Of Midnight Born by Lisa Cach Page B

on a night we camped in the ruins of the original fortress. He did a fair job of it, too. I was barely able to close my eyes.”
    “I’ve heard there was more than that to the night, sir,” Underhill said, a hint of curiosity in his tone.
    Woding laughed softly. “So that tale makes the rounds aswell? I suppose I should have expected as much. Feel free to tell any who ask that I was watching falling stars, not my feet, and I lost my footing on a ruined wall. I was careless, and I fell. That is all there is to it, although I almost wish I had been pushed by the ghost of a murderess. It would have made for a better story.”
    What was this? She looked at the streak of white in Woding’s hair, suddenly remembering a black-haired boy lying on the stone stairs, the gash on his head bleeding a river on a night when stars fell like rain. The sense of familiarity and longing, was that where it had come from?
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Go back to bed, Underhill. Even if there were a ghost, she could do nothing to harm you.”
    “Yes, sir. I am sorry to have disturbed you.”
    Woding waved away the apology. “You might bring a fresh pot of coffee to my study, before you retire.”
    “Yes, sir!” Underhill turned toward the hatch, apparently happy to have this chance to redeem himself.
    There was a great scraping of claws on stone, and then Woding’s reclining chair was overturned as Otto scampered out from beneath it, pushing past Underhill and all but tumbling down the wooden steps to the study below.
    As Underhill started down the stairs Woding handed him the dog’s blanket. “Put it by the fire in the kitchen. Perhaps he’ll be more comfortable down there.” And then, almost under his breath, “The miserable coward.”
    Woding closed the hatch, righted his chair, and resumed his supine position, his figure dimly illuminated by the redshaded lamp. He looked completely at ease, as if nothing his manservant had said had bothered him. Serena drifted up to sit on the parapet and study him, as he in turn studied the sky.
    He was sly, devious. She had already learned that much. He did not approach obstacles directly, like a normal man,using strength to conquer. He employed instead the tactics of a wily woman, manipulating and obfuscating to get his way. She had always thought such modes a sign of weakness, proof that one was not strong enough to take what one wanted. Even she, female since the day she was born, had learned to fight with strength, not wiles.
    He looked strong, though. If he’d been properly trained, he might have been able to wield a sword with some skill. He had the shoulders and the height for a decent swordsman. She tried to imagine him riding a warhorse, decked out in armor, battle-ax at the ready. Physically it was not too great a stretch, but the soft tones of his voice made such an image ridiculous.
    What strange forces had directed this man’s life, and why had he been placed here with her again after so many years? Was he seeking revenge for the fall he had taken? It seemed unlikely, if he did not even believe she existed. Or did he only pretend to disbelieve, and to not remember that night he had seen her? He appeared as foolish as he had been as a boy, his eyes on the stars when there were dangers near at hand, but perhaps that appearance was an illusion.
    Whatever the case might be, he would not be able to explain away her actions for long. His servants, by the sounds of it, had already half-spooked themselves. It would be short work to finish that job, and have them fleeing the castle as if their drawers were on fire.
    As for him, if he was already aware of her presence in some manner, half her work was done there, too. It would simply be a matter of persuading him that it would be in his own best interest to leave. First, though, she’d have to be certain of what his abilities were. It was always foolish to attack without knowing the armaments of the enemy.
    She would triumph in the end; of that she