cried.
In some ways, being a horse was so much easier.
After a while she stopped, and a while after that she scrubbed the hem of her thick, soft, cotton shirt over her face, sighed, and continued down the stairs.
Their rooms—hers and Carey's—were a luxury, a gift of the friend she now mourned. He'd given her the room next to Carey's and then cut a door into the stone wall, adding a lightweight wooden door carved with relief images of running horses. Hand-carved, too, and not done with easier copying magic.
Jess's room held her things from Ohio and from Kymmet—her photos, her horse show ribbons, an old pair of Carey's saddlebags that had given her such comfort when she had been newly human and hunting for the man she had depended on as a horse . . . Carey's things were slowly migrating over from what now served as their bedroom, and it was there that she found him. For a long moment she stood in the doorway between the rooms and watched him staring out the big window that made his such a nice room to have in this hill-held structure.
With no glass between the room and the cold winter air, the unobstructed view had an intimacy that Jess never felt looking out of a window in Ohio. Full moonlight reflected off the snow beyond the hold, making it easy to pick out a late-arriving rider.
"I should be down there," Carey said. "In the stable."
"Why?"
He lifted one shoulder; it had an irritable look from behind. "It's my job. I shouldn't be up here about to climb into bed while my riders are still working themselves to exhaustion."
"They are proud to ride for you," Jess said. "And we are all tired." They would be more tired before this was over; a year and a half of living through crises as a human had taught her that much.
Come to think of it, things had been little different when she was a horse. But then, at least, she had not fully understood what was at stake.
"Doesn't mean I shouldn't be down there," he muttered, sounding every bit as tired as she expected. "If only Calandre hadn't tried to turn me into a garbage heap—"
"We are all tired," Jess repeated. Calandre hadn't actually tried to turn him into a garbage heap, but the spells were similar and when he was feeling bitter he said it that way. "You cannot do everything, Carey.
None of us can."
"So sayeth the horse who learned to be a woman and then, when we all said it couldn't be done, taught her horse-self to use spellstones."
"Just a few of them," Jess said.
"Just a few," he repeated in a dry murmur, resting his forehead against the edge of the window.
"And I still do not understand so many things about being human . . ." It might distract him. It sometimes did.
Not this time.
"Carey," she said, and he didn't answer. She glanced at the bed—rumpled, unmade—and at Carey—bare-chested, light sleeping pants tied at his hips. He'd tried to sleep, then, and couldn't. Too bad Jess hadn't brought Stenna here to work her sleep spell on Carey. She gathered her thick hair and shoved it down her shirt so it wouldn't tangle when she pulled off the shirt. "Carey," she said again. "I feel you being far from me, and I need you. Come back."
He shook his head slightly, still staring out the window. Yet another rider came into view, riding a horse that stumbled and almost fell. "Somehow," he murmured. Not much of an answer, but one she understood anyway. Somehow , he had to make it all right.
Except this time, possibly for the first time, he didn't think he could do it. She could see the internal war of it in every tense line of his body. She left the shirt at the foot of the bed, and walked quietly up behind him, putting her arms around his waist and resting her chin on his shoulder. She said, "Come back to me."
He tipped his head so it rested against hers, and they stood that way together, watching the riders come in.
Chapter 6
T wisted magic blooms to life across Camolen like frost coming up on a cold surface . . . strange, obscure morphing corners and
In some ways, being a horse was so much easier.
After a while she stopped, and a while after that she scrubbed the hem of her thick, soft, cotton shirt over her face, sighed, and continued down the stairs.
Their rooms—hers and Carey's—were a luxury, a gift of the friend she now mourned. He'd given her the room next to Carey's and then cut a door into the stone wall, adding a lightweight wooden door carved with relief images of running horses. Hand-carved, too, and not done with easier copying magic.
Jess's room held her things from Ohio and from Kymmet—her photos, her horse show ribbons, an old pair of Carey's saddlebags that had given her such comfort when she had been newly human and hunting for the man she had depended on as a horse . . . Carey's things were slowly migrating over from what now served as their bedroom, and it was there that she found him. For a long moment she stood in the doorway between the rooms and watched him staring out the big window that made his such a nice room to have in this hill-held structure.
With no glass between the room and the cold winter air, the unobstructed view had an intimacy that Jess never felt looking out of a window in Ohio. Full moonlight reflected off the snow beyond the hold, making it easy to pick out a late-arriving rider.
"I should be down there," Carey said. "In the stable."
"Why?"
He lifted one shoulder; it had an irritable look from behind. "It's my job. I shouldn't be up here about to climb into bed while my riders are still working themselves to exhaustion."
"They are proud to ride for you," Jess said. "And we are all tired." They would be more tired before this was over; a year and a half of living through crises as a human had taught her that much.
Come to think of it, things had been little different when she was a horse. But then, at least, she had not fully understood what was at stake.
"Doesn't mean I shouldn't be down there," he muttered, sounding every bit as tired as she expected. "If only Calandre hadn't tried to turn me into a garbage heap—"
"We are all tired," Jess repeated. Calandre hadn't actually tried to turn him into a garbage heap, but the spells were similar and when he was feeling bitter he said it that way. "You cannot do everything, Carey.
None of us can."
"So sayeth the horse who learned to be a woman and then, when we all said it couldn't be done, taught her horse-self to use spellstones."
"Just a few of them," Jess said.
"Just a few," he repeated in a dry murmur, resting his forehead against the edge of the window.
"And I still do not understand so many things about being human . . ." It might distract him. It sometimes did.
Not this time.
"Carey," she said, and he didn't answer. She glanced at the bed—rumpled, unmade—and at Carey—bare-chested, light sleeping pants tied at his hips. He'd tried to sleep, then, and couldn't. Too bad Jess hadn't brought Stenna here to work her sleep spell on Carey. She gathered her thick hair and shoved it down her shirt so it wouldn't tangle when she pulled off the shirt. "Carey," she said again. "I feel you being far from me, and I need you. Come back."
He shook his head slightly, still staring out the window. Yet another rider came into view, riding a horse that stumbled and almost fell. "Somehow," he murmured. Not much of an answer, but one she understood anyway. Somehow , he had to make it all right.
Except this time, possibly for the first time, he didn't think he could do it. She could see the internal war of it in every tense line of his body. She left the shirt at the foot of the bed, and walked quietly up behind him, putting her arms around his waist and resting her chin on his shoulder. She said, "Come back to me."
He tipped his head so it rested against hers, and they stood that way together, watching the riders come in.
Chapter 6
T wisted magic blooms to life across Camolen like frost coming up on a cold surface . . . strange, obscure morphing corners and
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