The man released Sosha, who rubbed at her arm, her eyes pleading for Beckor’s help. “What did this priest tell you?” he asked his companion.
“That Torgon’s dead. Died yesterday. Says he buried him.”
“Huh. Smithy didn’t say whether he was dead or alive when she brought him into the village.” He glared at Beckor. “We need to know if he’s dead or not.”
“Why?” Beckor demanded. “Are you kin?”
“No. Friends. We’ll have to answer to his family. We need to see his body.”
Beckor shook his head. “Small honor you give to me and those who have died. You’d have me disturb his grave?”
The man with the wounded leg stepped closer to Beckor. “Take us there.”
The command dripped ice. Beckor shrugged, took Sosha’s hand. “Everything will be all right,” he said. Then, glancing at the two assassins: “Follow me, if you’re still determined to violate the dead.”
“Need a shovel,” the taller of the two said. “You got one, priest?”
“Around back. We have to go that way to the field where he’s buried.”
Sosha’s heart pounded so loudly she knew Beckor and the two men could hear it. How was Beckor going to prove an empty grave contained a man who was very much alive and, if he had listened to her, hiding in the hayloft of her barn? She voiced another silent prayer to Vkandis and followed Beckor as he led the way to the field of burial.
“There,” Beckor said, pointing to the edge of a cleared field. “That’s where I buried him.”
The taller of the two men stared at the newly turned earth. He rolled his shoulders and began to dig. Sosha watched, fascinated and terrorized, unable to turn away, even if she had wanted to. As the digging continued, time seemed to slow down. Finally, the shovel hit something and the man began to work around it.
“What did you find?” the other stranger asked.
“Damn ... think it’s a boot.”
“Let me see.” The wounded assassin pushed forward. “Looks like his.”
The taller man moved up toward the middle of the grave and began to dig again. Sosha glanced at Beckor, but the priest stood calmly, his face expressionless.
Once again, the assassin’s shovel found something. He scraped at what he had unearthed. “Green tunic. Got blood on it. Must be his.” He started to dig around what he’d discovered. “Gah!” he exclaimed, his eyes narrowed. “The stench!”
Both men drew back from the grave, their faces screwed up in disgust.
“What did you expect?” Beckor asked. “Bodies rot. Especially in this heat.”
The two strangers stared at the priest. Sosha couldn’t help but stare, too.
“Now,” Beckor said, “do you mind if we cover him again? The Sunlord will be none too pleased with this night’s outcome.”
The taller of the two men dropped the shovel. “We’ll leave that to you.”
Something moved behind the wounded man’s eyes. Sosha couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment or relief. “We’ll tell his family,” the man said, sounding somewhat deflated. “Sorry to have caused trouble.”
“We heard there have been bandits in this area,” Beckor said, pointedly not accepting the apology. “That’s why we’re on guard when we work in the fields.”
The other assassin nodded, taking his cue from his companion, the bluster drained from his voice. “It was a large number of them. The three of us couldn’t fight them off. Thank you again. We’ll be leaving now.”
“Tonight?”
To Sosha, the priest sounded as concerned as someone would be at the prospect of travelers riding out in pitch darkness.
“We were supposed to be at Faroaks yesterday, but we kept hunting for our companion. It’s not that distant. Even bandits sleep. Now that we know Torgon’s dead, we can continue on.”
The wounded man nudged his companion. “And we have to make sure his family is notified. They’ll be grief stricken.”
“Oh ... that’s true. Don’t worry about us, sun-ray. And, girlie,” he said, glancing at Sosha, “sorry I scared you.”
She lifted her chin and stared back at him, struggling to keep her face expressionless. The two assassins nodded farewell, turned, and left the field. Only when she could no longer see them in the gathering darkness did she allow tears to roll down her cheeks.
“Now, now ... you’ll be all right.” Beckor put an arm around her shoulders. “They’ll be gone soon.” He lowered his voice. “Where’s Torgon?”
“Up in the hayloft,” she replied, matching his hushed words. “I warned him.” A shift in the evening breeze made her gag. “Lord of Light! What be in that grave?”
“Besides Torgon’s boots, tunic and breeches?” A small smile tugged at Beckor’s face. “Rotted vegetables, meat that’s gone bad ... anything vile I could find to fill them with. You see, Sosha, ofttimes we see what we expect to see, even when it’s something else.”
Relief descended like a flood. She wiped at her tears and, ignoring propriety, hugged the priest.
His smile broadened. “Let’s cover this up and then I’ll walk you home.”
After the two assassins had ridden out of Sweetwater, Beckor joined Sosha in her barn. Holding a shielded lamp in his hands, he watched Torgon slowly climb down the ladder, favoring his left side in his descent.
“For what you’ve done for me, sun-ray,” Torgon said, after Beckor had explained all that had happened, “I can’t thank you enough.” He turned to Sosha. “And you ... you were very brave. My undying thanks to you also.”
Beckor noticed how their eyes met and held. He remembered his dream. Keep these two together, the Firecat had said.
Somehow he knew his plan, played out to perfection this evening, was but one step in a journey Torgon and Sosha would make together. And in the darkness of the barn, he could have sworn he saw a large golden cat smiling.
Author’s note: Read “The Cat Who Came to Dinner” in the anthology
The Power of Three
Brenda Cooper’s novels include
, and, with Larry Niven,
. Brenda’s short fiction includes multiple fantasy stories set in the mythical High Hills, an alternate Laguna Beach, CA, and harder science fiction that has appeared in
,
,
, and
. Brenda’s very honored to be included in these anthologies, as she’s whiled away many pleasant hours in Valdemar and shared the Valdemar books with countless others. What a treat!
Bard Breda focused on the fight in front of her. In the center of the outside practice rink attached to the salle, two young women wearing worn practice armor sparred with dented practice staffs. Two matching faces wore rivulets of sweat down their foreheads and cheeks, and more sweat glued matching fire-red hair to the slender napes of two necks. For every blow Rhiannon struck, Dionne parried and sent another, which Rhiannon parried. Neither had any advantage over the other, not in quickness, speed, or strength.
Morning sunshine illuminated the two fighters and the two watchers alike. The first of the season’s swallows labored around them, chattering over stray bits of straw for their nests. The twins’ staffs made loud thunks as they struck each other fairly and well, over and over.
Breda cleared her throat to gain attention from Gavin, her counterpart from the Healer’s Collegium. “Do you
