Lamma's Night (anthology)

chair from a usurping brother, and a royal mate for his only child. He had lost all, including his life, within a year— dead, it was said, of one of Milan's winter fevers. Dead of a traitor brother—or the mage hired by that brother—who first stole his throne and palace and gave him exile in return, then took his life after he returned triumphant to Milan. I know my uncle and I sensed what passed in father's palace, though I knew too late to be of aid to anyone. Father drowned his books too hastily. And he trusted too much. She, his only child, would not make such a mistake again. A drop of sweat fell from her chin, slid down her breastbone; she shivered.

Decide. Though her earlier efforts to bring herself to this moment had created the greatest drain on her strengths, the final word would be a test of strength in itself—free or banish. No mere pronouncement, an act of power that would ask much of her. And what followed, however she chose, might require even greater strength.

Unpleasant thought indeed.

'Either way you are dead, then, Miranda,' she whispered. Well—what matter? Father and husband dead— what did she have left? What cause to prolong her own life?

She caught her breath; her heart lurched painfully. There again, the faint glimpse of gaunt, drawn features before the inner circle shrouded what was held within. The face that had haunted her dreams since she'd taken this hut for her own. 'That is not Ferdinand.' The words carried no weight Ferdinand was dead—like Prospero, either of fever or a slow poison, his physicians had claimed to be uncertain. And so, the young king had died within weeks of ascending his father's throne—a king who now slept with his fathers—and a young queen fled from Naples to escape the stake. Better you had remained, and saved yourself this moment, Miranda. That is not Ferdinand.

Yet somehow—somehow if there were life beyond the tomb as the priests had dinned into her after her reintroduction to Italian nobility. If Ferdinand knew the torments she had suffered since his death. If he sought to soothe her pain, to reach her in the only way possible, if he wished to gather her to him... If that were he... Ah, beloved. She closed her eyes, drew a deep breath and spoke the final word. Sudden wind shrilled through the hut, showering her with hot ash from the fire. She cried out, fell back a pace, brushing furiously at her arms and hair.

The encircling spells were gone, vanished with the sudden wind. And in a pool of faint and fading yellowish light, the sprawled figure of a man.

'Ferdinand?' The faintest of whispers; but even as she spoke the name she knew the still form in the middle of her floor was a stranger. She stared down at him; dread slid up her spine with chill fingers.

He was tall and slender, but dark, as though burnt by long summers under the hot sun. His hair appeared black in the uncertain light of the dying fire, as did the line of beard outlining a squared jaw. Long hands and fingers. She sighed; her eyelids sagged closed. So tired. But she dared not sleep: eat something, regain a little of the strength you spent this night. Preferably before That—before he—woke.

High summer it might be but this high in the hills the nights were cool. Chill wind whistled through the closed shutters. She built the fire back up and put her pot of herbed water on the hoddle to heat, then lit a fat candle and set it on the wobbly table before fetching her shawl from the end of the narrow straw cot that was the room's only other furniture. 'Tea first,' she murmured. It scalded her tongue but fragrant steam cleared her mind, a little. Enough. She refilled the wooden cup, carried it with her and caught up the candle.

The stranger hadn't moved. She knelt beside him, set the candle on the floor so she could observe him more closely. He slept, she thought, by the rise and fall of his shoulders; by the look of his face, he'd sleep for hours. Trust, Miranda; trust to that if you dare! A deep frown furrowed his brow, and now she could see a few silver hairs in his beard; silver at his temples. But he wasn't an old man, he couldn't be above thirty. The hands—a dark splotch on the web between thumb and forefinger, the blue thumbnail marked him for what he was: wizard. Miranda had such a dark splotch on the palm of her hand, where she'd been careless with a particular potion.

Was this the village's missing—? She shrugged, didn't complete the thought. When he woke, she'd ask questions, possibly even receive answers. Or not. Fruitless to speculate.

He had no visible wounds, no other mark on him that she could see by straight vision, and the other—no. The power would not respond for some hours, after a night such as this. 'I must sleep.' The man shifted at the sound of her voice and she edged away from him but he sighed deeply and was still once more. Sleep—how could she possibly sleep with this unknown quantity sprawled across her floor? She drank a little tea and considered the possibilities.

Bind him—but physical bonds against a wizard? Or a spell of binding, if she had the strength for it. 'Oh, yes, Miranda, and if he's a stronger mage than you? With a temper to match that frown?' She'd be the first thing to hand if he chose to lash out. By rights, he'd be grateful to her for his release—if he was nothing more than what he seemed. 'More than—no. He's man. I can still tell demon from man—but clean man from foul? And what was he doing where I found him?'

She shook her head. If she'd had that talent, telling clean from otherwise, Ferdinand would still be alive, and his chief counselor exiled or lying dead in a head-foreshortened coffin.

She staggered to her feet, caught up the candle as she rose and snuffed it, set it upon the table along with her now empty cup; the room swam. Off balance, she staggered back; the cot was hard against the backs of her legs; it would be soft against her back. Miranda's eyelids flickered, sagged shut; her legs sagged, dropping her to the prickly mattress. Already unaware, she smiled faintly, licked her lips, snuggled deeply into her shawl. Between one breath and another, she was asleep.

* * *

Pale light of early day washed the hut. Sun touched the foot of the cot and then her feet; Miranda drew a deep breath, rolled onto her side. So tired.

Why?

'Ware, Miranda. The warning touched her, was gone.

She woke to the crackle of fire, and the not-quite-right odor of tea. Someone else's mix of herbs, that. A board creaked nearby; a second. Stay very still and seem yet sleeping. She felt a shadow cross her body. Silence, not even the sound of breathing, save her own. The board creaked again, the shadow moved on. Sun nearly too warm upon her shoulders.

'She's still asleep.' Stranger's voice, coming from near the hut's narrow doorway; deep and very quiet. Had she not been breathing quietly, she'd never have caught the words.