“Sam.”Benedict sidled sideways, fingering the paper.“I have never met Ms.Irving, but by all accounts she is beautiful.Very beautiful.And according to these letters, very willing.Are you—”
“Give that to me.”I stalked after him.
“What if you just—”
“Give it to me!”
“Easy there, easy.”Benedict finally handed over the letter.
I returned to the fire to burn it, gathering others as I went, and did not look at Ben again until he opened the door.
“Well, brother,” he said, slapping the frame on his way out.“Do make wise choices and make Uncle proud.Saint knows I will not.”
TWENTY
Mereish Magics
SAMUEL
Grant and I moved quickly along the eastern road.It was elevated and windy, and only a few sleigh tracks marred the fresh snow.To the west I could just discern the coastline in the gloom, where the blanket of bright snow ended and the land dropped away.The ceaseless drone of waves on shore and wind in the crags had long since faded from my awareness, my cheeks burning with the cold and my hands stiff on the reins.
Leaning forward, I slipped my fingers beneath the horse’s mane and tried to leech off the animal’s heat.We had taken our mounts to a gallop not long before, and the mare’s flanks still steamed in the chill.She flicked her ears but kept plodding.I turned my touch to an affectionate scratch.
“Do you have a name?”I murmured to her.“What shall I call you?”
The mare plodded on and I sat back, a presentient unease sweeping across my shoulders.
“Grant,” I called, reining in.
Grant twisted in his saddle with a squeak of leather and rustle of heavy clothes.Seeing I had stopped, he immediately brought his grey-speckled gelding to a halt.He watched me with a keen readiness I had learned to value early on in my career.Whatever else he was, Grant was useful in a tight spot.
I sat straight in the saddle and divided my awareness between the road and the Dark Water.The snow beneath our horses briefly shifted to water, silvered black and lapping, and Other lights sparked across the sleeping Mereish countryside.
Grant took on a greyish haze, marking him as non-mageghiseau.Farther off, in a forest cloaking the southern hills, a cluster of yellow sparks marked implings on the hunt.I noted those with caution and turned my gaze to the coast, looking for the lights that would identify Olsa or Illya, the pale blue ofHart, Ben’s rust-red, and the grey-edged teal of Mary.
A cluster of lights moved out on the sea, distant enough to blur together but near enough for me to sense another grey haze.Olsa and Illya were aboardHart, but they were still west, and farther out to sea than expected.They were also not alone.Other ghistingpossessed ships punctuated the sea around them.I had no way of knowing just what kind of vessels those ships were, but, if they had drivenHartoff course, they were unlikely to be allies.Had he been captured?Was he about to be?
I swept my gaze down the coast and marked a grey-hedged teal.Mary—I knew her light like no other.The grey was stronger tonight, as Tane attempted to hide the red burn of Benedict from enemy Sooths.
“Harthas been delayed,” I conveyed to Grant, not bothering to keep the grimness from my voice.I pointed towards the red and teal lights.“Mary and Benedict are alone and close, in that direction.”
Grant loosened his saber, drawing and slipping it back home to ensure the cold had not stiffened it.Then, hips at ease in the saddle and reins draped across the saddle horn, he set to priming a pistol.
I primed my own musket.Then I nudged my mare into a cantering lead, and we made for Mary’s light.
A farmhouse soon parted from the gloom.It was low and made of stone, every corner rounded and every eave and peak decorated with intricate wooden knotwork.It lay in a distinct U-shape withits open side inland, away from the sea wind.One side of the U consisted of the barn, the other the kitchens, and the center the living quarters.
A massive, shaggy dog met us at the gate without so much as a huff of displeasure, and I offered the creature a hand to sniff as we led our horses into the yard.
“Eerie,” Grant commented.He stood beside his placid horse, pistol in one hand and cutlass in the other.He eyed the sliding door of the barn and the kitchen stoop, where sealed pots nestled in the cold and a little awning had been built against the chimney foot.The dog, still unbothered by our intrusion, retreated to the awning and lay down on a pile of sackcloth.
“Benedict is here,” I explained, eyeing the main door of the house.The small windows to either side wore heavy shutters, painted in quaint, bright patterns, but light flickered as one moved.
“Mary?”I called, just loud enough to be heard.
No answer came, and the shutter closed.All my fears about leaving Mary alone with Benedict resurfaced, more potent than ever.
I rested my musket loosely on my shoulder and, leaving the horses, approached the door.
