Wintertide by Linnea Sinclair Read Free Book Online Page B

shoved them under her apron. “I won’t go back,” she told him as she carefully crossed her fingers. “And I will use the book and my stones only for healing. I promise.”
    She kept her promise for three days. But by the fourth she could no longer fight the call of the stones. The headaches and inexplicable chills wearied her resolve. She felt the Powers shifting, felt magic burrowing out of the very bones of the Land. So she slipped out of their bed in the wee hours of the morning while her husband snored heavily in his sleep. Sitting cross-legged on the pantry floor, with the Book propped before her, she slowly resumed her practice of her spells and incantations. Pitchers and goblets danced gaily around the stone floor of the kitchen, much to Nixa’s amusement. Whiskers twitching, she stalked the prancing tableware.
    But that was child’s play and Khamsin knew it. She also knew she couldn’t further her skills without returning to the cave. Only there did she have the solitude so necessary for her concentration. And only there did she have a real mage circle carved deeply into the rocky earth, its runes aged and timeworn. The chalk-scribed symbols on her kitchen floor were not the same.
    She and Tavis stumbled upon more disagreements. For the fourth time in as many days Tavis stormed out of the kitchen in a foul mood, slamming the door behind him. Her early morning sessions made her more tired than usual and perhaps also a bit more touchy. And the decreasing supply of metals from Dram put Tavis into a bind with some of the Covemen.
    He snapped at her when she didn’t respond to his questions at once. And when she did he was critical of her answers, even of the way she answered. He jumped nervously if she walked into his forge and once accused her of following him; then later, of avoiding him.
    He sat up late most nights, smoking his pipe, staring at the hearth fire. And some nights he came to bed not at all.
    Khamsin accepted they were both under a strain. The approach of her eighteenth birthday didn’t help matters at all. She studied the faces of the villagers now as she walked daily to Rina’s, or to the market for fish. The old man in his long, black cape never reappeared. Twice she thought she sensed a discomforting scrutiny but when she turned, no one was there.
    The day before Reverence she stopped at the candlemakers, seeking an Honorsbane votive as an offering. A well-dressed man, his fair hair pulled neatly back at the nape of his neck, held the rough-hewn door for her as she entered, sketched a bow. His behavior, so gallant, so out of place in Cirrus Cove, was almost comical. Save for the chill that ran through her when he touched her arm.
    “Perhaps you can assist me, Lady? I seek Mirtad the Tailor.”
    Mirtad? The name was unfamiliar, especially to her shaken senses. And a tailor? Here? But then her memory thawed. Mirtad. Didn’t Gilby the Oarsman have a cousin, a tailor named Mirtad? From Flume? She directed the stranger to Gilby’s lodgings and, calmer now, busied herself among the scented candles.
    Then two days before her birthday it was as if a dam broke. Tavis called her into his smithy early that afternoon, pulling her away from slicing beans. Wiping her hands on her apron, she followed, barely able to keep up with his long stride.
    It was there, gleaming and bright and about the size of the long ladle. Her sword, forged to perfection. Her hands flew to her mouth then out to the silver object, touching it gently, almost reverently. It felt smooth to her touch, yet open. She could enchant it. He followed her instructions to the letter.
    “Oh, Tav.” There were tears of joy in her eyes.
    He draped one arm across her shoulders. “Pretty proud of myself, too, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
    He made love to her that night for the first time in many months. Though she would have been content just to hold him, treasuring him truly as one of the finest friends she had ever had.
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