When he was secure, she started walking-or rather, staggering-toward the inn, the spriggan following in her footsteps, making unhappy little worried noises.
As she walked, she used little pushes of witchcraft to steady her, and a lifting spell whenever her burden started to shift or slide, but she fought the temptation to just levitate him entirely. That was too risky. She could kill herself that way-or so Sella had always warned her.
“Levitation drains just as much from you as lifting with your hands and legs,”
Sella had insisted. “It’s just that when you use your muscles, they’ll protest when they’re overworked, they’ll tell you when you’re tired, when you’re doing too much. They’ll ache and twinge and not hold. It’s your body’s natural warning system. But witchcraft isn’t natural, and your body isn’t made for it-thereare no warnings. In trance, you can keep up a spell until your body has no life left in it at all, hasn’t got the energy remaining to keep your heart pumping. A witch can keel over and die, just like that, if she tries to do too much.”
Teneria had taken Sella’s word for it; she had seen how she could feel fine and alert during a spell, and exhausted the moment she released her concentration, and had never cared to test the theory any further.
But now, after a long and strenuous day, instead of eating her supper and getting a good night’s rest she had worked a whole series of little spells, and in addition she was carrying a weight of at least a hundred and fifty pounds. She could hardly have much of an energy reserve left; if she tried any more spells shemight keel over and die.
She stumbled at the very thought, and almost went headlong, catching herself at the last instant.
When she saw the lights of the inn through the trees she let out her breath in a great sigh of relief-but she wasn’t there yet, and she didn’t have the energy to shout. She staggered on.
After what seemed like days she dropped her torch, lowered the inert man to the ground, fell heavily against the door of the inn, and managed a weak pounding with one fist.
Someone answered her knock, and she actually got herself inside and into a chair before, amid mutters and exclamations in Sardironese, she passed out.
Chapter Twenty
Teneria came to with a spluttering; someone was holding a glass ofoushka to her mouth, and she felt as if the fiery liquor were burning her lips, its fumes scouring out her nose.
She sneezed, and went into a fit of coughing, then gasped for breath, and when she was finally able to pay attention to something other than her own distress she realized that a woman was talking to her, in a language that she was not quite able to make out-probably Sardironese.
“What?” she said, in Ethsharitic. She didn’t have the energy to use an interpretive spell.
“She was asking,” another woman’s voice said, in Ethsharitic, “whether you are a warlock.”
“No,” Teneria said, puzzled. “I’m a witch.” She wondered why anyone would ask such a question. It seemed an odd thing to ask, under the circumstances. She blinked at the two women, both wearing aprons over simple dresses, who were looking worriedly at one another and muttering in Sardironese.
The one who spoke Ethsharitic turned back to Teneria and asked, “Then the man you brought-ishe a warlock?”
“I don’t know,” Teneria answered. “He might be.”
“Where did you find him?”
“He fell out of the sky near me, in the forest. He was screaming, and glowing orange.” She remembered something else, and added, “He has two broken ribs and a cracked wrist; handle him carefully!”
The women looked at one another.
“Listen,” the one who spoke Ethsharitic said, “heis a warlock, from what you describe. We have seen this before. We will handle himvery carefully-but we will not let him under this roof. He must stay outside.”
Teneria’s head was swimming with fatigue, and she had very little idea of what was going on, but she asked, baffled, “Why?”
“Because he is a warlock.”
The Sardironese women seemed to think this was a completely adequate explanation, and Teneria was too tired to argue. She let her head fall back against the back of the tall chair she sat in.
Her stomach growled.
The two women glanced at each other, and one studied the purse on Teneria’s belt for a moment. It looked reasonably plump.
“Would you like some food?” the older woman asked.
Teneria managed a nod.
A moment later a thick slab of fresh bread, smeared with yellow butter, was in her hand; a moment after that it was in her mouth.
And not long after that she began to feel considerably better. All she had needed was food and rest, to replenish her depleted reserves; she knew that, and had known it all along-or would have if she had had the energy to think about it. She sat up straighter and looked around.
The two women were going about the inn’s business; there were half a dozen customers-rather unsavory-looking, all of them, Teneria thought-and a fire, so there were trays and mugs to be carried, logs to be shifted and ashes to be poked. The young witch watched for a few minutes, but when one of the serving-women glanced her way she caught her eye, and gestured.
The woman put down the poker she had been wielding and came over to where Teneria sat.
This was the older of the two, the one who spoke Ethsharitic. “Can I help you?” she asked.
Teneria had any number of questions she wanted to ask, but before she could think of any of them she heard herself saying, “More food, please. Meat, and fruit, and wine. I can pay.”
“Yes, lady.”
While the servant was fetching food, Teneria considered, and decided questions could wait until after she had eaten.
It was half an hour later and the other customers had all drifted away when Teneria asked the older serving woman, whose name she had learned was Shenda, “Why won’t you let warlocks inside?”
“We will sometimes,” Shenda replied. “It depends on the circumstances. But they seem to be prone to a sort of madness, and when we have any doubts about whether the madness is upon them, we keep them out. If we don’t, they’re likely to damage the place.”
“Damage it?” Teneria looked about. The inn did not appear damaged.
Shenda nodded. “The madness,” she said, “it... well, there’s a compulsion involved, a geas or something. They all want to gothat way.” She pointed to the southeast. “And they don’t care what’s in the way. And with their magic, if the madness is on them, they can go right through the wall, or the roof-or if they aren’tthat far gone, they may still smash furniture and set fires on the way out.” She made an uncomfortable little gesture. “That one you brought-from your description, flying and glowing, the madness was probably very strong in him. He may have been fighting it-that would be why he fell. But when he wakes up, he may not be ready, and the madness may carry him away.” She grimaced. “The south wall has been rebuilt twice in the past twenty years; I don’t want to make it three times. And the roof went once.”
“They go... warlocks go right through the wall?” Teneria stared at the plastered stone and timber in disbelief.
Shenda shrugged. “Magic. You’re a witch, you said?”
Teneria nodded.
“Couldn’t a witch’s magic take you through a wall like that?” Shenda asked.
“I don’t know,” Teneria admitted. “I suppose I could-yes, I think I could break through a wall. But it might kill me, and I certainly wouldn’t be going anywhere right afterward.”
Shenda had no answer to that.
“Different magicks,” Teneria said with a shrug. “There’s no connection between witchcraft and warlockry. We have no madness that comes on us.” Her eyes narrowed. “In fact, I hadn’t heard that warlocks did, either. I wonder about wizards, and sorcerers, and the others?”