Cold Steel (Spiritwalker 3)

Our things were taken away and food delivered. I ate, but Vai did not wake. He tossed and turned, shivering and then sweating. I washed him down repeatedly with cool water. Once I was able to wake him for long enough to get some broth down his throat, but he fell back asleep as in a stupor. It frightened me that he had driven himself to collapse and I hadn’t noticed. To pass the day I mended his dash jacket, ate, washed my hair, and enjoyed the comfort of a furnished and heated domicile, although I kept a chair shoved under the door latch as a precaution.

too stunned to protest as Devyn and his soldiers rode into the village for the night. Vai sent the local men away, then drew me inside the cottage and shut and latched the door.

The cottage had two chambers, one on each side of a central passage. A back door opened onto the enclosed walkway that led along the hypocaust to the attached cottage, where the stove burned. Heat poured up from beneath the floorboards.

In the parlor a knotted carpet had been rolled back to leave space for a tub of steaming water, buckets for rinsing, and a bench heaped with linen towels. Our gear had been set on a table next to a folded stack of clean clothes. By the light of cold fire Vai closed the curtains while I stared at the unexpectedly luxurious surroundings, feeling as if I’d found silk in a ragged shepherd’s hovel.

“Love, come here.”

He undressed himself and then me, pinned up my braid, and coaxed me into the tub with him. As the water warmed my numb limbs, he just held me. My thoughts had hit a wall. I could only comprehend the lap of water sloshing against the side of the tub, the steady rhythm of his breathing against my back, and the pressure of my head resting along his cheek.

In the other chamber waited a spacious curtained bed with an astounding feather quilt of exquisite construction. Dressing in the linen bed robes they had laid out for us, we snuggled together under a wool blanket on a settee. We shared a tray of honeycakes, a bowl of porridge garnished with butter, and a bottle of bold red wine. A part of me was hungry, but it all tasted like sand.

He spoke at random. “I can only figure one reason they thought me a magister the moment they saw me. Most people here have the pale skin and hair of Celtic ancestry, although some like your grandfather are more obviously mixed, likely the bastard descendants of Crescent House. To their eyes I must be a magister and thus a nobleman.”

“Why would cold mages want anything in this terrible place?” I said angrily.

His lips crimped down. He pressed a hand over mine. “Love, you’re very tired. We both need to sleep. Some things are better examined in the morning.”

“I don’t even know what day it is. We don’t even know what year it is…” Days and years were not the pain clawing up out of my bruised heart. “First Aunt Tilly and Uncle Jonatan gave me away. Now the man who is my uncle fears me and my grandfather wishes I had been smothered at birth. My mother and father are dead. My sire is a monster. And I miss Bee. I don’t even know where she and Rory are or if they’re all right.”

Tears welled out of the pit exposed by the half-remembered whisper of my mother’s voice in my heart. She had reached for me. She had cherished me despite everything.

Vai tucked us under the bedcovers and let me cry in his arms. He said nothing, and when my tears at long last dried up, I knew there was nothing he needed to say. Any man or woman can speak words and not mean them, or mean them and not have the strength to carry them through. Instead he kissed the tears from my cheeks and sighed with weary satisfaction as he settled me comfortably against him. Strange it was how his silence brought a measure of peace to my heart. We had traveled such a long way, and even farther if one measured from the first day we had met.

“Vai?” Seeking another form of comfort, I dropped kisses along the curve of his neck.

More worn out than I had guessed, he had already fallen asleep.

25

Vai’s twitching and muttering woke me. He was slipping in and out of his village patois, obviously dreaming. He was very warm, possibly feverish, trying to throw off the blankets and quilt as if they were weights he had to free himself from.

In a rough, desperate voice he said, “Ah kill ’ee.” Then, more clearly, flat with rage, “I will kill you.”

“Vai. It’s me. It’s Catherine. I’m here with you. You’re safe. We’re safe.” I stroked his hair and face until he relaxed.

He sighed, barely awake. “My sweet Catherine. You’re safe. I’ll keep you safe.”

Between one breath and the next he dropped back into sleep.

The air was pleasantly warm, heat rising from below. I slipped on the linen dressing robe and peeked out the closed curtains to see the sun almost at zenith. Gracious Melqart! We had slept a long time. Voices murmured in the passage. I opened the door. Men were in the parlor, tidying up. When they saw me they averted their gazes.

“Salvete,” I said, speaking slowly. “May we have food? Broth and porridge to start with, and a heavier meal later. Wash water, please. Also, if you can clean our clothes and gear…”

Our things were taken away and food delivered. I ate, but Vai did not wake. He tossed and turned, shivering and then sweating. I washed him down repeatedly with cool water. Once I was able to wake him for long enough to get some broth down his throat, but he fell back asleep as in a stupor. It frightened me that he had driven himself to collapse and I hadn’t noticed. To pass the day I mended his dash jacket, ate, washed my hair, and enjoyed the comfort of a furnished and heated domicile, although I kept a chair shoved under the door latch as a precaution.

Without his cold fire to light the evening, I crawled back into bed at dusk.

What woke me I did not at first know, only that I came awake groping for my sword. The hilt shivered in my hand as I drew it out of the spirit world. Vai was sprawled across half the bed, dead asleep but breathing comfortably. The door’s latch jigged down, and the door bumped against the chair. Veiled in shadow, I padded to the door.

A male voice muttered to his companions in words I understood well enough to get the gist: The mage was ill, the black-haired beast was alone and trapped in the body of a woman, so the cursed magister could be slaughtered like the pig all mages were and his possessions shared among men bold enough to take action.

A hand groped through the crack where the door gapped open, seeking to shove away the chair. I stabbed, pinning the hand to the wood.

“I never sleep. After I kill you, I’ll paint my face with your blood and come after the rest.”

I pulled the blade out.