The boy retreated a few steps. He looked around and saw Fleat: the hobbe had moved off, and was now sitting alone on a tumbled piece of overgrown stone. Flourishes of stone leaves and living woodbine erupted around his feet. He looked pensive.
The boy walked over. They exchanged glances and worried little expressions. “I don’t really know what to think. Is this a good thing or an ill thing?” said the boy, softly. “Did we just save Caewen or do something evil to her?”
“The Lady Caewen was dying. She wouldn’t have lasted much any longer… and yet…” said Fleat, “and yet… well, I do not know if this shadow-devil is the better for her. It’s a hard thing to know the truth of.”
Dapplegrim had also taken himself away from Caewen. He was standing in his own shadows, but near enough to overhear them. He looked up, and approached, growling. “And yet you were both knew what was best a moment ago? Think of all the stories of treacherous wizard’s shadows, flame-flickers that lie and beguile, rain-demons that betray and trap. Those stories do not come from airs and nothings. Hur. Demons of the wilds are not to be trusted. Such things always have the potential to possess the mind and flesh of any mortal being. Eventually. Given time. And here are the two of you–no understand of anything–yet you happily say we should do this, or we should do that? Hur!” He rumbled on. “Let me tell you a thing, then. Let me educate you both. Demons are born out of nature. They congeal out of the stuff of the world. Newborn demons are fragile, as like to be blown apart by a strong wind as survive their first day of life–such as it might be called. The way they come into the world… the first thing a demon knows is terror of falling back into nothing… that terror rules them forever… they are always hunting for a magician to bind themselves to… to take a little life from… to get some surety of form… but the spirits of storm, shadows, earth, water, mossy greens and fire… they will do anything to gain a real, true physical form. Many would happily steal a body. Many have stolen bodies: and those are bleak and terrible beings.”
The boy shook his head. “But wizards and witches must know how to control demons? Surely? Or else they’d all be possessed?”
“Mostly the sorcerers keep themselves the masters, yes.” Dapplegrim shook his head. “But some demons are more cunning than others. I spent a long time watching Mannagarm and his pet shadow. I never was sure that Mannagarm was ever truly the master. Fetch was always keeping secrets, always going about his own business in the dead of the night. I do not trust him. And nor should either of you. Hurrrm.”
The boy looked back at the sleeping Caewen and the shadow curled up beside her. Was the shadow-thing listening? They were talking quietly, but it might still be able to hear them. “You really think it might try to possess her?” he asked.
Fleat frowned. “But it is a very minor spirit… not a great demon, like them that some magicians keep tethered for their artsy-arts. Mayhap the shadow is too weak? You said it had years and years to fully possess the other magician, the old man, but it never did. Perhaps it simply cannot?”
Dapplegrim sighed. “I hope you are right. Then he performed that weird half-shrug of his horse-shoulders that he used when unsure about things. “I do not know for certain. I am no cant-caller. I am no wielder of the unseen arts. I do not know enough lore of the unseen to say anything absolutely. Except that Caewen has taken a risk. And you both shoved the risk in front of her face at a time when she was too weak to think straight.”
“There was very little choice,” said the boy. “If she had died–“
“I know. I know.” Dapple seemed to sink in on himself a little. “I know. I’m just angry is all. I shouldn’t be taking it out on you two. You were only thinking of Caewen. Hur. Only doing what you thought was best by her.”
Fleat hunched his shoulders. “And I think you misjudge her mind. Caewen was alert. She understood the risk. She was weak, yes, but not delirious. That one is no fool. She knew the bargain.” The little hobbe-boy now made a low thrumming sound like an owl clearing it’s throat. “And besides, there’s no point in arguing. Time tells all. For now, we wait till the morning light is gone to the noon. We will know soon and anon if she’ll live. We’ll know quick enough if the bargain has changed her badly, in some other, stranger way. We will knows, we will, well enough, soon enough…”
“That we will,” agreed Dapplegrim. “That we will.”