Page 26 of Never the Roses

Oneira was many things, and many of them she regretted, but she was no coward. In fact, her teachers had often cautioned her about her fearlessness. She tended to go into every situation wholeheartedly, full of blazing confidence. She’d earned that confidence, too, never—all right, rarely—verging into the realm of arrogance, always employing suitable care to guard against errors. Stearanos had no idea whom he’d accused of cowardice.

That much soothed her: he literally had no idea who she was.She’d held her mental breath that first day, wondering if he’d realize she’d tampered with his dreams and that only one magic-worker in the world could accomplish that feat. Then nothing had happened. She didn’t know exactly what she expected, but nothing had and—

Somethingbumped against her wards.

She immediately stilled, clearing her mind and sharpening her sorcerous senses. Her magic coalesced at full power, a distinct advantage of having not spent it on traveling the Dream. Someone was out there, on the road to the world of men in this blinding storm, attempting to penetrate her wards.

Her heart simultaneously leapt with anticipation and sank in dread trepidation.Stearanos Stormbreaker.He’d found her. And he’d come to…

No. It wasn’t Stearanos, she realized with a crash of what she refused to acknowledge was disappointment. She knew the feel of Stearanos—after all, the miasma of him was all around her, just from one of his books—and no matter what guise he wore, she’d recognize him. This was someone else. A man, weak and injured. No surprise, given the elements.

Bringing her far-sight to bear, shelookedat him. He stood calf-deep in the mud on the road—which was practically a river, water streaming down the middle in a torrential flood—his sodden horse standing nearby, head down in misery. The man, similarly drenched, his hair blackly sleeked to his scalp, beat the meat of his fists against the invisible barrier of her wards.

“Fool,” she murmured. The signs were clearly posted, warning all away from the private property, promising dire retribution to trespassers. He’d have had to pass them all to reach this far. Well, he could die on her doorstep. She didn’t care.

“Please!” he shouted against the storm, as if he knew she could hear him, which he couldn’t possibly know. “I’m injured and so ismy horse. We cannot go back. We’ll die out here. I am but a lowly scholar and poet. All I ask is shelter from the storm.”

Arrested, Oneira splayed her hands against the cool crystal of the dome, her eyes unfocused as shelookedandlistenedto the distant plea. The man spoke with a familiar accent, one peculiar to the realm she came from, a small and remote principality. She saw then that he spoke the truth about his injuries, bleeding from his thigh on the same side that his wretched mount showed deep, bloody furrows on its haunch, the relentless rain washing it pink down the horse’s leg to join the torrent down the road.

“Please,” the man cried again, weakly, sagging to his knees. “My horse is an innocent beast. At least let him in.”

Oneira pulled back her attention, glancing around to her three companions, all alert and awake now, gazing at her with intent interest. Tipping back her head, Oneira studied the sky she couldn’t see, seeking an answer it didn’t have. She loved animals. Always had, and had always gone to pains to spare them in wars whenever possible, which admittedly wasn’t often.

And the man, himself, was likely harmless. No magic to him at all. A mere mortal, mundane man could hardly do a thing to harm her, and hadn’t she just been wishing for company? A scholar and poet, too. He’d have tales she hadn’t heard, possibly books in those bags, saving her from having to visit bookshops or the temptation to raid the Stormbreaker’s library again. Or the temptation to have a conversation with the sorcerer.

Having this young man visit, however temporarily, would be the distraction she needed from thinking about the Stormbreaker and his scent, wondering about his scars and his thoughts and what his voice might sound like. That was all loneliness acting upon her, and giving the wayward poet shelter for a night, patching up his wounds, wouldn’t give her any trouble. One good deedwouldn’t stack up against the many terrible things she’d done, but it was a small step.

And it was surprisingly good to hear the musical accent of her childhood again.

She could let him stay one night and then send him on his way. He’d never even have to know who she truly was. Plenty of recluses employed magical wards like hers. She could play the wealthy and eccentric hermit. Her determination to live a semi-humble life, making her own food and so forth, would add to that appearance. He would stay one night and leave again, never knowing she was the dread sorceress Oneira.

Still, she wasn’t past all caution. She took a moment to open the Dream, seeking the vestiges of dreams connected to the man. They were tattered and faded, barely clinging to his waking mind, but what she found revealed nothing untoward. He was exactly what he seemed.

With a thought, she pulled aside the ward on the road like a curtain, the man suddenly falling forward and catching himself on his hands. He stayed there a moment, shaking, on hands and knees. Oneira very much hoped she wouldn’t have to go out into the storm to help him. To preserve her cover story of being a simple woman who lived alone, she wouldn’t be able to use sorcery to keep herself dry. Good deeds were one thing, but a service of that sort would be a whole other level of selflessness. She was already acting out of character. If she went too far, who knew what would happen?

To her relief, the man’s laden horse stepped forward, nudging him, and he grabbed ahold of the gelding’s tack, using the support to drag himself up, weeping. Oneira had seen men cry before, but usually in the extremity of war, seeing their homes and families destroyed. To witness a grown man weeping overa relatively minor rescue took her aback, and also reassured her that she’d made the correct choice. No such man could pose a danger to her.

She waited for him to walk past the boundary, holding on to the horse for support with every step, then sealed the wards behind him. From there it wasn’t that far up the path to the gate in her walls, though it took a while at the man’s pained pace. While she waited, Oneira added a guest room onto the far side of the house, quickly furnishing it with things simple enough to pull from the Dream without her needing to modify them extensively. It would be spare, but that fit the image she wanted to portray.

Pulling on an oilcloth cloak, she drew the hood deeply around her face, hiding her visage just in case. Far-seeing was useful, but didn’t substitute for evaluating a person with her own eyes and sorcerous senses. If she recognized the man, she didn’t want to be recognized in turn. She also readied a portal to the Dream, poised to summon a night terror to strike at him if anything seemed off, and went to meet him at the gate.

Keeping to her assumed role, she peered through the loops in the wrought iron, as if uncertain and perplexed. “Who are you?” she asked, pretending to be surprised.

“A simple scholar, poet, and traveler, madam,” he answered in that so familiar accent. “Seeking shelter.” He had very dark eyes, both soft as a deer’s and penetrating. Unlike Stearanos, this man had soft lips, almost plush, and a graceful mien. No scars on his pale skin. “I can pay,” he added, gaze wandering up to the white house rising above the garden walls, the tower above, his expression creasing with uncertainty as he realized that might not be a persuasive argument. His dark eyes returned to hers and he offered a crooked smile, a sensual cant to it. “In whatever coin my lady desires.”

Bunny appeared at Oneira’s side—he must have come through the tunnel—and pressed against her legs, baring his fangs in acanine grin at their visitor, forked black tongue flicking out to taste his scent.

The man visibly startled, blanching even paler under his already fair complexion. “Whatisthat?” he breathed in stark terror, though retaining enough presence of mind to hold on to his horse’s bridle as the gelding shied, trying to jerk away.

Oneira set a hand on Bunny’s shoulder. “My dog. He won’t harm you.”

“Yourdog…” The man’s gaze rose to hers, gratifying admiration in them. “Who are you that you command such a fierce creature?”

And that was him unable to recognize the dark magic that formed thescáthcú’s very being. Wait until he met Moriah. “A simple woman,” she replied. “Bunny, off with you. You’re frightening our guests.” With a reproachful look, Bunny trotted off.

“Bunny,” the man echoed with a bemused smile.

“I will offer you hospitality.” She pushed open the gate, remembering at the last moment to do it manually. This would be a good exercise for her to become more aware of the small ways she still used magic out of habit. “Welcome.”

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