“I’m not a brood mare, Mother,” Leesha said. “There’s more in life for me than that.”
“What more?” Elona pressed. “What could be more important?”
“I don’t know,” Leesha said honestly. “But I’ll know when I find it.”
“And in the meantime, you leave the care of Cutter’s Hollow to a girl you’ve never met and ham-hand Darsy, who nearly killed Ande, and half a dozen since.”
“It’s only for a few years,” Leesha said. “My whole life, you called me useless, but now I’m supposed to believe the Hollow can’t get on a few years without me?”
“What if something happens to you?” Elona demanded. “What if you’re cored on the road? What would I do?”
“What would you do?” Leesha asked. “For seven years, you’ve barely said a word to me, apart from pressing me to forgive Gared. You don’t know anything about me anymore, Mother. You haven’t bothered. So don’t pretend now that my death would be some great loss to you. If you want Gared’s child on your knee so badly, you’ll have to bear it yourself.”
Elona’s eyes widened, and as when Leesha was a willful child, her response was swift. “I forbid it!” she shouted, her open hand flying at Leesha’s face.
But Leesha was not a child anymore. She was of a size with her mother, faster and stronger. She caught Elona’s wrist and held it fast. “The days when your word carried weight with me are long past, Mother,” Leesha said.
Elona tried to pull away, but Leesha held on a bit, if only to show she could. When she was finally released, Elona rubbed her wrist and looked scornfully at her daughter. “You’ll be back one day, Leesha,” she swore. “Mark my words! And it will be much worse for you then!”
“I think it’s time you left, Mother,” Leesha said, opening the door just as Marick was raising his hand to knock. Elona snarled and pushed past him, stomping down the path.
“Apologies if I’m intruding,” Marick said. “I came for Mistress Bruna’s response. I’m bound for Angiers by midmorning.”
Leesha looked at Marick. His jaw was bruised, but his thick tan hid it well, and the herbs she had applied to his split lip and eye had kept the swelling down.
“You seem well recovered,” she said.
“Quick healers go far in my line of work,” Marick said.
“Well then fetch your horse,” Leesha said, “and return in an hour. I will deliver Bruna’s response personally.”
Marick smiled widely.
“It is good that you go,” Bruna said, when they were alone at last. “Cutter’s Hollow holds no more challenges for you, and you’re far too young to stagnate.”
“If you think that wasn’t a challenge,” Leesha said, “then you weren’t paying attention.”
“A challenge, perhaps,” Bruna said, “but the outcome was never in doubt. You’ve grown too strong for the likes of Elona.”
Strong, she thought. Is that what I’ve become? It didn’t feel that way most of the time, but it was true, none of the inhabitants of Cutter’s Hollow frightened her anymore.
Leesha gathered her bags, small and seemingly inadequate; a few dresses and books, some money, her herb pouch, a bedroll, and food. She left her pretties, the gifts her father had given her and other possessions near to her heart. Messengers traveled light, and Marick would not take well to having his horse overburdened. Bruna had said Jizell would provide for her during her training, but still, it seemed precious little to start a new life with.
A new life. For all the stress of the idea, it brought excitement, as well. Leesha had read every book in Bruna’s collection, but Jizell had a great many more, and the other Herb Gatherers in Angiers, if they could be persuaded to share, held more still.
But as the hour drew to a close, Leesha felt as if the breath were being squeezed from her. Where was her father? Would he not see her off?
“It’s nearly time,” Bruna said. Leesha looked up and realized her eyes were wet.
“We’d best say our good-byes,” Bruna said. “Odds are, we’ll never have another chance.”
“Bruna, what are you saying?” Leesha asked.
“Don’t play the fool with me, girl,” Bruna said. “You know what I mean. I’ve lived my share twice over, but I’m not going to last forever.”
“Bruna,” Leesha said, “I don’t have to go …”
“Pfagh!” Bruna said with a wave of her hand. “You’ve mastered all I can teach you, girl, so let these years be my last gift to you. Go,” she prodded, “see and learn as much as you can.”
She held out her arms, and Leesha fell into them. “Just promise me that you’ll look after my children when I’m gone. They can be stupid and willful, but there’s good in them, when the night is dark.”
“I will,” Leesha promised. “And I’ll make you proud.”
“You could never do otherwise,” the old woman said.
Leesha sobbed into Bruna’s rough shawl. “I’m scared, Bruna,” she said.
“You’d be a fool not to be,” Bruna said, “but I’ve seen a good piece of the world myself, and I’ve never seen a thing you couldn’t handle.”
Marick led his horse up the path not long after. The Messenger had a fresh spear in his hand, and his warded shield slung over the horn of his saddle. If the pummeling he had taken the day before pained him in any way, he gave no sign.
“Ay, Leesha!” he called when he saw her. “Ready to begin your adventure?”
Adventure. The word cut past sadness and fear, sending a thrill through her.
Marick took Leesha’s bags, slinging them atop his lean Angierian courser as Leesha turned to Bruna one last time. “I’m too old for good-byes that last half the day,” Bruna said. “Take care of yourself, girl.”
The old woman pressed a pouch into her hands, and Leesha heard the clink of Milnese coin, worth a fortune in Angiers. Bruna turned and went inside before Leesha could protest.
She pocketed the pouch quickly. The sight of metal coin this far from Miln could tempt any man, even a Messenger. They walked on opposite sides of the horse down the path to town, where the main road led on to Angiers. Leesha called to her father as they passed his house, but there was no reply. Elona saw them pass and went inside, slamming the door behind her.
Leesha hung her head. She had been counting on seeing her father one last time. She thought of all the villagers she saw every day, and how she hadn’t had time to part with them all properly. The letters she had left with Bruna seemed woefully inadequate.
As they reached the center of town, though, Leesha gasped. Her father was waiting there, and behind him, lining the road, was the entire town. They went to her one by one as she passed, some kissing her and others pressing gifts into her hands. “Remember us well and return,” Erny said, and Leesha hugged him tightly, squeezing her eyes shut to ward off tears.
“The Hollowers love you,” Marick remarked as they rode through the woods. Cutter’s Hollow was hours behind them, and the day’s shadows were growing long. Leesha sat before him on his courser’s wide saddle, and the beast seemed to bear it and their baggage well.
“There are times,” Leesha said, “when I even believe it myself.”
“Why shouldn’t you believe it?” Marick asked. “A beauty like the dawn who can cure all ills? I doubt any could help but love you.”
Leesha laughed. “A beauty like the dawn?” she asked. “Find the poor Jongleur you stole that line from and tell him never to use it again.”
Marick laughed, his arms tightening around her. “You know,” he said in her ear, “we never discussed my fee for escorting you.”
“I have money,” Leesha said, wondering how far her coin would go in Angiers.
“So do I,” Marick laughed. “I’m not interested in money.”
“Then what kind of price did you have in mind, Master Marick?” Leesha asked. “Is this another play for a kiss?”
Marick chuckled, his wolf eyes glinting. “A kiss was the price to bring you a letter. Bri
nging you safely to Angiers will be much more … expensive.” He shifted his hips behind her, and his meaning was clear.
“Always ahead of yourself,” Leesha said. “You’ll be lucky to get the kiss at this rate.”
“We’ll see,” Marick said.
They made camp soon after. Leesha prepared supper while Marick set the wards. When the stew was ready, she crumbled a few extra herbs into Marick’s bowl before handing it to him.
“Eat quick,” Marick said, taking the bowl and shoveling a large spoonful into his mouth. “You’ll want to get in the tent before the corelings rise. Seeing them up close can be scary.”
Leesha looked over at the tent Marick had pitched, barely big enough for one.
“It’s small,” he winked, “but we’ll be able to warm each other in the chill of night.”
“It’s summer,” she reminded him.
“Yet I still feel a cold breeze whenever you speak,” Marick chuckled. “Perhaps we can find a way to melt that. Besides”—he gestured past the circle, where misty forms of corelings had already begun to rise—“it’s not as if you can go far.”
He was stronger than her, and her struggles against him did as little good as her refusals. With the cries of corelings as their backdrop, she suffered his kisses and pawing at her, hands fumbling and rough. And when his manhood failed him, she comforted him with soothing words, offering remedies of herb and root that only worsened his condition.
Sometimes he grew angry, and she was afraid he might strike her. Other times he wept, for what kind of man could not spread his seed? Leesha weathered it all, for the trial was not too high a price for passage to Angiers.
I am saving him from himself, she thought each time she dosed his food, for what man wished to be a rapist? But the truth was, she felt little remorse. She took no pleasure in using her skills to break his weapon, but deep down, there was a cold satisfaction, as if all her female ancestors throughout the untold ages since the first man who forced a woman to the ground were nodding in grim approval that she had unmanned him before he could unmaiden her.
The days passed slowly, with Marick’s mood shifting from sour to spoiled as each night’s failure mounted upon him. The last night, he drank deep from his wineskin, and seemed ready to leap from the circle and let the demons have him. Leesha’s relief was palpable when she saw the forest fortress spread out before them in the wood. She gasped at the sight of the high walls, their lacquered wards hard and strong, large enough to encompass Cutter’s Hollow many times over.
The streets of Angiers were covered with wood to prevent demons from rising inside; the entire city was a boardwalk. Marick took her deep into the city, and set her down outside Jizell’s hospit. He gripped her arm as she turned to go, squeezing hard, hurting her.
“What happened out beyond the walls,” he said, “stays out there.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” Leesha said.
“See that you don’t,” Marick said. “Because if you do, I’ll kill you.”
“I swear,” Leesha said. “Gatherer’s word.”
Marick grunted and released her, pulling hard on his courser’s bridle and cantering off.
A smile touched the corners of Leesha’s mouth as she gathered her things and headed toward the hospit.
CHAPTER 15
FIDDLE ME A FORTUNE
325 AR
THERE WAS SMOKE, and fire, and a woman screamed above the corelings’ shrieks.
I love you!
Rojer started awake, his heart racing. Dawn had broken over the high walls of Fort Angiers, soft light filtering in through the cracks in the shutters. He held his talisman tightly in his good hand as the light grew, waiting for his heart to still. The tiny doll, a child’s creation of wood and string topped with her lock of red hair, was all he had left of his mother.
He didn’t remember her face, lost in the smoke, or much else about that night, but he remembered her last words to him. He heard them over and over in his dreams.
I love you!
He rubbed the hair between the thumb and ring finger of his crippled hand. Only a jagged scar remained where his first two fingers had been, but because of her, he had lost nothing else.
I love you!
The talisman was Rojer’s secret ward, something he didn’t even share with Arrick, who had been like a father to him. It helped him through the long nights when darkness closed heavily around him and the coreling screams made him shake with fear.
But day had come, and the light made him feel safe again. He kissed the tiny doll and returned it to the secret pocket he had sewn into the waistband of his motley pants. Just knowing it was there made him feel brave. He was ten years old.
Rising from his straw mattress, Rojer stretched and stumbled out of the tiny room, yawning. His heart fell as he saw Arrick passed out at the table. His master was slumped over an empty bottle, his hand wrapped tightly around its neck as if to choke a few last drops from it.
They both had their talismans.
Rojer went over and pried the bottle from his master’s fingers.
“Who? Wazzat?” Arrick demanded, half lifting his head.
“You fell asleep at the table again,” Rojer said.
“Oh, ’s you, boy,” Arrick grunted. “Thought it ’uz tha’ ripping landlord again.”
“The rent’s past due,” Rojer said. “We’re set to play Small Square this morning.”
“The rent,” Arrick grumbled. “Always the rent.”
“If we don’t pay today,” Rojer reminded, “Master Keven promised he’d throw us out.”
“So we’ll perform,” Arrick said, rising. He lost his balance and attempted to catch himself on the chair, but he only served to bring it down on top of him as he hit the floor.
Rojer went to help him up, but Arrick pushed him away. “I’m fine!” he shouted, as if daring Rojer to differ as he rose unsteadily to his feet. “I could do a backflip!” he said, looking behind him to see if there was room. His eyes made it clear he was regretting the boast.
“We should save that for the performance,” Rojer said quickly.
Arrick looked back at him. “You’re probably right,” he agreed, both of them relieved.
“My throat’s dry,” Arrick said. “I’ll need a drink before I sing.”
Rojer nodded, running to fill a wooden cup from the pitcher of water.
“Not water,” Arrick said. “Bring me wine. I need a claw from the demon that cored me.” “We’re out of wine,” Rojer said.
“Then run and get me some,” Arrick ordered. He stumbled to his purse, tripping as he did and just barely catching himself. Rojer ran over to support him.
Arrick fumbled with the strings a moment, then lifted the whole purse and slammed it back down on the wood. There was no retort as the cloth struck, and Arrick growled.
“Not a klat!” he shouted in frustration, throwing the purse. The act took his balance, and he turned a full circle trying to right himself before dropping to the floor with a thud.
He gained his hands and knees by the time Rojer got to him, but he retched, spilling wine and bile all over the floor. He made fists and convulsed, and Rojer thought he would retch again, but after a moment he realized his master was sobbing.
“It was never like this when I worked for the duke,” Arrick moaned. “Money was spilling from my pockets, then.”
Only because the duke paid for your wine, Rojer thought, but he was wise enough to keep it to himself. Telling Arrick he drank too much was the surest way to provoke him into a rage.
He cleaned his master up and supported the heavy man to his mattress. Once he was passed out on the straw, Rojer got a rag to clean the floor. There would be no performance today.
He wondered if Master Keven would really put them out, and where they would go if he did. The Angierian wardwall was strong, but there were holes in the net above, and wind demons were not unheard of. The thought of a night on the street terrified him.
He looked at th
eir meager possessions, wondering if there was something he could sell. Arrick had sold Geral’s destrier and warded shield when times had turned sour, but the Messenger’s portable circle remained. It would fetch a fair price, but Rojer would not dare sell it. Arrick would drink and gamble with the money, and there would be nothing left to protect them when they were finally put out in the night for real.
Rojer, too, missed the days when Arrick worked for the duke. Arrick was loved by Rhinebeck’s whores, and they had treated Rojer like he was their own. Hugged against a dozen perfumed bosoms a day, he had been given sweets and taught to help them paint and preen. He hadn’t seen his master as much then; Arrick had often left him in the brothel when he journeyed to the hamlets, his sweet voice delivering ducal edicts far and wide.
But the duke hadn’t cared for finding a young boy curled in the bed when he stumbled into his favorite whore’s chambers one night, drunk and aroused. He wanted Rojer gone, and Arrick with him. Rojer knew it was his fault that they lived so poorly now. Arrick, like his parents, had sacrificed everything to care for him.
But unlike with his parents, Rojer could give something back to Arrick.
Rojer ran for all he was worth, hoping the crowd was still there. Even now, many would come to an advertised engagement of the Sweetsong, but they wouldn’t wait forever.
Over his shoulder he carried Arrick’s “bag of marvels.” Like their clothes, the bag was made from a Jongleur’s motley of colored patches, faded and threadbare. The bag was filled with the instruments of a Jongleur’s art. Rojer had mastered them all, save the colored juggling balls.
His bare, callused feet slapped the boardwalk. Rojer had boots and gloves to match his motley, but he left them behind. He preferred the firm grip of his toes to the worn soles of his bell-tipped, motley boots, and he hated the gloves.
Arrick had stuffed the fingers of the right glove with cotton to hide the ones Rojer was missing. Slender thread connected the false digits to the remaining ones, making them bend as one. It was a clever bit of trickery, but Rojer was ashamed each time he pulled the constrictive thing onto his crippled hand. Arrick insisted he wear them, but his master couldn’t hit him for something he didn’t know about.
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