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“What… now?” I stammer.
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“No time like the present,” she grins.
“I don’t know what to say,” I protest.
“You’ll think of something,” she assures me.
“But what if you’re wrong? What if he doesn’t want to hear from me? What if he only wants access to Bill-E?”
“He can’t have it,” Meera says softly. “Billy’s dead. Dervish has manipulated you to hide from that, but he can’t anymore. It’s not healthy. Now quit stalling, get up there and put him in his place. And remember,” she grins, “he’s only a man. They’re the inferior half of the species. He’ll be putty in your hands.”
WAKING THE DEAD
I trudge up the stairs to the third floor, nervous and hesitant. I don’t want to do this. I can’t think of anything to say. I wish I’d kept my mouth shut.
Except Meera’s right. This is unacceptable. I’ve been silent too long. The old Bec wouldn’t have tolerated such disrespectful treatment. I remember when I addressed the men of my village and insisted they let me go with Goll and the others on their mission to find out where Bran came from. Conn—our king—was against it, but I stood firm. If I can stare down a king and tell him what I think, I can certainly face Dervish.
The door to his study is open. I enter, rapping on the heavy wood as I go in. The room is protected from strangers by spells. Dervish never taught me the spells, but I found them easy to break. I don’t have the power I experienced when I first came back to life—the cave was filled with energy which I could tap into—but I’m much more advanced than any present day mage.
Dervish is reading a book about werewolves.
Someone in our family bred with demons many generations ago. As a result, lots of our children transform into savage, mindless beasts who must be executed or caged for life. Various family members have searched for a cure over the centuries. Dervish is the latest, but he’s had no more luck than the others.
It’s possible I might turn one day, but I think I’ll be able to fight it. Grubbs got the better of his wolfen genes. He’s part of the Kah-Gash, and the magic of the weapon gave him the power to reject the change. I suspect I have that same power.
Dervish looks up and squints. “Is that what passes for fashion now?”
I touch my face automatically. “Does it look awful?”
“No.” He forces a thin smile. “I was only teasing. You look good.” It’s the first compliment he’s ever paid me. The small act of kindness gives me confidence. I walk around the room, studying the books on the shelves and weapons on the wall. I take down a small sword and swing it experimentally.
“Careful,” Dervish says. “That’s real.”
I whirl the sword over my head and chop down an imaginary opponent. I wasn’t supposed to practise with swords, but I did when nobody was watching. Satisfied that I haven’t lost my touch, I return the sword to its holder.
“Where’s Meera?” Dervish asks.
“Downstairs. She went to get something to eat.”
“I’ll join her. I’m feeling peckish.” He stands up and heads for the door.
“No,” I stop him. “We have to talk.”
“Later,” he scowls, waving me away.
I whip the sword off the wall again, take careful aim, then send it flying across the room. It tears through the leather panel on this side of the door and slams it shut. Dervish leaps away, giving a yelp of astonishment. He looks back at me, shocked.
“We. Have. To. Talk.”
“Since you put it so politely…” He returns to his chair, eyeing me warily. He glances at the sword buried in the door. Its hilt is still quivering. “Were you sure you wouldn’t hit me when you threw that?”
“No,” I admit.
“What if you’d struck me?”
I grin tightly. “I’m a healer. I could probably have patched you up.”
