War. When he finally gathered that her work consisted merely of reading books and writing about them, he could not hide his incredulity that this was considered a fit occupation for adults.
“These are simply poems or fantastical tales that you studied?”
“Not always fantastical. The most highly regarded stories have fairly ordinary subjects—daily life, people trying to get married, and so forth.”
“But you did not read these things to extract magical spells or history and laws from them?”
“Not in my program. We study poems and stories for their own sake, to understand them better, to appreciate their craft.” At least, Nora thought, that is the theory.
Aruendiel shrugged his crooked shoulders. “You will not be able to earn your living in the same fashion here. The nearest equivalent would be the bards, who travel from castle to castle to sing the old poems and songs, but it takes years of training to learn the verses. And of course, it is not a job for a woman.”
“What does that mean?” Nora asked sharply. Aruendiel looked blank, so she went on: “Do you mean that women aren’t smart enough to learn the poems? Or they’re not allowed?”
“I’m only stating a fact. A lone woman traveling through the countryside is likely to be raped or assaulted, if not to suffer a worse fate.”
“I’ve never had any problems walking alone around here.”
“Few would dare interfere with anyone who is under my protection.”
“I don’t need protection.” They were climbing into the orchard now, facing almost directly into the light of the lowering sun. Up ahead, in the direction of the castle, the dogs were barking. On an impulse, Nora stooped to pick up a fallen apple, and then let it fly with a snap of her wrist, the way she used to pitch to EJ in the backyard. It squelched dully against a nearby tree trunk.
“Everyone in my household and on my lands is under my protection,” Aruendiel said flatly.
They walked in silence for a few minutes, the castle in sight now, and then Nora spoke again. “I was a cook once. There’s always a need for good cooks.”
“Yes, some lords in Semr keep an entire staff of cooks. It’s very hard work, I believe.”
“I don’t mind hard work,” she said, even while remembering how her feet used to ache at the end of a night at the restaurant. On a sudden impulse, she said: “Or—I could be a magician.” She wanted to see what he would say. “Whatever it takes, I could learn it.”
Aruendiel snorted, then appeared to be thinking. “We could always marry you off,” he said musingly. “There’s young Peusienith, who holds one of my manor farms. He’s a widower and a decent fellow.” The magician’s eyes flicked over her face, and she knew that he was appraising her scars, trying to decide whether they might put off a potential bridegroom.
“You must be joking!” Nora said, afraid that he wasn’t. “Marry me off! It’s been tried before, let me remind you.” She gave the ring on her left hand an angry, futile pull.
“I meant no disrespect,” Aruendiel said mildly. “It would be an easier life for you than cooking in Semr.”
“No, thanks.”
After a moment, Aruendiel said: “Well, you may remain in my household, if you wish. Mrs. Toristel would be glad of your assistance.”
“Well, it does seem to be my only choice. I mean, thank you.” She tried to make her voice register more enthusiasm. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. But this world is not what I’m used to. Where I come from, women can get educations and jobs and live where we like and travel where we like. It’s not like that here, from what I can tell.”
“No, it’s not,” he said levelly. “I have always thought it’s much better to be a man.”
Nora was about to respond that there was nothing wrong with being a woman, that it was all about how society treated women—there was a lot she could say on this subject—when Aruendiel seized her arm and jerked her to the side. He pulled her into a run, jolting her with his clumsy gait.
“What?” she got out. Just as suddenly, he pulled up. Something large plummeted out of the sky, landing on the path a hundred feet ahead of them.
A gigantic black umbrella, bent, broken by the wind, Nora thought. A limp, whitish shape dangled under the dark folds: the forequarters of a dead sheep. Then she recognized the long, narrow head; the stocky, reptilian body; the flapping, leathery wings. She shrank back.
“Your husband has come to pay us a visit,” Aruendiel said.
Under her sudden fear, Nora still found his dry, sarcastic tone irksome. Shut up, she wanted to tell him, that’s not my husband.
The monster had settled on the ground to eat the sheep, its jaws tearing lovingly at the carcass. After only a few bites, the dead animal was gone, hooves, head, and all. The creature reared up on its hind legs, beat its wings in the air, and emitted a long cry as raucous as a gull’s. Dropping to all fours, it paced back and forth, as though looking for a way through an invisible barrier. Then it settled on its haunches again and exhaled a shower of sparks and a puff of smoke. The weather had been dry lately. A bright flame sprang up in the grass.
“That’s quite enough,” said Aruendiel. He unfolded his arms and held his hand up, fingers flexing with a quick, compressed energy that made the ordinary movement seem like an obscene gesture. Instantly—without moving its wings—the creature went straight up into the air, trailing smoke, until it was so high that someone might take it for a bat or a crow.
A faint screech filtered down, and then the black speck was swallowed up by a pile of sooty clouds that had suddenly appeared in an otherwise clear sky. Thunder sounded as the clouds moved rapidly off to the north.
A splattering of rain fell, extinguishing the fire in the grass. Aruendiel was saying something with great concentration, staring after the clouds that had engulfed the creature. At first Nora thought it was another spell. Then she realized that he was swearing, with considerable fluency and detail.
She looked down at the ring on her finger, twisting it with a sense of unease.
“That sheepfucker, that woodlicker, that pus-ridden son of a slack-bagged whore shouldn’t have been here at all,” the magician said. “He shouldn’t be able to leave Ilissa’s domain, let alone come into the heart of mine.”
Nora made herself meet his pale eyes. She didn’t want to say anything, but she felt obligated to. “I wonder if this has anything to do with it.” She held up the hand with the ring.
“What is it?” Aruendiel demanded.
“It’s my wedding ring. I’ve been trying to get it off. But it seems to be stuck.”
He seized her hand and looked at the ring without saying anything. Then he touched the gold band with the tip of one finger.
Immediately Nora gulped in pain, jerking her hand away. “It’s like fire,” she gasped.
Aruendiel did not seem sympathetic. He took her by the wrist and blew lightly on the ring. This time the ring squeezed her finger a little tighter and then relaxed, almost like a living thing. She felt a twinge of nausea. He stared at the ring for another long moment, then gave it a long, hard wrench, without success. “Ow,” Nora said.
“There is certainly a spell there,” he said. “As far as I can tell, it is what keeps the ring on your finger. But why is it there?”
“I don’t know. You can’t take it off?”
“Did your husband put it on your finger?”
She nodded yes. “He’s not my husband.”
“Why do you think Raclin”—Aruendiel pronounced the name with emphasis, as though to test Nora’s reaction—“came here today?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t know, either. But when I find you wandering at the edge of my private forest, where I do much of my work, where great power rests, without a satisfactory explanation, and then not an hour later, we encounter your husband, who makes himself so free as to devour one of my sheep and has the temerity to threaten me, the magician Aruendiel, a stone’s throw from my own castle, I wonder exactly what is going on. Did you summon him?”
“Never! That thing almost killed me once.”
“True,” he said musingly. “But it would be a cunning trick, enticing an otherwise prudent and experienced
