Were he not so disliked by Hayden’s army and the general populace of Castagher, Dradus would cheerfully turn both men into torches with a few carefully recited spells. Such an action, however, guaranteed he’d never make it back to the city alive. This troop was loyal to its king, not him. Any unfortunate accident might happen on the return journey. The soldiers assigned to help him find the witch and Varn’s daughter would offer platitudes of false regret and swear each other to silence over their roles in his demise.
He clamped down on his wrath and spoke between clenched teeth. “You were supposed to keep an eye on them and their house, not running your hands up an ale wench’s skirts in the nearby town.” The soldier who offered up an explanation opened his mouth again. Dradus raised the crop in warning. “Don’t bother, unless you want a taste of what I delivered to your companion. You said the witch is dead. Buried or burned?”
“Buried. Not far from here, beneath a big tree. It’s easy to spot. Whoever buried her made sure animals couldn’t dig her up.”
“Well we can. Take me there.” Dradus grinned as both scouts paled. “Pray her spirit won’t hold it against you when you bare her bones to daylight.”
He left the remainder of the troop to ransack the hovel, inviting them to take whatever caught their fancy. The two scouts gazed longingly at the door where soldiers dragged out bedding, meager furniture, pottery and bits of clothing.
“You’ve forfeited the right to the loot,” Dradus said. “Get moving.”
Judging by the look of the cottage, there was little worth taking. He’d already scoured the few books the witch kept on a shelf near her keeping cupboard. They contained nothing of value for an adept of his skill, and his disappointment left him short-tempered. Niamh of Leids had once been a magic user of renown before she disappeared, and Dradus had hoped to find at least one grimoire of powerful spells he could learn and add to his repertoire. Recipes for herbal brews and incantations to counteract toe fungus were useless to him.
The two scouts waited for him near the grave site, a mound of rocks placed beneath the shade of a giant fir. A withered bunch of daffodils offered a splash of color and proof that someone had visited the grave days earlier to pay their respects. Most likely Varn’s daughter, who had vanished into thin air.
He paused for a moment, brought up short by the faintest touch of sorcery unlike any he’d ever encountered. The sensation hummed along his nerves in fits and starts, fickle as a firefly’s light. Just as his senses grasped its essence, it winked out only to tease him a moment later.
“Do you feel that?” he asked the two men with him. They glanced at each other and back at him before shaking their heads. “Of course not,” he said. “Why would you?” Doltish louts, the lot of them. They wouldn’t recognize magic if someone dumped a bucket of the stuff on their heads.
“Start digging,” he commanded. “I want to put a few leagues in before the sun goes down.”
“What do you want us to do once we open the grave?” The unfortunate recipient of the kiss from Dradus’s crop looked ready to bolt for the trees. Superstitions regarding the dead and their vengeance ran strong in most people, and this scout was no exception.
Dradus spotted a log nearby that made an adequate seat and settled onto it. He smiled at the two men, the smile widening as they paled. “Once you open the grave, I want you to get out of the way so Dame Niamh and I can have a little chat.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
He held her chin with a callused palm, no doubt toughened by fighting if his current dress and ease with weaponry was anything to go by. But the miracle of that first rough caress bewitched her. For the very first time in her memory, someone had touched her and lived to tell the tale.
Oh, she’d held Niamh’s hand through her gloves and embraced her amidst layers of protective clothing, but it wasn’t the same. Her wonder at that initial contact had been reflected in Cededa’s sublime features, in his awestruck declaration of dying.
They stood in that half embrace for several moments before he released her and put space between them. That white-washed stare consumed her, turning her knees to water. A sudden thought had sent a new fear jittering down her spine.
“I swear, I’m not lying.” She raised her gloved hands. “Were you a normal…” she flinched and corrected herself. “Were you any other man, you’d be dead.”
His mouth curved, and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes deepened. "I believe you."
Her shoulders slumped in relief. “Thank the gods,” she said and exhaled a stuttering breath. “I really don’t want you to kill me.”
His soft laughter, free of the harsh bitterness she’d heard earlier, washed over her, as beguiling and seductive as his touch. “I doubt that me killing you is Niamh’s idea of repaying the debt I owe her.”
Imogen smiled at his teasing. “No, I’m sure it isn’t.” She abandoned the smile for a frown. “I didn’t really believe her when she said you could break my curse. I only came so you could remove the key. Is it possible you can help me?”
“The key is a small matter. It’s my magic that put it there. I can remove it just as easily. Your curse, however, is something different. I’ve never seen the like, and in my lifetime that’s saying something.”
He reached out to touch her once more. Again, she backed away, and he lowered his arm. “Forgive me,” she said. “I am unused to another's touch.”
He shrugged, his bland expression saying he took no insult from her retreat. “I have an idea how to lift a death touch, but it will take time, and you’ll have to stay with me in Tineroth until the summer solstice.”
Imogen chewed her lower lip. She hadn’t expected this. Caution and disappointment warred with longing. She’d come with only the thought of Cededa removing the key. He offered her a glimmer of hope for a normal life. But that hope came with a price and a measure of trust in a fabled king who ruled a dead city.
Surrounded by an unnatural hush and decrepit palaces and shrines etched in moonlight, she wondered how difficult it might be to live within the confines of Tineroth’s decaying beauty. She looked to Cededa. His face revealed nothing of his thoughts. “How would I live? I’ve not seen nor heard any animals to hunt or fresh water to drink. My water supply is only enough to last another day.”
“There’s plenty of fresh water in Tineroth. I’ll show you where it can be found, and the wild life of the surrounding woods thrives. There’s more than enough to feed one small woman. You just have to know where to hunt. And there are those unseen who still serve me and this city.”
That last enigmatic statement didn’t ease her worry. Solstice was a good four months off, but what did she have to return to? Niamh’s frail body rested within the earth she loved. The cottage stood empty, no longer a home but a shell containing memories that made Imogen’s throat tighten with tears. Nothing and no one demanded her immediate presence, no home or family anxiously awaited her return.
“I’ll stay until the solstice.” A subtle shift in Cededa’s expression revealed his satisfaction at her answer. “However,” and she raised her chin, “I don’t have the means to repay your hospitality.”
