Read Online Sun Wolf 3 - The Dark Hand Of Magic by Barbara Hambly - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Barbara Hambly
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cloaked, a hood drawn over her face. Motionless in the fey web of illusion, the Wolf smelled the perfume of her body, mingled scents of autumn flowers and womanhood, mixed with the dim pungence of what he recognized as hellebore. Now and then her cloak would move aside with the sweep of her arm as she passed the branch along the charred beams, and in its shadow jewels sparked on velvet. For a few moments he watched her in silence, big arms folded across his chest, breathing slow and soundless. Then he moved.
She gasped as his hands seized her arms above the elbows, dropping the plant she carried as she tried to turn and strike him, but didn’t go for a weapon. Her hood fell back, freeing a raven torrent of curls. “No! Let me go! Please!” His hands tightened hard, and she stood still in his grasp.
To say her eyes were brown would have been like describing those deep, volcanic lakes of the Corn Massif as blue—accurate only up to a point. In the crisscrossed darkness of the siege tower they seemed almost black, enormous in the delicate modeling of the most exquisite face Sun Wolf had ever seen. The ends of her hair tickled his wrists where he held on to her; it would spring back, he thought distractedly, were he to crush it in his hands.
“What are you doing here?” His voice, never melodious and worse since the Great Trial, sounded hoarser than ever in his ears.
She gazed up at him for a moment with scared eyes, wary as a wildcat in the gloom. Around her throat, shining against the dusky skin, lay the thin steel of a gold-plated slip-chain, a slave collar too delicate to discommode a master’s caressing hand seriously. She wore another necklace with it, a baroque pearl on a chain. Where the cloak had slipped down, he saw half-bared creamy shoulders above a bodice of blood-colored silk and the froth of chemise lace. Gently he released her and bent to pick up the herbs she’d dropped. “White hellebore,” he said softly. “They brew poison from its roots.”
Her hand, which had reached out for the branch, drew quickly back. “I didn’t know that.” Her accent was the soft drawl of the Gwarl
Peninsula, on whose western coasts they’d been fighting last year. “They said in the camp the tower was witched. My granny used to tell me hellebore would show a witch’s mark.”
“Only to another witch.”
Her brows—butterfly lines of fragile black—puckered slightly, breaking the smooth quizzical beauty of her face with something infinitely more human and tender.
“Oh, damn,” she breathed, vexed, and bit her red lower lip with small white teeth as if in thought. Then her frown deepened, and she looked quickly up at him in the gloom. “Oh, double damn! Are you the wizard?”
He grinned at the startled disbelief in her voice. “Yeah, but I left my beard and pointy hat back in the tent.”
It startled her into a giggle, swiftly suppressed; the dimples still quivered in the corners of her lips as she dropped her gaze in confusion. He fought the impulse to reach out and touch her. By the chain, she was another man’s slave. He wondered whose.
“I’m sorry.” She looked up at him again, her eyes filled with rueful self-amusement. “They did say you used to command the troop. Of course you couldn’t do that if you were . . . ” She bit her lip again, a tiny gesture that didn’t disturb the dark stain of rose petals there.
“Were old enough to look like wizards are supposed to look?”
She ducked her head again. “Something like that.”
“And you are . . . ?”
“Opium.”
The delicate brows flexed down again; something changed in her kohl-darkened eyes. As if she felt his gaze, she drew her cloak back up over her shoulders and, with a gesture almost instinctive, tucked up a stray tendril of her tumbled hair and straightened the pearl on its chain. “My man was killed by that fire.” There was a note that was not quite defensive, not quite defiant, in her voice. “He
She gasped as his hands seized her arms above the elbows, dropping the plant she carried as she tried to turn and strike him, but didn’t go for a weapon. Her hood fell back, freeing a raven torrent of curls. “No! Let me go! Please!” His hands tightened hard, and she stood still in his grasp.
To say her eyes were brown would have been like describing those deep, volcanic lakes of the Corn Massif as blue—accurate only up to a point. In the crisscrossed darkness of the siege tower they seemed almost black, enormous in the delicate modeling of the most exquisite face Sun Wolf had ever seen. The ends of her hair tickled his wrists where he held on to her; it would spring back, he thought distractedly, were he to crush it in his hands.
“What are you doing here?” His voice, never melodious and worse since the Great Trial, sounded hoarser than ever in his ears.
She gazed up at him for a moment with scared eyes, wary as a wildcat in the gloom. Around her throat, shining against the dusky skin, lay the thin steel of a gold-plated slip-chain, a slave collar too delicate to discommode a master’s caressing hand seriously. She wore another necklace with it, a baroque pearl on a chain. Where the cloak had slipped down, he saw half-bared creamy shoulders above a bodice of blood-colored silk and the froth of chemise lace. Gently he released her and bent to pick up the herbs she’d dropped. “White hellebore,” he said softly. “They brew poison from its roots.”
Her hand, which had reached out for the branch, drew quickly back. “I didn’t know that.” Her accent was the soft drawl of the Gwarl
Peninsula, on whose western coasts they’d been fighting last year. “They said in the camp the tower was witched. My granny used to tell me hellebore would show a witch’s mark.”
“Only to another witch.”
Her brows—butterfly lines of fragile black—puckered slightly, breaking the smooth quizzical beauty of her face with something infinitely more human and tender.
“Oh, damn,” she breathed, vexed, and bit her red lower lip with small white teeth as if in thought. Then her frown deepened, and she looked quickly up at him in the gloom. “Oh, double damn! Are you the wizard?”
He grinned at the startled disbelief in her voice. “Yeah, but I left my beard and pointy hat back in the tent.”
It startled her into a giggle, swiftly suppressed; the dimples still quivered in the corners of her lips as she dropped her gaze in confusion. He fought the impulse to reach out and touch her. By the chain, she was another man’s slave. He wondered whose.
“I’m sorry.” She looked up at him again, her eyes filled with rueful self-amusement. “They did say you used to command the troop. Of course you couldn’t do that if you were . . . ” She bit her lip again, a tiny gesture that didn’t disturb the dark stain of rose petals there.
“Were old enough to look like wizards are supposed to look?”
She ducked her head again. “Something like that.”
“And you are . . . ?”
“Opium.”
The delicate brows flexed down again; something changed in her kohl-darkened eyes. As if she felt his gaze, she drew her cloak back up over her shoulders and, with a gesture almost instinctive, tucked up a stray tendril of her tumbled hair and straightened the pearl on its chain. “My man was killed by that fire.” There was a note that was not quite defensive, not quite defiant, in her voice. “He
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