“Who knows? Father is renowned for his powers; no doubt this mage wants to consult him on arcane matters.”
“Hrmph. Arcane matters,” I said, aware I sounded grumpy.
Her mouth quirked on one side. “I thought you weren’t going to let it bother you anymore?”
“I’m not. It doesn’t,” I said defensively, watching as my father and the warlord greeted each other. “I don’t care in the least that I didn’t inherit any of Father’s abilities. You can have them all.”
“Whereas you, little changeling, would rather muck about in the garden than learn how to summon a ball of blue fire,” Margaret laughed, pulling a bit of grass from where it had been caught in the laces on my sleeve.
“I’m not a changeling. Mother says I was a gift from God, and that’s why my hair is blond when you and she and Papa are redheads. Why would a mage ride with three guards?”
Margaret pulled back from the door, nudging me aside. “Why shouldn’t he have guards?”
“If he’s as powerful a mage as Father, he shouldn’t need anyone to protect him.” I watched as my mother curtsied to the stranger. “He just looks . . . wrong. For a mage.”
“It doesn’t matter what he looks like—you are to stay out of the way. If you’re not going to tend your duties, you can help me. I’ve got a million things to do, what with two of the cooks down with some sort of a pox, and Mother busy with the guest. Ysolde? Ysolde!”
I slipped out of the kitchen, wanting a better look at the warlord as he strode after my parents into the tower that held our living quarters. There was something about the way the man moved, a sense of coiled power, like a boar before it charges. He walked with grace despite the heavy mail, and although I couldn’t see his face, long ebony hair shone glossy and bright as a raven’s wing.
The other men followed after him, and although they, too, moved with the ease that bespoke power, they didn’t have the same air of leadership.
I trailed behind them, careful to stay well back lest my father see me, curious to know what this strange warrior-mage wanted. I had just reached the bottom step as all but the last of the mage’s party entered into the tower, when that guard suddenly spun around.
His nostrils flared, as if he’d smelled something, but it wasn’t that which sent a ripple of goose bumps down my arms. His eyes were dark, and as I watched them, the colored part narrowed, like a cat’s when brought from the dark stable out into the sun. I gasped and spun around, running in the other direction, the sound of the strange man’s laughter following me, mocking me, echoing in my head until I thought I would scream.
Katie MacAlister, Steamed
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