Me and My Shadow
Page 84

“He doesn’t look like any mage I’ve ever seen,” I told her, taking in the man’s easy movements under what must be at least fifty pounds of armor. “He looks more like a warlord. Look, he’s got braids in his hair, just like that Scot who came to see Father a few years ago. What do you think he wants?”
“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 men?”
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 three 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 pupils 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.
“Ah, you’re awake.”
My eyelids, leaden weights that they were, finally managed to hoist themselves open. I stared directly into the dark brown eyes of a woman located less than an inch from my own, and screamed in surprise. “Aaagh!”
She leaped backwards as I sat up, my heart beating madly, a faint, lingering pain leaving me with the sensation that my brain itself was bruised.
“Who are you? Are you part of the dream? You are, aren’t you? You’re just a dream,” I said, my voice a croak. I touched my lips. They were dry and cracked. “Except those people were in some sort of medieval clothing, and you’re wearing a pair of jeans. Still, it’s incredibly vivid, this dream. It’s not as interesting as the last one, but still interesting and vivid. Very vivid. Enough that I’m lying here, babbling to myself.”
“I’m not a dream, actually,” the in-my-face dream woman said. “And you’re not alone, so if you’re babbling, it’s to me.”
I knew better than to leap off the bed to escape the clearly deranged person, not with the sort of headache I had. Slowly, I slid my legs off the edge of the bed, and wondered if I stood up, if I’d stop dreaming and wake up to normal life.
As I tried to stand, the dream lady seized my arm, holding on to me as I wobbled on my unsteady feet. Her grip was anything but dreamlike.
“You’re real.”
“Yes.”
“You’re a real person, not part of the dream?”
“I think we’ve established that fact.”
I felt an irritated expression crawl across my face—crawl because my brain hadn’t yet woken up with the rest of me. “If you’re real, would you mind me asking why you were bent over me, nose to nose, in the worst Japanese horror movie sort of way, one that guaranteed I’d just about wet myself the minute I woke up?”
“I was checking your breathing. You were moaning and making noises like you were going to wake up.”
“I was dreaming,” I said, as if that explained everything.
“So you’ve said. Repeatedly.” The woman, her skin the color of oiled mahogany, nodded. “It’s good. You are beginning to remember. I wondered if the dragon shard would not speak to you in such a manner.”
Dim little warning bells went off in my mind—the sort that are set off when you’re trapped in a small room with someone who is obviously a few weenies short of a cookout. “Well, isn’t this just lovely? I feel like something a cat crapped, and I’m trapped in a room with a crazy lady.” I clapped a hand over my mouth, appalled that I’d spoken the words rather than just thought them. “Did you hear that?” I asked around my fingers.
She nodded.
I let my hand fall. “Sorry. I meant no offense. It’s just that . . . well . . . you know. Dragons? That’s kind of out there.”
A slight frown settled between her brows. “You look a bit confused.”
“You get the understatement-of-the-year tiara.Would it be rude to ask who you are?” I gently rubbed my forehead, letting my gaze wander around the room.
“My name is Kaawa. My son is Gabriel Tauhou, the silver wyvern.”
“A silver what?”
She was silent, her eyes shrewd as they assessed me. “Do you really think that’s necessary?”
“That I ask questions or rub my head? It doesn’t matter—both are yes. I always ask questions because I’m a naturally curious person. Ask anyone. They’ll tell you. And I rub my head when it feels like it’s been stomped on, which it does.”