“Only you could be surrounded with fresh flowers and complain of the stink,” Leesha replied. Indeed, she kept blooms throughout the hut, filling the air with sweetness.
“Don’t change the subject,” Bruna said.
“A Messenger came last night,” Leesha said. “I heard the horn.”
“Not a moment before sundown, too,” Bruna grunted. “Reckless.” She spat on the floor.
“Bruna!” Leesha scolded. “What have I told you about spitting inside the house?”
The crone looked at her, rheumy eyes narrowing. “You told me this is my ripping home, and I can spit where I please,” she said.
Leesha frowned. “I was sure I said something else,” she mused.
“Not if you’re smarter than your bosom makes people think,” Bruna said, sipping her tea.
Leesha let her jaw drop in mock indignation, but she was used to far worse from the old woman. Bruna did and said as she pleased, and no one could tell her differently.
“So it’s the Messenger that has you up and about so early,” Bruna said. “Hoping it’s the handsome one? What’s his name? The one that makes puppy eyes at you?”
Leesha smiled wryly. “More like wolf eyes,” she said.
“That can be good too!” the old woman cackled, slapping Leesha’s knee. Leesha shook her head and rose to clear the table.
“What’s his name?” Bruna pressed. “It’s not like that,” Leesha said.
“I’m too old for this dance, girl,” Bruna said.
“Name.”
“Marick,” Leesha said, rolling her eyes.
“Shall I brew a pot of pomm tea for young Marick’s visit?” Bruna asked.
“Is that all anyone thinks about?” Leesha asked. “I like talking to him. That’s all.”
“I’m not so blind I can’t see that boy has more on his mind than talk,” Bruna said.
“Oh?” Leesha asked, crossing her arms. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
Bruna snorted. “Not a one,” she said, not even turning Leesha’s way. “I’ve been around long enough to know that trick,” she said, “just as I know Maverick the Messenger hasn’t made eye contact with you once in all your talks.”
“His name is Marick,” Leesha said again, “and he does, too.”
“Only if he doesn’t have a clear view of your neckline,” the crone said.
“You’re impossible,” Leesha huffed.
“No cause for shame,” Bruna said. “If I had paps like yours, I’d flaunt them too.”
“I do not flaunt!” Leesha shouted, but Bruna only cackled again.
A horn sounded, not far off.
“That will be young master Marick,” Bruna advised. “You’d best hurry and primp.”
“It’s not like that!” Leesha said again, but Bruna dismissed her with a wave.
“I’ll put that tea on, just in case,” she said. Leesha threw a rag at the old woman and stuck out her tongue, moving toward the door.
Outside on the porch, she smiled in spite of herself as she waited for the Messenger. Bruna pushed her to find a man nearly as much as her mother did, but the crone did it out of love. She wanted only for Leesha to be happy, and Leesha loved her dearly for it. But despite the old woman’s teasing, Leesha was more interested in the letters Marick carried than his wolf eyes.
Ever since she was young, she had loved Messenger days. Cutter’s Hollow was a little place, but it was on the road between three major cities and a dozen hamlets, and between the Hollow’s timber and Erny’s paper, it was a strong part of the region’s economy.
Messengers visited the Hollow at least twice a month, and while most mail was left with Smitt, they delivered to Erny and Bruna personally, frequently waiting for replies. Bruna corresponded with Gatherers in Forts Rizon and Angiers, Lakton, and several hamlets. As the crone’s eyesight failed, the task of reading the letters and penning Bruna’s replies fell to Leesha.
Even from afar, Bruna commanded respect. Indeed, most of the Herb Gatherers in the area had been students of hers at one time or another. Her advice was frequently sought to cure ailments beyond others’ experience, and offers to send her apprentices came with every Messenger. No one wished for her knowledge to pass from the world.
“I’m too old to break in another novice!” Bruna would grouse, waving her hand dismissively, and Leesha would pen a polite refusal, something she had gotten quite used to.
All this gave Leesha many opportunities to talk with Messengers. Most of them leered at her, it was true, or tried to impress her with tales of the Free Cities. Marick was one of those.
But the Messengers’ tales struck a chord with Leesha. Their intent might have been to charm their way into her skirts, but the pictures their words painted stayed with her in her dreams. She longed to walk the docks of Lakton, see the great warded fields of Fort Rizon, or catch a glimpse of Angiers, the forest fortress; to read their books and meet their Herb Gatherers. There were other guardians of knowledge of the old world, if she dared seek them out.
She smiled as Marick came into view. Even a ways off, she knew his gait, legs slightly bowed from a life spent on horseback. The Messenger was Angierian, barely as tall as Leesha at five foot seven, but there was a lean hardness about him, and Leesha hadn’t exaggerated about his wolf eyes. They roved with predatory calm, searching for threats … and prey.
“Ay, Leesha!” he called, lifting his spear toward her.
Leesha lifted her hand in greeting. “Do you really need to carry that thing in broad day?” she called, indicating the spear.
“What if there was a wolf?” Marick replied with a grin. “How would I defend you?”
“We don’t see a lot of wolves in Cutter’s Hollow,” Leesha said, as he drew close. He had longish brown hair and eyes the color of tree bark. She couldn’t deny that he was handsome.
“A bear, then,” Marick said as he reached the hut. “Or a lion. There are many kinds of predator in the world,” he said, eyeing her cleavage.
“Of that, I am well aware,” Leesha said, adjusting her shawl to cover the exposed flesh.
Marick laughed, easing his Messenger bag down onto the porch. “Shawls have gone out of style,” he advised. “None of the women in Angiers or Rizon wear them anymore.”
“Then I’ll wager their dresses have higher necks, or their men more subtlety,” Leesha replied.
“High necks,” Marick agreed with a laugh, bowing low. “I could bring you a high-necked Angierian dress,” he whispered, drawing close.
“When would I ever have cause to wear that?” Leesha asked, slipping away before the man could corner her.
“Come to Angiers,” the Messenger offered. “Wear it there.”
Leesha sighed. “I would like that,” she lamented.
“Perhaps you will get the chance,” the Messenger said slyly, bowing and sweeping his arm to indicate that Leesha should enter the hut before him. Leesha smiled and went in, but she felt his eyes on her backside as she did.
Bruna was back in her chair when they entered. Marick went to her and bowed low.
“Young master Marick!” Bruna said brightly. “What a pleasant surprise!”
“I bring you greetings from Mistress Jizell of Angiers,” Marick said. “She begs your aid in a troubling case.” He reached into his bag and produced a roll of paper, tied with stout string.
Bruna motioned for Leesha to take the letter, and sat back, closing her eyes as her apprentice began to read.
“Honored Bruna, Greetings from Fort Angiers in the year 326 AR,” Leesha began.
“Jizell yapped like a dog when she was my apprentice, and she writes the same way,” Bruna cut her off. “I won’t live forever. Skip to the case.”
Leesha scanned the page, flipping it over and looking over the back, as well. She was on to the second sheet before she found what she was looking for.
“A boy,” Leesha said, “ten years old. Brought into the hospit by his mother, complaining of nausea and weakness
. No other symptoms or history of illness. Given grimroot, water, and bed rest. Symptoms increased over three days, with the addition of rash on arms, legs, and chest. Grimroot raised to three ounces over the course of several days.
“Symptoms worsened, adding fever and hard, white boils growing out of the rash. Salves had no effect. Vomiting followed. Given heartleaf and poppy for the pain, soft milk for the stomach. No appetite. Does not appear to be contagious.”
Bruna sat a long while, digesting the words. She looked at Marick. “Have you seen the boy?” she asked. The Messenger nodded. “Was he sweating?” Bruna asked.
“He was,” Marick confirmed, “but shivering, too, like he was both hot and cold.”
Bruna grunted. “What color were his fingernails?” she asked.
“Fingernail color,” Marick replied with a grin.
“Get smart with me and you’ll regret it,” Bruna warned.
Marick blanched and nodded. The old woman questioned him for a few minutes more, grunting occasionally at his responses. Messengers were known for their sharp memories and keen observation, and Bruna did not seem to doubt him. Finally, she waved him into silence.
“Anything else of note in the letter?” she asked.
“She wants to send you another apprentice,” Leesha said. Bruna scowled.
“I have an apprentice, Vika, who has almost completed her training,” Leesha read, “as, your letters tell, do you. If you are not willing to accept a novice, please consider an exchange of adepts.” Leesha gasped, and Marick broke into a knowing grin.
“I didn’t tell you to stop reading,” Bruna rasped.
Leesha cleared her throat. “Vika is most promising,” she read, “and well equipped to see to the needs of Cutter’s Hollow, as well as look after and learn from wise Bruna. Surely Leesha, too, could learn much ministering to the sick in my hospit. Please, I beg, let at least one more benefit from wise Bruna before she passes from this world.”
Bruna was quiet a long while. “I will think on this a while before I reply,” she said at last. “Go to your rounds in town, girl. We’ll speak on this when you return.” To Marick, she said, “You’ll have a response tomorrow. Leesha will see to your payment.”
The Messenger bowed and backed out of the house as Bruna sat back and closed her eyes. Leesha could feel her heart racing, but she knew better than to interrupt the crone as she sifted through the many decades of her memory for a way to treat the boy. She collected her basket, and left to make her rounds.
Marick was waiting for her when Leesha came outside.
“You knew what was in that letter all along,” Leesha accused.
“Of course,” Marick agreed. “I was there when she penned it.”
“But you said nothing,” Leesha said.
Marick grinned. “I offered you a high-necked dress,” he said, “and that offer still stands.”
“We’ll see.” Leesha smiled, holding out a pouch of coins. “Your payment,” she said.
“I’d rather you pay me with a kiss,” he said.
“You flatter me, to say my kisses are worth more than gold,” Leesha replied. “I fear to disappoint.”
Marick laughed. “My dear, if I braved the demons of the night all the way from Angiers and back and returned with but a kiss from you, I would be the envy of every Messenger ever to pass through Cutter’s Hollow.”
“Well, in that case,” Leesha said with a laugh, “I think I’ll keep my kisses a little longer, in hopes of a better price.”
“You cut me to the quick,” Marick said, clutching his heart. Leesha tossed him the pouch, and he caught it deftly.
“May I at least have the honor of escorting the Herb Gatherer into town?” he asked with a smile. He made a leg and held out his arm for her to take. Leesha smiled in spite of herself.
“We don’t do things so quickly in the Hollow,” she said, eyeing the arm, “but you may carry my basket.” She hooked it on his outstretched arm and headed toward town, leaving him staring after her.
Smitt’s market was bustling by the time they reached town. Leesha liked to select early, before the best produce was gone, and place her order with Dug the butcher before making her rounds.
“Good morn, Leesha,” said Yon Gray, the oldest man in Cutter’s Hollow. His gray beard, a point of pride, was longer than most women’s hair. Once a burly cutter, Yon had lost most of his bulk in his latter years, and now leaned heavily on his cane.
“Good morn, Yon,” she replied. “How are the joints?”
“Pain me still,” Yon replied. “’Specially the hands. Can barely hold my cane some days.”
“Yet you find it in you to pinch me whenever I turn ’round,” Leesha noted.
Yon cackled. “To an old man like me, girlie, that’s worth any pain.”
Leesha reached into her basket, pulling forth a small jar. “It’s well that I made you more sweetsalve, then,” she said. “You’ve saved me the need to bring it by.”
Yon grinned. “You’re always welcome to come by and help apply,” he said with a wink.
Leesha tried not to laugh, but it was a futile effort. Yon was a lecher, but she liked him well enough. Living with Bruna had taught her that the eccentricities of age were a small price to pay for having a lifetime of experience to draw upon.
“You’ll just have to manage yourself, I’m afraid,” she said.
“Bah!” Yon waved his cane in mock irritation. “Well, you think on it,” he said. He looked to Marick before taking his leave, giving a nod of respect. “Messenger.”
Marick nodded back, and the old man moved off.
Everyone at the market had a kind word of greeting for Leesha, and she stopped to ask after the health of each, always working, even while shopping.
Though she and Bruna had plenty of money from selling flamesticks and the like, no one would take so much as a klat in return for her selections. Bruna asked no money for healing, and no one asked money of her for anything else.
Marick stood protectively close as she squeezed fruit and vegetables with a practiced hand. He drew stares, but Leesha thought it was as much because he was with her than it was the presence of a stranger at market. Messengers were common enough in Cutter’s Hollow.
She caught the eye of Keet—Stefny’s son, if not Smitt’s. The boy was nearly eleven, and looked more and more like Tender Michel with each passing day. Stefny had kept her side of the bargain over the years, and not spoken ill of Leesha since she was apprenticed. Her secret was safe as far as Bruna was concerned, but for the life of her, Leesha could not see how Smitt failed to see the truth staring at him from the supper table each night.
She beckoned, and Keet came running. “Bring this bag to Bruna once your chores allow,” she said, handing him her selections. She smiled at him and secretly pressed a klat into his hand.
Keet grinned widely at the gift. Adults would never take money from an Herb Gatherer, but Leesha always slipped children something for extra service. The lacquered wooden coin from Angiers was the main currency in Cutter’s Hollow, and would buy Rizonan sweets for Keet and his siblings when the next Messenger came.
She was ready to leave when she saw Mairy, and moved to greet her. Her friend had been busy over the years; three children clung to her skirts now. A young glassblower named Benn had left Angiers to find his fortune in Lakton or Fort Rizon. He had stopped in the Hollow to ply his trade and raise a few more klats before the next leg of the journey, but then he met Mairy, and those plans dissolved like sugar in tea.
Now Benn plied his trade in Mairy’s father’s barn, and business was brisk. He bought bags of sand from Messengers out of Fort Krasia, and turned them into things of both function and beauty. The Hollow had never had a blower before, and everyone wanted glass of their own.
Leesha, too, was pleased by the development, and soon had Benn making the delicate components of distilleries shown in Bruna’s books, allowing her to leach the strength from herbs and brew cures far more powerful than the Ho
llow had ever seen.
Soon after, Benn and Mairy wed, and before long, Leesha was pulling their first child from between Mairy’s legs. Two more had followed in short order, and Leesha loved each as if it were her own. She had been honored to tears when they named their youngest after her.
“Good morning, rascals,” Leesha said, squatting down and letting Mairy’s children fall into her arms. She hugged them tightly and kissed them, slipping them pieces of candy wrapped in paper before rising. She made the candy herself, another thing she had learned from Bruna.
“Good morning, Leesha,” Mairy said, dipping a small curtsy. Leesha bit back a frown. She and Mairy had stayed close over the years, but Mairy looked at her differently now that she wore the pocketed apron, and nothing seemed able to change that. The curtsy seemed ingrained.
Still, Leesha treasured her friendship. Saira came secretly to Bruna’s hut, begging pomm tea, but their relationship ended there. To hear the women in town tell it, Saira kept well enough entertained. Half the men in the village supposedly knocked on her door at one time or another, and she always had more money than the sewing she and her mother took in could bring.
Brianne was even worse in some ways. She had not spoken to Leesha in the last seven years, but had a bad word to say about her to everyone else. She had taken to seeing Darsy for her cures, and her dalliances with Evin had quickly given her a round belly. When Tender Michel had challenged her, she had named Evin the father rather than face the town alone.
Evin had married Brianne with her father’s pitchfork at his back and her brothers to either side, and had committed himself to making her and their son Callen miserable ever since.
Brianne had proven a fit mother and wife, but she never lost the weight she had put on during her pregnancy, and Leesha knew personally how Evin’s eyes—and hands—wandered. Gossip had him knocking frequently on Saira’s door.
“Good morning, Mairy,” she said. “Have you met Messenger Marick?” Leesha turned to introduce the man, only to find he was no longer at her back.
“Oh, no,” she said, seeing him facing off with Gared across the market.
The Warded Man Page 26
