Spirit of the Mist Read Free Page A

drink.”  
    With some reluctance, Muriel got up from beside the unconscious Brendan. There would be no use trying to argue such a thing with Alvy, protective as she was. Muriel could only smile as she moved to the hearth, and take care to keep her back turned to the bed.  
    There was the ripping and tearing of old cloth. Muriel started to glance back, peering out from beneath her long, dark hair, but then quickly turned away at the sound of Alvy’s voice. “Muriel! Is the fire stirred up yet? He is still cold, so very cold!”  
    Muriel busied herself by placing the last two bricks of peat on the fire. She stirred the blaze with the iron poker, feeling warmth spread out from those small crackling flames.  
    She set down the poker and held her hands over the fire, realizing just how cold and tired she was herself. For a time she simply stood by the hearth and watched the wispy blue smoke rise up into the night through the narrow slot in the center of her dwelling’s thatched roof.  
    Finally she heard the rustling of a heavy wool cloak as Alvy wrapped it around the man’s unconscious form. “All done, lady! And here is another cloak and a few more sealskins to cover him with.”  
    Muriel turned around. The man called Brendan was tightly tucked in beneath a heavy stack of woolen cloaks and gray-brown furs flecked with black. Only his face showed in the soft light of the fire, and she was relieved to see that he did look a little better. There was a bit of color coming back to him now, and his breathing seemed to be deeper and more regular. He would live. He would recover.  
    She would see those strange eyes again.  
    With the relief of knowing he would survive came another wave of fatigue. The long time spent in the cold, wet night, the use of her powers to their greatest limit, the struggle to save a dying man—all of it seemed to catch up to her at once.  
    There was a familiar and gentle hand on her arm. “Come, dear one,” said Alvy. “I’ve made you a warm bed in the rushes, near mine. We’ll find him another place in the morning, and you’ll have your own good bed back.”  
    “Thank you, Alvy. I’m just glad he will live.”  
    “Oh, he will. And… Lady Muriel? I caught a glimpse of him while getting his wet clothes off. I’d say he was worth the trouble.”  
    Muriel smiled as she looked back at the old woman, but shook her head with some sadness. “Perhaps he is worth it for someone,” she whispered, “but I cannot dare to hope that he is what he says he is. And even if he were…”  
    “And what does he say he is?”  
    “A prince. The tanist of his people.”  
    “Tanist!” Alvy stared at her. “The next…king?”  
    Muriel shrugged. “We have no way of knowing. He could say anything, sick with cold as he is, and it could mean nothing.” She looked away. “He is only a stranger in need of help on a storm-wracked night. In the morning he will be gone. I cannot allow him to be any more to me than that.”  
    “Well, he is a pretty one, though,” Alvy said, glancing at him again. “And there are so few men that you could safely look to. If it’s true about who he is… then perhaps he will be worth it to you, too.”  
    Muriel smiled gently. “Thank you again, Alvy. Good night now.” She turned away and lay down on the furs in the rushes for what remained of the night, still seeing Brendan’s eyes as they had looked in that bright flash of lightning out in the storm.  
     
    Muriel awoke to find herself lying on the floor, nestled beneath a stack of furs in a thick pile of rushes, just as the gray light of dawn began to fill her house. For a moment she was puzzled. What was she doing sleeping in the rushes?  
    Then she remembered. In an instant she threw off the worn fur coverings and got to her feet. Cautiously she moved toward the bed, almost afraid to look—and then she let out her breath.  
    He was still there, sleeping soundly, warm and safe in her bed,