Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

S leep eluded Kormac. It had been a fortnight since he'd sent a message to the witch queen. The reply he'd received had indicated a witch travelled to give aid and promised an arrival date that had passed. Not surprising since the distance between their territories spanned hundreds of miles and the mountains separating them were impassable. The witch would have to deter via Ulkruuba, adding to the travel time. Knowing that didn't quell his impatience.

Lomar, while not worsening, had not improved either. While his humor remained positive, Kormac could tell the waiting taxed his friend. Every night Lomar, even with the glowing medallion, claimed to hear the voice of the spirit possessing him, telling him to remove the chain. Lomar hadn't obeyed, but given he feared a moment of weakness, they'd taken to tethering him at dinnertime until morning as a precaution, an action that didn't go unnoticed by the guards stationed in the dungeon.

Rumors swirled. People whispered. Despite swearing his men to secrecy, word of what happened at the garrison had leaked. The citizens were restless and afraid. It didn't help that refugees from two villages at the base of the northern mountain had been trickling into Wexkord. They told stories of not just the dragon hunting their flocks, but of other monsters usually only spoken of in old legends, such as the bithok, a creature that fouled crops and rendered the soil infertile for a few seasons. There'd even been some swearing they'd seen an ogre toting a tree over its shoulder.

He'd sent out a battalion to check into the claims but had yet to hear word from them. He feared the worst. His father, whom he'd seen just that morning, had nothing to advise unless, "Things will sort themselves out," counted.

What if they didn't? What if what afflicted Lomar began to spread? Or the monsters left the mountain area? He didn't have enough men to send to all of the villages. Nor could he leave Wexkord, the most populous area, unprotected.

With all that weighing on his mind, he remained awake, and thus heard the soft scuff of movement at his window. It seemed unlikely an assassin could scale such a height, but he never assumed anything. He silently and quickly positioned himself by the opening, sword ready. When the cloaked figure slipped in, he had the tip of his blade poised, ready to stab, only to pause at a feminine voice.

"A week of travel and this is how you greet me?"

He didn't drop his sword but growled, "Who are you?"

"The witch you arrogantly summoned and I am in no mood for games. It's been a long trip."

Finally. "If you wished a proper greeting then you should have?—"

"Entered via your main gate? Tried that, your soldiers were most insistent I return in the morning," was her disgruntled retort.

"And instead of listening you thought it a good idea to climb to my window and almost get yourself impaled." Her lack of intelligence didn't bode well.

"Climb?" She snorted. "That's for goats. As to being impaled…" She slapped his blade aside with more strength than he could have expected given the slight form muffled by the cloak.

He took a step back but didn't lower his guard. "How do I know you are who you claim?"

"Do you have many women appearing in your bedchambers, claiming to be witches?" She spread her hands and all the lanterns in the room suddenly illuminated.

It startled Kormac but he didn't let it show. "Nice trick."

She made a noise of annoyance. "I told Amelia this was a bad idea. If you don't believe in magic, why summon a witch?"

"Because we've tried everything else." An admission he hated to make.

Slender fingers reached to tug at the hood and to his surprise, a youngish woman appeared, slender of features, her auburn hair bound in plaits pinned to her head. Her brilliant blue eyes perused and her lips pursed. "You don't smell as bad as expected, unlike me after days of travel and a lack of bathing facilities in your godforsaken plains."

"Why would I smell bad?" He couldn't help but sound confused.

"Don't most people who muck around with horses all day smell of manure?"

He snorted. "That would be the stable hands, and there is something called soap to handle the scent."

"Good to know your people believe in it—and beds." She glanced past him at the massive frame holding his mattress.

"Exactly how primitive do you think the Sraythian are?"

"Well, you don't believe in magic. You actually kill those who wield it. You rarely leave your kingdom, which is understandable given the location. The few traders who bother to make the trip don't have much positive to say."

He snorted. "Because they don't want others infringing on their profit."

She waved a hand. "I'm beginning to see we need to update our book describing Srayth."

"You should perhaps also look into reading one on manners. Or are you always this abrasive?" Kormac had enough of her insults.

"Excuse me for being annoyed you didn't warn your gate guards I'd be arriving."

"You were supposed to be here days ago, according to the note I received from your queen." Not to mention he couldn't exactly tell his guards to allow entry to any woman claiming to be a witch.

"Unavoidable delays. I'm here now."

"Can you fix Lomar?" he asked rather than argue some more.

"I assume that is the man afflicted."

"Yes. He's in the dungeon. If you'll follow me…" He took a single step only to halt as she shook her head.

"Slow down. I know you're anxious, however, I'm tired, dirty, and hungry, meaning I will require a chamber, a tub with water, cold is fine, and food. Lots of it. I expended quite a bit of my strength coming here."

He bit his tongue rather than laugh at her imperious demands. "The servants are abed."

"And? Are you not capable of showing me to a room?"

"I am, but your sudden appearance, since you bypassed the gate, will cause questions. How am I supposed to explain your presence?"

She blinked at him before slowly saying, "Perhaps you should have thought of that before you requested assistance."

"I did. However, my planning hinged on your queen sending someone older."

"Not sure why my age is an issue."

"Because you were supposed to be Lomar's aunt coming to visit her nephew." It would have been the perfect cover seeing as how he'd allowed only limited people to have access to his friend.

"Why lie?"

Definitely dense. "I can't exactly tell my people I requested the services of a witch."

She snorted. "Ah yes, because your backwards country doesn't believe in magic."

"It doesn't exist," he insisted, choosing to ignore how she'd lit up his room with a flick of her hand.

"If you don't believe then why the demand for help from a witch?"

"We tried everything else. A witch was my last resort, and I am regretting that choice. Lomar needs more than parlor tricks to cure him."

"You think I'm a fake?" Her head cocked "What will it take to convince you?"

Before he could reply, he found himself floating high enough he could have touched the vaulted ceiling of his chamber.

"Do you believe in magic now?" she asked with a half smirk.

"Put me down."

His feet hit the floor abruptly, but he managed not to fall. He also managed to hold together his demeanor while struggling with the knowledge that his whole life he'd been very wrong about magic. "Very well, you have some kind of power."

"So begrudging," she mocked. "Are all your people going to be as hard to convince?"

"Probably." He paused before adding, "Witches aren't well regarded here."

"My understanding is you stopped hunting and executing them."

"We have, but centuries of mistrust takes time to change.

She waved a hand. "I don't have time to deal with superstition."

"Which is why a cover story for your presence would simplify matters."

"It would be nice to not have to prove myself every other minute, but I don't think I'll pass as someone's aunt. Mayhap a cousin, or this Lomar's sister?"

Another plausible scenario to explain her presence and yet he shook his head. "Some of the soldiers will most likely remember Lomar mentioning he was an only child."

"I guess we'll have to try something novel, like the truth."

"We could state that you're my promised." Kormac couldn't have said why he blurted it. Blame the lack of sleep. The worry. The fact this petite woman took him off guard.

"Excuse me? When you say promised, do you mean fiancée?" She arched a fine brow.

"It would be the most plausible reason we could offer as to why you and I will be spending time together in private."

"Won't people find it odd you suddenly have a fiancée by your side?"

"No, as they've been waiting for me to choose a bride."

His mother nagged incessantly about it. As for his father, he tended to be more practical. "You need an heir. So marry, or beget yourself a bastard."

"Won't they expect you to be engaged to someone from Srayth?"

"You have the right coloring to pass. As for your accent, we can claim you were educated in the south. Well-off families often send their children abroad to learn."

"Did yours?"

"No." His father mocked the soft south and wouldn't let them taint his son.

"And how will you claim we met?"

"By happenstance when I was visiting Turlow." Another city under his rule, not as big as Wexkord, but a decent size and close to the border with Ulkruuba.

"If you declare me your intended, won't your people be upset when I leave in a few days?"

"Not really. They'll assume we weren't compatible."

"This idea of yours seems overly complicated. Why not just tell them I'm a healer?"

"Because women don't heal here."

She stared at him. "You can't be serious?"

"Our physicians are male."

"You do realize every other culture outside of Srayth has women who perform healing tasks."

"Things are different in my country."

"More like misogynistic," she muttered. "And this entire discussion is ridiculous. I am here to work."

"Work that will be easier to accomplish if you agree to pretend to be my promised."

"How does it make it easier?"

"For one, we are allowed to be alone together in a room without a chaperone."

"A chaperone?" She laughed, a light sound full of mirth. "I am a woman of thirty-some years. I don't need someone guarding my virtue."

Older than he'd thought, but still very much desirable. "As my fiancée, you would have full access to the citadel, and it would grant you protection from those seeking a wife of their own."

"No, and no. I won't be seen as chattel."

"I don't understand your issue. It's not as if we will actually marry."

"Because I am not interested in lying. If you must call me something, then how about a diplomat from Acca? Or since your people have a thing against witches, Ulkruuba where I'm originally from."

He held in a sigh of annoyance. "Very well. Have it your way." She'd soon see why he suggested the subterfuge.

"Good. Now, about that room?"

"We'll have to go through the secret passage lest my guards see you."

"The mighty warlord has guards to watch him over as he sleeps?" She snickered.

"Not usually, but given the recent troubles, some have taken it upon themselves to volunteer, or as they claim when I bark at them, ‘Sorry warlord, must have fallen asleep in the hall.' Never mind the fact I'm the only one who sleeps on this floor," he grumbled. The first time he'd stumbled over a soldier when exiting his room, he'd almost run them through with his sword. While none ever came right out and said it, he could see his father's hand in their actions. The previous warlord might have retired but he still occasionally meddled.

The secret doorway in the back of his wardrobe led to a narrow passage that ended in stairs and spiraled down with exits every other floor. His father had shown them to Kormac saying hopefully he'd never need them to escape. As if he'd ever flee. Kormac would rather die fighting than run like a coward from strife.

They exited onto the floor with the guest chambers that were rarely in use. Kormac didn't enjoy hosting events that involved outsiders. His mother complained he'd never find a bride if he didn't invite eligible families and their daughters to the citadel. Exactly. While he understood he should beget an heir, he'd yet to meet a woman who intrigued him enough to visit her bed more than a handful of times, let alone one he could imagine a lifetime with.

The doors to the unoccupied rooms remained ajar and he led her into the first one. Not a huge chamber. The bed was barely large enough for two but fine for a slight witch. She glanced around. "I don't see a tub."

He pointed to a curtain. "Bathing chamber. No tub but we do have a water sluice."

"A what?" She blinked at him with dark lashes.

It seemed easier to show her. He pushed past the curtain, ignoring the commode, and pointed to a lever in the corner. "Pull it to release the water. Shove it back in place to shut it off." He demonstrated and the spout overhead released a torrent.

Her mouth rounded. "That's brilliant. Who designed it?"

"Great-grandfather. He hated waiting for buckets of water and so devised a method to collect rainwater on the roof in huge vats and ran tubing from them into the citadel."

"It must have taken a great deal of work."

"He had plenty of help once the servants realized it would ease their tasks immensely." No one wanted to climb flights of stairs numerous times just to fill a tub.

"So you've given me two of my requests, now we just need the third. Food."

"I'll fetch you a plate from the kitchen." No point in arguing, especially since he found himself slightly hungry. He left the witch to her bathing and descended the stairs, encountering no one on his way.

Only as he scrounged in the pantry for edibles did it occur that his bracers hadn't glowed in the presence of the witch. So they didn't detect magic. At least not the type she wielded.

While he'd been skeptical of her claim to power, it was hard to deny when she made him float. Exactly what else could she do? Did her magic have limits?

He found some leftover meat from dinner, chopped and ready for a stew in the morning, along with a loaf of stale bread most likely meant for trenchers the next day. He also gathered some fruit before he headed back up the stairs and paused outside her closed door. Should he just walk in?

Despite not usually having to announce his presence, he knocked.

"Come in."

He entered to find her already bathed, her hair wrapped in a towel, wearing a gown with a tight bodice that had him shaking his head. "Your clothing won't do." He set the plate of food down on a table by the window and she wandered close to pick at it.

"What, pray tell, is wrong with my attire? Do women not wear dresses in your country?"

"Yes, but the style is much looser for ease of movement, and that type of color"—he waved a hand—"is reserved for ceremonial occasions."

She glanced at herself as she munched on a hunk of bread. "It's blue."

"I'm aware."

"People here don't wear blue?"

"They do for special events. Day-to-day wear tends to be of a darker, more serviceable nature."

Her lips pursed. "This is all I've brought unless you want me wearing combat leathers."

"Why would you have combat garments?" he asked in puzzlement.

"In case I have to fight." She rolled her eyes.

"Women don't?—"

"I wouldn't finish that sentence if I were you, because we do indeed fight, at least where I'm from."

His lips pulled taut in disapproval. "Are your men inept cowards?"

"No, but we don't have many in Acca, and none at all at Mystic Keep. Our witches are female in case you didn't know."

"Surely you have soldiers to protect your queen and kingdom?"

"Soldiers, yes, but they are women and before you ask, yes they know how to fight."

"Women learning combat." He shook his head. "I'd heard the stories but didn't put any credence in them."

"Dare I ask why you think us incapable?"

"Because women are gentle."

She snorted. "Not the ones I know."

"You are not as I expected." He couldn't tell yet if that were a good or bad thing.

"And what did you expect other than an old lady?" she taunted, eating a fig.

"I don't know." He couldn't exactly claim he expected a crone in rags who would speak in gibberish and shake a staff while stamping her feet. The last supposed witch he'd encountered in the border market had a list of theatrics she employed to grift people. He'd jailed her for pretending to speak to the dead. It turned out the voices people heard weren't their loved ones but the charlatan's children, pretending.

"Well maybe it's time your womenfolk saw an example of what it's like to live in a non-male-dominated society."

"Don't blame me if they react poorly."

"I would think your people will follow your lead. Treat me with respect and I imagine they will follow."

"The same respect you've shown me?" he retorted.

Her lips curved mischievously. "Can the mighty warlord not handle words?"

The barb hit and he stiffly replied, "I will inform Menno, the lieutenant in charge of the citadel's security, that you are my guest and to be treated with respect."

"Excellent. Now if you don't mind, it's been a long day. I'll see you tomorrow."

She dismissed him and he didn't know if he should take offense. She certainly had a direct manner about her. Were all women outside Srayth so bold? He wouldn't know. He'd never travelled past the borders and only rarely had contact with foreigners.

Kormac returned to his room and lay on his bed, thinking of the witch. He fell asleep with her cocky smile in his mind.

And woke to a pounding at his door.