Sorceress of Faith. Robin D. Owens

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      Marian woke at the feel of a cool, damp, herbal-scented cloth wiping her face. Bossgond stared down at her, concerned.

      “It’s only been a few minutes, and is still evening,” he said in a raspy voice. “Let us adjourn to my chambers.”

      Testing her arms and legs, Marian stretched. Her limbs worked fine, though her insides felt a little hollow.

      She took Bossgond’s hand and rose, stood a moment, but no dizziness occurred. Smiling at her master, a man whose bark was worse than his bite from all she’d learned of him, she went with him back down to his study.

      It seemed even more comfortable since Marian had experienced the Power it had taken to raise the Tower, the money—known here as zhiv—to furnish it.

      Attentive, Bossgond settled Marian in the nest of pillows in the center of the room, then brought her coffee. She’d discovered through their bonding that coffee wasn’t rare—not as rare as tea—but Bossgond considered it a treat.

      He sat opposite her, his wrinkled cheeks faintly flushed. “We are bonded, but not as deeply as usual between Master and Apprentice. To compensate for my failure to complete the full bonding I will show you something special tomorrow morning.”

      Marian stared at him, recognizing that his self-condemnation at such a “failure,” wasn’t attractive. He’d done his best, hadn’t he? They did have a bond, a Song, and it felt strong to her. He’d done neither of them harm. In fact, harm to him had been averted, since the strangeness of Earth had threatened his sanity. Yet he expected her to condemn him? She didn’t know what to say.

      He waved a hand irritably. “You may go.”

      So she curtsied and left. Head crammed full of the day’s experiences, she wound down the stairs thinking that she should keep a journal. She entered her room in full dark, but before the door closed behind her, a soft light flickered on.

      A lantern atop the large desk glowed—bright on the first blank pages of an open book. Marian’s mouth dropped open, but she was too tired to make a sound, too weary to mess with the feather pen sitting in the pretty gold-edged glass inkwell.

      Instead she went behind the stained-glass partition to her bedroom and removed her clothes and shoes, folding her dress up as she’d found it. Not a wrinkle or a speck of dirt marred the cloth. On one of the lower shelves she found a pile of pale gowns that looked like nightwear, and drew one on, sighing with tired pleasure as the soft material whispered over her skin. When she climbed into bed and found the sheets warm, she chuckled. Magic could provide incredible luxury.

      Trying her own Power, she said, “Lights out,” and smiled as darkness enveloped her loft.

      Just before she fell asleep, a thought occurred to her: all her skill in being able to shape weather would not help Andrew.