Demon Cycle 04 - The Skull Throne

by Peter V. Brett

  Leesha nodded, but she did not loosen her hold, keeping her head on Jizell’s comforting bosom just a moment longer. She shivered, and suddenly she was weeping.

  “I’m so frightened, Jizell,” she whispered.

  “There, poppet.” Jizell stroked her back. “I know. Got the world on your shoulders these days, but I ent seen a stronger pair in all my days. If you can’t hold it, no one can.”

  She squeezed tighter. “And me and the girls will always be there to lend our backs to it.”

  Leesha looked up. “The girls?”

  Jizell let go and took a step back, reaching into her cleavage and producing a kerchief with a wink. “Dry your eyes and say hi to your new old apprentices.”

  Leesha took a deep, calming breath, drying her eyes. Jizell kept close, the big woman giving her the privacy to compose herself before opening the coach doors again. Roni and Kadie, apprentices that had been Leesha’s students up until she returned to the Hollow last year, veritably leapt from the coach into her arms. Their excitement was palpable, and Leesha laughed with the joy of it.

  “We saw the greatward light up, mistress!” Kadie squeaked. “It was amazing!”

  “Not as amazing as the men we saw,” Roni said. “Are all the Hollowers so tall, mistress?”

  “Night, Roni,” Kadie rolled her eyes, “we’re standing out in the open in the dark and all you can think of is boys.”

  “Men,” Roni corrected her, and even Leesha snickered.

  “Enough, giggleboxes,” Leesha said, falling easily back to her stern instructor’s voice. “We can talk warding and boys later. Tonight, there’s work to be done.” She pointed to the freshly built operating theater at the far end of the yard. “Go and help Gatherers to their seats as they arrive.” The girls nodded, running off.

  “My new old apprentices?” Leesha asked.

  “Long as you can stand their prattle,” Jizell said. “They’ll learn far more in the Hollow than they will in Angiers.”

  Leesha nodded. “And have more asked of them. We often don’t have the luxury of a clean hospit to work in, Jizell. Before long, they’ll be cutting and stitching folk right where they fell, just to get them back to the hospit alive.”

  “World’s marching off to war, one way or the other. Gatherers can afford to hide behind the walls anymore.” Jizell put a hand on Leesha’s shoulder. “But if someone’s got to teach them the lesson, I’d rather it be you. Proud of you, girl.”

  “Thank you,” Leesha said.

  “How many weeks since you last bled?” Jizell asked.

  Leesha’s heart stopped. Her voice caught in her throat and she froze, wide-eyed.

  Jizell gave her a wry look. “Don’t look so surprised. You’re not the only one of us trained by Mistress Bruna.”

  From all over Hollow County, Herb Gatherers came up the warded road. Some on foot from the hospit just over a mile away by the Corelings’ Graveyard. Others in coaches sent to collect them from the outermost baronies, and everywhere in between. There were even a few from the migrant refugee villages that had not yet been absorbed.

  “Bandits,” Wonda said, after they greeted a few of the lean, hard-eyed women.

  “That’s enough of that talk, Wonda Cutter,” Leesha said. “This is a Gathering. Every woman here has taken oaths to save lives, and you will treat them all with respect. Is that clear?”

  Wonda’s eye quivered, glistening just a little, and Leesha wondered for a moment if she had been too harsh. But then the girl swallowed hard and nodded. “Ay, mistress. Din’t mean no disrespect.”

  “I know you didn’t, dear Wonda,” Leesha said. “But you must never forget the real enemy comes from the Core. Their attack at new moon was little more than a feint, and they almost destroyed us, even with Arlen and Renna in the Hollow.”

  Wonda clenched a fist. “He’ll come back, mistress.”

  “We don’t know that,” Leesha said. “And if he did, he’d tell you himself that we’d best make every ally we can.”

  “Ay, mistress,” Wonda said. “Still say you should’ve let me hide the silver.”

  Leesha shook her head, counting the women already in the theater and those still on the road. The parked carriages stretched out of sight now, and every Gatherer arrived on foot.

  Amanvah and Sikvah were the last to arrive, leaving Rojer waiting in the yard with the other men as they followed Leesha and Jizell into the theater. The chatter of the women grew markedly louder at the sight of the Krasian women standing behind Leesha at the entrance to the floor.

  Leesha took a deep breath. Jizell gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze, and she stepped out into the center of the theater floor. The din died instantly.

  Leesha turned a full circle, trying to meet every eye in the theater, if only for a moment. Nearly two hundred women leaned forward, waiting expectantly for the ward witch to speak.

  It wasn’t nearly enough. As near as the talliers could tell, Hollow County and its environs had swollen to almost fifty thousand inhabitants. Few in number even before these troubled times, many Gatherers had been captured or killed on the road as they fled the Krasian invasion, or fallen prey to the destruction at new moon.

  Less than half the women were true Gatherers. Leesha knew many of them from correspondence and interviews when they first came to the Hollow. Some few had real skill and knowledge of old world techniques, but others were glorified midwives, grandmothers who could pull a babe from its mother and brew a few simple cures. Few if any of them could read, and almost none of them, even Jizell, could ward.

  The rest were apprentices. Some young girls in training, others older, women drafted into the hospits when the wounded began to mount, likely with no more skill than boiling water and bringing fresh linen.

  You’re all Gatherers now, Leesha thought.

  “Thank you all for coming,” Leesha called, her voice strong and clear. “Many of you have traveled great distance, and I welcome you most of all. There hasn’t been such a Gathering in the Hollow since my teacher, Mistress Bruna, was young.”

  Many of the women nodded to themselves. Bruna was known to all of them, the legendary Herb Gatherer who had lived to be one hundred twenty before the flux had taken her.

  “Gatherings used to be commonplace,” Leesha said. “After the Return, it was the only way left to us to pool the secrets of the old world and try to gain back something of what we lost when the demons burned the great libraries.

  “It must be so again. There are too few of us, and too much to share, if we are to survive the coming moons. We must recruit as heavily as the Cutters, and train together as they do. My apprentices have been copying my books of chemics and healing—all of you will be sent home with your own copies to study. And from this day forward, there will be regular lessons in this theater, covering everything from healing and warding to demon anatomy. Even some of the secrets of fire. For some I will be the teacher. For others,” she looked back to Jizell and Amanvah, “I too will be a student.”

  “Ay, you can’t expect us to take lessons from some Krasian witch!” one old woman had the guts to cry. Many others echoed their approval. Too many.

  Leesha looked back at Amanvah, but for all the pride she knew the young princess carried, she remained serene, refusing to be baited. Leesha gave a clap, and her apprentices carried in an injured Cutter on a stretcher. He had been given a sleeping draught, and the girls grunted as they lifted the burly man’s dead weight onto the operating table.

  “This is Makon Orchard, from the barony of New Rizon,” Leesha said, drawing the white cloth that covered him down to his waist, revealing black and purple bruising around a neat line of stitches that stretched across his abdomen. “He was injured clearing land for a new greatward three nights ago. I spent eight hours cutting and stitching him back together. Are there any here who witnessed this?”

  Six Gatherers and a score of apprentices raised their hands. Still, Leesha pointed to the old woman who had called out. “Gatherer Alsa,
isn’t it?”

  “Ay,” the old woman said with a suspicious look. She was one of the migrant refugee Gatherers, come from one of the many hamlets that had fled the Krasian invasion. It was true that many of the migrants had turned to banditry, but their desperation had not happened without cause.

  “Will you come and inspect the wound, please?” Leesha asked.

  The Gatherer grunted, thumping her walking stick and pushing to her feet. Roni moved to escort her, but Alsa swatted at her and the girl wisely kept her distance as the old woman shuffled down to the theater floor.

  Despite her gruff exterior, Gatherer Alsa seemed to know her business, inspecting Makon’s injury with firm but gentle hands. She squeezed the stitches and rubbed her thumb and forefinger under her nose, sniffing.

  “You do good work, girl,” Alsa said at last. “Boy’s lucky to be alive. But I don’t see what this has to do with us sharing secrets with desert rats.” She pointed her stick rudely at Amanvah. The young dama’ting eyed the stick, but maintained her calm.

  “Lucky to be alive,” Leesha echoed. “Even so, it will be months before Makon can walk, or pass a stool without blood and pain. He will be on a liquid diet for weeks, and may never be able to fight or do hard labor again.”

  She gestured to Amanvah, who stepped forward, careful to keep her distance from Alsa. She produced a curved silver knife.

  “Ay, what are you doing?” Alsa demanded coming forward, her stick held ready to strike. Leesha checked her with an outstretched hand.

  “Patience I beg, mistress,” she said.

  Alsa looked at her incredulously, but stayed her hand as Amanvah skillfully cut away Leesha’s neat stitches, pulling them free and tossing them aside. She held out a hand and Sikvah placed a fine horsehair brush in it, producing a porcelain ink bowl for dipping.

  Makon’s chest and belly had been freshly shaved, leaving a clean, smooth surface for Amanvah to work. She dipped the brush and wiped the excess ink on the edge of the bowl, painting precise wards around the wound. She worked quickly and with confidence, but it was still several minutes before she finished. When she was done, there were two concentric ovals of wards surrounding the line of stitches.

  She then reached into her hora pouch, producing a demon bone that looked like a chunk of charcoal. She passed this slowly over the wound, and immediately the wards began to glow. Softly at first, then brighter. The two ovals seemed to rotate in opposite directions, wards flaring brighter and brighter until those closest had to shield their eyes.

  The light faded a few moments later, and Amanvah brushed her hands as the bone crumbled to dust. Sikvah came forward again, this time with a bowl of hot water and a cloth. Amanvah took it and wiped away the crusted blood and ink wards, then stepped back.

  There were gasps throughout the theater. All could see that Makon’s skin had gone from black and purple to pale pink, and the wound was gone.

  Alsa shoved past Leesha, moving to inspect the warrior, running her hand over the scarless flesh, pressing, squeezing, and pinching. At last she looked up at Amanvah. “That ent possible.”

  “All things are possible with Everam’s grace, mistress,” Amanvah said. She turned to address the Gathering.

  “I am Amanvah, First Wife of Rojer asu Jessum am’Inn am’Hollow. We are Krasian, yes, but my sister-wife and I are Hollow tribe now. Your warriors are our warriors, and regardless, all who stand against the alagai are the charges of the dama’ting. With hora magic, many of those who might have died can be saved, and many left crippled will be able to fight again. Tomorrow night, Makon am’Orchard will once again lift the spear with his brothers in defense of Hollow County.”

  She turned, looking Gatherer Alsa in the eye. “If you let me, I will teach you to do the same.”

  Out in the yard, Rojer couldn’t make out many of the words in the Gathering theater, but his trained ear could still pick out voice and tone, Leesha’s most of all. He’d spent hours training her to dominate the theater by projecting like a Jongleur. Leesha took well to the lessons, especially with the masterful performances of the count to study. Thamos could speak a normal tone to those closest him without eavesdroppers catching a word, and project whispers across his entire courtroom clear as day. Trained from birth to command, the Royals of Fort Angiers could put an entire acting troupe to shame. Obedience was assumed so they were free to be genial unless pressed, and dignified even then.

  Rojer had seen personally how quickly that affable tone could turn into a lash. Just a subtle shift, not losing a touch of politeness, could express displeasure without ever giving offense, and let everyone else in the room know how their leader expected them to behave.

  Now Leesha’s voice rang through the theater in the same manner. Polite. Respectful. And utterly in control.

  She would make a brilliant countess, once she and Thamos stopped sticking in the dark and announced the inevitable match. He hoped it was soon. If there was anyone in the world due for a bit of happiness, it was Leesha Paper. Night, even Arlen found a wife, and he was crazier than a mustang stampede.

  The theater went silent and he saw the pulsing lights of Amanvah’s performance. When it was over, his Jiwah Ka’s voice took over the Gathering, thrumming throughout the theater in a powerful spell.

  Amanvah needed no training from Rojer. Even common Krasians rivaled the Angierian royal court for dramatic performances, and where Thamos had been raised prince of a duchy, his First Wife had been raised princess of the world. She closed her speech with such a tone of finality Rojer expected the women to come filing out soon after, but the Gathering went on for hours as they lectured, debated, and argued about what form Leesha’s new Gatherers’ Guild would take. That Leesha would be guildmistress was never in question, but the women had plenty to say on the rest.

  Rojer didn’t mind the wait, idly testing new tunes on his fiddle as his head spun with thoughts of Kendall. The scent of her, the talent, the beauty. The way she kissed.

  It was only a few hours ago, but already it seemed a dream.

  But it ent, he thought. It really happened. Tomorrow Amanvah’s going to visit Kendall’s mother and all the Core’s gonna break loose.

  He felt his nerves clench and played the lullaby his mother used to sing until he calmed again.

  Not like they can run you out of town, he told himself. You’re the Warded Man’s fiddle wizard. Hollow needs you.

  But he’d already given them the Song of Waning. Did they really need him anymore?

  Got to have a private talk with Leesha, he realized. She’ll know what to do. Not like she’s got a leg to stand on when it comes to scandal.

  He took a deep breath as the Gathering finally broke and women started filing out. His wives wasted no time in coming to him, ignoring the stares of the other women and moving with dignified haste until they were safely in the motley coach.

  “Let us go quickly,” Amanvah said. “I may have agreed to teach hora healing to these women, but I have no desire to weather their stares any longer than I have to. As if I were to blame for their foolish and cowardly flight from my father’s glorious coming.”

  “One way to look at it,” Rojer said. “Doubt they see things the same way, what with all the fire and murder chasing them out.”

  “All training leaves scrapes and bruises, husband,” Amanvah said. “They will understand when my father leads them to victory in Sharak Ka.”

  Rojer knew better than to argue. “You’ll make no friends here with that sort of talk.”

  Amanvah gave him a withering look. “I am not a fool, husband.”

  Rojer sketched a bow. “Forgive me, Jiwah Ka. I never meant to suggest such.”

  He thought the sarcasm in his tone might get it in trouble, but like many Royals, Amanvah took obsequious words as her due. “You are forgiven, husband.” She inclined her head at the carriage steps. Rojer had still not climbed in. “May we go?”

  “You go on ahead,” Rojer said. “Need to talk to Leesha.”


  Amanvah nodded. “To discuss Kendall, of course.”

  Rojer blinked. “… and you’ve no protest?”

  Amanvah shrugged. “Mistress Paper acted as your sister in arranging our own marriage, husband, and spoke honestly and true. If you wish her advice on the contract, that is your right.”

  Advice on the contract, Rojer thought. Meaning she can dicker the dower, but the marriage is happening.

  “And if she tells me it’s a bad match?” Rojer said.

  “It is a sister’s right to raise such concerns.” Amanvah gave Rojer a cold look. “But she had best have good reason, not some greenland prudishness.”

  Rojer swallowed, but he nodded. He closed the door and stepped away as Amanvah rang her bell and the driver took off for Shamavah’s restaurant.

  Gatherers were filing away to their own coaches or heading down the road in groups, chatting animatedly and clutching the books Leesha was handing out as they left.

  “I’m too old to be an apprentice again,” one hag was saying as he approached. She smelled like incense and tea, dry and stale.

  “Nonsense,” Leesha said.

  “Not as fit as I used to be,” the woman continued as if Leesha had not spoken. “Can’t be coming all the way out here all the time.”

  “I’ll arrange lessons in your own barony,” Leesha said. “I have apprentices who can teach you the basics of warding, and help train your own.”

  “Corespawned if I’m going to take lessons from some girl that ent reddened her wadding yet,” the woman snapped. “Ent had an apprentice in a dozen years. I was retired before the Krasians came.”

  Leesha’s eyes grew hard. “Times are dark for everyone, Gatherer, but you’ll take your lessons, and apprentices, too. Hollow County won’t lose a single life because you’re too stubborn to change your ways.”