Erik held her gently now. Touched her cheek. "I love you, Svan. Will you marry me?"
For an answer, she pulled him closer.
* * *
The shaman shook himself. Spat. He behaved, for all Count Mindaug could see, just like a dog who had too closely encountered a skunk and was now trying at all costs to rid himself of even the memory, by any means.
"It too strong, master. Too strong and too . . . spread out. It has killed the slave." The shaman trickled his fingers across his drum, bringing a whisper of sound from it. It was almost as if the tattooed drum-skin sighed.
Jagiellon shook his head. "The slave just lost consciousness. I have been forgetful about feeding it."
"But master, that place." The shaman shuddered. "It eats me. I hate it. It has a dangerous magic there."
Jagiellon paused. And Mindaug hardly dared breathe. If the Grand Duke started really thinking about the shaman's experience, instead of being consumed by his lust for possessing Corfu's power . . .
But the dangerous moment passed. The Grand Duke shrugged heavily and said: "Yes, it is stronger than I had anticipated. Still, it seems purely defensive. And a crude sort of magic, too. Big sweeps of clumsy enchantment. Not blade-strokes of true power. We will find its cores, find them and break them to our use."
He turned to the count. "Well, Mindaug. The magic of the West is your study. What do you know of the magic of this place?"
Mindaug bowed. "Relatively little, Grand Duke. There is a mention in Angenous Pothericus of 'the rough magic of sea-girt Corcyra.' He says the place is a poor place for spell-craft. But I will search further."
"Do that."
* * *
Erik had drilled them all since early morning. He'd worked on simple, basic things: fitness, strength, how to fall. Thalia rubbed her arm reflexively. She'd always thought falling was something you could do without any lessons. But Erik believed "fall" was just the first part of "get up, fast, and unhurt." The Icelander was . . . odd.
Like all peasant women, Thalia had worked since she could walk. She'd been privately disappointed when Erik had said he was "going to get them fit first" before he taught them to fight. Getting fit was what the young master from the Ropa valley estate needed. The recruits called him Loukoumia—slightly more warily, though, now that some of them had seen him use a sword.
He needed this fitness; she only needed to know which end of a sword cut, how to hold it, how to use it.
Well, Giuliano had struggled in this "fitness" regime; he was red-faced and panting. But so, to her surprise, was she. Peasants work, but they don't do so at the run. They don't waste strength. They conserve it so that they can work all day. Thalia found out that according to the Icelander's standards, she and Giuliano were equally unfit.
When he finally let them rest, Thalia sought out a patch of shade, and flopped down in it, too tired to think.
To her surprise the plump young man came over to where she lay in the shade of the myrtle bushes. He had two daggers in his hand. "I promised to teach you blade-craft," he said.
He was still red-faced and sweating. His fine linen shirt was so wet it stuck to him. And here he was wanting to teach her how to use a knife. A knife, not a sword. A knife was a tool you cut up food with. She didn't need to be taught how to use that! She shook her head. "You need to rest and I need to rest. You can show me later."
He took her arm and pulled her up. "Now. While you are tired. What you learn to do now you will do best, with least wasted effort. Trust me. My father used to do it this way, and he was the best swordmaster in Venice."
She felt the knife edge. It was razor keen. "But . . . these are sharp. Dangerous."
"Right. And those who are going to try to kill you are not going to use blunt knives. Now. Try to stab me. Not like that! Hold it like this. Now. Try again."
He was a very good and patient teacher. And, she had to acknowledge, a knife did not just have to be a tool you cut up food with. This Loukoumia was plump, but he wasn't just sweet.
* * *
Erik walked across to the stream where he'd arranged to meet Svanhild. It ran through a glade quite unlike the rocky harshness where he was training the recruits of his guerrilla unit. This small oasis of fertility was green and soft and cool under the relentless sun and limitless blue skies of the Ionian islands. Svan was, as usual when she was waiting for him, plaiting things. Her long fingers moved steadily, gracefully, almost magically.
Often as not, when they were in camp, or almost anywhere else, she plaited practical things—bowstrings, the kind of twine that Thalia would knot into bird-nets, even rope. Here, she always plaited flowers.
At the moment she was making a chaplet of daisies. Not the mere simple twist that had satisfied lovers for time immemorial, but a complex thing. When she saw him she dropped it and ran to him. His arms were full of the softness and roundness of her. He led her back to where she'd been sitting, and picked up the daisy confection. "Come, darling Svan. Finish it for me."
"I'd rather hold your hand."
He smiled. For some reason, whenever he was here, all the urgency to get things done ran out of him. Well, for an hour or two—why not? "That's a persuasive argument. But I don't want to see something less than perfect on your golden hair."
She dimpled at him, finished it off with a few deft twists and presented it to him. "There."
He set it gently on her head and leaned in close to kiss her cheek. She pulled him closer, and changed what had been planned as a chaste kiss into something far more volcanic.
"I . . . ah, think we'd better stop. One of the recruits might come up this way."
She giggled. "I'm sure they're all too tired to move. Isn't that what you intended?"
Erik blushed. "Tactics," he mumbled.
From the shadows of a Judas tree, a satyr watched approvingly. This was what this place was intended for, after all.
PART VIII
Benito entered the city gates of Ferrara unobtrusively. Fourteen days of riding had improved his skill at staying in the saddle, if not his liking for horses.
The mare he'd bought in Livorno had been guaranteed as "quiet." The horse-seller had omitted words like "old" and "destined for glue-making, very soon." Benito, being fairly ignorant of horses, realized he'd probably been gulled. The horse-seller said the mare was very even-paced. That sounded good to Benito. He'd discovered it meant "moves at one speed—a slow walk." Still, it did carry him without his ending in a ditch. But he was very glad to abandon the beast at a hostelry near the gate and proceed on foot.
He made his way toward the castle, thinking how best to get access to his grandfather. He could simply go and ask, announcing his name. That should be enough to get him an audience at least. But for some reason he was reluctant to spread his identity around.