Free A Tapestry of Spells by Lynn Kurland

polluted by things ugly and deadly.
    I have nowhere else to turn.
    He looked at his weapons he’d propped up against a chair, looked at the books on the table that he had yet to read for the third time, looked at the fine supper that had been provided by eminently pedestrian, non-magical means.
    And he thought about that woman who was out in the forest, alone.
    He fought with himself for a good half hour until his bread was cold and his ale warm in his hand.
    Then he cursed viciously, slammed his glass down on the table, and went to look for a warmer cloak.

Five

    S arah knelt next to a pile of kindling and struck her knife against her flint. It would have helped if the moss had been dry, or if she had possessed anything of an otherworldly nature that might have been useful in convincing dry underbrush to light. Unfortunately, she was who she was and she was limited to what she had on hand, which wasn’t much.
    She set her knife down and blew on her fingers. Snow had begun to fall during the first night of her flight and continued on steadily ever since. At least she had boots, and she had taken her skirt and turned it into a makeshift cloak. She supposed that considering she’d spent most of the last two days running or walking as if the very demons of hell—or angry villagers, as might have been the case—were behind her, she should have at least been warm from that exertion. The truth was, all that running had done nothing but leave her exhausted and profoundly chilled.
    She dropped her knife twice before she managed to take a decent hold of it. She started to curse, then stopped abruptly, less out of a desire to be ladylike and more from a desire to know if snow weighing down a branch in the distance had caused that cracking noise, or if it were something more sinister.
    She wished desperately for light. Or a sword. Or the skill to wield the latter and create the former.
    Castân was standing a handful of paces away from her, sleeping on his feet, seemingly unconcerned about what she thought she was hearing. Then again, he was a very confused beast, so perhaps he wasn’t to be relied on. He had, over the course of their journey so far, grazed on too much dry grass, vomited it all up, dashed after a rabbit, then held it in his jaws and looked at her in consternation. She couldn’t have agreed more. Magic was, as she had said more than once, a perplexing business—
    A twig snapped behind her.
    She froze, then reached down carefully for her knife. The blade was actually quite large and fierce-looking—chickens lived in fear of her, truly, along with several of the less gentlemanly lads down at the pub—but her hands were cold and clumsy and the blade seemed more unwieldy than it should have. But she was now convinced there was more in the woods than met the eye, so she would use her knife whether it came to her hand easily or not.
    She staggered to her feet, then spun around to find a shadow standing ten paces from her. It was dark despite the snow that lay in drifts around her, and that did nothing to help her determine a strategy. She supposed when it came down to it, how she fought was less important than winning the battle, so she would just have to make do in the dark.
    She ripped her skirt-turned-cloak off over her head so it didn’t hamper her and brandished her knife. Her attacker tilted his hooded head, then reached up and drew two long hunting knives from sheaths strapped to his back. The steel glinted wickedly in the faint light, but Sarah didn’t flinch. She had discovered from years of hard experience that the surest way to embolden an opponent was to show weakness. It was also advantageous, she had learned, to make certain her opponent thought her too much trouble to bother with.
    She threw herself into the fray, such as it was, with her best curses, signaling to the man that he would be much happier to look for trouble elsewhere. Unfortunately, he merely stepped aside to avoid her thrusts, the