Cat Star.

Warrior.

Cheryl Brooks.

For that little bit of witch in all of us...

and every witch needs her cat....

Chapter 1.

He came to me in the dead of winter, his body burning with fever. Even before he arrived on my doorstep, bound, beaten, and unconscious, I knew my quiet life was about to change forever. And I was ready.

As I stirred my potion, I heard the creak of saddle leather and the muffled thud of a body falling into the snow outside my isolated cottage, followed by Rafe's grunt of effort as he dragged the unconscious offworlder through the drifts. With a gust of cold air and a swirling cloud of snowflakes, he pushed my door open and burst inside without so much as a knock.

The evening had begun tranquilly enough. I had just brought in extra wood from the shed, but it was snowing so hard, I decided to go back out into the wintry darkness for more. I can conjure up fire better than any other witch I've heard of, but it helps to have some fuel. Besides, I love the cozy warmth and smell of a wood fire.

From her place by the fire, Desdemona gazed up at me with narrowed eyes, nodding her agreement. I trusted her feline intuition to alert me to danger, but Desdemona had given me no warning. Yawning, she stretched and let out a loud purr before curling up once more.

Reassured, I pushed open the heavy wooden door and peered out into the thickly falling snow. Big, fluffy flakes drifted by in the beam of light, floating gently *1 *

2.

Cheryl Brooks but inexorably to the ground. It was already a handspan in depth and more was on the way. But there was something else in the air tonight-a strange feeling, heralding something altogether new and unexpected.

Not a feeling of dread or fear, but something that whispered of the fulfillment of a promise. It hung there, on the edge of awareness, teasing me with its elusive aura.

Just what-or who-it was, only time would tell. Time and the gods.

My woodshed was only a few paces from the door, though with the snow it seemed farther than usual.

Treading softly, I sank into the snow with each step, feeling my way through the darkness. The door to the shed creaked open on its rusty hinges and I glanced up at the lantern, shooting fire into the wick, instantly illuminating the interior with a warm glow.

I had plenty of wood stored there for the winter; the people of the forest saw to that. I was too important to their well-being for them to ever let me freeze or starve, and offerings appeared almost daily on my doorstep- sometimes openly, sometimes covertly, but still they came without fail. I reminded myself frequently that one day they might not, and was, therefore, frugal with whatever I had. I knew full well that my honored status could vanish on a whim, and I wouldn't have been the first of the chosen ones to be cast out to starve. It was a tenuous existence, to be sure, but one for which I had been born and bred.

Stacking the new logs on my arm, I made my way carefully back through the snow to my house. Although the right to own property was denied most women on this world, it was my house and had been my mother's before *2 *

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3.

me, and her mother's before her, time out of mind- never once having a male to claim ownership. Our children had fathers, of course, but we seldom married-at least, not in the traditional sense-and therefore traced our lineage through the female line. The one child we were granted was of the utmost importance, for it was she who would continue our work and our traditions- and that child was always female. Always.

Desdemona purred her greeting as I came back inside and dumped the logs by the fire. I had three days' worth of wood there already, but the snow was deepening quickly, so I thought I might as well bring in more. Pausing by the door, I listened. There was barely any wind, and the snow fell silently until, just on the fringes of my hearing, I was at last able to hear what I'd been waiting for: hooves in the snow, and heavily laden, by the sound of them. A rider was coming, but that was not all.

I could hear the effort the horse was making as he strained to climb. He was coming from the east, and I could place him now. It was Sinjar; I sent a greeting of thought out to him and heard him nicker in reply. We knew each other well, for his master, Rafe, had been my lover once. Too arrogant now to trouble with the likes of me, he'd been charming enough in his youth. I'd known that Rafe wasn't the one-had always known, even from the beginning-but loneliness sometimes drives one to seek out solace in places where happiness can never be found. It had been over for many years; Rafe had a wife and sons now and had never once strayed back to my bed. That it was for the best, I was well aware, because he had become too powerful and had too much to lose by consorting with a witch.

*3 *

4.

Cheryl Brooks Sinjar's thoughts reached into my mind. "I'm tired and hungry," he said. "They are heavy."

"They?" I asked.

"The master and another," he replied. "Sick and hurt. A slave, I think. He is...strange. An offworlder."

"I'll have food and water waiting for you, Sinjar,"

I promised.

"Good. It's not far now. I'll be glad to see you again, Tisana."

"And I, you."

Returning to the shed, I gathered up buckets and feed and carried them back to the house, filling one of them with water from the pump by my door. Rafe might want food and drink as much as his horse did, but he would have to ask for it when he arrived.

Rafe and I had not parted company on the best of terms, though he did use my talents when it served his purpose. He must need my help very badly to come out on a night like this-and for a slave, no less. An offworlder, which didn't bode well, for my skills and medicines were sometimes useless with other species.

My knowledge had grown with time, but there were still those whose physiology was too different to respond to my treatments. Many of the basic principles were the same, but they were usually strangers, and often didn't trust me completely, which was half the battle. This one might already be beyond my aid, for I could sense something ominous about him, a life-force on the wane. Rafe may have been too late.

I set Sinjar's food and water down and went inside, leaving the door unlatched, and gathered what herbs I thought I might need. Water was already hot in the *4 *

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5.

kettle hanging from a hook over the fire, and I mixed the pungent potion in an earthenware bowl on a heavy wooden table that was probably as old as the cottage itself. Powdered comfrey root mixed with sage and rosemary tea would help to heal his battered body, but an infusion of thyme, lavender, rosemary, and vervain would help restore the will to live, which I could tell even from a distance was the chief problem afflicting my newest client. I doubted that many slaves would prefer death to slavery, but some might. Rafe was a stern man and could be an exacting master. On the other hand, Rafe would presumably have paid good money for him, and see him as an investment to be protected. He wouldn't be coming at such a time if it didn't matter to him.

Putting my fingertips to my temples, I wished for perhaps the millionth time that I could read the thoughts of humans as well as those of animals. My grandmother had had that gift. My mother had had both, though to a lesser degree, but I could read only the beasts of the forest and farm. It was a useful skill, for very few others could ask their horse which foot was hurting them, or if the girth was pulled too tight. I always knew where to find the juiciest berries and the lushest patches of wild rosemary, because the rabbits knew, and their minds were much occupied with these matters. Animals had a feel for weather, too, and were a much more reliable source of information than your typical village sage.

Still, with sick or injured humans, you can ask what the trouble is-if they're conscious enough to reply- but it's a given that they will sometimes embellish upon the truth. Rafe had lied to me-many times. I sometimes let him think I believed him, but I wasn't fooled.

*5 *

6.

Cheryl Brooks Taking a deep breath, I put my thoughts of Rafe firmly aside. I couldn't afford to let them, or anything else, interfere, because I knew this one would require all of my concentration.

And so, as I gathered my powers and my resolve, Rafe came bursting through the door with his usual lack of ceremony.

"See what you can do for him, Tisana," he said, dropping his burden upon the rough wooden floor, and stepping past the inert form to warm himself by the fire.

"Seems my wife covets him for some reason, though I couldn't tell you why-at least, not from the look of him. Said he was an oddity, and it would bring us added prestige to have him as a slave, although I think she's a bit touched in the head, myself. He doesn't even look to be worth the little dab I paid for him." I saw Rafe's nostrils flare as he took in the aroma of the herbs, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You knew we were coming," he said flatly. "How?"

"How not?" I asked, unperturbed. "You make such a racket, even in the snow. I heard you coming a mile away."

"But how could you know why I was coming?" he countered, indicating the steaming bowl on the table.

"Why else would you come, Rafe?" I retorted.

"It's long past the time when you came seeking my company."

A bushy eyebrow went up. "I may surprise you someday, Tisana." Rafe was a big man, with broad, heavy shoulders, curly, dark red hair and beard, and dark, flashing eyes-eyes which now swept over me *6 *

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7.

from head to toe with a slow, assessing look. "You're still quite beautiful, you know. I just might..."

Another lie. I wasn't nearly as beautiful as his wife, Carnita, and never had been. His attraction to me had nothing to do with beauty, and everything to do with seeking power. I'd been an experiment-a youthful folly, if you will-which, as it turned out, had paid him nothing in the long run. His wife had given him something that I never could; she had given him sons, which meant that she was worth far more than I, and Rafe knew that every bit as well as I did myself.

The women of my family could love where we wished, but the choice of the man to father our single daughter was with the gods. Conception could occur only with the right one and at the right time. Rafe had not been destined to be the father of my child, and I suspected that fact still rankled. I'd been waiting many years and had taken several lovers, but had not yet found the one. In such a remote area, I didn't meet very many new people, unless there was a need for my services- a traveler, perhaps, ill or injured on his journey. And so, through the long years, I had continued on with my work and waited for the one who would ensure the succession.

Ignoring Rafe's remark, I gestured toward my patient.

"What else can you tell me about him?"

"Offworlder," he said shortly. "Like a cat in many ways. Reportedly a good fighter, hunter, and tracker. I have no idea where he came from or how he got here.

Looks to have had it rough, but Carnita wanted him, anyway, and insisted that I bring him to you for healing.

Said no one else had such a slave, and it would be *7 *

8.

Cheryl Brooks good for our standing in the cartel. I believe at the last conclave she was belittled by some of the other women for not having any that were more remarkable."

"Why, Rafe!" I exclaimed in mock surprise. "I had no idea that social standing meant so much to you!"

"Just heal him, Tisana," he said, glowering at me.

"Don't plague me with needless chatter."

As he turned to go, I heard Sinjar protest, "Keep him talking! I'm not finished yet! If he'd taken this cursed bridle off I could eat faster, but no-o-o!" You know, he can be a real horse's ass sometimes!"

"What if I can't save him?" I asked Rafe, barely suppressing a smile. Sinjar had more personality than most humans, and I thought he was the funniest horse I'd ever met. In comparison, my own mare, Morgana, had absolutely no sense of humor whatsoever.

Rafe shrugged insolently. "He dies, then. Really, Tisana! I paid very little for him. Whether he lives or dies is with the gods."

I looked upon my latest charge with a doubtful eye, hoping that the gods were feeling benevolent toward him-though it was fairly obvious they hadn't done much for him in the recent past. This slave would need not only my skill, but also their help if he was to recover.

"Come back for him in a month," I suggested. "I'll send word if he fails to survive."

"That would be very kind of you," he said simply, starting again for the door, just as Sinjar licked the last of the grain out of the bucket and raised his head.

"'That would be very kind of you,'" Sinjar mimicked.