Did Wyst see through my witchly disguise, or did he prefer his women plump and haggish? The latter notion meant that my curse might deny me the very man I desired. Such irony as repulsive beauty was not beyond possibility where a potent death curse was at play. And somewhere in the hell where long-dead, mad wizards might dwell, Nasty Larry was probably enjoying a good chuckle between tortured shrieks.
Such dilemmas aside, it was inevitable that Wyst and I would find ourselves in deeper conversation.
Bread was all Wyst ever ate. He lived upon two thin pieces a day. One in the morning when he awoke and one in the evening before he went to sleep. The meager diet and his personal enchantments sustained him very well. Even when he retired for the evening, he never seemed truly tired. And his body was the perfect balance between lean grace and masculine strength. At least, I thought so, and I'd spent enough hours studying it despite my efforts not to.
It was one of these moments of unwitchly indulgence that began a chat I'd been laboring to avoid. I was watching Wyst partake of his evening meal, wondering at what thoughts might be dancing behind his deep, dark eyes. I lost myself in the wondering and hadn't even realized he'd noticed my staring until it was far too late to pass it away as a casual glance.
He smiled from across the campfire. "Would you like some?" He held up a piece of dry, unappealing bread that I quickly accepted to cover my staring.
Newt gaped. He no doubt found the notion of eating anything without blood even more repellent than I. His bill dropped, and his eyes crossed.
Ghastly Edna had subsisted mostly on bread and rabbit and wild berries, but all I'd ever eaten was meat. Even as a newborn, I'd had a good set of teeth. The kind of sharp, snapping fangs that discourage a mother from drawing her undead child to her breast.
I sniffed the bread. It had hardly any scent, and nothing that put me in mind of dinner. But I felt I must, so I took a very small bite, chewed the morsel once, and forced myself to swallow. It couldn't hurt me, but it wasn't something I wanted to do again.
Newt's tongue dangled from the side of his bill.
I gulped down some raw pheasant to keep myself from gagging.
"It's ..." I struggled to find a word that was both truthful, yet not too harsh.
Wyst found it for me. "Bland yet edible."
I nodded.
He grinned. "I wasn't always a White Knight. I remember what food tastes like. Vaguely."
Though I knew Wyst to be a mortal man, the admittance struck me. I'd gotten the impression that White Knights were much like witches. Much of their trade involved acting odd. Not a witchly strangeness, but a chaste peculiarity. For to deny one's self the simple pleasures of the flesh was certainly unusual.
Such lapses of character were unavoidable after spending enough time with someone. As a professional courtesy, I should have ignored it, but I couldn't stop myself from searching for the mortal man.
"Do you miss it?"
Had Wyst pretended not to hear the question, I would have pretended I'd never asked it. "Not much. Although I do find myself aching for a good apple cider on rare occasion."
I set my own bread aside as if I might actually finish eating it. Newt eyed the slice and backed away a few steps.
"And what about yourself?" Wyst asked. "Do you ever find yourself aching for something?"
From anyone else, the question might have been bold, but he'd answered mine. It was only fair I answer his.
"It's difficult to miss what you've never had."
Wyst took a sip of water from his canteen. "I wouldn't know about that. It's the things we've never had that we sometimes miss the most."
"I've never had an appetite for anything but flesh, raw and red. It's my curse. So it really isn't the same as denying myself a pleasure. It's more like giving jewelry to a tortoise. Neither necessary, nor appreciated."
Wyst nodded. His eyes strayed to the evening stars as he finished the last of his meal. "I see. So there are no indulgences you deny?"
This was an important moment. A good witch would offer a reply that hid away her humanity. A dozen responses came to me, all of them appropriate in their vagueness. I didn't choose any of them.
"There are"—I lowered my hat to cover the blush reddening my cheeks—"temptations."
Newt mumbled. In many ways, he was a more demanding master than Ghastly Edna, but he wasn't my master. His opinion counted for little.
"Newt, fetch some wood for the fire."
He squinted at the healthy flames and the small yet ample supply of fresh branches beside it. "Why don't you send Gwurm? He's bigger and has hands."
I glanced over at my troll, curled up, boulderlike, in his early evening retirement. "He's asleep."
"So wake him."
My familiar looked into my eyes and attempted to stare me down. His insolence had grown bothersome of late, and another lesson was in order. I should have given them more often, but his contrary nature sprang from his demon. I disliked having to punish him for his enchanted nature. He was, much like myself, engaged in a constant struggle with a part of himself. I only disciplined him when I felt he wasn't giving the conflict enough effort.
I removed my shawl and tossed it over him. "Now where did I put that Newt?" I asked softly. Then I lifted the shawl to reveal a single white feather left in the duck's place. Wyst knew me well enough to know I hadn't done Newt permanent harm. "Where did you send him?"
"I misplaced him, so I suspect he's in that place where all misplaced things go: that secret locus where lost keys, loose coins, and almost-yet-not-quite-forgotten memories wait to be found. He'll turn up eventually, like all lost things. Most likely when we aren't even looking for him.
"How does one become a White Knight?" It broke witchly protocol to ask such a question and reveal that there were things I didn't know. With Newt lost, I found myself even less concerned with my witchliness. I wasn't willing to completely abandon it, but it was easier not to worry when the only witnesses were a sleeping troll, a broom, and a horse.
"It's a secret."
"Witches are very good at keeping secrets."
Wyst and I exchanged slight smiles.
"Yes, I suppose they are."
He took his third and last sip of water for the evening and returned his canteen to his pack. Then he laid down on his blanket on the cold, hard ground. It was all I could do to keep myself from pouncing upon him, running my hands down his chest, and maybe biting off his nose. Before that urge grew irresistible, he started his story, looking into the sky as he did.
"No man is truly good or evil. They may be greatly one or the other, but they always have its opposite to some degree. And sometimes, certain men, through either chance or design, find their souls in perfect balance. Both good and evil in exact equality. And when a man reaches this state, fate takes special notice of him and chooses him for greatness. I was such a man.
"The Order employs seers whose only purpose is to wander the land, find men like this, and recruit them. I was in a tavern, half-drunk, when one of these seers found me."
I tried to imagine what Wyst might look like half-drunk, but even a witch's imagination had its limits.
He closed his eyes and folded his hands across his chest.
"This seer explained to me that I was at a very important moment in my life. A soul can't maintain this perfect balance for long, and one way or another, something would tip me in one direction. Then, as is the tradition, he offered a glimpse of what either choice would bring. After which, I chose to accept his offer and become a champion of right."