The warnings Quenten had given him had made him wary to the point of paranoia. Every time someone approached her, he kept examining them for some sign that they weren't what they seemed, that they were really blood-path mages stalking her, like a cat stalking a baby rabbit.
'She just doesn't understand,' he confided to his Companion, thinking that she, at least, would sympathize. 'there're all those mages out there Quenten warned us about. She doesn't even think about them, she doesn't watch for them, and she's not trying to hide from them.'
'But you warned her about everything Quenten said,' Cymry said, answering his thought. 'You told her everything you knew. She may be right about hiding in plain sight, you know. Why would a mage look for someone like her to have Mage-Gift? Everyone knows mages can't be fighters. Besides, don't you think she's as capable as you are of telling if someone is stalking her?' Yes, but-'
'In fact,' she continued, thoughtfully, 'it's entirely possible that she would know sooner than you. She does have mage abilities, even if they aren't trained. Quenten said that power calls to power, and she's keeping a watch on the thoughts of everyone around her. Don't you think she'd know another mage if one came that close to her?'
'Yes, but-: He lapsed into silence. Because that wasn't all, or even most, of what was bothering him.
She'd grown up, all right. She was no longer anything he could think of as a 'girl.' And whether it was the new attitude, or the new clothing, or both-he couldn't help noticing just how much she had grown up.
Certainly the new clothing, far more flamboyant than anything she wore at home, enhanced that perception. It seemed almost as if she had taken on a new life with the new persona.
Maybe it was also, at least in part ' the fact that no one was watching them together. There was no one to start rumors, no one to warn him that she was not exactly an appropriate partner for an ex-thief; no one to wink and nod whenever he walked by with her, no one to ask, with arch significance, how she was doing lately. The friends had been as annoying as the opponents.
But now both were gone, far out of distance of any gossip. And he was free to look at her as 'Elspeth' instead of The Heir To The Throne.
And he was discovering how much he liked what he saw. She was handsome in the same vibrant way Kero was-and, admit it, he thought to himself, you're more than half in love with Kero. Clever, witty, with a ready laugh that more than made up for her whiplash temper. Oh, she was a handful, but a handful he wouldn't mind having by his side...Dear gods. A sudden realization made him blush so hotly he was very glad that the fog was still thick enough to hide it. It wasn't outraged sensibilities that made him yelp at the idea of her entertaining one of those mercs in bed-it was jealousy. The very last emotion he'd ever have anticipated entertaining, especially over Elspeth.
He didn't want her running off with someone else, he wanted her to run off with him.
He must have been giving an ample demonstration of his jealousy over the past few days; surely she had guessed long before he had.
But now that he thought about it, she didn't seem to notice anything except his increasing protectiveness- 'mother-henning,' she called it.
This wasn't the first time she'd complained about it.
But it was the first time she had done so at the top of her lungs. She might not have noticed his attraction, but she had certainly noticed the side effects.
I guess she's really mad, he thought guiltily. And cleared his throat, hoping to restart the conversation, and get it turned back onto friendlier ground.
She didn't say anything, but she didn't turn around and snap at him, either. The growing light of dawn filtered through the fog, enveloping them both in a glowing, pearly haze-and it was a good thing they were both wearing their barbaric merc outfits; the Companions just faded into the general glow, and if they'd been wearing Whites, they'd have lost each other in a heartbeat. This kind of mist fuddled directions and the apparent location of sound, too. He peered at her fog-enshrouded shape up ahead of him; it looked uncannily as if she was bestriding a wisp of fog itself.
Try something noncommittal. Ask something harmless. 'Did Quenten say why Adept Jendar is living in Lythecare, when the school he founded is all the way back up near Petras in Rethwellan?' he asked, trying to sound humble.
' Don't try to sound humble, Skif,' she replied waspishly. 'It doesn't suit you.' Then she relented and unbent a little; he thought perhaps she turned again to make certain he was still following, and hadn't halted his Companion in a fit of pique. 'Sorry. That wasn't called for. Ah-he did tell me some. Jendar wants to be down here in jkatha so he's somewhere nearer his Shin'a'in relatives, but he doesn't want to be in Kata'shin'a'in, because it's really just a trade-city, and it practically dries up and blows away in the fall and winter.'
'What did he mean by that?' Skif asked, puzzled. 'I should think a trade-city would have anything he'd want.' She paused. 'Let me see if I can do a good imitation of Quenten imitating jendar.' Her voice shifted to that of a powerful old man's, with none of the querulousness Skif expected.
