Yet somehow—somehow if there were life beyond the tomb as the priests had dinned into her after her reintroduction to Italian nobility. If Ferdinand knew the torments she had suffered since his death. If he sought to soothe her pain, to reach her in the only way possible, if he wished to gather her to him... If that were he... Ah, beloved. She closed her eyes, drew a deep breath and spoke the final word. Sudden wind shrilled through the hut, showering her with hot ash from the fire. She cried out, fell back a pace, brushing furiously at her arms and hair.
The encircling spells were gone, vanished with the sudden wind. And in a pool of faint and fading yellowish light, the sprawled figure of a man.
"Ferdinand?" The faintest of whispers; but even as she spoke the name she knew the still form in the middle of her floor was a stranger. She stared down at him; dread slid up her spine with chill fingers.
He was tall and slender, but dark, as though burnt by long summers under the hot sun. His hair appeared black in the uncertain light of the dying fire, as did the line of beard outlining a squared jaw. Long hands and fingers. She sighed; her eyelids sagged closed. So tired. But she dared not sleep: eat something, regain a little of the strength you spent this night. Preferably before That—before he—woke.
High summer it might be but this high in the hills the nights were cool. Chill wind whistled through the closed shutters. She built the fire back up and put her pot of herbed water on the hoddle to heat, then lit a fat candle and set it on the wobbly table before fetching her shawl from the end of the narrow straw cot that was the room's only other furniture. 'Tea first," she murmured. It scalded her tongue but fragrant steam cleared her mind, a little. Enough. She refilled the wooden cup, carried it with her and caught up the candle.
The stranger hadn't moved. She knelt beside him, set the candle on the floor so she could observe him more closely. He slept, she thought, by the rise and fall of his shoulders; by the look of his face, he'd sleep for hours. Trust, Miranda; trust to that if you dare! A deep frown furrowed his brow, and now she could see a few silver hairs in his beard; silver at his temples. But he wasn't an old man, he couldn't be above thirty. The hands—a dark splotch on the web between thumb and forefinger, the blue thumbnail marked him for what he was: wizard. Miranda had such a dark splotch on the palm of her hand, where she'd been careless with a particular potion.
Was this the village's missing—? She shrugged, didn't complete the thought. When he woke, she'd ask questions, possibly even receive answers. Or not. Fruitless to speculate.
He had no visible wounds, no other mark on him that she could see by straight vision, and the other—no. The power would not respond for some hours, after a night such as this. "I must sleep." The man shifted at the sound of her voice and she edged away from him but he sighed deeply and was still once more. Sleep—how could she possibly sleep with this unknown quantity sprawled across her floor? She drank a little tea and considered the possibilities.
Bind him—but physical bonds against a wizard? Or a spell of binding, if she had the strength for it. "Oh, yes, Miranda, and if he's a stronger mage than you? With a temper to match that frown?" She'd be the first thing to hand if he chose to lash out. By rights, he'd be grateful to her for his release—if he was nothing more than what he seemed. "More than—no. He's man. I can still tell demon from man—but clean man from foul? And what was he doing where I found him?"
She shook her head. If she'd had that talent, telling clean from otherwise, Ferdinand would still be alive, and his chief counselor exiled or lying dead in a head-foreshortened coffin.
She staggered to her feet, caught up the candle as she rose and snuffed it, set it upon the table along with her now empty cup; the room swam. Off balance, she staggered back; the cot was hard against the backs of her legs; it would be soft against her back. Miranda's eyelids flickered, sagged shut; her legs sagged, dropping her to the prickly mattress. Already unaware, she smiled faintly, licked her lips, snuggled deeply into her shawl. Between one breath and another, she was asleep.
* * *
Pale light of early day washed the hut. Sun touched the foot of the cot and then her feet; Miranda drew a deep breath, rolled onto her side. So tired.
Why?
'Ware, Miranda. The warning touched her, was gone.
She woke to the crackle of fire, and the not-quite-right odor of tea. Someone else's mix of herbs, that. A board creaked nearby; a second. Stay very still and seem yet sleeping. She felt a shadow cross her body. Silence, not even the sound of breathing, save her own. The board creaked again, the shadow moved on. Sun nearly too warm upon her shoulders.
"She's still asleep." Stranger's voice, coming from near the hut's narrow doorway; deep and very quiet. Had she not been breathing quietly, she'd never have caught the words.
"That's certain?" The headman's equally low response; impossible to mistake the faint whistle in his speech.
"I said it." Impatient, perhaps angry. Familiar as well; the headman is no new acquaintance. What have I done?
"Good. You—look—"
"Yes. Don't bother to say it, I can well imagine how I look. You look dreadful, old man. Didn't you get what you wanted, after all this time?" Definitely angry. She let her eyes open the merest slit. The newcomer leaned into her table, cup in hand; the headman facing him at arm's length. He shuffled back, visibly nervous, stopping only when he fetched up against the wall. The newcomer laughed quietly; it wasn't a pleasant sound. "Afraid I'll want payment now?"
"It wasn't my fault, Alfonso," the older man mumbled. He eyed the other resentfully. "Those books weren't for a mage of your class—"
"No. Still, I've had plenty of time to consider those books—and your 'kindly' way of warning me away from them. You wanted me to—"
"No!" The headman slid along the wall, one cautious step at a time; the newcomer was at the door before him, blocking it.
"It is true, then, isn't it? You were jealous of me; jealous the power came so freely into my hands, that I could work spells that evaded you, that little was denied me even from the first—oh, save your lies," he added flatly as the headman strove to override him. "I can see it in your face. You set a drawing spell to ensnare me, and when I took hold of the book, it opened to the page you had chosen!" Silence. The newcomer—Alfonso—glared down at the headman; the old man's shoulders sagged and he nodded. "It did you little good, though, did it? Entrap me in that place between places so you could draw upon my power—don't deny that, either."
"Sssst! Keep your voice down, you'll waken her!" The headman cast an alarmed glance toward the bed; Miranda drew a deep breath, let it out in a quiet sigh.