Page 98 of Son of a Witch (The Wicked Years 2)

“Thank you very much.”

“No insult intended.”

“I didn’t know you believed in the Unnamed God.”

“I was speaking metaphorically. I assumed you’d get that. Is this the place you’re looking for?”

It was. The low roofs of the dependences, and the main structure of the house itself, and the big barn room in which the broken press presumably still stood. Perhaps it could be made to work again.

They came the long way around, to approach from the open meadow by the front door. There they found that Liir’s invitation had been accepted. Nine tents were erected in the meadow, as perfectly aligned as the casual ramble of the fences would allow. Eight subordinate tents made a square, and the Princess Nastoya’s tent stood centrally.

With her canny ways, and for all the advance warning of this contingent of Scrow, Candle ought to have known he was coming. Nonetheless, she seemed surprised. Surprised, and flustered, large and slow, even redder of face than her natural coloring suggested was possible. Perhaps blood pressure problems? Or had she been experimenting with native rouges?

He approached her cautiously—as if she were a young novice, not a farm bride. He took her hands and held them, and found out that even now he didn’t know how he felt. “I’ve flown the world,” he said.

“Welcome home from the world.” Her face was tucked down, as if she were shy. A new shyness.

“Candle,” he said, “has the fellow called Trism come here?”

She looked up at him from under a wrinkled brow. “He said you’d ask for him. I couldn’t be sure of him; he seemed a soldier of some sort. Well, now you’ve asked, and right off. Though I’d have thought you’d enquire if I was all right first! All these guests, and me in this state!”

“Of cour

se—of course. But I can see you’re all right. And I don’t know if Trism survived.”

“Well, he did,” she said, summarily. “Oh, Liir,” she continued, her voice now sounding as if he’d only been gone an hour, and she’d missed him for sixty full minutes, “look what’s happened, and I wanted to greet you on our own.” She spread her hands at the meadow.

“I know,” he said. “I invited them.”

“I’m glad you finally arrived to greet them, then. They’ve been here a week, and my careful larder is just about bare. The one older fellow speaks a rude sort of Qua’ati, but I can’t make out a thing from the others.”

The Scrow were trying to brew a kind of tea out of the bark of apple trees and such sap as was running in the maples. They wrinkled their noses at it and hardly seemed to notice Liir’s arrival.

“In the family way, I note,” said Iskinaary pointedly, slipping into Qua’ati effortlessly, “or are you just big-boned, my dear?”

Indicating the Goose, Liir said to Candle, “This is my…” He paused; the word friend seemed inappropriate.

“Familiar,” supplied the Goose.

“Oh, please!” said Liir. “Is that what you’re on about?”

“Don’t mind me, I’ll just settle here with the stupid hens,” snapped Iskinaary.

“I’m not a witch, nothing near!” said Liir. “You’re going on the grossest sort of hearsay.”

“Get on with your task, and I’ll be the judge,” said the Goose. He shifted about three inches to one side and turned elegantly still, which gave him the effect of being statuesque while allowing him to eavesdrop with impunity.

Liir picked up Candle’s hands again. He wanted more from her, he willed it so. She let him thumb her palms for a moment, then she pulled her own hands away.

“So Trism got here unharmed?” he said.

“The dragon master? He did,” she said, her face turned away again.

“Where is he?”

“He couldn’t stay.”

Cautious. Gentle step, here. “Why not? Candle?”

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