Nineteen

After that, Cathal kept thinking about danger. He’d thought he understood it, both the rare instances when it applied to him and the more general principles of keeping the mortals in his charge safe. He knew his responsibilities; he’d done his best as a soldier and then as a lord to fulfill them.

He hadn’t considered what it must be to be always at risk, even without weapons drawn or battle declared, even without a specific enemy. Consciously putting himself in harm’s way was familiar—that was the duty of everyone from a general to a pikeman—but living in harm’s way as a part of life, one that he’d never signed up for save for being born, that he could barely grasp.

When Sophia came to him and told him of her second nightmare, she was composed, almost as detached and interested as she had been when speaking of her alchemical experiments. She stood in the hall with her hands clasped in front of her, a small, neat figure in black like the queen on a chessboard, and told Cathal about the same fall-through blackness that she’d experienced before, the same forest and shadowy creatures.

“I ran more quickly this time,” she said with a little smile, “and the branch held my weight much better than it had done before. And I believe these things to have been reflections of my will. But that was not the real test.”

Around them, the life of the castle went on. A few of the servants walked around them; a few others glanced their way before continuing, unconcerned, with their duties; one or two of Cathal’s men-at-arms lurked further out in the hall, playing dice with one of the stableboys. Cathal noticed these things with the edges of his mind, the part of him that had over long years learned to take a high-up view of any situation, lest it suddenly turn violent. The rest of him saw only Sophia’s smile.

“You see, one of them grabbed for me as I climbed. Like it did before, you know…reaching for my ankle. I could have moved more quickly, I suppose,” she admitted with another quick smile that chilled Cathal, “but I wanted to confirm my theory. So I let it reach, and then I pushed it away, or back, with my mind.”

“And?” he asked.

It wasn’t a bad idea. In his time he’d ordered men to scout enemy territory or to expose themselves in order to draw off ambushes. He couldn’t justify objections. Sophia was being intelligent, as usual. Cathal forced his hands to uncurl and listen.

Her third smile was downright brilliant. “It worked. The shadow-thing staggered a little bit even, and its arm dropped back down. And then, when I reached the top of the tree and could go no further, I woke myself up without Alice.”

“Good. That’s very good.”

Sophia nodded. “I couldn’t make the shadow-things vanish, nor give myself more of a road, but that’s to be expected. I think perhaps if I had more information, or perhaps just more practice… And I begin to have some theories about the space through which I fall too. It might the World of Causes, or perhaps the World of Making, but”—she bit her lip—“I am not permitted to know as much about those. It certainly resembles a place one of the Mussulmen told me about, between life and death. A place where the soul and the body are separate. I don’t think it’s only a dream.”

“Then your soul’s being drawn elsewhere,” he said flatly.

“I believe so. We already know that Valerius can do this. Perhaps the forest is a trap of his shaping, or at least initially. But anything constructed in that other world must, I think, be vulnerable to…” She hesitated, brow wrinkling as she tried to put it into words, or perhaps to translate it for a simple-minded layman. “If he’s learned to influence the…the world of souls, it says a great deal for his power, but…it’s a world, yes? And it’s not entirely his. It’s as though he built a keep there, and anything built may be overcome, or at least infiltrated.”

Her face, turned up to his, was almost shining, her eyes large and filled with the wonder of new discoveries.

“Plenty of men die,” Cathal said, “trying to take keeps.”

“All men die in the end. All women too.” She gave him a gentler look then. “But I will be careful. I’ve no wish to perish just now. There are my experiments, and Fergus, and…” Sophia stopped and for the first time in their conversation looked disconcerted, her cheeks turning red and her long lashes dropping over her eyes. “And I have a great deal more to learn, I expect. But it is a good sign, don’t you think?”

“It is,” said Cathal, and he smiled back at her for the first time, unable to deny either her logic or her enthusiasm.

It was well, he thought, that they stood in the middle of the hall, and that there were plenty of people around who would see and comment. It kept him from cupping Sophia’s face in his hands and kissing her, or from pulling her into his embrace and proving her wholeness and her safety to himself in the most direct way imaginable.

When he let himself be drawn away, he ached for her, his cock hard and barely concealed by robes and hose, his heart wondering at her courage and at the sort of vision that saw and rejoiced at knowledge even in the midst of peril. Neither would find satisfaction—she was not for him, and she had pulled away since that afternoon in the forest, their conversation having perhaps made her newly aware of that—but Cathal looked over his shoulder and stole a last glance at her, treasuring it throughout the rest of his day’s errands.

Sleep took a long time to come that night. He knew Valerius likely had to wait between his attacks. He was glad that Sophia could fend them off, and that every nightmare held potential advantage to them now. He closed his eyes and saw Sophia’s face, calm and still with sleep: not a helpless target, but a target nonetheless.

War was much easier.

It was amusing, in its way, that the next development came during one of the few hours when Cathal wasn’t thinking of Sophia at all. He was sitting with his steward, going through the long and tedious process of accounts and plans—so much grain, so many beasts, laying in fish for Lent, anticipating the soon-to-come day in spring when the villagers would meet him to submit their taxes.

At first, Cathal thought the touch of cold air near his face was simply a draft. Then he heard the faint sound of music, too soft for mortal hearing to catch: the signal they’d trained into the air spirits for times when they shouldn’t simply appear. A message awaited him, almost certainly from one of his family.

He kept his mind on the task at hand and even believed himself to make a good job of it, but it was fortunate that the conference had been winding to a close already—fortunate too that he didn’t know the source of the message. Once freed, he made his way up to the roof, read Moiread’s name on the parchment, and shouted with relief.

Her hand was as plain as ever, and her wording as sparse. She started by admitting that she’d probably be home soon. She cursed Artair and Douglas affectionately, the rest of the surrendering lords less so, the concept of diplomacy in general boldly, and the English in terms that should have burned holes in the page, using language Cathal had mostly heard in taverns and surgeons’ tents.

But we did as well as we could. You gave me good men and, by the grace of God and my own wit, I’ll be bringing most of them home alive. Unless the bloody English drop the sky on us after I finish this letter, that is.

I mentioned your “Valerius” to the prisoners.

Yes, I gave quarter. I can see you looking doubtful, and I’ll clout you for it when next we meet. I’m only merciless where family’s concerned.

A couple had heard of the man. Runs a muster of the worst scum you can find outside the hangman’s noose. A few of those are as uncanny as you say. He can summon hellfire with a gesture, might ride with the devil himself. I doubt the last one. The English think too much of themselves. No decent man wants to serve under Valerius, and even Longshanks keeps him well away from court. You don’t hold a brand too close to your body.

You know, maybe, how loath most men are to admit there’s magic on their side, and the English more than most.

Reading, Cathal nodded. Save Valerius and a few others, the English use of magic in war was mostly indirect: swords that could wound the MacAlasdairs as mortally as steel could any other man, armor that stood fast against dragonfire, traps that exploded or poisoned or brought down mountainsides. A man who didn’t want to see magic could pass all of that off as craft or chance.

Most were even worse about Valerius. I bribed, and I threatened, and the ones that would talk in the end talked mostly in hints and in tales.

None could say what name he was born to, nor exactly where, but there were stories.

His lands are on the border, though nobody could tell me where. They’re not wide, but he put his stamp on them, by all accounts. God help the man who falls short in his taxes or catches a hare in His Lordship’s forest. Hanging’s not the worst of it. His vassals’ one comfort is that he’s not often at home. The bastard’s got ambitions, and they put him in the field more often than not.

Here’s the part for a winter’s night:

Once there was a lord, and he had a son—maybe two, as comes into the tale later, and depending on who you ask. Son grew up, went off, and became a knight, or almost became a knight. The first death may have been there: a fellow squire who ran afoul of his temper, or was better than he was, or crossed him in another way.

Three different men tell three different stories. You know the way of it.

Our young lordling, knight or no, comes back home. Mayhap he’s learned a bit of the world. Could be he’s learned too much. He takes up his place and his duties, regardless.

Then—well, the story branches again. One version is his father hears what he’s been doing and goes to cast him out. One version is there’s a girl, of course, though whether she had the bad taste to choose a younger son—the brother who may not exist, aye?—or a villein or the veil is also down to the teller. And one version is he’s just not content, he wants more, and he sees no way in this world to get it.

All the branches come back to the same place. The old lord dies. Messily. Slowly. If there’s a second son, or a peasant rival, he hangs for it. If not, I’m sure some poor servant took his place. The elder son, the man of our tale, becomes lord in his turn, only now he calls himself Valerius, and now he has powers that his vassals don’t speak of, and he goes seeking a wider place in the world. And whatever the English king knows or believes about him, he sees a tool and picks it up.

One more thing: none of the men know quite when this happened, but those who heard about it heard when they were young. Twenty years past, I’d guess, and could be more. If the man you fought was no more than middle-aged—

Cathal winced, remembering that Valerius had looked no less hale than half the men he’d fought.

—then there too is a thing to consider.

Mortal magicians could do a great deal. Staving off age was a rare power; usually it involved some contact with the great forces of the universe.

That’s your enemy, brother. If I get back in time, you know you have my aid. If not, may God aid you, and may this woman he’s sent you be the ally you need.

Slowly, Cathal folded the letter and put it down. He would double that last wish in brass, only slightly differently. He didn’t doubt that Sophia was the best ally he could hope for, but he wished he could be as certain of her safety.

And as he finished that thought, he heard her scream.