North of Seana, Eganene

Finally, Elisabeth slept, tucked deeply into the blankets before the fire. Peter was exhausted, too, but he had to take care of some things before he could rest. First, he needed to feed the captives and take them to relieve themselves. It was still daylight, if only just. Piling some bread on a plate, he went to the bedroom. The man and woman both ate quickly and neither spoke, for which he was glad. He didn’t really want to kill them. It would make a big mess and he would have to clean it up.

He tucked the Luger into the rope around his waist and hauled the woman off the bed. She whimpered a bit; Elisabeth must have done a good job making sure the rope around her wrists was tight. Peter checked it, surprised he hadn’t thought to do it before.

Nodding to himself, he untied her arms. The woman cried and he told her to shut up and stand still. Afterwards, he pulled the man off the bed and untied the rope around the man’s feet. Aiming his gun at the wife’s head, he said, “Outside.”

The snow was coming down hard and the woman moaned as her feet sunk into inches of powder. Her husband shushed her.

“Go,” Peter said.

“You will not turn?” the man asked.

Peter shook his head.

At least they were quick. In no time, Peter and his captives were back inside. He retied the man’s hands in front of him, bound his feet and tied them both to the bed. He brought in firewood from the pile outside and made a huge mountain inside the doorway. He thought that the cold air might wake Elisabeth, but she slept soundly. Once that was done, he rebuilt the fire, found the man’s tools and repaired the doorframe, sealing them into the building. Closing the shutters, he surveyed the room.

Had he believed, he would have thanked the gods. The storm outside had yet to truly get started. It was going to be a bad one, a true helstrom. He had seen them before, late in the season. There would be a twenty degree shift in temperature. It would be days before they would be able to go outside again.

Helstroms had been known to rip the roofs off of buildings or even level weaker structures. The winds would tear across the fields and topple the surrounding trees. Peter shook himself; his mind was wandering.

Just a couple more things to do. Rinsing his hands in the sink, he began cleaning the kitchen. Rag in his hand, he wiped the countertops and the table. The clothes he put in the bathtub were done soaking, so he rinsed them and hung them by the fire. Getting down on his hands and knees, he started on the floor. Stars swum in front of his eyes and he blinked. He needed to rest, but couldn’t help himself.

It had been weeks since he was clean and he wanted to sleep in a clean house. Redoubling his efforts, he used the coarse, horse-hair brush to scrub the floor. While he worked, the wan light faded altogether to to leave him in firelight. Some time later, that too, died. He let the brush fall from his fingers, noticing the smear of blood on the wooden handle.

Rebuilding the fire, he washed his hands once more. The sting of the soap felt good. He sat down beside Elisabeth and watched the even rise and fall of her breath. She looked so peaceful there, the orange glow from the fire lending color to her pale cheeks. Her anger was gone from her face and it left her looking young and vulnerable. Peter lay down beside her and put his arm over her body.

He had glamoured her earlier, but only for a second. He had been trying to avoid a fight. When she grabbed him, he reacted instantly, flashing her just strong enough to stall for time. What happened after the fire hadn’t been intentional. He grinned. Given the girl’s feelings, she was easier to manipulate. She might handle herself well, but she was still a kid.

Milly had been young, too, when they’d gotten together. He shook his head. That was different, he’d been young, too. Thinking about Milly was giving him the wrong kind of thoughts. He turned away from the girl, putting his back to her.

He hated how much Milly still affected him. He remembered exactly what she looked like the first time he saw her. Gorgeous brown hair left loose about her shoulders, a simple, billowing white cotton shift. Her green eyes had been fixed on him, a half smile on her face. He hadn’t stood a chance.

He’d been seventeen, a new recruit, and lost in the sea of unknown faces. The Family had used him to patrol the outer circle of the military camp, along with the other boys with fuzz on their faces. The Assault had been swift, a tremendous blow struck straight to the heart of the nobility. The attack had severed the Umbilicus and sent the ruling families into disarray.

The Radcliff’s hadn’t believed the threat was real. They hadn’t been listening. They hadn’t heard the voices in the street or the disillusionment of their citizens. Or maybe they just hadn’t cared.

The Family’s plan had been solid. Of course there were leaks, but the traitors were silenced along with the weak-hearted. Caroline’s advisors must not have understood the true scope of the threat, nor the overwhelming strength that was mustering in her streets.

In the memory, Peter was one of thousands camped upon the stretch of plain that pushed out from the city of Orlenia. Women and men slept on the ground, small tents dotting the landscape for those wealthy or powerful to own one. Those with money brought their servants. Peter loathed them all. They scurried about camp, eyes lowered. They were everywhere, polishing armor, cooking, cleaning and building fires. It made him sick.

Having been sent by the Family, he had a space for his bedroll in the main base. The sheer numbers of people and the press of unwashed bodies, kept him out of the camp. He spent his mornings making the five-mile walk to bathe in the frigid river. The stink of the camp, however, remained. The bodies pressed closer and closer each day, more and more people arriving in the aftermath of the battle. Soon the latrines were overfilled, casting up a stench over everything.

Eager to be away, he’d volunteered as a scout. Out of the reeking confines, Peter patrolled the marshy plains and surrounding forests, content to be on his own. His hair was long then, pleated into a braid that hung from his back to sway slowly as he walked. The newly formed army did not wear uniforms, so Peter was able to dress in his own clothes.

He’d purchased the cotton himself and had the dyer turn it black. He owned no buttons, not yet, but the stout cord that wove up the doublet was a pale grey. He would have opted for the silver that was his right, but the thought of being seen in the dark was a powerful deterrent. Professional, he favored dark slacks and sturdy workman boots. He was much the same then as he was now.

The breeze had been cool on that night, especially for the south. He remembered creeping through the surrounding forest like an animal, his senses heightened, watching. The darkness was not absolute, although the clouds passed over the moon more often than not.

Like a deer that feels the hunter’s approach, Peter had known something was wrong. The army was readying for the night, the smell of roasting meat and fire lacing the wind. Peter had stopped, easing himself around a tree and scaling it like a grandpanther. Black as the beast, he was invisible in the shadow.

Resting easily on a branch, he pulled his blade from the scabbard on his back. He did not own a sword, would never have been able to afford one, but the Family had given him the knife a few weeks ago.

Peter had honed it to a deadly edge. It was long, over a foot in length and tapered from an inch width at its base. Straight and true, it glimmered brightly. He set it gently against the tree branch, aware of the light it reflected.

It was then that he heard the first of the men. A boy, no older than himself. The kid checked behind him as he walked, the crunching twigs and the crackling of leaves sounding like a herald.

There are more, Peter thought. He waited, the smell of the tree musty in his nostrils. Diana’s hair grew all about its limbs, the pale green moss hanging like curtains to drape below. Peter searched the woods behind the boy, but they were alone.

The kid carried a long blade in his left hand and looked afraid. The blade trembled slightly, the moonlight wavering along its polished surface. His eyes were huge. Peter would kill him quickly and find a new position. His first priority was to warn the camp that there were men in the woods. To do that, he needed to get back.

Unfortunately, returning at this point wasn’t an option. It would be too easy to get an arrow in the back. Peter eased his hold on his blade, the pommel resting in his palm. The man who gave him the weapon had warned against a sweaty hand.

The boy beneath him moved closer, and Peter saw his chance. The youth never looked up, never saw the death waiting for him. The boy stepped beneath the folds of Diana’s moss, the silvery tendrils brushing his shoulders like a lover’s caress.

Peter crouched and then jumped gracefully. Knees tucked neatly, he fell, arms extended, the metal in his right hand cutting air. The boy must have heard the scrape of leather on wood or maybe it only luck, but the kid twitched at the last moment, his jaw open in a wordless scream.

Peter’s boots crashed down on his face with a crack, his momentum propelling him forward as he dropped into a roll to come up a few feet from the body. He covered the distance back in three long strides, put his knife to the exposed throat and drew the gash with one fluid motion.

He needn’t have. The boy was dead, his neck broken.

Peter grabbed the body and hauled it into a thicket, pushing it roughly into position. When he was done, he paused, checking for sounds.

No one, yet.

Sentinels of cypress and sumac watched him, their roots dug into the soft, watery ground. Silently, he moved through the forest until he found what he was looking for. His pack and bow, hidden within the grove. Grabbing both, he made his way to his signal tree.

It was huge, the trunk five feet wide with sturdy branches climbing its old face. Moss hung in ropes from its limbs, reminding him of decorations for Winterfest. From its heights, Peter would be able to see the camp and they would see him.

Shoving his blade into its scabbard, he hoisted himself upward, aware of his exposed back. An itch began between his shoulder blades, a warning of danger. It nagged at him as he climbed, like the point of an arrow tickling before it penetrated. He pushed it aside knowing there was no time for fear.

The camp was easy to see. Hundreds of orange fires burning in the night. The small figures were visible only when they blocked the flame’s light. Balancing his pack within a fork of the tree, he unslung his bow and selected an arrow from the leather quiver.

It was his best, fletched lovingly for just such an occasion. A boy’s dream of heroism. The blue feathers looked black in this light, but Peter could see a whitish glow from the hollow centerpiece. He’d shaved the green wood a few days ago. There were no cracks or split wood to catch the wind. The arrow would fly true.

Reaching into his pocket, he searched for his leather pouch. Unwrapping it, he pulled out the oiled cloth and bound the arrow’s head. When he lit the cloth, a brilliant green fire would spring to life. The camp would be warned.

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Peter found his flint and balanced himself. The shot would have to be perfect. Branches obscured his view, spring buds and new leaves filling the space between. He only had one chance.

Narrowing his eyes, he searched for the right hole. It had to be large enough for an arrow, but the trajectory had to be perfect to send his signal close enough to the camp to be noticed. The moon passed beneath a cloud and he heaved a great sigh.

He couldn’t see a thing. Choosing the best option, Peter readied himself to pull back the bow. He would have taken the shot, he was sure of it.

He never had the chance. Hot, white light surrounded him, pinning his arms and legs so that he was immobile. He felt himself waver against the tree, his innate sense of balance, gone.

He did not have time to look down, couldn’t move his head to look. Instead, he fell, plummeted, unable to break his own fall. Terror gripped him and he would have screamed had he been able. He never landed.

He remembered waking up at her feet, his back against the ground as straw tickled his nose. His entire body was sore and his eyes were bleary.

Milly’s legs were crossed, one foot bouncing against the other as she observed him. “Are you all right?” she asked. Her voice was soft and concerned.

They were in a small, wooden cabin. A candle burned at the table and a low fire smoldered in the hearth.

“Cold. Where am I?” he asked, trying to sit up on his elbows. A wave of nausea swept over him. Overcome, he let his head rest against the floor and closed his eyes.

The girl laid a blanket over him and slipped a pillow beneath his head. “We are in a cabin, away from the fighting. I found you in the woods. I didn’t want those men to hurt you.”

Peter struggled to understand. “Which men?” He wanted to look at her to gauge her reaction, but the pounding in his skull prevented him from opening his eyes.

“The ones who hurt the First,” she said. “There is an entire camp of them, not far from here. I am surprised they didn’t kill you.”

“Kill me?” Peter echoed, feeling slow.

“Because of what you are,” she said. “Here, let me help you sit up. I made some soup and bread earlier. You can have it.”

Gently, the girl helped him into one of the chairs. “I can probably make your head feel better too, if you want.”

“Please!” Peter agreed.

Suddenly, warm, white light sparkled behind his eyes. It dissipated immediately, along with the thudding in his brain.

“What was that?” he asked, relief and concern warring for control. He looked at her then, really looked at her, and caught his breath. She was stunning. A waif of a woman, she was petite with curves in just the right places. Her emerald eyes were wide, with long, black lashes that framed them.

Peter’s heart raced. Desire grew in his belly and he looked away. He didn’t know what he should do. The woman was obviously a witch, a creature hated by the Family and hunted. But looking at her…he snuck another quick glance. She looked like an angel crafted by Wul herself.

“It is majic,” she said, her voice strong. “I am just like you.”

“What?” He shook his head in confusion. He wasn’t like her.

She gestured at his food.

When he picked up the bread, she continued. “That is why they hurt you. I can’t believe they didn’t kill you. Monsters!” She dabbed under one eye and then wiped at her dress.

He watched her set her jaw stubbornly.

“They killed my brothers, sisters and parents. My uncle brought me here to hide, but I haven’t seen him for days. He was worried about the camp. I went to search for him, but instead, I found you.”

The girl had it wrong. He didn’t have majic; he was Family. He couldn’t tell her that, though. She shifted in her seat and his eyes were drawn to her pale thigh. The skin looked like cream and his hands tingled with longing to run his fingers over her knee.

Peter glanced away, hoping she hadn’t noticed.

“How did you get me back here?” he managed finally, looking around the room. There was a small cot in the corner by the fire, a table and little else. “Your uncle helped you?”

She shook her head, her dark hair capturing the light from the candle. The tresses appeared maroon as they fell against her alabaster throat. He wanted to leap out of his chair and take her in his arms.

What is happening to me? he thought.

“You feel it, don’t you,” she said, softly.

He didn’t trust himself to reply. She felt this, too?

“My Uncle hasn’t returned yet,” she said.

The fire crackled noisily, eating up the silence. Steeling himself, he looked into the vixen’s face. He wasn’t going to look away. This little girl might be able to carry him around with majic, but she wasn’t going to intimidate him. Staring at each other, her green eyes sparkling with some inner emotion, he fought for control.

The moment stretched out, longer and longer. Peter felt the temperature in the room rising, beads of sweat forming at his brow.

Her shoulders, which had been straight and tall, shifted slightly forward. Peter felt a tiny pang of regret, the sight of her chest against the fabric had been wonderful.

“Why are you wearing those dark colors?” she asked him suddenly, uncertainty straining her voice.

He wanted to smile, but instead he said, “They are the only clothes I have.”

“But…”

“Why do you say I have majic?” he asked, moving his chair closer to hers.

She put her hands into her lap and glanced up at him in confusion. “But,” she said, shaking her head gently, “surely, you know.”

He didn’t respond, only sat looking at her, fighting the impulse to touch her and listening to his heart race.

“But, you are doing it right now,” she continued, breathlessly. “I....”

Peter took her hands in one of his. She had small hands. With his other hand, he traced the curve of her arm. He saw her lips part.

She watched him through her eyelashes, saying nothing.

Gently, he pressed his leg against hers, feeling the warmth of her body through the cloth. He could feel her heart pounding against his fingertips and hear her sharp intake of breath. With his free hand he traced her thigh and felt her breath quicken.

“Is this what you want?” he asked softly, watching her face.

She didn’t speak, only nodded her head.

Peter felt a surge of pride.

If this is magic, he thought, I want more. Never in his life had he felt as powerful as he did now. “What is your name?” he asked.

She shivered. “Milly.”

“Get on the bed, Milly,” he told her and she complied.

“Take it off.”

Not meeting his eyes, she lay back on the bed. Peter smiled wolfishly. This was going to be fun.

When it was done, she lay resting against his chest. He knew she was awake. He could feel the soft flutter of her eyelashes against his chest.

“Was that the kind of majic you thought I had?”

She sighed. “You glamoured me.”

“What does that mean?”

She giggled.

“What?”

She sat up, wrapping a sheet about her sleek frame. “Seriously? I can’t believe you don’t know! How many other girls have you done that to?”

“I...”

She laughed. “At least I am your first, then. Makes me feel a bit better.”

Peter got up, grabbed her dress and walked to the bowl of water on the table. Dunking it, he washed himself. When he was done, he hung the dress by the fire.

“What am I supposed to wear?” she asked pouting. Her body was like a statue, her skin blemishless.

“I like you just the way you are. Tell me about glamouring.”

“I don’t even know your name,” she replied.

“Peter. Now, tell me what you know.”

It took a few hours and by the end his stomach was growling impatiently. “What food do you have?”

She shook her head. “Not much. We will have to set some traps tonight, if we want to eat in the morning.” She shrugged into another dress, the material billowing sensually about her.

Peter watched with narrowed eyes. Something about the whole thing was not sitting right.

“Come on,” she beckoned, a half smile on her lips.

“No,” he countered, pointing to the bed. “You stay there. I’ll hunt us something to eat. I don’t want you to leave this cabin.”

Putting her hand on her hips, she squared her shoulders. “You are going to keep me here. As your prisoner? You do know I saved you, right? You just ate all my food, glamoured me and...if I want to leave, I will.”

He couldn’t suppress the thrill of electricity that shot through his body. He tried for tact. “Listen. I just want to provide some food. You know, to thank you.”

She arched a midnight eyebrow at him. “Really? I feel like you are going to leave me hungry.”

He smiled and stalked towards her.

She stood her ground, glaring up at him with emerald eyes as he pushed her arms behind her and kissed her viciously. Her eyes were open and confused. She seemed angry at first, her lips tight against his, but then she was kissing him back.

“I do not intend on going anywhere. We have unfinished business.”

“All right,” she whispered finally, dropping her gaze and slipping back onto the bed. Peter followed her, pushed her down on to the sheets and kissing her again.

I could get used to this, he thought.

When he sat up, he was holding a long, hunting knife.

He watched her eyes dilate and failed to repress his smile. The firelight glinted as he turned it slowly, watching her face as he did. “I will be back soon,” he promised, giving her a smile and making for the door.

He thought he saw her shudder.

Outside, it was cold. It was night again, but he didn’t know how many days had passed since he had tried to warn the camp. Moving silently, he tracked a set of small prints until he found a rabbit’s nest. He caught one animal sleeping, twisted its thin neck and slipped it into his belt. The rest ran, terrified, into the dark forest.

It didn’t take long for him to find another. She hadn’t run far from her hole. Frozen in fear, she watched him approach. At the last second, she bolted right. Peter dove into the leaves to catch her. His hands wrapped around her downy foot and he dragged her back to him to twist her neck.

It was quiet here, peaceful. He couldn’t see any fires or hear the camp. He wondered what had happened. If only he had gotten that arrow away...

If the soldiers who attacked him were part of the First’s army, it was possible that his camp had been eliminated.

And the witch’s majic was unworldly.

Majic. I have majic now, he thought. Maybe he had always had it.

What would they do when they found out. Kill him?

Probably.

He had heard of some of the First’s people defecting and working for the Family. He shrugged, maybe he could be useful. Find a place.

Not now, though. He had unfinished business with the girl back at the cabin. No one was going to miss him. He made his way back quickly. He couldn’t decided what he was more hungry for.

She was waiting of him when he returned, her eyes clear. "Good, you caught something," she praised, taking the rabbits. She made short work of them and spit them on the fire. She knelt, turning the green wood.

He sat at the table and regarded her. "What else can you do, besides fixing headaches and carrying strangers around the woods?"

She smiled. "Were you wondering about something specific?"

He shook his head.

"Are you really asking me what you can do?"

Perhaps he was.

She took his silence for agreement. "I’m not sure exactly. It doesn't work like that. I tried to assess you, but I didn't get much."

"What does that mean?"

"You obviously have Power," she said in way of explanation. "But, not everyone has it the same way. Yours isn't strong, but that isn't uncommon. You are male, after all."

He grinned.

She blushed and looked away.

"What do you think?" he asked.

She breathed deeply and said, "It feels like you can Travel."

Peter leaned back, pulling his knife from his side. He took the sharpening stone from the table and set to work. Milly was about his age, probably eighteen or so. Peter thought about the camp and the multitudes of men within. He preferred it here, with the girl. Having majic changed things. He wouldn't be welcome back. So, why not stay here?

"Could you teach me to use my majic?" he asked her.

"You will be kind to me?"

He grinned. "Was I not kind to you already?"

She glared at him and pulled one of the skewers from the fire. Brandishing it like a sword, she said, "I'm willing to help you, but not if you are going to keep glamouring me."

"You think you can stop me?" he asked, curious.

Her eyebrows drew down. "Now that I know what you are doing? Absolutely."

"Come here," he said.

She pulled the other skewer from the fire and set them both on the countertop. She didn't seem worried. She looked angry. Ignoring him, she pulled some plates from the cupboard and cut the meat. Holding one in either hand, she regarded him. "Are you hungry?" she asked. Her voice was sticky like sap.

This was an interesting game, he thought.

"I am," he replied with a wolfish grin. He wasn't looking at the food.

She scowled. "You have a choice, then. You can eat dinner like a civilized person and we can talk. Or, you can act like a country-oaf and pester me into teaching you a lesson."

Peter laughed.

"If you pick the second option. I'm going to eat both of these and you can go find yourself something else to eat.”

Only a few hours ago, he had her well in hand. All he needed to do was touch her and she would do whatever he wished. Peter stood up, watching as the girl’s face darkened.

She set the food down on the table.

"A lesson, then?" she asked. "You want me to show you a little about what I can do?"

Peter checked the distance around the table, trying to determine if he could lunge and grab her arm. She was skinny and fast, but he had been training with the army. He realized he still had his knife in his hand and put it on the table.

"A gesture," he said.

"Less than," she replied with a low smile. "You will not reconsider having a pleasant meal together?"

He shook his head. This game seemed like so much more fun.

"Very well. Come on, then. I, for one, am hungry."

He doubted his choice for only a moment. Then, he faked one direction and ran the other. The only movement she made was to pull up her hands. He heard nothing, but saw plenty.

Before he could dive out of the way, her fingertips exploded with cream-colored light. Thicks swirls congealed all around him, pasting his arms and legs to his body so that he dropped to the ground, unable to move. Sparks of grey and white light dissipated around him.

He didn't feel the ground when he fell, his impact cushioned by the bubbles of light that had solidified around him. He tried to open his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Instead, he was staring at the witch from the ground.

She was just sitting down at the table, both plates of rabbit in front of her.

Peter writhed against his bonds, struggling to free himself, but they were stronger than the strongest steel. It was useless; he was trapped. It was a terrifying feeling, being unable to move or speak but doomed to see everything around him in perfect clarity.

He watched her eat, trying not to be angry. He had asked for a lesson, and he had gotten one. Peter had never seen majic before, never seen the colors of lights that swirled and sparkled in such beautiful waves. He hadn’t seen any colors when he glamoured her, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t. He wanted to know what he was capable of.

She ate slowly, taking tiny bites and watching him.