“We could sneak off, into the bushes,” Hoban suggested, one afternoon. “That’s what they do here, isn’t it?”
Frieda shook her head. She’d never let herself be caught, not like some of the other girls… they claimed, at least, that they’d been careful to run without running very fast. The thought of making love in the forest repelled her, for reasons she couldn’t put into words. It wasn’t just that it represented one of her nightmares, of being forced to go further than she wished… it was the omnipresent sense they were being watched. She was too lost in her own fears to feel guilt at the way his expression fell, just for a second. He was too good a man to push the issue… in a way, she almost wished he had. A fight would have broken the shadows falling over her thoughts, whatever the cause. She was almost tempted to pick one.
I picked a fight with Cat, she recalled suddenly. And that didn’t end well.
She frowned, inwardly. She’d never liked Cat. He was too flashy, too heavily masculine, too… too full of himself for her peace of mind. She’d feared disaster, the moment she’d heard Cat and Emily had started to date. And she’d been right… she shook her head, sternly. She wished both of them were here, beside her. If there was a threat, Cat would be quite happy to charge into the teeth of certain death while Emily and Frieda came up with a plan. He’d consider it sheer tactical brilliance. Of course, he would.
Esther came up to them, her face grim. “Have either of you seen Sir Wheaton?”
“He isn’t a real knight,” Frieda said automatically, although she’d never been clear on what a real knight was. The tales of chivalry and brave men battling evil sorcerers and rampaging dragons to save innocent women and children had long since given way to an ugly reality, where the best of the knights were little more than bully-boys enforcing their master’s will. “He’s probably trying to lure some maiden into the forest with him.”
She knew, even as she spoke, it probably wasn’t true. Sir Wheaton didn’t need to lure anyone anywhere. He could have any woman in the village for the asking and to hell with however she felt about it. Her husband couldn’t say no… although he’d probably take it out on the poor bitch afterwards, instead of the untouchable knight. Frieda had seen the way the so-called knight had looked at her, even though he knew she was a sorceress. She had no doubt he wouldn’t hesitate to take a village girl, if he wanted one.
“He should have been up here at noon,” Esther said, flatly. She hadn’t grown up anywhere near the Cairngorms. She didn’t understand the realities of life in the mountains. “He’s not normally late.”
“Odd,” Hoban agreed. “His master wants to keep an eye on us.”
Frieda nodded. Lord Harold — the nobleman’s titles grew more grandiose with every passing day, from what she could see — wanted to be sure he got his fair share of the loot, if the dig uncovered an old tomb crammed with gold and jewels. It had happened, to be fair, although most of the buried treasure had come with very nasty curses attached. Frieda suspected Sir Wheaton had failed, unsurprisingly, to convey the sheer alienness of the artefact to his master. She’d bet her entire fortune that, if there was a tomb underneath, it wasn’t intended for a human.
She brushed her hair out of her eyes. “I’ll go looking for him,” she said, shortly. It was something to do, something that would alleviate the boredom for a few short hours. “If he turns up, tell him not to waste so much time messing around in the village.”
Hoban gave her an odd look. “The village?”
Frieda shrugged. “Where else would he go?”
She turned and walked to the knight’s tent, brushing the pair of tiny locking charms apart with practised ease. The tent might have been splendid once, but it had passed through so many owners — some of whom had patched the fabric up repeatedly — that it looked strikingly tawdry. She was mildly surprised the knight had been sleeping at the campsite. He could have stayed in his master’s castle, and commute every morning. Her lips twitched as she peered inside, rolling her eyes at the mess. Perhaps his master couldn’t stand the sight of him. Frieda could hardly blame the overlord for that.
Disgusting, she thought. Sergeant Miles would have flogged his students for leaving their tents in such a state. Everything had to be in its place, he’d insisted, or you wouldn’t know where it was when you needed it. There has to be something of his here.
She gritted her teeth, picked up a small dagger and cast a tracking spell. The dagger pulled her around, pointing towards the village. Of course… Frieda cursed under her breath as she allowed it to lead her out of the tent, pushing the flap closed behind her. The knight was in the village… who knew? A thought crossed her mind, and she smiled. She was a sorceress, a de facto noblewoman. She could give him hell, and he’d just have to take it…
The dagger led her onwards, down the road. Frieda held the hilt lightly, keeping her eyes open. The sense of unseen eyes was growing stronger, again… she thought she saw something within the tree-line, gone almost as soon as she noticed it. Her eyes narrowed. It might not be dangerous — she knew children snuck through the forests hunting for mushrooms, careful to remain unseen — and yet, she felt uneasy. The knife twisted in her hand, nearly breaking out of her grip. Frieda blinked in surprise. Sir Wheaton couldn’t have changed his position so quickly, yet the knife was charmed to point directly at its owner.
Her mind raced. Sir Wheaton could have teleported… except he couldn’t, because he wasn’t a sorcerer. Or was he? Frieda herself was living proof magic ran strong in the Cairngorms, and she was hardly the strongest magician to come out of the region. She’d once heard a rumour that Void himself had been born in the mountains… she shook her head as the knife twisted again. Sir Wheaton was no sorcerer. If he had magic to match hers, he would either have left long ago or simply taken over for himself. He wouldn’t be running errands for a nobleman with grand titles and pitiful holdings.
She kept her eyes open as she allowed the knife to lead her onwards, into the forest. The trees closed in around her, casting long shadows over her path. She frowned as she flitted from tree to tree, wishing she’d taken the time to brush up the skills she’d learnt as a child. She’d once practically flowed through the trees, so silently she hadn’t disturbed the wildlife. Now, she was uneasily aware of her own footsteps. Her mere presence was causing the birds and beasts to flee.
The knife twisted again. This time, it pointed back towards the campsite. Frieda stopped dead, shaking her head. She wished she could fly, although… the canopy overhead was so thick she doubted she could see anything if she flew over the treetops. It wouldn’t even be easy to spot the village itself, not from the air. Too many villages believed witches flew overhead at midnight, hunting for victims to drag back to their lairs before the sun rose… she put the thought aside as she cancelled the tracking spell and carefully put it back together. This time, the knife twisted so rapidly she had to let go of the hilt and jump backwards. It fell and hit the ground, spinning in the soil before the last of the magic wore off. Frieda swore under her breath. Sir Wheaton was alive — she thought — but he was clearly hidden from her spells. Or…