Why would Nicephorus' friend taunt him?
"Mor is no coward," Nico said.
"Not if he can fight. But you forget, Nico." Stephana's voice was cool. "Cowardice is what I know about. My life is a misery because I was a coward in my last. The more shame to me! Doubtless this man will stray on the path, but as I have strength and will to help him, he will not die a coward."
"Will he die?"
"Not now," said the third voice, the accented one. The man walked toward Marric and he saw a gray robe.
"Taran?"
"Remember, Mor, you saw a druid within the villa? Taran is my teacher and my friend. Trust him. And brother, stay with us."
"You must get hold of me, and take care that I do not run away from you."
"If you can quote Plato, you're not dying," Nicephorus said. His tired face lit, and relief quavered in his voice. He shifted positions, irresolute.
"If you have duties, Nico, you should return to them before we are both missed."
"Leaving you unprotected?"
Stephana laughed. "Taran and I have this place warded. And in any case, Strymon has locked Sutekh up until his hot head cools. But even if Sutekh were a-prowl for me, I would stay here. I am not afraid now." Her voice held an exultation Marric could not fathom.
"Then I rejoice for you." Nicephorus bent over and touched Marric's hand. "Rest, Mor."
He and the druid left. Marric turned his head and looked at the woman whose reproof had shamed him into taking up his life again. Her silvered hair, escaping from its thick coils, drifted around her face. From time to time she brushed it with delicate, thin-fingered hands too work-worn for beauty. Now her eyes were almost the same blue as the shadows of strain and doubt that the fight to keep life within Marric had hallowed out.
Biting his lips against pain, he reached out to touch her hand.
"I did not mean that I would kill you. I regret my harsh words, lady." Marric used the words and tones with which he might have addressed a woman of the palace.
"Lady?" Stephana laughed, a rippling music that drifted like a breeze upon Marric's forehead. "I invited your anger, Mor, to draw you back to life."
"I would not wish to be angry at you, lady." He brought the words out carefully.
"Stephana, please. Not lady. I am but a seamstress, a broidress, a dresser of hair—"
"And a healer, a mistress of power. My friend calls you an adept."
Gentle fingers pressed against his lips.
"Both you and Nico talk too much." Marric kissed her fingers. They trembled, then jerked away as if his lips were hot coals. There was near panic in her eyes that did not accord with her earlier words. But she regained her former calm quickly and relegated Marric to the role of the invalid.
"You are feverish. Last night you almost died. Now drink this and sleep."
She gave him a potion heavy with syrup of poppies. Where had she gotten that to lavish it upon a slave? Marric gulped it until it was gone. He was desperately thirsty. He murmured thanks up at the tired face within its halo of soft hair.
"I am here, Mor, if you need me."
As Stephana took the cup from him, the light fell on her and turned her into a creature all white and shining. Marric tried to tell her how she looked, but the effort was beyond him.
Stephana laid a hand on his head. He imagined he felt strength flow into him from her fingers. The last women to touch him had been Alexa and Irene, both angry, both abusing powers they could not control and should never have summoned. Stephana was so different. Her touch healed and blessed him.
Chapter Eight
Beyond the wall of Marric's shed, horses stamped and whinnied. Slaves brought them fodder, forked through their stalls, and curried them. Marric's labor gang would have been at work since dawn. But the light slanting across the floor showed that the morning was already well advanced. Marric tried to raise himself and stifled a gasp at the pain that jolted across his back.
Strymon had had him brought here to die. But his friends had helped him back
"Mor is no coward," Nico said.
"Not if he can fight. But you forget, Nico." Stephana's voice was cool. "Cowardice is what I know about. My life is a misery because I was a coward in my last. The more shame to me! Doubtless this man will stray on the path, but as I have strength and will to help him, he will not die a coward."
"Will he die?"
"Not now," said the third voice, the accented one. The man walked toward Marric and he saw a gray robe.
"Taran?"
"Remember, Mor, you saw a druid within the villa? Taran is my teacher and my friend. Trust him. And brother, stay with us."
"You must get hold of me, and take care that I do not run away from you."
"If you can quote Plato, you're not dying," Nicephorus said. His tired face lit, and relief quavered in his voice. He shifted positions, irresolute.
"If you have duties, Nico, you should return to them before we are both missed."
"Leaving you unprotected?"
Stephana laughed. "Taran and I have this place warded. And in any case, Strymon has locked Sutekh up until his hot head cools. But even if Sutekh were a-prowl for me, I would stay here. I am not afraid now." Her voice held an exultation Marric could not fathom.
"Then I rejoice for you." Nicephorus bent over and touched Marric's hand. "Rest, Mor."
He and the druid left. Marric turned his head and looked at the woman whose reproof had shamed him into taking up his life again. Her silvered hair, escaping from its thick coils, drifted around her face. From time to time she brushed it with delicate, thin-fingered hands too work-worn for beauty. Now her eyes were almost the same blue as the shadows of strain and doubt that the fight to keep life within Marric had hallowed out.
Biting his lips against pain, he reached out to touch her hand.
"I did not mean that I would kill you. I regret my harsh words, lady." Marric used the words and tones with which he might have addressed a woman of the palace.
"Lady?" Stephana laughed, a rippling music that drifted like a breeze upon Marric's forehead. "I invited your anger, Mor, to draw you back to life."
"I would not wish to be angry at you, lady." He brought the words out carefully.
"Stephana, please. Not lady. I am but a seamstress, a broidress, a dresser of hair—"
"And a healer, a mistress of power. My friend calls you an adept."
Gentle fingers pressed against his lips.
"Both you and Nico talk too much." Marric kissed her fingers. They trembled, then jerked away as if his lips were hot coals. There was near panic in her eyes that did not accord with her earlier words. But she regained her former calm quickly and relegated Marric to the role of the invalid.
"You are feverish. Last night you almost died. Now drink this and sleep."
She gave him a potion heavy with syrup of poppies. Where had she gotten that to lavish it upon a slave? Marric gulped it until it was gone. He was desperately thirsty. He murmured thanks up at the tired face within its halo of soft hair.
"I am here, Mor, if you need me."
As Stephana took the cup from him, the light fell on her and turned her into a creature all white and shining. Marric tried to tell her how she looked, but the effort was beyond him.
Stephana laid a hand on his head. He imagined he felt strength flow into him from her fingers. The last women to touch him had been Alexa and Irene, both angry, both abusing powers they could not control and should never have summoned. Stephana was so different. Her touch healed and blessed him.
Chapter Eight
Beyond the wall of Marric's shed, horses stamped and whinnied. Slaves brought them fodder, forked through their stalls, and curried them. Marric's labor gang would have been at work since dawn. But the light slanting across the floor showed that the morning was already well advanced. Marric tried to raise himself and stifled a gasp at the pain that jolted across his back.
Strymon had had him brought here to die. But his friends had helped him back
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