Glasswrights' Master (23 page)

The hands tilted his head back to an expert angle, and the trail of liquid cut like an ice blade down his sternum. The frozen path woke him, dragged his body back from a shadowed precipice. He concentrated and moved his throat muscles, managed a single swallow on his own, then another and another.

Zama held him upright, cradled his head against her soft bosom. He knew when she poured more of the antidote into his mouth; he felt more of his body thaw from the icy draught. She nodded with a practiced move, and then she took a step back. “More for you when you've spoken. Tell us the rest, then. Kella. What is she doing with the Fellowship?”

He would not tell them yet, though. He needed to bargain for one more thing. He managed to flick his tongue over his stone-carved lips, forced a breath into his lungs and whispered, “Rani.”

“What?” Zama's placid face creased into a frown.

“Rani. Dose her.” At first, he thought the witch would refuse. He saw the woman glance at Rani, saw the disinterest as she worried about the safety of her Sisters. He put all his meager strength into a vow. “Rani first. Or no Kella.”

Zama clicked her tongue and started to shake her head, but then she turned the motion into a nod, directing one of her sisters to administer the antidote to Rani. Hal watched as his companion's shoulders were supported; he measured the careful angle of the cup. Some of the antidote dribbled down her chin, leaving a meandering brown stain. More, though, managed to get past her lips. He watched Rani's supreme effort as she swallowed, and then the conquest as she opened her eyes.

He forced the most minute of nods, and then he created a complete sentence. “Kella has joined the Fellowship.”

“The Fellowship?” Zama sounded dismissive. “What group is that?”

“The Fellowship of Jair.” The antidote had iced its way along his arms, his legs. He found himself thinking more clearly, as if he stood on a parapet in the middle of a frozen winter night.

Zama shrugged. “We knew them once, this Fellowship. But they have long kept clear of Sarmonia. The electors run the king. There is no room for Jair.”

“They are here. I have seen them. Kella works with them now.”

“We would know if they were back. There are some among us who are members.” Hal saw Zama's quick eyes flick about the circle, but he could not tell which Sisters she branded.

“They are here!” Hal repeated. “They met in the forest. And your Kella attended them! Guided by a northern traitor, she met with the Fellowship. She'll sell your secrets and leave you all alone.”

“How do you know Kella?”

“I watched her. She has brewed potions for my wife, my son. I fear that she will harm them at the Fellowship's command.”

“What?” That last phrase gained Zama's attention, focused her like a goshawk on a coney. “What do you fear?”

“I fear that Kella will harm my wife and son. The Fellowship desires their deaths.” And then Hal heard his voice break, heard a terrifying sob rip at his throat. Words boiled out of him, thawed by the ice draught. He told the Sisters how Mareka had sought refuge in the forest, how she had sought out Kella to keep her unborn son, and then for help in delivery. Hal explained how much Mareka had come to rely on the herb witch, how much she trusted the wily woman. He spoke of Crestman, trying to convey that twisted man's desperation, his fury, his thirst for revenge. He told how the madman had attacked Kella, how he'd taken her to a Fellowship meeting. And he told of the Fellowship's hatred of Mareka, of Marekanoran, of Hal himself. He spoke of battles and betrayals, of pledges all gone wrong. “They've already beaten Kella. She'll break. She'll tell my family's secrets.”

Twice, he needed to stop, waiting in frustration while Zama administered more of the antidote. Both times, he plotted out a little more of the truth that he would tell the Sisters. Both times, he glanced at Rani for confirmation that he was spinning the tale properly. Both times, he saw that she sat a little straighter, that her cheeks had more color, that her scratches had stopped bleeding.

Zama drew herself up as he spoke; each phrase stiffened the witch's spine. The Sisters in the circle had come close; their tension was like the charge before a summer storm. “Kella will not betray your wife,” Zama said when he was through. “She will not yield up a handsel.”

Hal did not know the word, but he understood enough to protest. “She will, though! She will yield to the Fellowship! You must help us find them! Only if we reach them first, only if we confront them and defeat them can we guarantee the safety of my wife and child!”

“Kella would be cast out from the Sisters if she harms a handsel.”

“She'll have no choice!”

“All Sisters have a choice.”

There was a long silence while Hal stared at the woman. Wordlessly, painfully, he pulled himself upright. He forced himself to take a step, and another, and another. He moved across to Rani, reached out a hand, pulled her to her feet. He took as much strength as he gave, and they leaned upon each other as they gazed about the circle. His voice was ragged when he spoke, torn by his exhausted lungs, by his weary frustration. “Not Kella. Kella has no choice against the Fellowship. She is lost, and my wife will be too. My wife. My son. Me. Rani. And you. All of you will be lost to the Fellowship.”

Zama held his gaze for so long that he thought he would collapse. Then, when he believed that he truly could not draw another breath, that he could not listen to another hammered heartbeat, she spoke. “We will investigate your claims. Those of us with access will return to your Fellowship. We will see what they intend, and we will monitor our sister. We will watch Kella and see that she minds her handsel, that she keeps her promise to the Sisters.”

“But–”

“Enough. You are not fit for further talk tonight. Tori?” A young woman stepped forward, brushing mousy brown hair from her eyes. “Take these two abovestairs. Place them in the front room, and leave them bread and water. We'll continue with our meeting and work out details of what must be done.”

Hal started to protest, to demand that he hear the rest of the discussion. Even as he shook his head, though, a wave of fatigue crashed over him. Rani was suddenly a dead weight at his side, a burden rather than any sort of aid. The pounding behind his eyes expanded into a midnight cloud, and only the deepest of breaths kept him from collapsing in the middle of the tavern. “Go with Tori,” Zama said. “We'll speak in the morning. All will be well, never fear.”

Never fear, Hal thought, as his leaden feet found the stairs. Tori bolstered him with one hand, even as she turned to assist Rani.

Never fear. Shed a tear. Lose all dear.

There, he thought. At least the voices were back to normal. He fell asleep on a thyme-scented pallet with grim rhymes circling through his nightmares, wondering if he had gained anything at all by coming to the Sisters.

 

 

 

Chapter 10

 

“What do you want me to do?” Rani asked Tovin. “Should I throw myself at your feet and thank you for your everlasting kindness?”

The player shook his head. “Ranita, I'm not being unreasonable. I merely suggested that you should not spend too much time with Kella. Not alone. She's not reliable, that one.”

“What? Her black willow is not always brewed to perfection?”

“I've told you,” Tovin said, keeping his tone even. “Black willow was a joke between us. She only mentioned it to you to disturb me.”

“Not likely,” Rani muttered, resisting the urge to scratch at the scabs on her arms. None of the herb witches was to be trusted. Her flesh was finally beginning to heal from her encounter with the Sisters. Even now, two weeks after she had been bespelled on the Blue Rose's rush-covered floor, she wondered what exactly had happened that night, what had driven her to hurt herself.

She blinked hard, remembering the circle of benches. She had met Hal's eyes across the room, agreed that they should both drink the coven's draught. After all, she had reasoned, each of the other women was downing the stuff without hesitation.

The sounds had begun almost immediately–the whispers of the gods around her. That noise was followed by flashes of light and by ghosts of sensation across her skin. She had swallowed hard and tasted a myriad of flavors on the back of her tongue, and when she'd opened her mouth to speak, her nose was filled with scents–pleasant and unpleasant, strong and mild.

The Thousand Gods had surrounded her. They had filled each of her senses, threatened to overwhelm her. They had made her body heavy with their presence, and Rani had scarcely been able to lift her arms, to raise her head, to look out at the Sisters.

And then Zama had invoked Yor, the god of healing. Yor, whose wizened face and gnarled fingers were symbolized in Rani's mind with the stinging touch of a nettle.

Rani had met him once before. She had felt the mild irritation of his touch. In fact, she had wondered if that god's presence was tied to his function; Rani's own mother had sung the praises of brushing nettles across flesh to draw out fever.

Whatever comfort Yor might have brought with his prickles, though, was outweighed by the sheer force of the god's presence in Rani's mind. Aided by the Sisters' drink, Yor was so strong, so powerful.… Even now, in the safety of the Great Clearing, Rani could remember how her flesh had burned. She had truly thought that she was dying, that she was being flayed upon the tavern floor. The pain was so precise, so overwhelming.… She would have done anything to stop it. She had
tried
to do anything, to strip off her skin, to beat herself into unconsciousness, anything at all to free herself from Yor and from all the other gods whispering about her thoughts.

“There!” Tovin exclaimed. “You've done it again. Where do you go when you leave me? Where are your thoughts?”

“My thoughts are right here,” she said wearily, knowing that she could never explain the hold that the Thousand had taken over her. “My thoughts are with you, Tovin.”

“Easy to say. I see no proof in your actions, though.”

His petulance reminded her of all the reasons they had parted, of all the reasons that he had traveled to Sarmonia in the first place. “What do you want from me?” Her anger burned so hot that it frightened her. “You were the one who left me! Have you forgotten that? Have you forgotten that you left me all alone in Moren?”

“I forget nothing, honored sponsor.” His sarcasm dripped heavily. “I am merely a humble player who watches over the woman who supports his troop.”

“You haven't been humble a day in your life. And that's not fair, Tovin. You were the one who insisted on my sponsorship. Whatever passed between us, I never harmed your players. I never stood between them and a commission.”

She saw him weigh his response, and she wondered which lines he was considering. He had thousands at his disposal, short couplets that captured the perfect invective, solemn quatrains that left her feeling ignorant and ashamed. He had not been like this when they shared apartments in Moren. Then, he had often been Tovin the man, not always Tovin the player. He had spoken to her directly, without the constant burden of hurt and anger. When had they stepped onto this endless, angry road? And where was the path to lead her away to a new and peaceful place?

But no, this time he did not quote a player's piece for her. Instead, he shook his head, and she could imagine the glint of tears in his copper eyes. “Why do we do this, Ranita Glasswright? Why do we fight this way?”

“I'm not fighting,” she said immediately, but she heard the very lie in her tone. She sighed. “I'm sorry, Tovin. I'll sponsor your troop, now and forever, as much as I can. But that still won't make me the woman you want me to be.” She turned to leave the tent.

“You're going to Kella, then.”

“Yes. We misjudged the Sisters. They have not come to Kella, have not pressured her about the Fellowship. There has been no sign of them since we left Riadelle. I have no choice but to work with Kella, convince her to bring me directly to Crestman and the others.”

“Ranita–”

She turned back at the urgency in his voice, moved quickly enough to see the conflict spread out across his features. “Yes?”

He paused for a long moment, and then he said, “Nothing.” She waited for him to change his mind, but he only shook his head and repeated, “Nothing.”

As she walked along the forest path, she wondered what he had been about to say. What would he tell her about the herb witch? What had he observed, in the long months before she and Hal had arrived in the forest? Tovin had an unerring sense of power; he would have gravitated toward Kella if he thought that she could serve him. After all, that was what the player had done to her, to Rani. He had come to her because he sensed her power, her strength, the riches that she held as one of Hal's favored retainers.

A whisper at the back of her mind told her that she was being unfair, that Tovin had stayed with her for more than her influence in Morenia. She set the nagging voice aside, turning her energy to watching the forest.

Hal would have her whipped if he knew that she was walking the pathways alone. He feared that Crestman was waiting behind every tree, that Dartulamino lurked at every forked path.

Rani had seen other patterns, though. The Fellowship would not waste time skulking in the forest. Since they had not struck in the first few days after Hal had been revealed, they were clearly gathering strength for their last great offensive. They were preparing to wipe out Hal and his line once and for all. They would not be content with dispatching him, alone, beneath the trees. They wanted total victory–complete and unalloyed–Hal, his wife, his heir. They wanted total warfare. Rani was safe. For a while.

There was another who might be hiding in the forest, though. Mair.