Lamma's Night (anthology)

'You need a replacement,' she said. 'Of course. I've... several testimonials you could look at.'

She took a deep breath. They're quick to replace the man who was their friend, she thought, with a feeling of distaste.

Cafrym seemed to sense her doubt; 'Winter's almost on us, sorceress. There's deep snow in the pass already; in two weeks the roads will be closed.'

He leaned forward earnestly. 'We're in danger here. There are ice demons in the winter and... other things. Who'll set the wards for us and keep them out of our houses and away from our stock? And we need a healer. Winters are hard here.'

'Narvik warned us in the spring to seek a replacement,' Radola said. 'We've searched, but found no one. Surely your coming was fated; for without knowing our need, here you are. Please stay. There'll be deaths here this winter if you don't.'

Radola's face matched her words, but not the eyes. Wythen stared until the older woman looked aside.

'You shall have the Sorcerer's cottage,' said a tall thin fellow.

'And his books and instruments,' added a woman.

'And thirty silver groala as well,' put in a thickset, bushy bearded fellow. The whole crowd of councilors shifted in displeasure, but the fellow winked at Wythen. 'And a winter indoors, into the bargain. If you hate us you can always leave in the spring,' he added.

She grinned at him.

'And if you hate me, you can always ask me to leave,' she said, smiling.

Wythen shook Cafrym's hand to seal the bargain.

The cottage was lovely, modest in size and cozy, with comfortable furnishings and a good-sized herb garden, now dying in the cold. Radola had ordered her servants to see to its upkeep, so it was clean and aired as well.

Best of all were the books. Wythen had never seen so many. Fourteen of them, huge leather-bound volumes with brass clasps or silver locks. Her hand shook as she reached out to touch them reverently.

'Oh, Narvik,' she whispered, 'I will take care of Parney! I swear it. I'll never hurt your people.' Her heart was in the promise, but she didn't know if she could keep it. The evil she did came out of nowhere and vanished into the mist, only to be caught out by chance. But she would try, with all of her heart and mind and skill.

At first, it was difficult to settle in, the mood in the cottage was hostile, as though the very hearth rejected her. And her sleep was restless—with half-formed dreams laden with anger.

Narvik's anger.

Wythen dreamed.

She walked by a stream, through a meadow, searching for a bracelet lost by Radola's daughter. The meadow was bright with sun, water chuckled over polished brown rock... but the grass grew, clutching at her feet. She ran, falling as it snagged her ankles. The sun turned to Narvik's face, blazing down out of the sky in fiery wrath, and the stream heaved itself up in a wave to crush her, the rocks churning like a quern....

Wythen sat bolt upright, her mouth wide as she gasped. She fumbled on the bedside table for her candle and willed it alight, looking around for the man whose presence she could feel.

'Oh, Narvik,' she whispered, in a small tear-filled voice, 'forgive me. I didn't know, I swear I meant—'

She stopped. I meant you no harm. It seemed obscene even to shape the thought.

She'd murdered him.

'I'll take care of your people,' she said at last, 'to the best of my ability. And I will try to do no harm here. And... if another comes to take your place I'll leave at once, whatever the season.' She lay back in the bed and closed her eyes, leaving the candle burning. 'Please, give me a chance.'

Oh, easily said, Narvik thought. How can I stop you, after all?

His anger rose again—he wished he could throttle the figure in the bed. But he couldn't. His fiercest blow would feel like a caress to Wythen.

The darkness and the sleep had ended when she crossed his threshold. He heard the sound of her footsteps as she came in from fetching water from the well. When she opened the door he cried out: 'You!'

She'd lifted her head, looking about herself mildly, not frightened, sensing something only because of what she was. He'd railed at her for hours, wasting strength. Nothing, not even another glance of curiosity. That was when he'd decided to stalk her dreams. Tonight was the first time she'd seen him.

Murder made a strong ghost, twice over when it was a sorcerer's. The mage-born were tenacious of life, and death did not take them in the same manner as other folk.

And it won't be the last dream, you murderess!

His people were in danger as long as she remained. The Syndics of Parney had let a madwoman into their midst; a madwoman with a sorcerer's powers. And he couldn't warn them. They couldn't even sense his presence as more than a vague unease.

He'd have to drive her away.

* * *

Wythen threw another scoop of coal on the fire and sat back, the book in her lap. Its pages glowed with a cool blue light; a small working, and well worth it for saving strain on the eyes. Outside the wind rattled at the