the sudden uncomfortable idea that he had already been over here to part the curtains and see us sleeping. I did not like to know he had watched me while I was not only unaware of his presence but also unable to even think of defending myself. I grabbed my sword—it was again a cane—and sprang up from the warmth of the bed into the chill of a chamber inhabited by a cold mage.

“Misstep? Is that what you call attempted murder? Or perhaps you meant a misstep because you did not succeed?”

He rose, making no effort to draw his sword. “I cannot expect you to forgive me, Catherine. That is not why I am here—”

“It seems obvious even to me, with my sleep-befuddled brain, that you are here as part of the hunt. You cannot expect us to surrender without a fight.”

“I don’t expect you to surrender. Were you even listening? I’ve come to try to put things right—”

I laughed scornfully. “Ha! It’s far too late for that! It was too late the day you forced the Barahals to hand me over.”

“I did not force the Barahals to hand you over. I was sent to marry the eldest Barahal daughter, with no further instructions and, I might add, no knowledge of why or how the original contract had been made. I did what I was told.”

“Tried to kill me!”

“Cat,” said Bee in her reasonable tone. “Oughtn’t we to hear him out?” She rose, straightening and smoothing her rumpled gown. “You said yourself he expressed regret for the action. Also, it is obvious he could have killed you while we were sleeping. But he did not.”

“My thanks.” He studied Bee. “This is the eldest Hassi Barahal daughter, isn’t it?”