Bunny trotted up to sniff at the horse.Not too bright, are you?
Now see here—Kismet began, snorting through his nostrils, and dancing uneasily.
“Enough, both of you,” Sebastien said.
Dangerous,Nonna whimpered, quivering against his mental grip.
Not a danger to you or yours, puppy,Bunny said, wagging his extensively feathery tail.
“See, Nonna? Bunny is your friend.” Which was good as thescáthcúwas bigger than three of Nonna put together.
Nina was my friend,Nonna replied sullenly.
Sebastien sheathed his sword and dismounted. “Your name is Bunny? That seems… unlikely.”
Just my most recent name, given to me by a wise woman. I like it.
“I see,” Sebastien said, though he didn’t, really.
Sorry I’m late. It took me a long time to walk here.
Late? “What do you mean it took a long time to walk here?”
From Oneira’s house. Adsila can travel the Dream and Moriah has her own paths, but I have to walk. But I’m here now! I’m so happy to see you!Before Sebastien thought to duck, Bunny had swiped his face with that black tongue, from collarbones to forehead.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Sebastien said drily, wiping his face with his sleeve. “You’re the sorceress Oneira’sscáthcú? Is she the wise woman you mentioned?”
I’m my ownscáthcú, but definitely Oneira’s friend and she’s definitely wise. Now I’m your friend. You, however, are maybe not wise.
“True enough,” Sebastien conceded ruefully.
I don’t judge. Are we going on a trip?
“I have somewhere to be, yes.”
I’ll come along! We’ll need snacks though.
I like snacks,Nonna agreed, sounding tentatively friendly.
“I like snacks, too,” he told them. And Thorn liked food. He could bring her something she’d never had before. There was that little bakery in the village by the millpond. Maybe something from there?
Sebastien again mounted Kismet, who rolled his eyes at Bunny and grumbled incoherently, but said nothing more. Nonna fell in beside Bunny, taking five steps for every one of thescáthcú’s, ears lifted higher than they’d been since Nina wentinto the Dream. They traveled quickly to the Aswad Woods, stopping only to acquire food for Bunny, and also for Nonna, who’d already eaten but wouldn’t be denied, and arrived at the cottage in the late afternoon.
Sebastien slowed Kismet as they approached, his heart speeding in a counterpoint of glad anticipation. Thorn was here. Smoke rose from the cottage’s chimney. From what he could see through the bramble-covered fence, the garden looked neater than it had, too. Chickens pecked through the garden and a goat stood on a low rise, eyeing him.
Suddenly nervous in a way he’d never been about meeting a woman, he dismounted and prepared to lead Kismet through the garden gate. The gelding, at least, had finally relaxed about Bunny’s presence and no longer asked Sebastien if he was sure thescáthcúwasn’t a tiger. He’d also, blessedly, stopped asking about Nina as often, as had Nonna, so Sebastien was grateful for the distraction of Bunny’s strange arrival.
Sebastien reached for the latch on the gate and found himself pulling his hand away. Also, very oddly, he’d also started to lead Kismet away. What was going on?
Wards,Bunny informed him.Several kinds. Woven all through this rose stuff.He sniffed the rose canes, snaking emerald black in a dense weave over the wooden fence. Following Bunny’s lead, Nonna sniffed, too, her thoughts a confused grumble.Makes you want to leave and won’t let you through if you decide to try,Bunny explained.
No wonder Thorn had been so insistent that first day that they not go inside. Sebastien had learned a little bit about wards and wardbreaking, though all theoretical so far, and only at the remedial level. That particular class he took with mostly ten- to twelve-year-olds, all of whom already knew more than he did. But he did know some of the fundamentals.
“Well, I’m going to try,” he declared, drawing his sword. “Sometimes might is the solution to a magical problem,” he toldBunny, who watched him with a quizzically tilted head, one ear cocked. “I’ve learned that wards need a structure, so if I destroy the fence, the wards will fall apart. Watch this.”
His swordmaster would cringe at him using his sword like an axe, but Sebastien didn’t care. He could always get another sword. He began hacking away at the rose canes that braided around the borders of the gate, thinking to free the wood of their binding embrace first. Somehow, though, as soon as he sliced some away, others seemed to slither in to replace them. He didn’t actually see them moving, but from one thought to the next, what had been open space would be again filled, and more densely.
Worse, though he used a long sword and quite deftly—he might be an amateur sorcerer, but he was an expert swordsman—the thorns on the rose canes kept finding him, snagging the skin of his hands, arms, and face. Soon out of breath, he staggered back from the gate, feeling hundreds of pricks from the thorns, his wounded thigh aching. Sweat and blood ran hot on his face and crimson streaked his hands, soaking the fabric of his shirt. If only Rotten Rupert could see him now, he wouldn’t call Sebastien too pretty. Though he’d have plenty to mock.
