Mercedes Lackey: Lamma's Night (anthology)

"None of us know just how Kenlan died," Balbas said. His mouth tightened into a grim expression, and then, through obvious effort, relaxed again. "All we know is that it was magic, and he's dead, and we've had a hard year because of it. You, Mistress, will probably learn more than that, simply by examining his home. A home, I might add, which can easily be yours. A library that was Kenlan's pride, a good deep well, and a large number of customers who are not above begging if it means you will stay, if only through the winter."

Winter under shelter of her own. That did sound like a nice change. "I have a job to do now," she told him. "If you come with us, afterward you may show me this house."

Balbas was pleased to accompany them to Sennalee's house, where Dyanara put a simple charm on the family's new plow. The work was quickly done, and the walk to Kenlan's house only a few miles.

The house greeted her almost as though it were alive, with an odd air of eagerness, a forlorn sigh of cobweb. A small gray cat crept out from a cranny in the woodpile and met her before the door, tail held high and aquiver with pleasure. Dyanara scooped the creature up without thought, letting it settle against her chest. It purred, its eyes half closed, giving her the occasional loving nudge-rub with its chin.

Balbas eyed her askance, and she looked back at him, brow raised, eyes demanding.

"No one's been able to get near that wild thing since Kenlan died," he told her, and opened the door of the house for her. He, she saw, obviously intended to stay outside with Jacoba and Stumble. No matter. He felt only that the house was different, while she knew it was safe.

When Dyanara stepped through the threshold, the house folded itself around her with the air of a long-lost friend. Though the dried remains of Kenlan's last meal still sat at the hearth, and the braided wool rugs were moth-eaten and musty, Dyanara's first impression was of welcoming warmth; she would have sworn the air held the scent of spicy tea instead of mildew.

But she blinked, and focused herself, and thus saw . It would take days to clean this house. Its roof was in dire need of repair, the rugs and bedding were ruined, and she wasn't sure the chimney was safe to use.

But it wanted her. And it made her think wistfully of her fifteen years on the road, and all the likes in her life that could have turned into loves if she'd given them half a chance, and the fact that if she'd allowed it, she could have had her own daughter's eyes watching her through the open doorway instead of Jacoba's.

She'd always been independent; fiercely so. It had served her well as she traveled from town to town, picking up bits of wizardly lore that her House had not provided, curing ills and warding homesteads against the kind of malaise that had somehow permeated every home in this area. And while fierce independence had protected her from the normal heartaches of life, she wondered about all the things she'd missed as a result, and if it had been a price too high.

Dyanara snorted, startling the cat against her breast. She looked down at it and murmured, "Never mind. I'll stay, but it's not because of the glamour you"—meaning the cat, the house, and whatever else might have had a part—"tried to work on me. It's because... maybe it's time." Gently, she set the cat on the floor, and then turned to face Balbas through the door. "I'll stay," she told him, matter-of-factly.

The relief that lit his face reminded her that Churtna was in trouble, and that Kenlan's death was still a mystery—and that she had just agreed to step into the middle of it.

Dyanara opened the house to the summer breezes and tossed the molded, useless bedding out for the birds to pick apart. She swept out the corners, bartered repair for the chimney, and sent Jacoba around to inform the village inhabitants that they could find her here.

What had killed him, and left this house for her? Such an odd little house, one the bright Jacoba entered unwillingly and only momentarily, where Dyanara found herself turning around, mouth open to speak to someone she was certain was there. Where the evening shadows sometimes held peculiar shapes, and where the brush of a breeze against her arm felt so much like the transient touch of a gentle hand.

She supposed she should be concerned; instead she felt flattered, even... courted. She enjoyed the rare quiet moments of her evenings, when she took the small gray cat into her arms, sitting in her mended rocking chair by the door and the fresh air. The cat sat quietly, kneading Dyanara's lap gently with her paws—except for those moments when she suddenly lifted her head, gave a small mrrp of greeting, and followed something—nothing that Dyanara could see—with her big green eyes. And then would come that touch, a breeze to ruffle the fine hairs of her arm.

The villagers, so long bereft of their wizard, had many needs. She gathered quickly enough that while Kenlan had been a good man, a trusted ally in the daily struggle for survival, his interests had been weighted toward study and innovation. Her own ability to sift her mind's store of practical spells and come up with the right chant for cleansing a crop of black blight or repelling a certain grub won her the instant respect of her customers.

And yet, while bartering slowly stocked her pantry, filled her woodpile, mended her roof and plowed her late garden, Dyanara realized she was not making enough of a difference. How had things gone bad so fast?

A summer morning found Dyanara crouched by the fireplace, patiently waiting for the water to boil her breakfast eggs, picking at a threadbare spot on her knee and knowing she must barter for clothing next. The steeping tea filled the cottage with beckoning spice, and the air was thick and already hot with the promise of the day, Dyanara thought she would cool the tea before she actually drank it. Practical thoughts, all of them. She ran from one to the other, trying to avoid the dream she'd woken from.

The dream—and the man in her dream. Kenlan? He was sandy-haired and several years younger than she, with suppressed excitement in his sharp-edged blue eyes—excitement mingled with something sterner, something that spoke of the knowledge of dark things. And then, fading around the edges and clear reluctance on his face, he'd left. He'd walked by her, brushing against her arm in an intimate way. A familiar touch, as gentle as a breeze.

As gentle as a breeze.

But no memory of a breeze had ever raised such goosebumps on her arms. Dyanara briskly rubbed those arms, and spooned her eggs from the water, knowing they'd still be too soft for her liking but needing to do it, to move away from her thoughts. She went to the table, bowl in hand—and there she froze. She almost dropped the bowl.

There was a blossom on her plate. Fresh white petals edged with scarlet, a mist of dew still lining the inner throat of the bell-shaped blossom... it sat there, a fragrant and flagrant impossibility. A spring offering in high summer. A lover's token.

She touched it. She gently scooped it up in her free hand and brought it close to her face, breathing its scent. And she finally admitted she was not alone in this house.

Jacoba stood in the doorway. "Sennalee's corn's got silk rot," she announced. They came to Jacoba, now, and let Jacoba take the news to Dyanara. Dyanara would have taught the girl herb lore anyway—it was nice to have help in the gathering—but it was clear that the girl liked to earn her way.

But not today. Dyanara said as much, sitting at the table with a stack of Kenlan's books in front of her. "Today, I'm trying to figure out what killed Kenlan."

"Magic he couldn't control, says Balbas," Jacoba offered. She lingered in the doorway, only one small bare foot venturing over the threshold to toe at the board floor before retreating again.