Stolen Magic(34)

They both nodded. IT waddled to the stable door. Master Robbie jumped out of the way of ITs tail. The two followed IT outside, where a cold day had descended into frigid darkness.

“Lodie, sleep tonight. Master Robbie as well. The thief or thieves cannot leave, and you need your faculties. Lodie, consult with Master Robbie as I have consulted with you both.”

That is, not at all, Elodie thought.

Master Robbie dared to say, “You’d like her to discuss her ideas with me?”

“I would. Discuss yours with her as well. If your deducing and inducing lead you to the miscreants, apply common sense before you proceed. Master Robbie: Lodie may act hastily and without thought for consequences—in a word, recklessly. Restrain her for both our sakes.”

Elodie protested. “Masteress, I’m not—”

“To their faces, you called a cruel king cruel and an enormous ogre—before you knew his kind heart—unfair. You thrust your hand into the high brunka’s rainbow.”

“But—”

“Farewell.” IT leaped into the air; ITs wings caught the wind; IT beat ITs way north.

Elodie shivered against the loss of ITs warmth. Fly swiftly. Take care. Stay safe. Hurry back.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX



“These will do.” His Lordship stood in boots of a sort, a rough tunic, and an equally rough hooded cloak. “Thank you.”

Hours earlier, in midafternoon, Brunka Arnulf had told Goodman Otto, the hunter who’d shot the count, to ride to the nearest cottage for cloth to cover the ogre.

As soon as Goodman Otto left, the other men had departed, too, to gather their families and leave the mountain.

“Warn everyone on your way,” Brunka Arnulf said before they started off. He closed his eyes. “The rumbling is louder. Leave your herds and your flocks. There isn’t time.”

Fee fi! The poor beasts.

“Take refuge in the caves of Svye.”

Svye? His Lordship remembered, Bear Is So Zany, No Dogs Lie. Svye would be the mountain just south of Zertrum.

The hunters left.

“Master Count, the closest cottage belongs to Widow Fridda, who has five children. When you are no longer naked, will you help them?”

“Yes.”

He gave directions to the widow’s cottage. “Take them to the caves and then come back. She’ll tell you who else needs aid.” Brunka Arnulf mounted his mule. “Good luck. May the Replica be found.” He flapped the reins and started up the mountain.

His Lordship added dry brush to the fire. Nesspa would be missing his master almost as much as his master missed him.

Count Jonty Um’s shoulder wound smarted and was warm when he touched it.

The ground, which was bare of snow around the fire, felt calm and steady, but below, what agitation might there be? When would it rage so loud that humans and ogres could sense it?

Goodman Otto returned an hour later with a heap of animal skins, blankets, and long leather straps—and Widow Fridda on a donkey.

His Lordship ran behind the boulders but peeked out so he could see.

The goodman unloaded the supplies and left. The widow, a tall, solid-looking woman, clung to the neck of her donkey.

Another frightened person.

After a few silent minutes, the widow approached the boulder and threw a blanket on the ground then turned away. His Lordship wound the cloth around his waist and stepped out.

He could help no one barefoot. He picked up a skin and a strap, stepped on the skin with his left foot, and pulled it up to make a lumpy boot, which he attempted unsuccessfully to hold together by tying the strap around his ankle.

The widow recovered from her fear quicker than most. “No one can walk in that.” She gestured for him to sit on a large rock.

He did and extended a foot.

She took an awl—for piercing holes in skins—out of the purse at her waist and scrutinized his foot. “Trim toenails. Maybe you really are a count.”

His Lordship thought, She’s speaking to me as I might to Nesspa. “Thank you.”


“Oh!” She dropped the awl into her lap. “Beg pardon. I’m sure you must be a count, Your Countship. I thought you spoke only the ogre language.”

There was no ogre language. Ogres spoke the tongue of wherever they lived.

In less time than he expected, crude boots were on his feet, fur side in, bulky but warm and possible to walk in. Next, Widow Fridda contrived a tunic and hooded cloak. For the tunic she merely cut a slit in a blanket for his head. For the cloak, she made a few tucks for the hood in another blanket and sewed in fabric strips for ties. While she labored, His Lordship fed the fire in his usual silence.

“There,” the widow said. “Hard times make a pauper of a king.”

He donned his new apparel—scratchy and smelling of smoke and tallow. “Thank you.”

She folded the leftover skins. “I’ll be going home now.”

“Brunka Arnulf told me to help you.”

“Your Countship is a bee?” She tilted her head. “There’s plenty to do. Fences to be mended. Grain to be put out for the sheep. I have a salve for your shoulder.”

Goodman Otto hadn’t warned her about the mountain? Ah. If he had, she wouldn’t have come. His Lordship explained in a few words.

She rushed to the donkey. “My babes! Come!”