Red Magic - Jean Rabe [53]
"How… how long has it been?" Galvin asked, sitting up and glancing about the barn. "I remember… Brenna! Was she killed?" The druid panicked and brought himself quickly to his feet.
"She's still alive-barely, I think," Wynter replied. "She was clawed, too. She's paralyzed."
Galvin rushed to the enchantress's side and moved the fingertips of his right hand over her scratched face. He closed his eyes and hummed softly, an old druidic prayer taught to him as a youth. He rarely used healing magic, which took a great deal of concentration-something he usually lacked when he himself was injured. The druid preferred to rely on herbs and natural mixtures. But he had none of the latter handy, so he continued the prayer. After several minutes, Brenna's breathing began to deepen, although she still remained unconscious. The scratches on her face began to heal, and Galvin rose.
"She'll be all right," he stated simply, his voice showing his relief. He began to examine his surroundings and noticed that Wynter looked different somehow. Then he realized why-the hair on the centaur's head was short, not more than an inch long. His long curls and braid lay in a pile on the barn floor.
"What did you do?" Galvin pointed at the centaur's head.
"We need to look like Thayvians, remember?"
Brenna finally came to several hours later. Sunlight streamed in where planks of wood had rotted away in the walls and through the hole in the center of the roof. The rays warmed her face. She slowly sat up, then pulled herself to her knees.
"I've come to the conclusion that it's decidedly unlucky sharing a camp with the two of you," Wynter said dryly. Despite the tone, he was thankful his companions were for the most part uninjured. He tossed the enchantress her satchels.
"I left Elwin behind in the clearing," the centaur added hesitantly. "There wasn't much left of him."
"Why did the undead attack us?" Brenna didn't understand. "They were horrid. Gods, but I feel for the people who live in this country."
"The ghouls must have heard us talking. That attracted them," Wynter said flatly, eyeing her and Galvin. "We were none too quiet."
"They were quiet, though," Galvin added.
"You could never have heard them approaching anyway," the centaur offered. "Undead only make noise when they want to." He smiled at Brenna, then reached a hand up to tug on his own short locks. "You've got too much hair, young lady, but the sheep shears I found should remedy that."
A look of horror crossed her face. "What-what do you mean?"
"I mean you should cut it, shave it off," the centaur instructed. "You need to look like a native Thayvian, a wealthy one if you've got another pretty dress." He extended the shears to her. "These'll take off most your hair. Galvin's scimitar can take care of the rest."
When the sorceress didn't take the shears, Wynter dropped them in front of her.
The druid unsheathed his scimitar and ran his thumb along the curved blade. He stared meaningfully at Brenna's curls.
"Oh, no, you don't!" she cried, finally realizing what the Harpers meant for her to do. She glanced in alarm at the centaur's cropped hair. "Shave off my hair? Do you have any idea how much time it takes to get hair to grow this long? I haven't cut my hair in ten years."
The druid smiled. "I'll pose as your slave."
"You mean you're not cutting your hair?" she said angrily.
"Slaves have long hair."
"Listen," Wynter said, trying to console Brenna. "You'd make a better Thayvian than Galvin. You've got the bearing, the social graces."
The sorceress puffed out her chest, angry at herself for not realizing when the Harpers had discussed this plan in Aglarond that it would come to this. She fingered the shears, crossed her legs, and sat them in her lap.
"I can make myself look bald without shaving my head," she announced. Concentrating and chanting, the sorceress sat stock still as her face took on a magical radiance.