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“Em?”
“It was…secondhand.” Emrys paused, sorted through words like the unearthing of stepping-stones, places to land. “Not innate. I think he bought something, paid someone…to set up an object, an amulet, something to cause harm—to break the bridge timbers. That would be possible; anyone with a certain amount of power and a gift for resonances could do it.”
“A witch,” Lady Caris said softly; and in her voice every one of those old legends cackled and muttered: men and women who’d learned spells, who’d cursed others, who had indeed caused harm…
Of course she herself had just done magic. In front of her people.
“It’s a word,” Em said. “Magic is magic. Some people call me a witch.”
“Some people,” Aric countered, “call you a hero.” That got him one of Em’s real and brilliant grins; it left him breathless with love.
Em mused, “You’d need a bit of the bridge itself, and then something from your wagons or your workshops, something that’s yours, to know when that exact presence passed over…it would take some setting up, but it’s not that difficult once that’s done; it only needs a push. And the ability to not care about who might be hurt, of course.”
“Of course,” Aric said. He’d heard what Emrys hadn’t said. He was pretty sure Caris hadn’t; but he did not comment. Em always had a reason. “Can you find out who did it?”
“Not now, not from here, not with the bridge out.” Em devoured more gingerbread, set the plate down, licked a finger. “If I’d known beforehand…maybe. But that sort of work isn’t very visible, magically speaking, until it very much is visible, if that makes sense. Or maybe it is and I just don’t know. I’m not exactly formally trained.”
Caris, surprised, said, “I thought—” and stopped.
“No.” Em did the tiny shrug again, not moving much. “I spent a long time trying to—to not be what I was. To be rid of it.” The long sleeves of that shirt hid those oldest thin white scars; Aric reached over for the closest fairy-hand anyway, and held it, heedless of ginger stickiness.
Em tossed him a smile, easy enough for the moment, weightless as lace over deep water. “Yes. Well. What I do, I do from instinct—or it’s what I’ve learned from having been his partner, these past couple years. Strategy. Tactics. The sorts of magic we might need.”
“Strategy,” Caris echoed. Her face was rueful. “And not being what you know you are, inside…the sorts of magic you need. I had thought of asking—but I also see why you might not want to, or be able to, answer that question…”
“Oh, I can talk to you,” Em said, and their eyes met. “I think we should talk.” For an instant, framed by brittle afternoon light and heaped-up jewel-hued fabrics, they looked not alike but similar: edges of magic, knowledge of concealment, shared between a glittering merchant heiress and a half-fairy sword-for-hire, though in Em’s case it was mostly knives.
“Tomorrow,” Aric objected. “You’re resting today.”
“No,” said Lady Caris; and Aric opened his mouth to snap I meant my partner, not you! before remembering that technically the woman paid their wages, which they needed. Caris went on, “We will be in Sudgarth the day after tomorrow. As agreed upon.”
“You just fought a river—”
“As promised, Storm-Wielder, in my own contract. Signed with the Ayling name.” Her tone was a remonstration, a reassertion of control: putting herself back together, with each building-block word. “Supplying the Duke with everything he could possibly need, for his entire household, his enormous castle, his servants, his new bride, and her lapdogs. On time. Reliably so.”
Aric was aware his mouth remained open. He hadn’t figured out how to shut it yet.
“We will depart in half an hour. We are behind schedule as it is.”
Aric looked at Emrys. Em lifted both eyebrows in a fleeting what did you expect from merchants? gesture.
“You may rest here, if you’d like—you’re welcome to anything you might want. Honey cakes, mushroom pasties…” Caris had pulled her hair into a braid, swift and orderly. “I’ll return before we depart. And you and I can…speak.” She’d straightened her shoulders, but her eyes were apologetic, for an instant: gazing at Em. She touched a blanket, a pillow. “Rest. I’ll organize the caravan.”
In the absence of steel-backed presence, the wagon exhaled, becoming looser, more spacious. Emrys closed both eyes again. Rubbed a temple, winced. When he looked up, he’d opted for more human, almost the same slender young man Aric had met—or met again, since he’d been expecting the young woman he’d saved—two and a half years ago, on a chilly morning after a rescue from fire and blood.
Almost the same. Em’s eyes were different: battle-experienced, in love, wry, aware of the pounding of Aric’s heart. “I’ve felt worse.”
“Have you?”
“Yes, but not lately. That was a lot. No, it’s all right, I’ll be fine.” Em said that seriously: an experienced campaigner these days, not trying to conceal or dismiss injury, simply truthful. “My head’s killing me and I wouldn’t want to wrestle even a snail, but I’m not hurt as such. More a pulled muscle, or eight pulled muscles, magically speaking.”
“Eat more. I think these’re carrot-berry pies. Was she serious about riding out in half an hour? After that? We could say no.”
“She was entirely serious. And, you know, there’s no reason not to…” Em broke off a bit of pie-crust, turned it into crumbs, did not eat them. “We can travel. It’s important to her: keeping her word. And we did our job, keeping her safe.”
“More than.” Aric put an arm around him. “You told her about the bridge. Not the water. They were different?”
“And not in a good way. The bridge was something human; she’s probably right about that. Which means she’s got an enemy, and won’t that be fun. The water…” Em crumbled another piece of pie-crust. “That was earth-magic, the elements, old power. That was my father.”
