"He had a visitor the week before he died," Marise said slowly. "But the villagers said he left on easy terms with Aginard."
"Was that other a wizard as well?"
Marise shook her head. "I don't know. No one did. I suppose he must have been, to take Aginard by surprise."
Efeon leaned forward, elbows on knees, forehead sunk into palms. 'Two wizards battling, one destroying the other so that no trace is left."
"And the other taking revenge as he died," Marise finished. "Murdering the survivor. Both souls left to wander the place of their death."
"Until you came along." Efeon raised his head to look at her, his lips twisted in a smile that had no humor in it. "Both souls speaking to you, cajoling you—and you heeded them both. Oh, my lady, why didn't you just let us wander?"
Marise closed her eyes against the prickling of tears. He had not called her that since Lammas Night. It was an old-fashioned endearment, one a man of Aginard's age might use—for a woman his own age.
The gentleness, the courtesy of which Efeon was so capable. That had to be his legacy from Aginard. But the old wizard had been dour as well, folks told her, and no more capable of a joke than the planks of the floor. Efeon's ready wit, the pleasure he took out of a well-played prank or a bawdy tale—could those have come from the stranger who murdered her predecessor? Or was it Efeon's own self, called up out of magic and dust, that found such pleasure in a sunrise, and the smell of her herbal garden? So many conflicting signs, so much she had refused to see!
Marise groaned. What were they to do? It hurt her to look at him, to see that familiar face, and know that he was a stranger—two strangers—capable of cold-blooded murder.
"I don't suppose we could..." He paused, uncertain. "No. Releasing one half would destroy the whole. I know that much, somehow."
Marise nodded unhappily. "We have to find someone who can bind your halves into one." And the only way to do that, she realized, was to return to where she had been trained. Where both—all three of them—had been trained. The Library.
There was only one flaw in that plan, which Efeon pointed out reluctantly but firmly. The Library was easily a two-week journey. Two weeks in good weather, barring unforeseen incidents. Two weeks when Marise would be away from the village.
"We swore an oath," he reminded her. "Or at least, half of me did. To protect the village. You can't do that if you're not here."
Marise refused to hear it. "They survived after Aginard died, before I came. They can do it again. There are villages that have nothing more than herbalry to ward off bandits, and they've done fine. But if you were to go to the Library alone—Efeon, think! You have no proof of yourself, no real memories to bring forth. Without me, they might as easily return you to ash as search for a solution!"
For the first time since that first dawn when he had carried her to bed, Efeon touched her, bending to his knees to look into her tear-filled eyes. He must have seen stubbornness there, because he simply sighed and sat back on his heels.
"You would return to the village the moment the Librarians were convinced?" He saw the mutiny in her expression, and his narrow lips finned even more. "By the ether, Marise, you would turn a stone to water with your stubbornness!" He shook her, not gently. "You will heed me, damn it, or I will tie you to a post like a dog in need of whipping!"
She gasped, her brown eyes widening, and Efeon dropped her shoulders as though the flesh had burned him. Whirling away, he paced the length of the cottage, fingers running through his red-brown hair, leaving it standing on end.
"You can't go on like this," she said, forcing her breathing back under control. "You're dangerous. To yourself, to me." She used her sharpest weapon. 'To the village."
Efeon stopped in his tracks, and Marise knew that her guess had been valid. The two halves making up the whole of Efeon had fought, had killed each other, over the village.
Perhaps the stranger had been a wandering wizard as she herself had been, finding this place to his liking. Perhaps he had been looking to use the village for evil means, or simply wanted to settle down in a bed already made comfortable by Aginard. It was impossible to know, with Efeon still blocking so many memories. But the village was the prize, and while those halves still fought, there was the potential for one or the other winning control. If it were Aginard, the village would have two wizards. An uncomfortable situation at best, but one they could possibly work around. But if it were the stranger—Marise shivered. She would have no choice but to complete the work begun by Aginard. She would have to destroy the person living within the shell of her beloved Efeon.
He moved to her side, his long-fingered hands playing in her hair. "What if I become violent?" he asked, echoing her thoughts. He bent to look at her, his brown-green eyes shadowed with pain. "Alone, on the road... Marise, what if I hurt you?"
"We have no other choice. You can't stay here, and you'll need me with you to face the Librarians." She put her arms around his neck, drawing his head to her chest as one would comfort a child. "You won't hurt me, my river fox. You're my magic wish, my good-luck charm, and you could never bring me ill." He sighed, and she felt one warm tear drop onto her bare arm.
The morning crept into the cottage through the open door, the sunlight stretching across the plank floor to touch Marise gently against her eyelids. She jerked upright, shocked out of her slumber.
"Efeon, we're late."