The air shuddered before his eyes. He felt it grow humid and warm in the distortion. The woman's skin started to shrivel.
Her body slowly dried to a shrunken husk as her life drained away. When her heart stopped, Welstiel ceased his chant and the air around him became clear and crisp again. The woman was a brittle shell with sunken eye sockets.
The water in the cup brimmed to the lip, so dark red it appeared black-a red-tinged black like Magiere's hair. Welstiel lifted the cup from the tripod. He tilted his head back and poured the liquid down his throat so that he tasted it as little as possible. A last drop struck his tongue and tasted of ground metal and strong salt.
He set the cup back in place and flattened both hands upon the ground to brace himself. So much life taken in this pure form shocked his system. It burst inside him like burning sunlight and rushed through his dead flesh.
Welstiel waited for the worst to pass.
When he picked up the cup to put it away, it was clean and dry, with no sign that anything had been in it. He packed away the iron rods and white bottle as well. He stood up carefully under a lingering vertigo, but it passed, leaving him clear in his thoughts. Normally he would have found a way to hide the girl's body, but if her corpse were found, it would cause more panic. It would build Lord Darmouth's desire to employ Magiere. There were monsters to hunt down in his city.
Welstiel made his way to the Ivy Vine inn, wondering how Chane had fared all this time being trapped alone in his room. When he arrived, the lobby was empty. He headed up the narrow stairs to their room. He did not bother to knock and opened the door to step inside.
Chane sat on the floor in bare feet, feeding his robin crushed nuts and crumbled bread. He wore breeches and a well-tailored muslin shirt, and looked like any handsome young noble engaged in a pastime.
The parchment and quills still lay untouched upon his bed.
"I see you've fed," Chane said in his rasping voice. "You look better."
Welstiel did not answer. Instead he rummaged through his pack and pulled out a small bag of black charcoal and a wad of tattered clothing that smelled of urine.
"Lord Darmouth has engaged Magiere's services," he explained. "You will keep her occupied by giving her an unusually savage beast to hunt."
Chane blinked, staring at the rags in Welstiel's hand. "What are those?"
"I bought them from a servant at the keep. If you are witnessed during an attack and described as a tall noble with reddish hair, Magiere may wonder. We must create some other creature for her to track. Sit, and I will cut your hair, then use charcoal and oil to dye it black."
Welstiel took out his dagger and motioned to a chair. Chane hesitated.
"It will wash out," Welstiel said.
"But will my hair grow back?" Chane rasped.
The question surprised Welstiel. Not by its vanity, but that it was the first time Chane had shown such concern over anything since crawling forth from his second death.
"Have you ever seen a dead body months after it was buried?" Welstiel asked.
Chane shook his head.
"The hair is longer. And I will not cut much off."
He motioned again to the chair. Chane sighed but obeyed.
Late into the night, Leesil was still awake. Magiere curled against him, breathing softly, lost in deep sleep. He watched her pale face on the pillow. He wished he could join her in the oblivion of sleep, but he couldn't.
Nightmares wouldn't let him.
The name of Hedi Progae opened dark cell doors in his mind that he'd long been able to keep locked. He couldn't close them again.
Leesil tried to focus on the memory of Magiere's mouth, her body, both soft and hard, and her hands all over him. But whenever his eyelids drifted shut from fatigue, he saw the back of Baron Progae's bleeding neck.
Progae's hazel eyes opened where he lay dead as Leesil pulled the bedcovers back into place. Those eyes rolled to glare at Leesil, and his pale lips parted, speaking with Gavril's voice.
"Think only of your mother, father… of yourself… this is how you survive."
Leesil's eyes snapped open.
He'd slipped into sleep for an instant, but he couldn't face it again. Not without smothering away the nightmares, drowning them as dead as his victims. He'd sworn to Magiere never to do that again, but the moment stretched as he watched her beside him. When his eyes drifted closed again, he snapped them open.
He couldn't stand the faces in his sleep anymore.
Leesil slipped from under the blanket. Magiere rolled, and he froze until she grew still once again. He pulled the blanket and sheepskin cover back in place over her bare body, and walked softly to the door. He stopped for a moment, looking back at Magiere's sleeping form, then stepped into the hallway and gently shut the door.
The inn was silent. The stairs were empty, even of cats. He crept downstairs, and two steps creaked lightly under his feet. All was quiet in the common room, and he stepped around behind the bar and found the cask of red wine Byrd stored there.
Leesil opened the cask and picked up a tin cup from under the bar. When he poured out half a cup, he stared into the red liquid. His hand shook slightly, and he gripped the cup with both hands.
He could put it down, go back upstairs to Magiere.
He knew this, even as he drew the wine to his lips and swallowed.
CHAPTER NINE
The next morning Wynn awoke from a deep sleep to a knock at her door. She opened her eyes, disoriented at first, and remembered where she was. "Leesil?"
She sat up, wiping at her sleepy eyes, as the door cracked open. Byrd stuck his head in. Yellow scarf tied neatly about his head, he looked as if he had been up for a while.
Wynn pushed her disheveled hair out of her face, then quickly pulled the bed's sheepskin cover up to her neck.
"Yes?" she asked.
Byrd smiled as his gaze fell upon the fat form of Clover Roll curled up on the bed's end. Tomato and Potato lay tangled in sleep on a braid rug near Chap. Head upon paws, Chap was fully awake and glowering at the kittens.
"I sent Paris word that I'd located Magiere," Byrd said. "But I didn't tell him where. A messenger came back this morning. Lieutenant Omasta will meet her below the bridge gatehouse at noon. No one gets into the keep without an escort."
Wynn took a deep breath, still trying to come fully awake. "Have you told Magiere?"
"No, I thought I'd leave that to you."
This was odd, but Wynn kept quiet about it. Byrd made her nervous, as she knew his polite front was an act. After last night's confrontation in the kitchen, it was obvious he wanted something from Leesil.
"Of course," she replied, "if you will close the door so I may dress."
He pulled his head halfway out and then stopped. He leaned in again to eye Wynn curiously.
"You won't get out of Omasta's sight," he warned, "so watch carefully in the chambers or corridors you pass through. Don't just look the place over. Pay attention to the placement of guards standing watch and remember anything you overhear."
Chap rumbled softly, and Wynn glanced toward the dog. His head was still down, but his crystalline eyes were on Byrd.
"Thank you," Wynn said. "Chap and I know what to look for."
Byrd frowned. "He's just a dog."
"And your 'partner' is just a cat," she retorted, with a quick glance at Clover Roll.
"All right," Byrd answered with a shrug. "Just be careful. Darmouth would step on you without a blink."
He closed the door.
Wynn scrambled out of bed and pulled her heavy coat on over her shift. Chap got up, shook himself, and followed as she hurried out the door and across the hall. This time she knocked, quietly at first. When no one answered, she knocked more sharply.
"Yes?" Magiere called from inside.