Page 34 of The Iron Dagger
Angharad
Hara still tasted the hint of his blood on her lips.
The blood he’d shed for her.
She had only ever known him as an injured patient, and an unpleasant and demanding one at that. But the way he moved as he fought those men revealed how dangerous he could be.
His speed caused her breath to catch. Even the way his head reeled back as the soldier’s fist caught him was beautiful. He had given, and taken, that pain for her. Fear and tenderness mixed and swelled as she watched him fight.
By the dim light of the fire, she saw the raw corner of his mouth where the man hit him, and she was slightly dismayed that his recently healed lip had started to bleed again. Idly, she wondered how many times someone had split his lip and if he made a habit of it.
Hara moved to his side and rummaged in her satchel, thankful that she thought to move her all-purpose ointment and fresh bandages from the saddlebags this morning. Hesitantly, she crouched before him. He flinched as she dabbed the raw corner of his mouth, but he did not make a sound. His eyes were hard as he stared at the flames, like some beautiful, formidable statue.
Fear had passed through her briefly at the sight of the soldiers talking to Gideon, memories of the men who took her mother making her blood run cold. But the quick and vicious way Gideon reacted against his own countrymen surprised her.
It made her . . . warm.
She pressed her thighs together in shame, mortified that his violence had aroused her. It was bad enough that she desired him when he was the son of her enemy, but wanting him for his coldblooded brutality was a new low.
She gently grazed her fingertips over the cut, whispering a spell. Cool numbness prickled where her fingers met his wound, and the cut began to close. When she removed her hand the area was still raw, but it was no longer bleeding. The familiar weariness that accompanied her spent power made her muscles ache and her eyelids heavy.
“Hold this here. It will help with the swelling,” she said, and his hand moved to press the ointment-soaked rag to his mouth.
“We should think of a disguise for you when we cross the border tomorrow. A story to tell my father and the court,” said Gideon. “We can’t have you looking like a rogue witch.”
Hara nodded. She did not fancy any more encounters like they had with the soldiers. “You know your father best. What should the story be? Who am I?”
“I have two suggestions, and you won’t like one of them, so I’ll give it first. You could be a witch hunter,” he said.
Hara furrowed her brows. “You ask me to become the most despicable of traitors?”
She had heard from travelers passing through Little Snail that witch hunters were magic-folk who worked for Corvus, helping him round up others of their kind. They used their abilities to seek out and resist the magical charms of their brethren, capturing them in return for gold and a protected position at court.
“You could move freely within the city, and it would explain why you have intimate knowledge of witches who fled the coup. It would also take away suspicion if you were researching old capture records.”
“How so?”
“You could say you’re trying to find a witch for questioning. Perhaps she committed some crime, or has special magic knowledge you need. You can come up with reasons.”
Hara saw the sense in the disguise, but distaste roiled in her gut. The fact that such a person would be welcome gave her insight into the Montagese court. “What is your other suggestion?”
“Some sort of sorcerer that specializes in growing things. You already have a vast knowledge of herblore; I’m sure it would be convincing if I presented you to the court as a crop magician. We have a bit of a problem in Montag with our crop yields. Without tenable farmland, we must buy from Lenwen, and it’s becoming costly.”
Something bothered her about this statement, and then she remembered why. “That’s why you abducted Alexandra. You took her to ransom her for land.”
“Correct,” he said, taking another bite of bread.
“Is it that much of a problem?”
“It is. My father would not agree, but for him, so long as the factory workers are fed, he couldn’t care less about the common folk. He would welcome a witch hunter with an invitation to his table, but an agriculture sorcerer might earn a scoff.”
“I see.”
“So, I take it you’d prefer to be a crop magician?”
“An organic manipulator is the proper term. Planter for short. At least, that’s what they were called when I lived there,” said Hara with a slight smile. She remembered such witches in their earthy brown robes with their many pockets.
Hara spotted a problem with this disguise: she might have extensive knowledge of plants and their uses, but her growing magic was so faint as to be nonexistent. Some branches of magic could be improved with study, but as much as she had tried through the years, she could not make things grow any faster than a non-magic person. Her healing magic had taken years to strengthen, like a weak muscle, and it was still not nearly as potent as her aunt’s had been. She would be easily caught out when she was unable to perform simple growth spells.
