Captain Juan Sanvilobos Ramirez did not intend to take an apprentice that autumn. He’d left the comfort and relative safety of Castle Immortal in search of nothing more than wine, women and information. His plans were to accompany Captain Kurg south, then follow the trade route to Arborae and its wonderful, decadent, dangerous Harvest Fair. The largest of all celebrations in the seven kingdoms, the destination of thousands of merchants, buyers and tourists, the fair offered a man ample opportunity to buy, steal or otherwise obtain just about anything he wanted. Once he’d decided to go to Arborae, Ramirez had sent word to his favorite inn, packed his best silk shirt and started doing sit-ups to rid himself of the few extra pounds that had settled around his belly during the summer. With luck and good timing, he’d survive the fair’s many temptations mostly unscathed, discover the answers to a few nagging questions and make it home through the northern passes before the snows blocked the way.At no point during his plans, deliberations or daydreams had he anticipated obtaining a six-year-old apprentice along the way.
Especially a six-year-old apprentice who kept kicking him in the head.
"Connor," Ramirez asked severely, "do you have bugs in your blanket?"
A muffled response. "No, sir."
"Do you have some terrible rash or itching disease?"
"No, sir."
"Then stop kicking me!"
"Sorry, sir," Connor squeaked, and fell absolutely still.
Captain Clancy Kurg snickered from where he sat on the other side of their small campfire, cleaning the knife he’d used to kill and quarter their dinner. The dark woods stretched in all directions around them, impenetrably dark beneath the overcast night sky. The rustle of small animals, constant drone of insects and whoosh of wind in the trees comforted Ramirez to the bone. He’d always loved sleeping beneath the open skies, even though he missed the comfort of a soft bed and a soft woman with whom to share it. The ground had been softened by recent rain, but lying on cold, damp earth could hardly be considered an improvement.
"What’s so funny?" Ramirez asked crossly.
"You wanted an apprentice," Kurg reminded him.
As a matter of fact, Ramirez had wanted nothing of the sort. He’d managed quite well on his own for several years and was more than adept at mending clothes, polishing boots and keeping himself fed. Apprentices saw to those and other tasks for their masters, and in return needed to be sheltered, clothed, fed and educated. Until that very afternoon, Ramirez had believed those responsibilities long behind him. But the Macleoden family had pledged a child to the King’s service, and when the chosen lad had run away, Connor had volunteered in his brother’s place. He was too young for Kurg’s needs, but if Ramirez hadn’t taken him, the family’s estate would have been forfeit in lieu of owed taxes.
Friends often described him as impulsive. Ramirez preferred to think he acted swiftly when opportunity presented itself. Lord Macleoden was bound to be indebted to the man who’d saved his lands and good name, and Ramirez might need a favor in return some day. Connor looked scrawny and small for his age, but he’d certainly demonstrated initiative. In the best of worlds, he would become proficient in the arts Ramirez considered most important – diplomacy, politics, swordwork. If, on the other hand, the boy proved to be thickheaded or inconvenient, Ramirez could lend him out to the castle kitchens or stables for a few years before discharging him honorably.
Connor kicked him in the head again. Hard.
Ramirez sat upright in his bedroll and glared at the child. "That’s it! I’m taking you into the woods and leaving you there!"
"I’m sorry!" Connor looked genuinely distressed. "Honest, I am!"
"For the last time, what's wrong with you?"
Connor mumbled his answer.
"Oh." Ramirez scratched his chin. "Well, then, why don't you just go do it?"
"It's dark," Connor said.
Kurg snorted.
"Well, it is," Connor insisted, sounding stubborn and petulant.
"Don't be silly, child." Ramirez yanked Connor's blanket back and shooed him to his feet. "You can't hold it in all night. You'll rupture something."
The campfire threw a small circle of reddish light, giving only the faintest illumination to the trees several feet away. Connor edged away from the adults reluctantly, obviously weighing the pros and cons of his dilemma. A wolf's loud but distant howl made the decision for him and he froze in place.
"The woods are full of hungry beasts," Kurg warned. "Be careful you don't get eaten while you piss."
"You're no help whatsoever," Ramirez said, but then again, he never expected him to be. Captain Kurg of Castle Immortal had a reputation to maintain. He ate small children for breakfast. He never slept, or if he did, only on sharp rocks or burning embers. He could uproot trees, knock down stone walls and tear apart a rabid wolf with his bare hands. The man himself was less spectacular than the myths, but Ramirez knew that only because they'd been friends for twenty years.
"Go ahead, Connor, we're right here," Ramirez said. "Nothing's going to eat you."
Connor didn't move. "I can hold it, really."
With another sigh, Ramirez left the warmth of his bedroll and personally escorted the boy to a large tree. "Hurry up and be done with it."
"Don't watch," Connor said, turning away shyly.
"I won't watch," Ramirez promised, bracing his arms against the cold.
The task only took a moment. Back in their blankets, Ramirez closed his eyes and had just started to doze off when he felt the barest scratch of Connor's boot against the back of his skull.
"What's wrong now?" he growled.
"It's cold," Connor sniffed.
Already knowing he would regret it, Ramirez persuaded the child to spoon up next to him. They snuggled together facing the fire. Connor's small, warm body reminded Ramirez of the nights he'd gone to bed holding his own son. Had it really been ten years since Tomas had been torn from his side and his life? He remembered that last day in the King's inner sanctum at Castle Glorious - sunlight on flagstone, a lute-player's lament, his son's tears. The dirty deed had been done at noon, the god's hour. Ramirez had left immediately afterward, weeping as he rode away. The pain of loss swelled inside his chest as if it had never really left.
"Better now?" he asked Connor roughly.
The small, fair-haired head nodded against his chest.
Kurg threw a last handful of broken branches onto the blaze and rolled up in his own blanket for the night. Ramirez looked into the flames for a long time, remembering Tomas' face, his shy smile, the lively brown eyes that so resembled his mother's. In his dreams, Tomas called to him from across the expanse of a vast meadow. The sun shone brightly in a clear summer sky and the smell of wild flowers filled the air.
"Papa!" Tomas called happily. "Over here!"
Ramirez started through the long grasses. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something shiny and silver-colored rushing through the trees toward his unprotected son. He hurried his pace, but the grasses turned to brambles that tore at his trousers and twisted around his ankles.
"Tomas!" he called. "Get down!"
Tomas didn't seem to hear him. He waved his arms at Ramirez, calling, laughing. Ramirez tried to shout, to warn him further, but before he could, a small and cold hand latched on to his nose.
"Wha – " Ramirez jerked awake.
"You were snoring," a boy whispered from very close by. "I can't sleep if you're snoring."
The fire had reduced itself to a pile of glowing embers. Ramirez reached for the silhouette beside him. "Tomas?"
"Connor," the boy said.
Ramirez sank back on his makeshift pillow. His heart thudded as if he'd just run up a hill, and he felt prickles of cold sweat on the back of his neck. Did his dream portend of a tragic future? Or was his own mind punishing him for past mistakes, sins of omission, errors in judgment?
"I'm sorry I woke you up, but when my father snores, my mother pinches his nose. And if that doesn't work, she pinches his – "
"Stop talking and go to sleep," Ramirez said, more harshly than he'd intended. He felt the child pull away slightly. But that wouldn't do, not on such a cold night, even if Ramirez was guilty of all that he'd judged himself to be. He pulled Connor back to where he belonged and patted his head.
"Little boys need their sleep," he said.
"I'm not so little." Connor's voice trembled in the darkness.
"Are you feeling homesick?"
"What does homesick feel like?"
Ramirez chose his words carefully. "Like you ate too much at dinner, or didn't eat enough. Like you have a big hole in the middle of your chest, but at the same time there's a giant rock in that hole. Like you want to cry, but you know crying won't help."
"I don't feel like that at all."
"Connor, I don't allow my apprentices to tell lies."
Silence for a moment.
"Maybe just a little bit," Connor admitted.
"Do you know what to do when you're homesick?" Ramirez asked. "You close your eyes, go to sleep and dream about whatever you miss the most. That's what I do."
"Is that why you called me Tomas?" Connor asked.
The question struck as deeply and painfully as a well-thrown knife.
"Go to sleep," he said again.
Ramirez closed his eyes and fell into more nightmares of something silvery and dangerous rushing through the trees.
***
Lack of a good night's rest made Ramirez cranky all the next morning. The leaden skies threatened rain, and a brisk wind from the north kept sneaking down his collar and chilling his neck. His back ached from sleeping on the muddy ground and his bowels refused to move properly. Connor looked as tired as Ramirez felt, and carried out the chores Ramirez gave him with obvious sluggishness. Kurg spared few words for his companions while they ate bread and apples for breakfast, but Ramirez noticed him keeping a wary eye on the dense forest.
"Trouble?" Ramirez asked while Connor buried their campfire.
"We're being watched," Kurg said. He tied his bedroll to the saddle and ran his gloved hand down the horse's neck. "I'm not sure by what."
Since leaving the Macleoden estate they'd been edging around the Nystiren Woods, the greatest remaining tract of wild, unspoiled forest in Daranell. A man could travel several weeks without reaching its furthest boundaries, and no maps adequately described its virgin interior. Wolves, bears, deer and other animals roamed freely, protected from poachers by the King's orders, while bandits and outlaws preyed on unwary travelers. Despite the clerics' best efforts at stamping out the old ways, many living near the woods still believed that ancient deities lurked in the trees, lakes and groves - the Good Man, the Fertile Mother, the Fallen Beasts. The Weavers themselves were said to sit atop the highest mountain, their hands controlling the threads of all life. Ramirez believed only in what he'd seen and heard for himself, but he'd seen and heard quite a lot in his life.
"Maybe someone's come for the boy," Ramirez said, watching Connor as he diligently buried the ashes of their campfire. Lord Macleoden might have found his wayward son Warrell and sent him to take Connor's place. Or Macleoden might have found another way to pay his taxes and decided to reclaim his youngest child.
"Then why hide and not come forward?" Kurg asked.
They rode off shortly thereafter. The wind picked up, lifting dead leaves into the air and swirling them in dervishes of orange and red. Towering trees swished back and forth, causing weaker boughs to splinter off and fall to the forest floor. The air felt charged, as if lightning would strike at any moment. Ramirez saw few birds, fewer traces of wildlife and absolutely no sign of anyone following them. His horse, a sturdy mare known for her good disposition, kept wringing her neck anxiously. Connor's pony stopped every now and then for no good reason, and refused to budge no matter how hard the boy kicked.
"Don't you know how to ride, boy?" Kurg snapped.
"He's nervous," Connor said, ducking his head. "So am I."
Ramirez asked, over the rising wind, "Why are you nervous, Connor?"
Connor chewed on a fingernail. "Everything feels wrong."
By noon, when they reached Bottom Fork, the weather had grown neither worse nor better. Kurg was due to pick up more pledges in the town of Nerover, just two hours west. Ramirez' turn to the southeast would mean three more hours of travel before he and Connor reached the small hamlet of Boshten.
"Maybe you should come west with me," Kurg said, holding tight rein on his horse. The fork overlooked a ridge. A high-running creek had overrun its banks below, while the sky churned with clouds in a dozen shades of gray. The raw power of nature bent treetops and whipped more leaves around them. Ramirez had been waiting for the first stinging drops of rain for hours, glumly figuring to be soaked by sunset if not sooner, but the deluge continued to hold off.
"It's tempting," Ramirez admitted. Nerover had a fine inn known for its hot food, accommodating women and excellent dice games.
"You can delay your journey by a day or two," Kurg said.
True again; he had no restricting timetable. But for no good reason he could identify, his instincts told him he'd be better off continuing southeast. He looked at Connor, wondering if he shouldn't be putting the welfare of his new apprentice to the top of the priority list. The boy sat shivering on top of his pony, looking miserable and cold. The sooner they got to a town, the better - but Ramirez wasn't sure if the storm was coming from the east or the west, and riding to Nerover might just put them squarely in the path of it.
Instinct again urged him to the southeast.
"We'll be fine," Ramirez decided. He unclasped his cloak, nudged his horse to Connor's side and draped the heavy cloth around the child's shoulders. "It's only an hour's difference. We'll be snug in front of a fireplace in no time."
"Take good care of your master, boy," Kurg said severely to Connor. "If not, you'll answer to me."
"Yes, sir," Connor said, shrinking inside the cloak.
Kurg rode away without saying anything sentimental or fond. Ramirez knew he didn’t believe in saying goodbye. You either saw someone else again, or you didn't. At the top of the rise, though, the intimidating captain stopped his horse, turned around and raised a gloved hand in farewell. Struck by foreboding, Ramirez raised his hand in return, and Kurg rode away without another backward glance.
"I'm hungry," Connor said. "Can we eat?"
After a hasty lunch of cheese, bread and dried beef, they headed south as fast as the muddy road permitted. The first rain started an hour later, drops of icy water bigger than any Ramirez had ever seen before. The pony balked at the weather to such an extent that Ramirez took the boy to his own saddle and tied the recalcitrant animal behind them. Despite his best efforts at sheltering Connor, great sheets of water soon had both of them soaked. At least they still had plenty of daylight to see by, even if that light steadily shrank beneath the watery onslaught and a thickening fog.
Dusk dropped faster than Ramirez anticipated, and still he hadn't seen any of the familiar landmarks on the way to Boshten. Being lost was simply not a possibility. He prided himself on his exceptional navigational skills. Hadn't he led a party of helpless women through the fiendishly dark and twisted caves of Lesteral? Crossed the rugged plains of Janubi with nothing but a fragment of burned map and the stars to guide him? The road to Boshten had been clearly marked, except for when leaves or broken branches had obscured the ground, and that one time they'd circled upstream due to a collapsed bridge. But with the village nowhere in sight, Ramirez faced the impossible prospect of continuing on in pitch blackness or the unhappy recourse of finding shelter in the sodden woods.
"We should have gone with Kurg," Ramirez said, damning his instincts.
Connor said nothing. The boy should have been home with his parents and siblings, no doubt about it - safe, dry, warm and protected. Instead Ramirez had him out in the middle of the wilderness, caught in a furious storm, subjected to fierce elements which might make both of them ill, if not kill them outright with a flash-flood, fallen tree or some other hazard.
Ramirez dismounted his weary horse and, with one hand held up to protect his eyes, began searching for a suitable tree hollow or rock outcropping. He had rope and canvas tied to his saddle - in lesser winds, he might have attempted to string up a canopy or build them a tent. Such an effort would be futile given the gale forces bearing down from all sides. An empty cave would have been an ideal find - but caves were rarely empty, and he had no desire to combat something large, fierce and indisposed to being booted out of its home.
"Captain!" Connor yelled.
Ramirez could barely see the boy. A mistake, he realized. He didn't want to lose him in this weather. "Stay where you are, child!"
"Captain, look!" Connor said, pointing. "A light!"
Ramirez whirled around. A lantern light shone just a few dozen feet away, held aloft by a dark-robed figure barely discernible in the gloom. His first thought was that someone had indeed followed them all day, someone with a less than honorable intent. But the figure had no weapon that he could see, and did nothing more than stand in the center of a glade with rain and fog swirling all around.
Although he thought he couldn't get any colder, an even icier finger traced its way down his spine as Ramirez stepped forward. Immediately the storm lessened around him. The keening wind became muted as well, and the heavy smell of pine drifted up his nose. The warm yellow of the burning lamp made him squint as the tall, lithe figure pulled down her hood.
He caught his breath. He should have known.
"Cassandra," he said.
***
"You brought us here deliberately," he said an hour later, sitting warm and toasty in front of her fire.
Cassandra of the Woods did not immediately deny it. She lifted a ladle from the pot of spiced wine hanging over the fire and refilled his cup. She didn't offer any to Connor, who slept wrapped in blankets in the chair closest to the hearth, his hair unruly and mouth slightly ajar. Cassandra's one-room cottage was as cozy, dry and protected as any shelter Ramirez could have desired, and the decorations reflected her many talents - intricately stitched quilts, bundles of dried herbs, a few mysterious ingredients in jars on a high shelf. Some of her finished paintings hung on pegs, while bare or half-completed canvases lay stacked by the wall beside her paints, cloths and brushes. Rain continued to pound against the soundly shuttered windows.
"You're still angry with me," she said, her green eyes flickering with faint amusement. "Haven't you put it all behind you?"
"Have you?" he retorted. "You're the one living out in the middle of nowhere."
Her amusement faded. "They still burn witches in Daranell."
She was, without a doubt, a witch. Ramirez had long since accepted that. He did not believe in the burning of witches, or of persecuting them in other usually accepted ways. Men feared women with power and so sought to condemn them any way they could. Ramirez preferred to make use of that power. He remembered when Cassandra had first come to the court of the current king's father. She'd been just a teenager then, a stunning dark-haired beauty who'd soon had half the castle's courtiers at her feet. If she were to return now, she'd be tied to a stake and set afire, her clothes and skin and hair reduced to crackling flames in the courtyard.
"Must you live in isolation?" he asked, remembering her wit, her kindness toward others, her value to the community.
"I chose to live in isolation," Cassandra replied evenly, although she looked only at the fire. "I'm quite content."
A lie, that, but only someone who'd known her as long as he did could have discerned it. A brown and white cat with golden eyes meowed from the corner, then leapt effortlessly into her lap. She stroked it absent-mindedly, her graceful fingers working through its long hair.
"Tell me about your apprentice," she said.
"No," Ramirez replied good-naturedly, "you tell me about my apprentice."
Cassandra smiled faintly. "Look at the painting under that sheet."
Ramirez moved stiffly from his chair and lifted the cloth. Three figures stood against the backdrop of Castle Immortal. The tallest of the three figures was obviously Ramirez himself, clad in colorful clothes and a telltale earring. The fair-haired teenager at his right hand looked like Connor might, given six or seven years. A younger boy with dark eyes and dark hair stood at Connor's side. Both boys were smiling. The painted Ramirez looked introspective.
"I painted that three moons ago," she said. "I don't know why."
Ramirez studied the finely drawn details. "Have you ever been to Castle Immortal?"
"Is that where it is?" she asked.
"Yes. That's the Southern Gate, there, with the Prince's Tower over here."
"And the older boy is your apprentice."
"Connor," Ramirez said, touching the paint. Dry as a bone. He believed her, but he disliked that the child was already in her visions. "I don't know the younger boy."
"A relative, I think," Cassandra said. "Same chin."
Chilled by more than the cold, Ramirez returned to his chair and gulped down his wine. "I should take him home," he said abruptly.
"Because of my painting?" Cassandra sounded surprised. "You know better than I do that it's useless to try and outwit the Weavers."
The Weavers. Only witches, the foolhardy or the desperate dared speak of the three goddesses who spun, measured and cut the life of mere mortals. The grandmother, mother and daughter bound souls together, or split them apart; they allotted fortune, luck, wealth and health; they could be angered and appeased, but never outwitted. The current King of Daranell, in his dozen years of rule, had declared the Weavers figments of superstitious minds. He'd reinstated his grandfather's faith, the Church of the sun-god Arome, and done so in the most ruthless and heavy-handed ways possible. His clerics taught from the Holy Book of Arome, and had probably instructed young Connor there, sleeping so peacefully by the fire.
"He's just a child," Ramirez protested. "I will not have him caught up in games beyond his understanding."
Cassandra squeezed his arm, a rare show of affection. "You can't control his life. You don't know what purpose he'll serve. The Weavers have already marked him. All we can do is protect him, teach him, guide him and hope he leads a good life."
Ramirez shook his head angrily. Hadn't she said the very same things about Tomas? Such old pain, such loss. "I don't believe you. I won't believe you."
"I don't ask that you believe me," Cassandra said, her voice hard. "Look inward and find the truth for yourself."
His answer was a stony silence. The logs in the fire burned down steadily as the rain increased outside. He idly hoped the roof would blow off - that would teach her - but it was a mean and insincere wish, and he knew it. An hour or so after their last words, Cassandra rose from her chair.
"The boy can sleep with me," she said.
He had hoped, at first, that he'd be the one sharing her bed that night. They had been lovers once, on a moonlit night in a high tower room while the rest of Castle Glorious celebrated the king's coronation. Flesh against flesh, the thrust and pull of passion, soft murmurs against the backdrop of music, fireworks and wild merrymaking. Tomas had been asleep in his bed. Twelve years hadn't erased the memories, but any desire for her had fled into the foul weather.
Cassandra scooped Connor up.
Ramirez said, "No, don't. He's my responsibility."
"Don't be silly." Cassandra looked gravely beautiful in the firelight, the teenage girl he remembered grown to womanhood. "Honestly, Juan, I can be trusted with little boys."
He almost argued with her about it, but why bother? She had angered him not by wronging him, but by telling him the truth. She had not taken Tomas from him all those years ago. If he'd listened to her then, he might have kept his son. And, lest he forget, she had her own scars and sins to carry, her own pained memories of Castle Glorious. They were two wounded survivors of a struggle still being waged.
"Be careful," Ramirez said gruffly. "He kicks."
"I'll be careful," Cassandra said, and left him by the fire to listen to the sounds of the raging storm.
The morning brought intermittent clouds, blinding sunshine and gusting winds that reminded Ramirez too vividly of the recent storm. He slept soundly on an unexpectedly soft mat, and although Cassandra and Connor rose early, he didn't quite make it out of his blankets to join them. He heard them moving about, soft murmurs exchanged, the brush of their feet on the floor rushes, but after a long stretch of silence he rose to find they'd gone outside, and Cassandra had built a steady fire in an oven under an apple tree.
She had tasked Connor with clearing the garden and footpaths of stray debris brought down by the storm. Ramirez stood in the doorway, scratching his belly as he watched the boy work. His new apprentice liked to be useful and needed, that much was obvious. Despite their ordeal of the previous night, he looked lively and rested. Ramirez thought of the painting Cassandra had done, the future brought into focus by the strokes of her brush. Or perhaps not - at Castle Glorious, she had painted a few scenes that frightened people but never came to pass.
"The Weavers sometimes change their minds," she'd said then, words of little comfort.
Ramirez wandered off into the trees and returned a happier man. He checked on his horse and Connor's pony, both of which had spent the night in Cassandra's small barn along with three scraggly hens, a fat rooster and a nervous goat with one eye. The horse and pony looked happy to see him, and Ramirez tied them loosely by the shores of the nearby stream so they could forage for food. After scrubbing his face in the cold, high-running water he followed his nose and saw Connor sitting at plank table, eagerly attacking his bowl of hot porridge with a spoon. Cassandra, her cheeks pink and hair unruly in the wind, sat across from him listening to his story.
" – and Catrine wanted to go, but Captain Kurg said no, and then I said I would go, because somebody had to or the King would be mad."
"It's never a good idea to make the King mad," Cassandra agreed gravely. "Do you like being an apprentice?"
"It's only been a day," Connor shrugged. "I didn't like the rain very much."
"No one does," Cassandra said.
Connor's spoon scraped the bottom of his bowl. "Are we going to stay here with you?"
"That's up to Captain Ramirez," Cassandra said. She hadn't turned around, and couldn't have possibly seen him eavesdropping, but without a beat she added, "Isn't it, Captain?"
Ramirez came out from behind the trees where he'd been lingering. "We won't be staying," he said, blushing only a little at being caught. "We have places to go, Connor."
Cassandra handed him an empty bowl and asked, lightly, "Anywhere I know?"
Ramirez took his share of the porridge. It looked lumpier than it should, and had bits of hard apple in it, but he was hungry and Cassandra's cooking had probably improved over the years. He brushed dead leaves from his end of the bench and sat down to eat. "As a matter of fact, we're off to the Harvest Fair."
"The Harvest Fair," Cassandra said, sounding suitably impressed. "I'm sure you'll have a good time there, Connor."
Connor eyed Ramirez' bowl. "I've been to lots of fairs before, since I was a baby."
Cassandra didn't miss the longing glance. She gave the boy more to eat as Ramirez said, "Well, I bet you've never been to the Harvest Fair. There's more to see and do there than you dare imagine. Men taller than houses, men who breathe fire, women with bells in their – " He stopped abruptly, unwilling to complete the sentence.
"In their hair," Cassandra supplied helpfully.
"I saw two beggars once that would eat anything for money." Connor went on to describe how he'd watched them eat dirt, bugs, toenail clippings and a piece of bread that had been rubbed under a man's arm. Ramirez abruptly lost his appetite, but Cassandra listened with an interested expression.
"Connor," Ramirez finally complained, "don't you have more chores you could go do?"
"I cleaned up all the branches," Connor said, his blue eyes wide and innocent.
"Go clean up some more," Ramirez said. "And stay out of trouble."
Connor scampered off. Cassandra started to laugh the minute he was out of hearing range. Ramirez didn't find it nearly as amusing. "I'm sure his mother didn't approve of topics like that during mealtime."
"Then neither should you. You're his parent, now."
"I am not!" Ramirez said. "I've got half a mind to take him back to his family. What need do I have for an apprentice?"
"He'll keep you company," Cassandra said, brushing a twig from his sleeve. "A man like you needs company."
Her touch sent a little thrill up his arm that he steadfastly ignored.
"I do fine on my own," Ramirez said.
"He'll keep you young," she suggested, her eyes luminous.
"I'm young at heart, no matter how many gray hairs I have on my head," Ramirez replied.
She touched his head. "More white than gray," she observed. "Makes you look distinguished."
He felt dry in the throat. "Cassandra, if I didn't know you better, I'd swear you were trying to seduce me."
"How well do you think you know me?" she asked, a bit scornful. "Perhaps I've been waiting all these years for you. Or perhaps you think I'm so lonely, so desperate for affection, that I'll bed any man who comes to my door - outlaw, highwayman, captain - regardless of disease or pregnancy?"
Ramirez touched her knee. "I think you are lonely. I don't think you'd bed any man who came to your door. And I think you have your own protections against the rest."
"I have protections against many things," she agreed. The scorn faded into something more honest and lonely. "But not very many against you."
A short time later, as they lay entwined on her narrow bed, her mouth trailing kisses from his chest to groin, Ramirez wondered what would happen if Connor happened to get curious about where the adults had gone. Surely the boy knew the most basic facts of life? He rapidly lost track of the thought as Cassandra proved that she had lost none of her lovemaking skills over the years, and had in fact added a few tricks to her repertoire. He was twenty years older than she, an old man with creaky bones and a softening belly, but judging by her response he accomplished his part quite well.
"I have a favor to ask," she said when they were sweaty and sated and done.
Ramirez toyed with the ends of her long, thick hair. "Don't tell me you want to come to the Harvest Fair with us."
"No," she said. "This is where I need to be. It's quiet, and mostly safe, and I can hear the Weavers when they talk to me."
He should have felt relieved - Connor was going to be handful enough to keep track of during the Fair - but he didn't. "It's so lonely," he said, picturing her sitting by her fire every night with only the cat for company..
"Not so lonely," she said. Her long fingernails traced lines on his chest. "I have Roland."
"Roland?" Ramirez lifted his head to look down at her. "Who's Roland?"
"You met him," she said with a smile. "The goat."
"Ah, the goat. I noticed he only had one eye."
"Long story," she said, but didn't offer it. Instead she rested her head on his chest as if listening to his heartbeat. "I need you to deliver a book to a friend in Arborae."
"A book?" Ramirez asked. "What book?"
"You won't be able to read it."
"Perhaps you forget that I can read every language there is."
"Every language save one," she retorted.
Ramirez puzzled over her reply for a long moment. "Oh, no!" he exclaimed, sitting up, dislodging her. How did he manage to get into these situations? Why hadn't he ridden out with Connor first thing that morning, rather than wait to succumb to her inevitable charms? "I won't deliver a book of magic for you!"
Cassandra sat next to him on the bed, quite naked, her hair heavy over her breasts. "It's very small. No one will know."
"If I'm caught with it - "
"You'll be burned," she interrupted. "I know. I'm sorry. There's just no other way."
"There most certainly is another way." Ramirez reached for his trousers. "The book stays with you."
Cassandra cocked her head. "Do you hear that?"
"Don't try to distract me, woman!" He found his boots and jammed his feet into them. His shirt, in the heat of passion, had wound up balled in the corner. Ramirez snagged it with his fingers. "There are reasonable risks, Cassandra, and there are very foolish ones - "
She grabbed his arm, her nails drawing blood. "It's Connor!"
Ramirez heard a thin, keening cry for help. With only part of his shirt buttoned, he bolted from the cottage into the brisk autumn air. The sun had gone in again, leaving the woods a dull green. "Connor!" he yelled.
"Captain!" Connor's frantic voice came from somewhere near the stream.
No, not near the stream - somehow the damned child had managed to tumble into the water itself, and had both arms wrapped around a fallen tree while the current tried to rip him free or drown him in its depths. In the few seconds it took for Ramirez to test the trunk's strength and sturdiness, he imagined Connor dead, drowned, his body bobbing lifelessly, his eyes bulging and sightless. Without another moment's hesitation he took three steps forward on the shaky wood, grabbed the boy by the scruff of his shirt and hauled all fifty pounds of him back to shore.
Cassandra stood half-naked with a blanket in her arms. Connor went to her immediately, as if she were his very own mother. Ramirez bent double as he tried to regain his breath and stop the treacherous shaking of his hands.
"You are the stupidest child in the kingdom!" he said vehemently, and meant it. "Why in the world were you in the water?"
"The shiny thing," Connor said before starting to cry. He buried his head in Cassandra's bosom. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry - "
"Ssssh," Cassandra said, rocking him. "You're fine now."
Ramirez turned away from them, too angry to deal with Connor's tears. "This is exactly why I don't need an apprentice!" he said, furious at the boy for endangering his own life and at himself, too, for letting it happen while he dallied with Cassandra in bed. "Next thing you know he'll throw himself off a cliff, or stick a knife up his nose - "
The angry words died in his throat as he caught sight of something purple and gold tangled in the half-submerged branches. A canister of some kind, no thicker than his thumb, no longer than his forearm. Ignoring Connor's sobs and Cassandra's soothing nonsense, he peeled off his boots and waded into the freezing water. Swearing loudly and colorfully, he tugged at the canister and found it hooked to a belt. The belt, in turn, was fastened around the waist of a corpse that had become wedged under the fallen tree.
A dead man was never a pleasant discovery.
"Cassandra, take Connor inside," Ramirez said, forgetting his blasphemy. "Then bring me my knife."
In her absence, he wondered whether she might have killed the man. Maybe her years of being an outcast had changed her drastically, shaping her into a remorseless killer. He decided the deed was not beyond her, but she'd certainly be more careful with the disposal of the corpse. Cassandra returned a few minutes later, her cloak around her shoulders and Ramirez' knife in hand.
"You didn't have to yell at him," she chided.
"He could have gotten himself killed," Ramirez said through gritted teeth.
"What's down there?"
"A dead man."
Cassandra folded her arms. "I didn't do it."
"I thought you'd say that." For several minutes Ramirez hacked at the sodden branches, his feet and hands numb from cold. At last the corpse came free and bumped against his knees. He tugged the gruesome find toward solid ground and Cassandra helped him drag it out of the water.
The courier had been a middle-aged man. Because he'd been bald, they could easily see where his head had been split open with some heavy weapon. He had the bloated, water-logged appearance of someone who'd been in the water for quite some time. He hadn't been robbed, which surprised Ramirez. In addition to the purple and gold canister, the man carried a dozen silver eagles, three promissory notes signed by the King's exchequer, a packet of letters and a royal seal.
"I don't like this," Cassandra said. "Of all the places to wash up, why here?"
"Maybe he was on his way to see you," Ramirez said, as he began to shake quite badly from the cold.
"And someone murdered him rather than let him reach me?" Cassandra asked tartly. "That's even less reassuring."
She covered the corpse with her cloak and ushered Ramirez back to the cottage, where he plopped himself down in front of the fire that she'd built up again. Cassandra spread the courier's belongings on the table and fingered them gently, her brow furrowed, as if she could gain impressions of the dead man merely by fingering the inanimate objects. A small, pitiful sneeze from the shadowed corner reminded Ramirez about Connor, who cowered wearing only a blanket and a distraught look.
"Come here, boy," Ramirez said roughly, patting his knee.
Connor came obediently, his eyes on the floor, and began to shed the blanket.
Ramirez shook his head. "Stop that. I'm not going to spank you."
"It's okay if you want to," Connor said, not looking up. His thin shoulders shook. "I won't cry."
"Connor, I don't hit children. Now come sit here."
Looking no happier, Connor climbed into Ramirez' lap and kept his gaze downward. "I'm really sorry, Captain. I didn't mean to fall into the water."
"I know you didn't." Ramirez ran his hand up the boy's back, probing for injuries. "Did you hurt yourself?"
His apprentice shook his head.
Ramirez lifted the boy's chin to look at him directly. "I shouldn't have yelled at you. Sometimes when adults get scared, they get angry, and that's what I was - very, very scared."
Connor's eyes began to well up again. "I just slipped, honest. I saw the shiny thing and thought I could get it for you."
"Next time you see a shiny thing, tell me, and I'll get it," Ramirez proposed. "Now go sit by that fire until you warm up."
Connor didn't move. His hands knotted in Ramirez' shirt. "Please don't send me home, Captain. I promise I'll do better next time."
Ramirez pulled him into a hug. So young, so small. The right thing to do was take him back to his family and let him enjoy his childhood. But how happy a childhood would it be if the Macleodens lost their land, their home and their titles? A deal had been made. And if Cassandra's painting proved true, Connor wasn't the only Macleoden who would color Ramirez' future.
"I know you'll do better," Ramirez said past his tightening throat. "And you did fine today. You held on, you called for help, and you kept your wits about you. I've never met a braver boy."
He wondered how much more bravery would be required of Connor Macleoden in the years to come. Required of himself, as well.
Only the Weavers knew.
***
That afternoon they buried the courier far from Cassandra's cottage. Ramirez carefully packed away the money, seal, notes and mail, intending to deliver them to the King's offices in Arborae where someone pompous and bureaucratic could assume custody. He didn't dare open the canister, which had been sealed at either end with wax and the royal stamp, but he wondered if the contents had been worth the man's death. The most likely scenario was that the courier had been attacked and fallen into the rushing stream before the robbers could take his bounty, but perhaps he had instead fled from the scene of the assault - injured, dying, desperate to keep the canister from sinister hands.
For Cassandra's sake, for favors done in the past and debts owed in the present, he also agreed to take the magic book to Arborae.
"I'm going to regret this, I just know it," Ramirez said, handling the small, heavy volume with care. She'd wrapped it in brown linen and tied a piece of string around it. He'd memorized the recipient's name, Rebecca dePearson, and her address near the river where, during the height of the Fair competitions, men would jump across burning logs and try to knock each other into the water.
"What is life, but a series of regrets punctuated by moments of joy?" Cassandra asked, giving him a peck on the cheek.
Ramirez could see out Cassandra's window to where Connor already sat on his pony, murmuring softly to the animal. With just a few hours of daylight left, they planned on going only as far as Boshten. He turned to the door but then, struck by a thought, turned back again.
"Did you paint any other pictures of Connor?" he asked.
Cassandra stood silent, apparently debating whether or not to answer. Ramirez wondered if he really wanted to know. Foresight was a blessing and curse both, as they'd both learned through difficult experience. Just as he thought she'd refuse him, she went to center of the cottage, pried up a loose plank and pulled up a rolled canvas. She held it angled in the light for him to see clearly and murmured, "Just this one."
Ramirez gazed at the painting for a long moment, struck by so many varied emotions that he couldn't name a single one of them. Looking back years later, he would define that very moment as one of the most memorable and forbidding of his life.
"That's treason," he said, his chest tight, his voice a mere rasp. "You should burn it."
"I think you're right." The witch of the woods gazed at her work for a few seconds more and then tossed it into the fire. The canvas quickly curled up and burst into flame, destroying the image of Connor Macleoden, grown to manhood, the crown of Daranell set firmly on his head.
The End Author's Notes: Thanks to Cindy Hudson and Terry Odell for their beta comments and encouragement! Any remaining typos or mistakes are, of course, my own fault. Sometimes I blame AOL, too. Your feedback: Keeps me going during those long, difficult hours spent at the keyboard trying to figure out quasi-medieval synonyms for "royal canister with a secret inside it." (Never did figure one out.)
Next in series: Ramirez and Connor go to the fair! Meet Rebecca. Get in trouble. Stuff like that.