Fifteen

“This…” Cathal began, and then couldn’t say anything else.

Sophia’s hand, palm upturned, rested in his. In his grasp, her hand was tiny, the small bones delicate as glass ornaments, and Cathal kept his hand perfectly still. He knew his strength too well. More than that, he knew the rage that was building within him, tightening the muscles of his shoulders and neck. Perfect control was more important when imperfect control could mean disaster. Artair had told him that many times.

Let himself go, even slightly, and the rest would give way like an avalanche. The time would come, shortly, when he would be dangerous to be around. He had no wish to hasten the moment, or to threaten Sophia further. Bad enough that he couldn’t keep her safe.

None of the welts on her palm were truly bad. He’d had worse just about every day he’d been a squire, between training and chores. Any kitchen boy would pick up greater wounds peeling turnips. Yet the scratches blazed bright across her dark palm, dried blood an accusation like letters of fire.

She left her hand in his and made no attempt to move it. Her skin was warm and smooth against his palm, though on her fingers themselves he could see calluses, and ink stains, and a few small red marks that looked like burns.

“Let me see your ankle,” he said, curt and low in his chest.

Really, he hadn’t expected protest from Sophia, nor even truly from Alice, but the lack was almost as painful, as was the quick grace with which she sat down and raised her skirt. “You’ll have to come around,” she said, “for I don’t think it would help matters were I to sit on your desk.”

She spoke with mild, friendly tones and smiled wryly, just as she might have done in any other mildly troublesome situation, as if Cathal hadn’t put her in danger, as if he hadn’t failed in the most basic duty of a host. When he extracted himself from his chair and came over to her, he studied her face, looking for anger or accusation, and found none.

Kneeling in front of her felt like homage, and he minded not at all.

That moment passed swiftly, though, shattered by the sight of the ring of discolored skin around her ankle.

He didn’t think either of the women knew enough Gaelic to translate the oath he swore, but his voice probably made the meaning quite clear. Alice’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve seen this before? I thought you might have.”

“Yes. No.” He left his hands cupping Sophia’s leg, letting its weight and solidity, the heat of life and the firm muscle of an active woman, be a reminder to him. She was still here; she was still well; the wound would heal. “The shades I fought were more human. They used weapons. Mostly. But enough of their nature came through even there. And it was cold.”

“One of them stabbed you, yes?” Sophia asked. “You mentioned that, I believe, and your shoulder—”

“Aye. Had it been only a man and a knife, I’d have been back in battle in two days, mayhap a week.” He rolled his shoulder back and forth, remembering. “And it was cold, the knife. Not like winter. Like…deep places, or darkness.”

Without words, he stopped.

“Darkness, yes,” said Sophia. She looked away for a moment, and a shiver passed through her body. “There wasn’t much life to them, nor to anything else in that dream.”

In the pause between words, slightly too long, and the way her hands now clasped each other, Cathal saw the effort her calm words took, and the work behind each smile. He wished he’d had the right to put an arm around her, or even to take her hands in his. Even without the right, he wished Alice weren’t watching, so that he might have done it regardless.

He didn’t. She was. The world turned on facts, not desire.

Facts, then, were where he turned, continuing the story. “Two of my men did touch the shades. Skin to skin. There comes a time for fists even in battle, more than once in a while. Baithin’s fist looked as your leg does, after. Tralin’s neck was worse. Darker.”

“Did it heal?” Alice asked.

“In time. He’ll bear the scar the rest of his days.” He looked down at Sophia’s leg again, sternly locking away any reaction he might have had as a man, ignoring the shapely outline and the golden-brown color and peering with an attempt at detachment at the wound the shade had left. “I said it wasn’t like winter, their cold, but the marks it leaves are.”

“I’ve heard of that a little,” said Sophia, leaning forward to investigate, “though I’ve never seen it before…but then, I never would have. Even London was warmer than here.”

“By some measure. This’ll be unpleasant. I’m sorry,” said Cathal, and he brushed a thumb over the red-and-purple skin. Muscles tensed beneath his hand, and Sophia hissed. “That’s good,” he said, “even if you don’t believe me.”

“No,” said Sophia, visibly making herself relax. “I do. I’ve read, you know, that if it hurts, that means I can still feel, yes? That the…injury…isn’t too deep?”

“Aye. It hadn’t looked that bad, but it’s best to be sure.”

“I had boots on, in the dream,” she said, her face taking on the look of contemplation that Cathal was coming to know well. “It’s a strange thing to think that what I was wearing in the dream could have spared me pain in the waking world.”

“These things were in the dream, and they caused you pain in the waking world,” Alice pointed out.

“Oh, yes. But they weren’t human, and I had assumed that. But then, not all my injuries came from them, did they?” Sophia turned her injured palm upward, her eyes lighting up in a way that Cathal would never have thought to see on anyone contemplating scratches on her own body. “So the question is, is it not, whether the shades were only parts of the dream, or different beings in it, as I was? And why the dream could hurt me, and where it came from.”

“Valerius. I’ve no proof, no,” Cathal said when Sophia started to object. “But who else would want to, who could manage it?”

“That’s certainly most likely. I’d suppose that my first attempt to cure Fergus established a connection between the two of us. The shades are another strong argument in that direction, unless they’re more common than I think.” She gave him a small smile. “I’ve an idea who my enemy is. Isn’t that the first step in winning a war?”

Slowly, reluctantly, Cathal released her leg and stood up. “He doesn’t have to be your enemy,” he said. His heart ached with every word he spoke and with each one he knew would follow, ached with regret for Fergus and thwarted vengeance, but Sophia had struck her bargain without knowing she’d be making herself a target thereby. Honor, even his battered version of it, demanded he rethink the terms now. “You can go home. I’ll give you the scales. You’ve done all I could ask of you.”

Color flooded Sophia’s face. “By God, sir…” A look between him and Alice, and she bit her lip, though she still stared up at him with blazing eyes. “I know you mean it kindly, but do you think I’d leave a man with his soul in the grasp of…of that creature? Especially after what I’ve seen? I may not go to war, but I try to have courage, and honor too, and if I have skills that can save a life or a spirit, I know my duty is to use them. What would I be if I turned and ran now?”

“Alive,” said Cathal. He wanted to kiss her again, to pull her close and know that bold spirit more fully. He wanted to shake her and tell her to be sensible and leave now. As with comfort, he had no right to do either, and he couldn’t deny her argument.

“Yes, but for what kind of life?”

“Not necessarily even that,” Alice put in, her own voice dry and detached. “Though it’s a good piece of oratory, Sophia, very inspirational. But if this wizard has a tie to you, why would he find it harder to come at your mind in France than he would here?”

“The sea might be a barrier,” Cathal said.

For that piece of speculation, he received an interested look from Sophia and a flat one from Alice. “But it might not,” she said, “and then we’d be well away from anyone who knows the man or his methods. Not a good idea. We’d also have to find our way down out of the mountains, and the roads are still half frozen.”

“I could carry you both. Easily.”

“Wonderful. Then, assuming we didn’t fall off a mile in the air, we’d just have to find a ship that could take us across the channel and hope it didn’t sink. Or you could take us personally and leave everyone here undefended and leaderless for a few days.” Alice shook her head. “Anything could be fatal. I hate to say it, but so far, all Valerius has done is give her bad dreams and a few minor injuries. If that doesn’t get worse, it’s better than risking travel, and if it does, we don’t want to be on the road when it happens.”

“And it doesn’t matter, regardless,” Sophia said, and then added more gently, “unless you want to go, Alice. You can.”

“No, nor do I want to. Everything you said applies to me, you know…unless you mean to suggest I can’t be of any help.” Alice made a face at Sophia, affectionate and determined at the same time. “And this place is still more interesting than home.”

“Be certain,” Cathal said, bending forward. “You might not have boots in the next dream. You might not get away in time.”

Sophia shuddered, and for a moment Cathal hated himself, but then her eyes cleared and she held up a hand. “Wait. I did have boots. Why would he let me…unless he only intended a warning…but… And then he clearly can’t… Not all of it…and—”

“Finish a sentence, pray,” said Alice. “Before I pour a basin over your head to bring your senses back.”

The face Sophia made at her was practiced but also absent, halfhearted at best. “He can’t control all of the dream. I think the shades are separate, his creatures but still themselves, and I think that he had to pull me there, through a place that isn’t entirely his. And I was shaping things in the end. Not very well, but I managed it.”

“That’s a relief. Obvious, since you’re here, but we’ll take any good news just now,” said Alice.

“No, but this could be an advantage,” Sophia said, leaning forward. “I mentioned connections. If the dream is his sending, he must put something of himself into it…and if I can shape it, then that much of him is in my power, or it could be.”

“Like a fight,” said Cathal, trying both to understand and to ignore the way Sophia’s breasts pressed against her gown in her new position. The former helped with the latter, though not as much as would have been genteel or knightly. “Hard to strike without getting in the other fellow’s range.”

Sophia nodded slowly, chewing on her lip some more as she thought the metaphor through. “Yes. And if I can, oh, grab his arm and pull him even more forward, then he’s in my power. I can’t fight him directly with magic, any more than I could fight you with a sword…but it’s possible that I could make him fight himself.”

Cathal actually smiled. “How can we better the odds?”

“Well, a part of him would be best. A part can change the whole,” she recited, almost singsong, “and a likeness can change what it’s like. If you’d saved the arm, we’d probably be doing very well,” she added with a wry smile of her own.

“I’ll bear that in mind for the next time.”

“It’s always better to prepare. A lock of hair, a drop of blood, a true name, all of those have great power…which is, I’d imagine, one of the reasons he goes by that ridiculous alias. To a lesser extent, anything you can find out about him might be an aid. And I’ll contemplate the problem.” She got to her feet. If the ankle gave her any trouble, Cathal didn’t see it. “The world is the divine cloaked in matter. Dreams, which have only will and no matter, should be a midpoint. If I can bring my will into greater harmony… Well, I shall have to see.”

“See right,” said Alice, gripping her friend’s shoulder, “and study hard. I don’t think this will be the last dream he sends.”