Page 42 of The Iron Dagger
Their words were light and playful, but Gideon could only think of one thing. His father could not know about Hara’s ability. If he did, she would be kept prisoner, guarded and locked away as no mere Ilmarinen sympathizer had ever been guarded before. There would be no words, influence, or power that could free her.
NINE
Angharad
They rode for the rest of the afternoon, and when they stopped they were deep in the mountains. The only sign of civilization was the well-paved road they followed, cutting a clean line through the spruce and firs.
They stopped to rest under an overhanging rock that had been hollowed into a cave by a long-extinct river. The smoke from their fire curled up and hugged the curved ceiling, and Hara walked a short distance away to wash her hands and face in the trickle of a stream that remained.
She could not see Gideon around the bend, but she could hear him gathering more wood some distance away, the crack of branches echoing between the trees.
Hara splashed water over her face and breathed out a long stream.
He had understood immediately. She was worried that she would have to explain and beg him to consider what her alchemy could mean, but he needed none of it. She considered denying it when he guessed the truth, but she had never been a good liar. A fault she would soon have to work on in earnest if this scheme of theirs was to work.
“You shouldn’t have told him,” said a low voice.
Hara started and looked up, but all she could see were ferns, wet with evening mist.
“Who’s there?” she said, a chill running down her neck. She was usually perceptive and could sense when she was being watched, but whoever had spoken was apparently invisible.
That is until she saw a long brown body, low to the ground, make its way down the slope and out of the underbrush. It stopped before her on a boulder, drawing itself up to sit on hind legs, and Hara felt some of the tension leave her.
It was an otter.
The chill returned. An otter that could speak. In all her years, she had never encountered an animal who could speak, in common beasts or familiars. There was something very uncanny about this creature. It was not really an otter, this she knew for certain.
“Why do you disguise yourself?” she said, keeping her voice low. She did not want Gideon to hear.
“Our kind must be careful,” it said. It had a mellow, male voice. “Never can trust these new Montagese. You erred.”
“You know nothing about me,” said Hara.
“I know you are an alchemist,” said the otter. “I was there in the clearing. I heard it all.”
“Why have you followed us all this way? To tell me I erred?”
“Yes,” said the otter. “You are a transmutator, the most rare of our kind. More precious than the gold you conjure. And you have given up your greatest strength, your secret. For what?”
“He protected me, twice. He can be trusted.”
“I ask again, for what?” said the otter, almost harshly. “Why should they know us? It only ever leads to betrayal.”
The bitterness in his voice spoke of past experience. Hara studied the creature. He seemed thin for an otter, his mannerisms that of a human. Clearly, he was some sort of shapeshifter, but she did not know what kind. Some witches could transform into a chosen animal form, others could create potions that were short lived, others could mimic any living creature, not bound by a specific shape.
“What are you?” she asked.
“I am magic-kind, as you are. That is all you need to know.”
“Why do you care what happens to me?”
“It is imperative that the old magic lives. I cannot let a fellow witch fall so clumsily into traps. We cannot let them win.”
How the witch hunters would love to get their hands on him: a rogue sorcerer with secret designs to stand against the new regime.
“You are exactly what the northerners fear,” said Hara in a wry voice.
“An observation I am most flattered by,” said the otter, inclining its head. “I will watch you closely, child. Now that you are in your rightful place.”
