“No, I don’t,” Wren insisted. “Do explain.”
Butcher looked at him a moment longer, then stared across the room into the fire and scratched the scar on his cheek in thought.
Wren watched him with a mixture of idle aesthetic appreciation and practical impatience—at least, until he recalled that not twelve hours hence, Butcher’s scar had been a wound.
Yet even as he stared in wonder, Wren realized his mistake. The “wound” of that morning had been mere drippings of wax, which skilful fingers had arranged to look like broken skin. Actors on the stage often employed such tricks. Now, so much later in the day, the wax had fallen off—for the most part—and only the faint red streaks of irritated skin remained.
Butcher’s rumbling voice broke through Wren’s thoughts. “I don’t know, either.”
“What?” said Wren stupidly.
“I don’t know what purpose you will serve in my quest. But,” Butcher added, with a wry half-smile that made Wren’s heart perform curious acrobatics, “I intend to find out.”
“If you don’t know how I fit into your ‘quest,’” Wren said, forcing himself to pronounce the word with extreme scepticism, “what makes you believe I’m part of it at all?”
“Because the fates have said so,” Butcher replied as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
“And pray tell, how do the fates speak to you?”
“Through ritual.”
“What, scattering bird entrails across the cobblestones? Or do you inhale mystical vapours and babble prophecy in a stupor?”
“I made a pendulum of an acorn,” said Butcher, “and ate it.”
Wren stared at him.
Butcher did not elaborate. Nor did he seem in any way discomfited by Wren’s continued scepticism.
As much as Wren enjoyed staring into so handsome a face, he didn’t want the evening to come down to a mere staring contest. He cleared this throat. “Well, you’ve certainly learnt your book by rote, and your continued improvisation on it is commendable. But you really can’t expect me to believe any of this. Not without some proof, at least.”
Butcher served him a blank look. Then, catching Wren’s eye to be sure he followed the motion, he raised both hands to either side of his head and tucked his hair behind his ears.
Prior to this moment, his raven locks had flowed down as straight and dark as ink poured from the bottle, shot through with strands of molten silver. The loose gather at the nape of his neck allowed for this remarkable hair to cover his ears. The shape of these Wren had taken for granted resembled his and those of other men.
Now, Wren’s eyes widened as he beheld a pair of ears as pointed as arrowheads.
Even as he gawked, however, he had a rational explanation to hand. Startling and remarkable craftsmanship, yes—but mere waxwork, just like the wound-turned-scar, and no doubt if he reached out and touched them they would crumble beneath his fingertips.
Wren resisted the urge to do just that and instead replied, “You say your ritual brought you to me. Magic, I presume?”
“Aye,” said Butcher.
“Why don’t you show me some more of your magic, then. Go on.” Wren gestured to the table between them. “Do a spell.”
For the first time since they’d met, Butcher appeared almost offended. “I’m a sell-sword, not a witch.”
“Yet you performed a spell to find me,” Wren countered. “Do you deny it?”
“I deny nothing,” said Butcher. “But the pendulum ritual—it’s the simplest trick. Every hunter knows it.”
“Thought you said you were a sell-sword.”
“I am a knave, and thus of all trades.” The wry half-smile returned to Butcher’s lips. “Though I excel in the hunt.”
Wren, who’d begun to feel rather hunted himself, swallowed hard.
“Right. Well,” he said, rising from his chair, “until you have some magic to show me, I’m afraid your hunt is at an end.”
