Page 39 of Horn of Winter

“Which is why you’re better off leaving it to Sgott,” Lugh commented. “But of course, you won’t.”

I grinned and raised a glass. “To a brother who understands the workings of his sister’s mind.”

He rolled his eyes, but before he could reply, Darby said, “I can suggest a different information avenue, depending on what you wanted to know, of course.”

“Oh? Do tell,” I said.

“A few years ago, I treated a retired ice witch for exhaustion and heart problems. He was a lovely, somewhat lonely oldfellow, and I still see him once a month, not to check on him but just to chat.”

“Would it be possible for you to ring him up tomorrow and arrange a meeting?”

“Sure. I’d ring tonight but he’s probably already in bed. He tends to do that rather than turn the heating on.”

“An ice witch affected by the cold? That’s rather unusual, isn’t it?”

She shrugged. “It happens as they get older—as their ability to manipulate the weather wanes, so does their immunity to the forces they used to raise.”

“Huh.” I wondered if that would happen to me. My father wasn’t mortal, so possibly not, but it wasn’t like I could ask him. Besides, I wasn’t even verygoodat raising the forces I could apparently manipulate. Not yet anyway.

We moved on to discussing non-work stuff again, and I left at ten, walking home rather than catching an Uber, enjoying the crispness of the night and the distant electricity of a storm while I thought about options. About what Iwantedto do and what Ishoulddo.

By the time I arrived back at the tavern, I was no closer to an answer. But I didn’t put the bracelet on. I didn’t dare.

Coward, thy name is Bethany, I thought, and fell asleep with a wry smile on my lips.

After working on the tavern’s accounts for a couple of hours the following morning, I grabbed my purse, my knives, and my long, waterproof trench coat, then shoved on my wellies and headed out into the miserable day. Though I’d managed to direct the wind and even storms a number of times now—be it for attack,defense, or even the protection of certain relics—it had mostly been in an ad hoc manner. But I had a feeling that if I wanted any real hope of setting the wind a more complicated task, I’d need to be more fully immersed in the weather—a fact backed up by the vague whisperings riding the breeze. Whisperings that sounded an awful lot like Beira.

She was not a happy goddess, if they were anything to go by.

I shoved my gloved hands into my pockets and quickly made my way through the rain-washed, surprisingly empty streets. It was just after midday, so there should have been at leastsomepeople out and about seeking something to eat. It was a weekday after all, and it wasn’t as if storms like this were unknown in Deva, especially during the winter months.

Up ahead, the eastern wing of the lovely old red sandstone cathedral loomed, ghostly in the gray. The gardens that surrounded it weren’t visible thanks to the gloom, but as I crossed the street and headed into the memorial section, the freestanding bell tower came into view. It was much younger than the cathedral, having been commissioned in the early seventies after the original tower was deemed no longer safe to house the bells. This one was a modern interpretation of the old Roman watchtowers that had once guarded Deva’s walls, and while its base was the same rose-red sandstone as the cathedral, the tower itself was reinforced concrete hung with gray slate. Directly in front of it was my destination—a circular garden bed, in the center of which was a round seating platform. In the summer months it was usually claimed by parents resting up while their kids ran wild through the lovely gardens, but right now the whole area was empty.

If the stormdiddemand full immersion, then this was probably the safest place for me to attempt it. While there were few races beyond humans who considered church grounds sacrosanct—except, rather weirdly, the Annwfyn, who tended toavoid them—there weren’t many who’d consider spilling blood a viable option here either.

And I didnotwant to think about why I was suddenly worried about blood spillage.

I sat cross-legged on the wooden platform, arranged the trench around my jeans so they didn’t get soaked, then drew in a deep breath and reached for the power that rumbled above me.

And found Beira.

Well, she said, her terse manner briefly echoed in the increase of ferocity whipping around me,it’s about fucking time.

You know, I replied, in much the same manner,if you want me to instantly reply to the messages you send on the wind, you might want to teach me how to actually do that rather than letting me muddle along on my own.

She harrumphed, though her amusement briefly spun around me. If there was one thing I’d learned over the brief time I’d known her, it was that she preferred bite over meekness.

You may have a point, young Bethany, but given what rises, it is not something I dare risk too often.

I frowned.Surely the Ninkilim haven’t the capacity to sense your presence within the wind, though.

That would depend on who exactly they have in their ranks. A weather mage could, even if they can’t fully understand what the wind carries.

And are they the reason why you risked speaking to me now?

No. In fact, they have been worryingly quiet over the last few days. I fear they plan something big.

If you’re keeping such a close eye on their movement, why not just tell me who they are so I can get Sgott and his people onto them?

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