Cold Magic (Spiritwalker #1)

Cold Magic (Spiritwalker #1) Page 96

I shrugged as I kept walking. “You’re right. Yet I would not change what I’ve done. And I’m still sorry for any trouble it may cause you.”

He grunted in answer and picked up the pace. We had begun to climb into hill country.

“You caught something in the spirit world,” I said to his back as I quickened my own stride to catch him. “That was no antelope seen on the tundra of this world, with that third horn.”

He glanced at me sidelong as I came up beside him. “Few see the third horn. I would think you a spirit woman in truth for having the sight to see it. But Fa knows more than I do, and if he says you are human flesh, then you are human flesh just as I am human flesh.”

“I am not a spirit woman,” I said, because something in the way he spoke made heat flush on my cheeks and down my neck. It wasn’t that he was flirting with me; this wasn’t flirting—it was more like hunting. “It must be dangerous to hunt in the spirit world,” I added, sure the words sounded curt. Maybe it was best they did.

“So it is. But such a catch brings good fortune to the village. Its meat will feed the hungry, and the splinters of its bones will strengthen amulets, and its hooves will be melted down to a glue that will strengthen our bows. The powder of its horns will heal the sick. All these things, coming from an animal carried out of the bush, will give us protection against the evils of the coming year.”

“Unless the mansa punishes your village for aiding me.”

“None will tell him, and my brother does not know.”

“Do you like your brother, Duvai?”

“That is a question.”

“My apologies. I was rude.”

“You speak your mind but are willing to admit your faults.”

I glanced at him just as he looked at me and smiled. With his assured stride and broad shoulders, he made an attractive figure, especially when he smiled. He carried a spear, a longbow, and a knife, and I had to trust that he meant no harm to me out here in the forest where no one could hear my cries. I touched the hilt of my sword, expecting to find it had again become a cane with the daylight, but for some reason today of all days—a cross-quarter day—I swung a deadly sword at my hip. It was no ghost today. That gave me some comfort.

“Where are we going?” I asked, to distract his smile.

“Southwest. Toward the sea and Adurnam.”

“Won’t they assume I’m fleeing to Adurnam?”

“It seems likely, but the magisters think as city people do. They never walk long distances. They will think you mean to flee along one of the toll roads or take a boat on the Rhenus River.”

I shuddered. “I’d rather not take a boat on the Rhenus River. I’d rather walk.”

He smiled again. Perhaps he meant only to be reassuring, but the smile brought a flash of charm that made me wonder why his wife was so suspicious of a chance-met woman brought to her door. He was a man who knew who he was, and that made him powerful and, I supposed, enticing. “Tell me about the city. Which mage House rules there?”

“The Prince of Tarrant rules Adurnam. He doesn’t like the mage Houses. There’s a city council as well, like an assembly of elders. It passes ordinances and regulates the watch and the customshouse, such things. But because all members of the council are all appointed by the prince, many feel it is not truly an assembly that governs for everyone but only for the prince’s relatives, cronies, and supporters.”

“Would they be wrong?”

“It’s always been that way. But now people are beginning to speak out against the council, the prince, even the mage Houses.” This political turn made me uncomfortable. “Perhaps you would tell me more about the countryside hereabouts. What landmarks I should look out for. If there are shelters along this ridgeway, for I doubt I can survive a night camping in the open.”

We passed the morning in this wise, him talking about the land and me listening. I was good at asking questions. Anyway, there was always something I needed to know. The man who was not my father had taught me that, by leaving his journals as my only inheritance, even if those journals no longer belonged to me.

We moved higher up into the hills, following eroded ridge lines from whose height we saw occasional vistas open over the broad lowland valley, where the sacred and queenly Rhenus River flowed. A mist floated above the water, giving it the look of an unraveling satin ribbon. Where had my parents died? Or were they even my parents? Two people, among many, had drowned, and I had come into the keeping of the Hassi Barahal family. Had Aunt and Uncle known I was no Barahal, and had they deliberately raised me to sacrifice in Bee’s place? Or had they believed I was the eldest Hassi Barahal daughter? I recalled the scene of my hasty wedding, restaging it again and again in my mind. But all I could truly remember was Bee’s stunned expression and Uncle demanding “the documents” in exchange for me.