“I’m no match for you in a sorcerer’s duel—” he said, a cruel smile curving his lips as his hands moved in the spell to steal her dying power from her. “—not yet—but I’ll be the match of
Incredibly, he had moved like a striking snake, his every movement preplanned—all this had taken place in the space of a few eyeblinks. She crumpled to the ground with a gasp of agony, both hands clutching ineffectually at the hilt. The pain and shock ripped away her ability to think, even to set into motion the spell she’d set to lock her dying energy away from his use. Blood trickled hotly between her fingers, as her throat closed against the words she had meant to speak to set a death-binding against him. She could only endure the hot agony, and the knowledge that she had failed—and then looked up in time to see three arrows strike him almost simultaneously, two in the chest, the third in the throat. Her hands clenched on the dagger hilt as he collapsed on top of her with a strangling gurgle. Agony drove her down into darkness.
Her last conscious thought was of gratitude to Lyran.
There were frogs and insects singing, which seemed odd to Martis. No one mentioned frogs or insects in any version of the afterlife that she’d ever heard. As her hearing improved, she could hear nightbirds in the distance, and close at hand, the sound of a fire and the stirring of nearby horses. That definitely did not fit in with the afterlife—unless one counted Hellfires, and this certainly didn’t sound big enough to be one of those. Her eyes opened slowly, gritty and sore, and not focusing well.
Lyran sat by her side, anxiety lining his brow and exhaustion graying his face.
“Either I’m alive,” Martis coughed, “or you’re dead—and I don’t remember you being dead.”
“You live, Mage-lady—but it was a very near thing. Almost, I did not reach you in time. You are fortunate that sorcerers are not weapons-trained—no swordsman would have missed your heart as he did.”
“Martis. My name is Martis—you’ve earned the right to use it.” Martis coughed again, amazed that there was so little pain—that the worst she felt was a vague ache in her lungs, a dreamy lassitude and profound weakness. “Why am I still alive? Even if he missed the heart, that blow was enough to kill. You’re no Healer—” she paused, all that Lyran had told her about his “Way” running through her mind. “—are you?”
“As my hands deal death, so they must also preserve life,” Lyran replied. “Yes, among my people, all who live by weapons are also trained as Healers, even as Healers must learn to use weapons, if only to defend themselves and the wounded upon the field of battle.”
He rubbed eyes that looked as red and sore as her own felt. “Since I am not Healer-born, it was hard, very hard. I am nearly as weak as you as a consequence. It will be many days before I regain my former competence, my energy, or my strength. It is well you have no more enemies that I must face, for I would do so, I fear, on my hands and knees!”
Martis frowned. “You aren’t talking the way you used to.”
Lyran chuckled. “It is said that even when at the point of death the Mage will observe and record—and question. Yes, I use familiar speech with you, my Mage-lady. The Healing for one not born to the Gift is not like yours—I sent my soul into your body to heal it; for a time we were one. That is why I am so wearied. You are part of myself as a consequence—and I now speak to you as one of my People.”
“Thank the gods. I was getting very tired of your everlasting ‘this one’s.’ ” They laughed weakly together, before Martis broke off with another fit of coughing.
“What happens to you when we get back to the Guild-hold?” Martis asked presently.
“My continued employment by the Guild was dependent on your satisfaction with my performance,” Lyran replied. “Since I assume that you are satisfied—”
“I’m alive, aren’t I? The mission succeeded. I’m a good bit more than merely ‘satisfied’ with the outcome.”
“Then I believe I am to become part of the regular staff, to be assigned to whatever mage happens to need a guard. And—I think here I have found what I sought; the place where my sword may serve peace, the place the Way has designed for me.” Despite his contented words, his eyes looked wistful.
Martis was feeling unwontedly sensitive to the nuances in his expression. There was something behind those words she had not expected—hope—longing? And—directed at
And—under the weariness, was there actually
“Would that I could continue in your service, Mage—Martis. I think perhaps we deal well together.”
“Hmm,” Martis began tentatively, not sure she was reading him correctly; not daring to believe what she thought she saw. “I’m entitled to a permanent hireling as a Master, I just never exercised the privilege. Would you be interested?”
“As a hireling—alone? Or, could I hope you would have more of me than bought-service?”
Dear gods, was he asking what she
“We have been one,” he sighed, touching her cheek lightly. “As you have felt a tie to me, so have I felt drawn to you. There is that in each of us that satisfies a need in the other, I think. I—care for you. I would gladly be a friend; more than friend, if you choose.”
“But I’m old enough to be your mother!”
“Ah, lady,” he smiled, his eyes old in his young face, “What are years? Illusion. Do each of us not know the folly of illusion?” And he cupped one hand gently beneath her cheek to touch his lips to hers. As her mouth opened beneath his, she was amazed at the stirring of passion—it was impossible, but it was plainly there, despite years, wounds, and weariness. Maybe—maybe there was something to this after all.
“I—” she began, then chuckled.
“So?” he cocked his head to one side, and waited for enlightenment.
“Well—my friends will think I’m insane, but this certainly fits your Way of Balance—my grey hairs against your youth.”
“So—” the smile warmed his eyes in a way Martis found fascinating, and totally delightful, “—then we shall
