Blood Red (9781101637890) (19 page)

He didn't have to tell them twice. Before Rosa could blink, the circle was emptied of Elementals, but full of Earth energies. Elementals liked things in balance; if they hadn't managed to
steal
something, if they accepted a gift, they were uneasy until they gave a gift in return.

Dominik gave her a long and measuring look. She returned it.

“You don't entirely trust us,” he said. “Me and Markos, that is. But you trust me a little more than Markos.”

Well if he was going to be candid with her, she would be just as blunt with him.

“I've been killing shifters for a long time now,” she pointed out. “And when I was a young child, one tried to kill me, and did succeed in murdering my teacher. I found the mangled body in the pantry I tried to hide in. This is the first time I've seen one that didn't want to kill me first.”

“A good point.” Dominik nodded. “Well, since you are not drawing a knife on me just yet, let me address your injuries first. Then, when that is done, we can speak of other things.”

That was, to her mind, a perfectly reasonable response.

“As you will,” she replied.

U
SING
Earth Magic to heal, as Rosa was well aware, was generally not that . . . impressive. It certainly wasn't as impressive as making lightning strike, or controlling a wildfire. Dominik simply muttered a few things under his breath, and sketched a couple of sigils in the air, while she sat where she was and watched, with interest but not a lot of comprehension, as the golden glow of the magic somehow drained
into
her. She didn't feel any immediate relief, either—but she hadn't expected to. She had been worked on by a healer many times in the past, and she knew that in most circumstances, a healer merely helped your body to heal itself more quickly. She'd heard of healers doing more than that in great and desperate situations, but she had never seen such a thing, nor spoken with anyone who had.

On the other hand, she had never met a “good” shape-shifter before either, so . . . it could be possible.

When the last of the golden glow was gone, she flexed her shoulder experimentally. “Well, I can see that by morning that
will
be better,” she remarked, pleased. She knew her body well enough to be able to tell when even the smallest improvements had taken place. Already there was a little less pain and a little more free movement. That was a sign she was healing faster than she would have on her own.

“Good. Now, about my cousin . . .” A couple of the little
alvar
crept close again, and settled down politely near them, watching their faces and listening. Dominik coughed politely. “You know, the Nagy family is very well thought of where we come from. They perform exactly the same sort of tasks that your Schwarzwald Brotherhood does—they keep the land healthy, they hunt down magicians gone to the bad and evil things, they find lost children. It is just that some of them do so on four legs, at need.”

The light from the garden lamps fell clearly on both of them, so she studied his expression. It was open and honest, and the way the
alvar
were at ease with him just reinforced the fact that they had vouched for him, and for his cousin, Markos.

The only possible conclusion was that she needed to make some fundamental changes in her outlook, at least where the extended Nagy family was concerned.

She took a long, deep breath to calm herself. “I understand that is your reality. But you must please understand that this is very difficult for me to believe. My reality is that I have never once encountered a shifter that was not murdering people, Elementals, or both. I generally ended up fighting for my life when I encountered one. And the few times that I did not, it was because I killed them before they knew I was there.”

“But!” Dominik said, raising a finger. “Wait! Have you ever encountered one that was
not
either a sorcerer, or cursed, or infected? I would think not. The ability to shift from birth is confined to a very few bloodlines, and every one of those I know personally is . . . moral to a fault.”

She thought about that for a while. “I believe you are correct in asking me that question. I don't think I have ever encountered one that was born to the . . . would you call it a talent?”

“I certainly would,” he said emphatically. “Absolutely. And absolutely, I would trust those I know under any and all circumstances. I
mean
that, Fraulein, and I have done so. I have spent time utterly alone with Markos when he was shifted and never had a moment of unease. And as for the rest of his family—well! I have known Nagys to go out into howling blizzards, into conditions that would kill a man, and patiently herd cattle, sheep, or goats into shelter, thus saving the herds and the livelihoods of their neighbors. I have known them to search for missing children until their paws bled. I have known them to search for missing men, and when found, hold bears or boars off wounded hunters all by themselves. And I have
never
known them to harm so much as a hair on the head of someone who did not deserve punishment.”

Every word rang of conviction. More, every word sounded like something he actually had witnessed for himself.

She blinked, taken a bit aback at his vehemence. “You are very eloquent in their defense,” she managed. She went from sitting cross-legged to hugging her knees, glad that her clothing allowed her to do so. She was feeling defensive, and was not used to feeling that way during a . . . discussion.

Then again, she had never had a discussion quite like this one.

“Because they deserve defending.” He shrugged, but she got the feeling that was a kind of habit, rather than an expression of indifference. “I want you to understand that the Nagys are the allies of humanity, not predators. I want you to understand that Markos in particular is a good, honorable warrior in the service of the right. That he happens to wear fur to go to war is irrelevant.”

“This seems very important to you,” she observed.
Which is odd, considering that we've only just met, and may never meet again . . . unless you know something I do not.

His next words confirmed that guess. “Yes, this is important to me, because the reason he and I are here is that we need the help of someone from the Count's White Lodge, a Lodge he can introduce us to, or your Bruderschaft—and that someone might well be you.”

“Me?” She managed not to squeak the word, but it was a near thing. Was this a consequence of all those introductions the Graf had been making? Or was it something else entirely?

“Possibly. We will not know until we speak at length with the Count and Master Gunther.” He shrugged again. He got to his feet and offered her his hand. She put out her good hand, he grasped the wrist, and helped her to her feet. He was as strong as he looked. She let go of his hand as soon as she was on her feet. “And we will probably talk about it for several days yet. As the Count said, this is not—as yet—an emergency or a crisis. In fact, we have reason to believe the situation has persisted for decades, so a few days more will be of no matter.”

Well, that truly got her interest. A situation that had persisted for decades? She could think of a few things that the Bruderschaft had dealt with that matched that description. It seemed that the Schwarzwald liked to hide secrets that were revealed only when someone stumbled upon them. Once, it had been a colony of particularly nasty little goblins that had been invoked by a long-ago Master gone bad, and had been left behind to work as much undirected mischief as they cared to when he died. More than once, it had been an evil magician who was also cunning enough to keep his depredations at such a low level that he remained unnoticed until he happened to choose the wrong victim—someone or something that had been missed.

That was the most likely scenario here. The most successful villains were those who kept their ambition and greed within bounds—who practiced self-restraint, and did not allow their emotions to get the better of them. Who, like wise predators, did not kill indiscriminately. Such were, thankfully, rare. But when they did occur, they were all the harder to find.

Gone, thank the Good God, were the days when the likes of Countess Bartholdy could keep an entire fiefdom in silent and abject terror. But that only meant that great evil had to exercise great cunning.

“I could eat another plate of sausage after that, I think,” Dominik said, abruptly changing the subject, and smiling at her with great charm. She usually did not care for men with moustaches, but she thought Dominik looked rather dashing. “I hope there is still some left.”

“I am not in the least surprised that you are ravenous,” she told him lightly, sensing she would not hear another word out of him on the subject of why he and Markos were here until he was ready. “The healers of the Bruderschaft generally eat twice as much as the rest of us, and stay lean as a staff.” She gestured up at the terrace and the ersatz
bierhalle
. “Shall we go and let your cousin know he can pull his not-so-metaphorical tail from between his legs, and that I will not be hunting for my coach gun or my knives?”

“So, have I persuaded you already that we are on the side of the angels?” He sounded surprised.

“I would not go so far as that,” she cautioned, “But it is truce between us for now. It is not that you are not persuasive, Herr Petro. It is that I have much to overcome before I am trusting. The habits and fears of a lifetime are not overcome by a few words, no matter how well chosen.”

“Point taken. Truce and at least the appearance of friendship will be enough.” He gestured to her to proceed. They climbed the steps to the terrace to find that the party had spilled out into the fresh air and the band had retired. Some servants were already dismantling the
bierhalle
and restoring the furnishings. Others were waiting attendance on the terrace. Since the terrace was supplied with summer furnishings, no comfort was lost in coming outside into the balmy night air.

“Rosa, and Dominik, we were just discussing what should be the entertainment for tomorrow!” the Graf said as they climbed up onto the terrace and looked about.

“Something not so strenuous as today, I think,” Rosa said feelingly. “Other than that, I fear I am at a loss to suggest anything. We tend to spend what leisure time we have in the Schwarzwald very quietly.”

Really, whenever she thought of
free time,
the first thing that sprang to her mind was reading. A pile of cushions between the roots of a tree in summer, or warmly toasting by the fire in winter with a new book—this was her notion of a fine way to spend a few hours.

“If I may suggest, my lord?” The butler, splendidly attired in old-fashioned livery that included knee breeches, was supervising the servants out here on the terrace, standing not far from the Graf, and interjected his few words diffidently and with profound respect.

“By all means, Bergdorf, suggest away!” the Graf exclaimed.

The butler bowed. “There is a band of gypsies camped down at the meadow you reserve for them. I could send to see if they would be willing to provide some entertainment on the morrow, in the evening.”

Rosa perked up at that suggestion. The Bruderschaft and the Romany got along well together, as did most Elemental Magicians—magic ran strongly in the Romany blood, and while the Roma did not scruple to work their tricks on most
gadjo,
they never would do so on fellow magicians. That was probably why the Graf had a designated safe area for the Roma to camp in; it kept them secure from persecution, and discouraged mischief on the part of the Roma, who would not bring trouble to one who was willing to host them.

“That is an excellent plan; please see to it, Bergdorf. And even if they are unwilling or have nothing to entertain us with, make sure you tender my respects, and deliver the usual provender.” Rosa smiled at that last, for the Graf was wise. Offer the Roma hospitality and they would confine themselves to gathering what they could find in the forest and setting snares for rabbits.

She liked gypsies, and yet felt sad for them at the same time. Very few cared to host them. They were persecuted in nearly every land. And you could go on about “the romance of the road” all you liked, but the road was a very, very hard life and there was nothing romantic about being crammed, entire families, into a wagon the size of her bedroom. She hoped they would come, for she loved to watch gypsy dancing, and to listen to their melancholy, yet defiant, music.

“Since the children were essentially deprived of their Hunt today, why not arrange some contests for them during the day?” she ventured to suggest, as she took a lounging chair near the Graf and Gunther. “Archery, perhaps. Croquet and shuttlecock. Footraces? That sort of thing? There could be prizes. That way they would get over not winning the Hunt prize.”

“Another excellent suggestion.” The Graf nodded. “Wear the little creatures out all afternoon so that supper makes them sleepy and we can send them off to bed at sunset and get them out from underfoot.”

“My dear Count!” exclaimed one of the mothers, half laughing and half in reproach, “You have such an unromantic view of children!”

“Children are unromantic beings, my lady,” the Graf retorted, waggling a finger at her. “Little savages, in fact. There is not a sentimental bone in a child's body, I do assure you. The best thing one can do for them on a daily basis is wear them out so they sleep well at night, and by way of education stuff their heads full of what you would like them to know in the fond hope they will actually retain some of it.”

Evidently the lady in question knew the Graf well enough not to be offended, because she laughed. “A good thing you never had any of your own, then,” she retorted. “That is an appalling way to raise a child! Oh, fresh air and sunshine and a great deal of exercise, but if you wish a child to learn, you must find a way to make him love to learn. Stuffing their little heads full will only make them sick of learning and turn them into very dull adults.”

Torches had been set up all around the terrace, and each of the little tables had its own lantern, so there was plenty of light. The Graf had remarkably comfortable outdoor furniture, not stiff wood or wrought iron, but yielding wickerwork with cushions. She wished she could whisk some of it away to the Lodge.

The men were drinking port and smoking cigars now, while the ladies sipped sherry or coffee—thanks to Marie, Rosa knew that if this had been a “real” gathering, the men and women would be divided into two different rooms. The men would be smoking and drinking in exclusively male company, in the billiard room, while the ladies occupied the parlor. Perhaps some of the younger men—especially if they were interested in the young ladies—would adjourn to the parlor, but only after a suitable interval in exclusively masculine company.

What a ridiculous custom!
Marie said it was because men would use the opportunity to speak of “serious” topics, politics, business, and the like—as if women weren't just as interested in those things as men! But there it was: outside of the circles of the Elemental Mages—or the circles of the bohemian artists and writers and musicians—such topics were not thought “suitable” for female minds.