Once Bryn had seen the girl safely in her mother’s arms, all her energy slackened. She slumped to the floor, barely catching herself.
Rangar gripped her shoulders hard, holding her up. “Bryn?”
“I’m fine.” But her voice was weak.
A handful of villagers who had heard the girl’s wails rushed in through the kitchen’s back door. They stopped, relieved, to see the mother’s calm face despite the girl’s crying.
“May the gods bless you,” the mother choked out to Bryn.
Still feeling depleted, Bryn nodded. Rangar helped her to her feet, one hand going to her wrist to feel her pulse.
“What happened, Alyse?” an elderly woman asked in concern.
“The boiling water spilled on Mara. Oh, it would have been awful if these two hadn’t come with a hex to heal her right up!”
Though most of the villagers murmured comforting words, the elderly woman frowned sharply. “A hex, you say, Alyse?”
A few distrusting eyes shifted to Rangar and Bryn.
“Oh, stop with that, Ester!” the tavern keeper snapped. “Mara might have died if they hadn’t used magic!”
“You don’t know that,” the elderly woman said firmly, tightening her shawl. “We don’t know what the gods intend. Magic should be left to them, not to we earthly beings.”
“Well, if the gods intended Mara to suffer terrible burns, then damn the gods, and I’ll keep my hexes!”
The villagers began to argue over the use of magic, and Rangar pressed his hand to Bryn’s back as he whispered, “I think we should go. Now.”
Chapter 29
HYTOOTH PALACE . . . the vast sea . . . a strange greeting . . . red-headed cousins . . . not the first to arrive
As weak as Bryn was, she was in no position to argue with Rangar. He had to practically carry her out of the tavern and across the farmyard while the villagers continued to argue in the distance. A ladder led up to the barn’s hayloft; Rangar took one look at it, then threw Bryn over his shoulder so he could climb with both hands. When they reached the top, he dropped her on a blanket the tavern keeper had laid out over the straw for them.
“Oof!” she said as a cloud of straw floated up around her. “Rangar, I could have managed the ladder on my own.”
He crouched in front of her to recheck her pulse. “You should rest. The amplifier spell is a drain.”
“On you, too.”
“Not as much as on you. You were the caster.”
“Well, I’m fine.”
It was chilly in the barn despite the blanket and insulation provided by the hay. With her body depleted of its reserves, she couldn’t help but shiver. “You heard what those villagers said about magic. Even to save a little girl’s life, they distrust it.”
“Not all of them.”
“Yes, but enough to be a problem.”
Rangar eased himself onto the blanket beside her and took out a brandy flask. Passing it to her, he said, “We’ll be at Hytooth Palace tomorrow, well before the other royal families arrive. We’ll talk to Queen Amelia and get ahead of this anti-magic sentiment. I promise you; we can turn the tide.”
The brandy burned down Bryn’s throat, but at least it warmed her belly.
They spent the night huddled beneath Rangar’s bearskin cloak, listening to the snores of the livestock in the barn below. Bryn’s dreams were tainted by images of witches burned by boiling water. In the morning, Rangar left a stack of coins at the tavern’s back door, and they departed without alerting anyone, afraid their presence would only further stir the village’s disagreement over magic.
Legend and Fable were well rested, and with the flat terrain of the Wollin, Bryn and Rangar made good time. A cool breeze rolled in off the ocean as the road led them toward the coast. They crested a small hill, and the sea view rolled out beyond.
Bryn stopped Fable, gazing at the ocean as a sentiment of awe settled over her. Having lived most of her life far inland, she would never grow tired of seeing the vast expanse of water. Here, the ground sloped gently into a flat, sandy beach, which in turn opened to glistening turquoise waves, dotted here and there by sleepy fishing vessels.
