Читать книгу Marked for Magic - Daisy Banks - Страница 8

Once Nin no longer heard his tread on the stairs, she opened the heavy black drapes. A shaft of light hit the table to reveal a collection of pot marks. Smears of grease shone with rainbow colors. Beyond, sat the hearth, not cleaned in months, maybe years, judging by the pile of cinders, soot, and ash. Cobwebs hung high in the corners where the spiders didn’t feel the heat of his low fire. The flagstone floor resembled the one in the village barn. Uncertain she’d made a good bargain to stay here, she stood and moved to the cupboard to look for a cleaning rag to begin work.

Behind the loose door of the cupboard he’d opened, she found two more of the large wine jugs. She corked the one still on the table before putting it back with the others. The depth of the cupboard made it impossible to see what lay at the back. She closed the door, uncertain of what she might find should she slide her hand deeper into the darkness.

Beside the cupboard stood a door with a black metal latch that squeaked when she lifted it. The open door revealed a large space cut deep into the wall. Many curving shelves could house a wealth of stores, but only a huge, lush, black winter cloak hung from a hook. She bit back another bitter memory. They’d not allowed her to bring her own from the village. The ancient creed for those cursed with the mark held no mercy.

She examined her palm, could scarce see the mark in the gloom. To dwell on the sign was foolish. They’d found the mark, and since legend sat weighty behind its meaning, it must be true. She needed to live, and right now, she must stay here.

The hearth caught her attention again. She gave a snort of disgust. He was stingy with the firewood. How did he expect to keep the place warm, or her to cook? Even Aunt Jen, who had so little, burned a brighter fire than this.

Beside the hearth, a broom leaned against the wall, two buckets stood near, one stacked inside the other. A pan hook, slung away from the fire, held a small copper cauldron. Hopeful of something to eat, she studied the contents. In the bottom of the pot sat a thick, congealed, brownish mess. She sniffed and wrinkled her nose at the unpleasant odor. Unfortunately, it wasn’t porridge. Her empty stomach growled.

A smaller cupboard, low in the wall, yielded a board and a knife for chopping. A bread crock made her mouth water. She tore off the lid. Inside the glazed pot lay half a loaf, the sort baked in the village. Unappetizing green mold covered bits of the thick crust, but still she broke off a piece and chewed it.

There wasn’t much for her to work with. A pity he had no cheese. She’d so welcome a chunk of cheese. Her mouth watered at the memory of the sharp tang. She pulled another piece off the loaf and swallowed the bread. She glanced again at the grubby hearth and greasy hooks. She’d have to clean before she could cook. This being the only pot, she’d tip out the mess before she looked to find things to go in it. Later, she’d clean the rest of the room.

The afternoon light blinded after the gloom of the kitchen. Eyes narrowed, she strolled through the long grass where a cricket sang, then stepped up the bank to go over the low rise.

Below ran the stream, edged with blue forget-me-knots and white cuckooflowers. She knelt on the mossy bank, scraped out the pot, wrinkling her nose at the earthy stink. What had he cooked? Dirt?

Whatever this was, she hoped he hadn’t eaten any.

She scooped up a handful of pebbles to scrub at the mess before she rinsed the pot. Standing with her toes in the cool water of the stream, she swung the pot back and forth to dry.

Once clean, the cauldron sat small in her hand. Would this little copper vessel hold enough for two?

On her way back from the stream, she rubbed her feet on soft turf to dry them as she strolled to the other side of the tower. Here, she discovered the vegetable garden, and shook her head at the poor little plot. A row of yellowed cabbages lined the low fence. What might be thin leeks grew at the back of the patch, and three lines of carrots, whose mossy tops straggled amid weeds, were all that was left of the winter vegetables.

Near where she stood, in a less weedy patch, sat tripod frames with beans and peas struggling up to the sun on the thin interwoven sticks. None showed ripe this early in the spring. The only thing to grow fat off this garden would be the slugs and snails.

She glanced over at the tower as she ambled back, confused. For a Mage, he wasn’t very well organized. The garden should thrive. What had he done? How had he been living? He didn’t even have a cow or a goat for milk.

At least the water she drew from the well tasted sweet and fresh. She drank her fill before taking the bucket into the kitchen. The table came clean after she scrubbed hard. Beneath, she found an old basket stripped down to the withies for tapers.

She hurried back out to the garden with the kitchen knife in her hand and cut one of the cabbages. Again, she shook her head at the poor crop, then pulled up a leek and two scrawny carrots. Not near enough for a hearty stew, more like a broth, but it would be warm and most welcome. Both her hands were full so she could gather no more. She needed a basket, but so far, the kitchen had revealed none but the one he’d stripped.

She would have to ask if he had a gathering bag or something like one.

Once she prepared all she’d picked, the gloom could not disguise that the vegetables wouldn’t fit in the small pot. She drummed the table. Even though she’d eaten a few of the carrot slices raw, her stomach clenched. She needed this meal.

She toyed with the idea of calling up to him, but she’d promised not to disturb his work, and his temper certainly burned short. If she didn’t call him, she couldn’t cook, and he’d be angry. Yet chances were if she did call him, he’d be angry, too. By the end of her deliberations, she’d grown angry herself.

She might as well get on with it. I’ve got to have a bigger cauldron!

The door to the stairs creaked on its hinges as she opened it. About to call up, she stilled when his tread sounded at the top of the stone steps.

“You have no need to yell up the stairs.” His voice echoed in the lofty darkness.

“I didn’t.” Was this part of his magic? What else could he do as well as hear what she thought? Only Alicia had ever heard the mind singing, but neither she nor her friend thought the trick was anything but a game. Mind singing couldn’t be magic.

“I distinctly heard you yell.” He hesitated, as though waiting for an explanation. When she offered none, he continued down the stairs. “The cooking pot is here.”

She moved out of the way. He brushed past to reach up to the top of the cupboard where she couldn’t see, and handed her a much larger cauldron than the one on the table.

He glanced toward the hearth and demanded. “Where is the small pot?”

She froze. Was he angry?

A spasm crossed his face and his lip twitched.

“I emptied it in the stream. I meant to use the small pot for the soup.”

“Gods, I am doomed!” His stare blazed green fire. “You have thrown away the finest batch of seeing mushrooms I have made in years.” He ran his hand over his hair. The blue coils around his wrist seemed to writhe like live, spring-woken snakes. “Foolish brat, did you not think to ask?”

She shook her head, gritting her teeth to keep silent.

He glowered. “Nin, a new rule. Here you touch nothing if it contains anything.”

“That’s stupid. You can’t say I mustn’t touch anything. You should have said not to use the small cauldron. I didn’t know.” Ready to bolt, she edged to the door.

“Well, you know now!” His yell almost lifted her feet. “Do you know what a seeing mushroom looks like?”

“Yes,” she murmured. Aunt Jen had pointed them out, so both she and her cousin Lettie knew them. Her aunt had always warned they should never go in the pot, no matter how hungry they all were. The seeing mushrooms were small, sour, but most of all, dangerous. “I’ve seen them.”

“Then go out and pick more. I’ll need twenty-four, at least. I want them before nightfall.”

She backed around to the other side of the table. Safe with something solid between them, her heart hammered less. She quelled her fear. His green robe, it wasn’t so fine. A tear ran up to his knee on one side. It needed stitching. “I’ll make the soup first, shall I? I’ll need a collecting basket.”

He opened the tall top cupboard and yanked down a wicker basket. One of his sleeves bore a patch at the elbow. For a Mage, he wasn’t so well off.

“Here.” He shoved the basket toward her. “And don’t come back without them.”

He stomped up the stairs. She could have spat after him. Several of the more unpleasant names the villagers screeched when she left raced through her mind. He deserved all of those names.

“I heard that,” he called. “Don’t let me hear you cursing again!”

Ice water ran through her veins. He was the Mage, yes, but no one had told her that he could hear thoughts. Agnes had said hundreds of vile things. Most of them she refused to think of, but the wise woman had never mentioned he would know what she was thinking.

Desperate to get out of the room, she threw the vegetables in the big pot and sloshed in a jug of water with a quick prayer to the gods to look after the meal. She fumbled in her haste as she slung the heavy pot on the hook over the fire, but it stayed in place. Certain the soup would cook, she grabbed the basket to flee from his wrath.

* * * *

By early evening, she’d only found twelve small seeing mushrooms. They rolled around in the bottom of the collecting basket. Her feet ached, for in her search she’d walked farther and farther into the darkened shadowy spaces. Worse than sore feet, though, she stared to find her way through the trees until her eyes burned and stung. She had no clue how to get back to the tower. She recognized nothing here through the welter of close-knit leaves.

Maybe he wanted the wolves to eat her. She’d be a nuisance to no one then. How could he be so mean?

She huddled down at the base of a large ash tree where she ran her fingers over a blade of grass so it squeaked. How would she find his tower before dark? Her empty stomach rumbled.

Anger that he’d sent her out here evaporated with the need to find him again. There was no one else who could help her. The twilight shadows grew deeper, wrapping the woods in their embrace. Tiredness blurred her vision. Even if she hadn’t been lost, she’d have been afraid to go back without all the mushrooms he wanted.

The sun sank lower. The first white stars shone in the deepening night-shaded sky. She curled up, wrapped her arms around the basket, and waited for death.

By moonrise, still the wolves hadn’t come, but her fear continued to grow. Her breath shallow, she darted her glance to the trees, to the dark shadows between them, and back again.

If only he would come to find her, she would do anything, she’d be so grateful. A leaf brushed her cheek, so she looked up as she moved it away. If she climbed the ash tree, perhaps light from the tower might lead her back.

Hope warmed her. She swung up onto the lowest branch of the tall tree, gave the next bough a tug to make sure it would take her weight, then clambered up where she clung tight.

The morsel of hope grew as she searched in all directions, but it withered when she saw only more branches and leaves. She grasped the next branch above.

“What, may I ask, are you doing?”

Relief slid over her. Though he didn’t sound pleased, the Mage had come to find her. She swung down onto the first branch, but caught her lip at his frown. He reached up to yank her down into his arms.

“If I discover you have done this to plague me”—his nose loomed tip-to-tip with hers—“I will renege on my promise, and I will beat you soundly before I turn you into a sparrow.”

The sensation and safety of his arms took the spleen from his words. She didn’t care if he might beat her, as long as he took her back to the tower. “I got lost.”

“Hmm, did you? And my mushrooms?” He still held her. His mouth twitched in a half smile.

“I got some. They’re in the basket.”

To her surprise, he didn’t put her down, but strolled over, bent with her in his arms, picked the basket up, and hooked it onto his elbow. His brow wrinkled in obvious displeasure as the little mushrooms rolled around. She closed her eyes, praying they would double or treble in number. Sadly, they didn’t. She hoped he’d not beat her hard.

“You can tell me about it on the way back. I’m sure I will enjoy the tale of how all the mushrooms went away.”

She wriggled. “Put me down. I can walk.”

He shook his head. “Nin, since noon this day, you have destroyed the best batch of seeing mushrooms I have made in an age, interrupted my meditations not once, but twice, put out the kitchen fire, and achieved what I’d imagined to be the impossible. You got lost in the forest but a few yards from the tower. I think you are best where you are, for now.”

The reel of her day’s blunders was meant for one whose wits had wandered. She squirmed, but it was futile since he didn’t set her down. “I didn’t put the fire out.”

“But the soup did. You left it with no lid, and the pot boiled over, so we have no fire to return to.”

She closed her eyes. He thought she was stupid.

A sudden pain caught in her chest. She missed Aunt Jen, Cousin Lettie, too. She wanted to go home where the fire often smoldered sulkily, but at least the stew pot hung with something in it most days. She turned her face to his shoulder.

Aunt Jen and Lettie had stood stone-faced with the others to make her go that morning. Only Alicia might have sorrowed to see her leave, but any tears were well hidden behind a scrap of heavy weave fabric her friend called a veil.

With the night dark like her thoughts, the one semblance of comfort came from his embrace.

“When we get back you will sleep. You need to. Tomorrow we will begin again.”