Glasswrights' Master (14 page)

Kella reached out to steady his hand, to keep the steaming water from splashing over the edge of the mug. He flinched at her touch, as she said, “And for that, the Briantans called her witch?”

“They did not understand.”

Well they might not, Kella thought. “But what brings you to me, Father? Why have you come to my cottage?”

“I thought that if I could meet a true witch, if I could learn the true scope of your powers, then I might understand what they accused her of being. I thought that I might understand the threat. I might understand why she had to die.”

“You want to hate me, then?” She kept her voice neutral. “You want to find me so terrible that I deserve death myself?”

“Yes,” he whispered, and she could see that he longed to flee from the room, to be far away from her.

“And?”

For answer, he set the mug upon her table and placed his face in his hands. His sobs were violent cloudbursts, breaking from his chest like a wild storm crashing through the woods. This was not the quiet emotion that she had witnessed outside; this was a man tearing himself apart, destroying himself in a final, desperate attempt to build meaning in his world.

“Tarn,” he wailed, and the word was meaningless until Kella remembered the name for the god of death. “Tarn! And Mip! Zil, and Ile, and Nim!”

He repeated the names, his chant growing more frantic, his breath coming harsher and harsher. Kella feared for his mind, feared that he would rip what little of it remained. He was not a true handsel, and she had promised that she would not dose him with her herbs, but she was afraid to do nothing. Her hands darted out without her planning to move; she reached for pots that ranged about the hearth. She crumbled a leaf of henbane into his mint tea, added a pinch of thornapple. He had not seen her; his eyes remained closed as he chanted the gods' names in agony.

“Father,” she said, trying to break his concentration. “Father!” She pushed the cup into his hands, held it there as she raised it to his lips. “Drink, Father. Drink your tea. Swallow, Father. Your princess would have wanted you to drink this. Another sip, Father. Another…”

The herbs acted quickly, as she had known they would. It was pure luck that made mint enhance their properties, simple good fortune that the priest's herb masked the flavors of her own. The henbane made him docile; he let her lead him to the low stool beside her fire. The thornapple opened his mind to her suggestion, and she leaned close to him, whispering, “Ease your heart, Father. You did not cause your princess to die.” She repeated the words three more times, and he took them up on his own, forming his lips around them like a child discovering a new flavor.

Kella dared to step back, summoned the nerve to look to her cottage door. What was happening here in the woods? How had her quiet corner of the world become so busy? Why were so many people coming to her, bothering her?

As if to mock her question, a shadow fell across the threshold. Kella did not even pretend to welcome the newcomer as a potential handsel; instead, she grimaced and said, “Yes?”

The woman who stood there blinked as her eyes adjusted to the cottage, and then she rushed to the priest. “Father!” she exclaimed, trying to capture his attention. “Father, it's me. Rani Trader.”

The man continued to mouth his silent words of comfort. The newcomer turned accusing
eyes on Kella. “What have you done to him?”.

“Rani Trader,” Kella said, taking possession of her visitor's name. “He'll be ready to travel in a moment.”

The woman swallowed hard, her skin paling beneath her blond hair. “How have you dosed him?”

“In no way that will cause him harm. He became agitated, and I gave him a tea to … assist his calming himself. He's working on the words now. Once he has recognized them, he'll be fine.”

“Words? You cast a spell on him, then?”

Kella laughed grimly. “No spell.” At least not in the way that Rani Trader meant. “By the Jair you northerners hold in such esteem, no spell. The Sisters would not permit that.”

“The Sisters?”

“Other herb witches. The ones in Riadelle who dictate what we may and may not do. They would not permit my casting a spell on an unknowing guest who did not sign a contract, a handsel. I merely gave him something that will help him find the paths he wants to travel inside his own mind.”

“He wants to go back to Brianta.”

She knew, then. “He wants to save your princess. What was her name? Berylina?”

“Yes,” Rani Trader said, and her own face was grave. “Berylina. He loved her.”

Of course he loved her. That much was obvious from his behavior. He loved her, but he was one of those priests who swore off acting on such love. Well, no wonder the man was stricken, then. No wonder he had grown mad at the mention of the dead woman.

Rani Trader braved another few steps into the cottage, until she could see the priest's moving lips. “What is he saying?” she asked.

“That he did not cause the princess to die. That's correct, isn't it?”

“Aye,” the woman said, her own brow creasing. She clearly had her own memories of the princess's death.

Kella decided to probe a little more–purely as a matter of professional curiosity, she assured herself. She should know what was being done to herb witches in distant lands, or to those identified as such. She should learn so that she could tell the Sisters. She might even use the information when she met with the Fellowship–that very evening, if the soldier man kept his promise.

“Your priest mentioned Tarn.”

Rani Trader reeled under the name, as if the herb-witch had struck her. Before she recovered, she looked behind herself, hunching her shoulders as if she would ward off a physical blow. Odder and odder, Kella thought. These northerners had strange relationships with their gods.

“I'm sorry,” Rani Trader said. “I was not expecting to hear the god of death's name here.”

Kella stepped closer to her visitor, reminded herself to watch closely. “He mentioned others as well: Mip and Zil. Ile and Nim.”

Yes. She definitely reacted. Each name made Rani Trader flinch: she shook her head as if she heard a distant sound, and she swallowed hard. Kella had spent a lifetime watching people process tastes and smells. Kella would stake her collection of dried mushrooms on her belief that Rani Trader tasted a flavor that she liked when she heard the last god's name. A flavor that she liked, but that she feared. Like a child sneaking boiled sweets when a parent has denied the treats.

Before Kella could devise a method of measuring out the oddity, the other woman shook her head and turned to the priest. “Father Siritalanu?” she asked, and then she glanced at the herb witch. “Can he hear me?”

“Aye. He's almost through with his thoughts. He'll respond when he's ready.”

“Father?” she asked again. The priest took a long time to look at her, and his blink was very slow. Nevertheless, his eyes were focused when he opened them, and he seemed to recognize the woman.

“Ranita?”

“Yes, Father.”

Yet another oddity. Strangers roaming the forest who communed with their gods in mysterious ways and who answered to multiple names.

“Ranita, I came to learn of herb-lore. I wanted to know what cost my Berylina her life.”

“Herbs had nothing to do with it, Father.” Rani Trader's voice was firm, as if she were explaining a difficult truth to a child. “They thought she was a witch. Not an herb witch. A darker sort. A sorceress.”

“I had to learn. I had to see what I could know about Berylina.”

“I understand, Father. Come with me, now. We'll go back to the Great Clearing.”

“Great Clearing!” Kella interrupted, remembering again that Tovin had sent the priest to her, that Tovin must know this Rani Trader.

“Aye.” The woman was working her arm under the priest's, helping the man to his feet.

“Then you are with the players?”

“What do you know of the players?” Her question was sharp, and Kella could not fail to hear the possessive note in her words.

“Nothing, my dear.” Kella shrugged elaborately, showing her empty hands in a gesture that she knew indicated good will. “Only that they have a license from the king. I have come across them when I've been walking through the woods. I've spoken with their leader.”

“With Tovin?”

“Is that his name? The young one.” Kella shook her head slightly, dismissing the man, and she saw Rani Trader relax. “You travel with the players, then?”

“Not with them, precisely. I'm with a group of … merchants; we're from the north. We know Tovin Player from Moren. We're staying with him in the clearing.”

A girl of noble bearing, with a northerner's merchant name and a guildish one, and a familiarity with players. A priest near mad from grieving. Kella would not buy the story lightly. Nevertheless, she shrugged. “Your priest should be fine for walking, now. He'll be tired when you get to the clearing. Let him sleep through the night. He'll wake rested, with his mind at greater peace than it has been.”

“For that I thank you, good dame. Did the father pay you for your troubles?”

“He did not have the chance.” Even if he had, Kella would have denied receiving her due.

The other woman reached into a pouch hidden at her waist, and she extracted some copper coins. “Thank you. It was a mercy to ease his pain.”

Kella took the money, not bothering to note that it was three times the price of her herbs. “It pleases me to help others,” she said with a humble bow. She stepped forward and helped the man climb to his feet. “Easy, Father. Take a few deep breaths.”

He looked at her with guileless eyes, his round cheeks still flushed pink. “Did I sleep here?”

“Not exactly,” Kella said, as she assisted him toward the doorway. “Come now. Rani Trader has come to see you back to the Great Clearing.”

“The Clearing? Very well.” The priest was still enrobed in the herbs' peace.

“Thank you,” Rani Trader said as she came to the man's side.

“My pleasure.” Kella nodded her head and gestured to set them on their way. Only when the pair of northerners had reached the edge of the forest did Kella call out, “Rani Trader!” The woman stopped. “When you return to the clearing, give my best regards to Tovin Player. Tell him that Kella is brewing the black willow that he likes.”

“Black willow?” Her voice was puzzled.

“He'll understand.”

Kella turned her back and entered her cottage before the other woman could ask further questions. The player man would recognize the name of the herb. After all, he had drunk it in her cottage many times before. He had felt its heat spread through his chest. He had felt the awakening in his loins, and he had stayed awake for long hours exploring the strength of the dingy green plant.

Tovin Player would understand the message, and he would come to her. If she were already gone for her meeting with the soldier's Fellowship, then that would be the player's loss. He would wait for her. He would wait for black willow.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 6

 

Hidden in a copse of trees, Hal realized that he might have laughed at the scene before him, if the circumstances had been less dire. After all, the old woman was so obviously discomfited by the mare, she might have been performing one of the players' comic pieces. She had walked around the animal, gazing at it from all sides. She was startled when the horse snorted; she leaped back with a gasp of astonishment. Extending a tentative hand to stroke the mane, she had jerked her fingers back when the horse twitched at the ticklish contact.

And then, her struggle to mount the animal.… Admittedly, the old woman had eased her foot into the stirrup with more flexibility than he had thought possible, given her age. As if she'd learned the danger of her earlier hesitancy, she'd planted her hand firmly at the base of the horse's mane, grabbing onto the saddle with her other hand and pulling herself up, even as she pushed off the ground with her stable leg.

The mare, though, would have nothing of the odd weight on her right side. The animal had snorted a warning, and when the old woman persisted, the mare had tried to side-step away. The woman's scolding scratched the night, and the animal pasted back her ears, clearly thinking her own condemning thoughts. The woman's shout forced those ears forward then, and it was entirely unfortunate that the witch chose to pull the reins at
that
precise angle.

Certainly, if the stakes had been lower, Hal would have been amused. Instead, he swore under his breath as Crestman shouted a warning. The soldier lurched forward, muttering his own curses. Hal was surprised to see the gentle pressure Crestman summoned into his hands as he helped the old woman; the calming manner was unexpected.

Crestman soothed the horse before turning his attention to the herb witch. By working in that order, he spared the woman a fall. In almost no time, he had the mare settled and ready to move, with the old woman cradled gingerly in her saddle. Nevertheless, the sliver of moon had climbed noticeably higher in the sky by the time the entire operation was complete.

Only after the witch was settled did Hal fully realize his own predicament. He was ill prepared for this spying mission. He had no horse of his own. His flight from Moren had been so precipitous that none had been taken. Since arriving in Sarmonia, there had been no opportunity to acquire good horseflesh; Hal and his men had yielded to other priorities. If Hal decided to follow Crestman and the witch, he'd be traveling by foot.

He should have planned better. He should have mustered his meager strengths. But there had been no time.…

Only the afternoon before, he had strolled through the woods, purposely seeking out the old woman's cottage. He had wanted to learn more about the herb witch, to gain a better understanding of why Mareka took such comfort from her. He wanted to understand his wife's confidence in the woman, what a queen could gain from an herb witch's potions. He wanted to know why his own son had been subjected to the old woman's brews.