cold like a horse into pasture to trot some of the flesh away.’
Admi laughed, but Verrarc found merriment beyond him. Raena stood watching the pair of them with eyes that revealed nothing. Admi nodded her way with another smile.
‘My farewell to you both,’ Admi said. ‘I’ll be off, then.’
For a moment they stood watching him waddle across the plaza, stepping carefully on the slick cobblestones. He turned down the narrow path that led to the western flank of Citadel, where the temple of the local gods and the cottage belonging to Werda, the town’s Spirit Talker, stood close together.
‘My curse upon him!’ Raena snarled. ‘Will no one in this stinking town even speak my name?’
‘Here, he did give you a greeting of a sort. Some weeks past he’d not have done that much. Patience, my love.’
Raena tossed her head in such anger that the hood of her cloak fell back. With a muffled oath she pulled it back up again.
‘Patience!’ she snarled. ‘I be sick of that as well.’
‘Well, no doubt, and I can’t hold it to your blame. I did speak with some of the townswomen and did ask them to intercede for us with the Spirit Talker. If only she’d bless our marriage –’
Raena jerked her head around and spat on the cobbles. Two of the passing servants stopped to consider her, and Verrarc could see the twist of contempt on their faces.
‘Shall we go home?’ Verrarc grabbed Raena’s arm through the muffling cloak.
‘I’d rather not!’ She pulled away and strode off fast across the plaza, though in but a few steps she nearly slipped. With another curse she slowed down to let Verrarc catch up with her. When he touched her arm she turned and suddenly smiled at him.
‘My apologies, my love,’ she said. ‘It does gripe my heart, is all, to see your fellow citizens look down long noses at me.’
‘It does gripe mine, too.’
They walked on, past the stone council house that graced the side of the plaza opposite the temple. At the stone well Verrarc paused. Wrapped in her shabby cloak Dera was hauling up a bucket of water. He’d not heard that she’d mended from her latest bout of winter rheum, and her face seemed thinner than ever, framed by wisps of grey hair.
‘Here!’ Verrarc called out. ‘Let me take that for you.’
He hurried over, leaving Raena to follow after, and grabbed the heavy bucket’s handle in both hands. Dera let it go with a sigh of thanks. Her face was pale, as well as thin, and scored with deep wrinkles across her cheeks.
‘You’ll not be carrying such when I’m about,’ Verrarc said, smiling. ‘I do ken that Kiel be on watch, but surely your man or your daughter could have fetched this.’
‘Lael be off setting traps in the granary.’ Dera’s voice rasped, all parched. ‘And Niffa? Well, the poor little thing be wrapped in her grief. Sometimes she does stay abed all through the daylight, only to sit up weeping in the night.’
‘Ai!’ Verrarc shook his head and sighed. ‘That be a sad thing, truly, and her so young.’
‘It is. Well, good morrow, Mistress Raena! Taking a bit of air with your man?’
‘I am indeed.’ Raena had come up beside him. ‘And a good morrow to you, Mistress Dera.’ She smiled, nearly radiant. ‘It does gladden my heart to see you well.’
‘My thanks,’ Dera said. ‘But I’d best not stay out in this cold, alas.’
‘Indeed you shouldn’t,’ Verrarc said. ‘I’ll just be carrying this down for you.’
‘I’ll be going back home, then.’ Raena glanced his way. ‘This winter air, it does cut like ice. But Mistress Dera, might I come pay a call on your daughter? Mayhap I could help cheer her.’
‘Why, now, that would be most kind of you!’
Dera smiled, Raena smiled, but Verrarc found himself suddenly wondering if Raena would harm the lass. His fear shamed him; it seemed such a foreign thought, dropped into his mind by some other person or perhaps even a spirit. He carried the water bucket down the twisting path to Dera’s rooms behind the public granary and saw her safely inside, then hurried back to the house. By then the sun hung close to the horizon, and the winter night loomed.
When he came in, Raena was sitting in her chair near the roaring fire. He hung his cloak on the peg next to hers and joined her, stretching out grateful hands to the warmth.
‘Dera, she be a decent soul indeed,’ Raena said.
‘She is,’ Verrarc said, ‘and I trust you’ll remember how highly I honour her and hers. No harm to her kin, Rae. I mean it.’
‘Of course not! What do you think I might do?’
‘I did wonder why you showed such interest in Niffa, naught more.’
They considered each other, and once again Verrarc felt his old suspicion rise. Had Raena somehow murdered Niffa’s husband? She’d been worshipping her wretched Lord Havoc in the ruins when Demet had been slain, after all. Don’t be a fool, he told himself. How could she possible have harmed a strong young lad such as he? Lord Havoc, now – him he could believe a murderer.
‘Oh come now, Verro.’ Raena lowered her voice. ‘Remember you not the omen I did see, that Niffa does have the gifts of the witch road? Twere a grand thing if I did enlist her in our studies.’
‘Ah. True spoken.’
Yet the fear returned from its hiding place, somewhere deep in his mind beyond his rational understanding. He felt as if he were remembering some incident, some time when she’d done something to earn this distrust, but no matter how hard he tried, the memory stayed stubbornly beyond his conscious mind.
* * *
A bowl of dried apples preserved in honey made a generous gift, here in winter when food was scarce, but Niffa felt like knocking it out of Raena’s hands. Dera, however, smiled as she took it from their guest. She set it on the table, then bent her knees in an awkward curtsey.
‘This be so generous of you, Mistress Raena,’ Dera said. ‘It will do my poor raw throat good.’
If it doesn’t poison you, Niffa thought. She wanted to snatch the bowl and hurl it to the floor so badly that her hands shook. She clasped them tightly behind her and wondered if she were going daft, to believe that Verrarc’s woman meant them harm, when she knew with equal certainty that the councilman would never allow anyone to injure Dera.
‘My poor child!’ Raena said. ‘You do look so wan. You’d best sit down and close to your hearth too.’
Niffa managed to mumble a pleasantry and sat on the floor, leaving their only chair for the visitor and the bench for her mother. Raena sat down, opened her cloak, and pulled it back, but she left it draped over her shoulders to ward off the chill. Around her neck hung a silver pomander; she raised it to her nose and breathed deeply.
‘I do apologize,’ Dera said. ‘The
