“Wait a moment,” Erna commanded, quickening her descent of the stairs.
Wrapped in his cloak of russet homespun, Randvar had just come in from his morning swim, and was hastening where his heap of clothing waited by the fire. He quieted the chattering of his teeth to look at her inquiringly.
Two days and three nights had passed since the strain of using her double sight had numbed her wits; once more she was her capable keen-eyed self. Yet there was a quiver of unusual emotion in her stern face as she came up and laid her hand upon his arm.
“I want to find out whether you are in danger of sinking by swords,” she said with her customary terseness, and her grasp tightened determinedly as he started to move away.
“I have declared, foster-mother, that I will endure no more magic though my life lies on it!”
“What magic is it that my palms, like those of many another witchcraft-knowing woman, have the power to feel where steel is going to pierce a vital part, and to strengthen that part? I tell you to let me have my will. I dreamed last night that I saw a wounded eagle, which may well be your Other Shape.”
“Foster-mother, I tell you that any more of this spell-work is going to put me into a bad temper; and it is my wish to behave well towards you the last morning we are together.” Involuntarily, his voice softened.
Though usually she disdained them, she was not without a knowledge of woman’s weapons. She assumed them rather than lose her point.
“Maybe so, but you behave all the other way to set your self-will against my peace of mind. Do you think I could bear Eric’s absence if I had not the assurance of my hands that his body is sound?”
Wondering whether she had also tested the soundness of Eric’s head tempted the Songsmith to a chuckle. The discovery that half the fierce brightness of her eyes was due to tears finished his disarming. Half sighing, half growling, he let his cloak slip off his shoulders.