But she was afraid. Jizell was right, she thought. I never should have waited this long. I don't know what to do. Everyone thinks I know what to do and I don't and he's going to expect me to know because I'm an Herb Gatherer…
Oh, Creator, what if I can't please him? she worried. What if he tells someone?
She forced the thought from her head. He'll never tell. That's why it has to be him. It's meant to be him. He's just like me. An outsider. He's walked the same road.
She fumbled with his robes, untying the loincloth he wore beneath and releasing him. He groaned as she took him in her hand and pulled.
He knows I was a virgin, she reminded herself, hiking her skirts. He is hard and I am wet and what else is there to know?
'What if I get you with child?' he whispered.
'I hope you do,' she whispered back, taking him and pulling him inside her.
What else is there to know? she thought again, and her back arched in pleasure.
Shock hit the Painted Man as Leesha kissed him. It had only been moments since he admired her thighs, but he had never dreamed she might share the attraction. That any woman would.
He stiffened momentarily, paralyzed, but as always when he was in need, his body took over for him, wrapping her in a crushing embrace and returning the kiss hungrily.
How long since he had last been kissed? How long since that night he had walked Mery home and been told she could never be a Messenger's wife?
Leesha fumbled with his robes, and he knew that she meant to take things further than he had ever gone before. Fear gripped him, an unfamiliar feeling. He had no idea what to do; how to please a woman. Was she expecting him to have the experience she lacked? Was she counting that his skill in battle would translate here as well?
But perhaps it would, for even as his thoughts raced, his body continued of its own accord, acting on instincts ingrained into every living thing since the dawn of time. The same instincts that called him to fight.
But this wasn't some battle. This was something else.
Is she the one? the thought echoed in his head.
Why her, and not Renna? If he had been anyone other than who he was, he would have been married for almost fifteen years now, and have probably raised a host of children. Not for the first time, an image flashed in his mind of what Renna might look like now, in the full flower of her womanhood, his and his only.
Why her, and not Mery? Mery, whom he would have married, had she consented to be a Messenger's wife. He would have tied himself to Miln for love, just as Ragen had. He would have been better off if he had married Mery. He saw that now. Ragen was right. He had Elissa…
An image of Elissa flashed in his mind as he pulled the top of Leesha's dress down, exposing her soft breasts. That one time he'd seen Elissa free her breast to nurse Marya, and Arlen wished just for a moment that he could suckle there rather than the child. He had felt ashamed afterwards, but that image always remained fresh in his mind.
Was Leesha the one meant for him? Did such a thing exist? He would have scoffed at the notion an hour ago, but he looked at Leesha, so beautiful and so willing, so understanding of who he was. She would understand if he was clumsy; if he didn't know quite where to touch or how to stroke. A muddy bit of ground in the pre-dawn light was no fit marriage bed, but at the moment it seemed better than the feathered mattress in Ragen's manse.
But doubt niggled him.
It was one thing to risk himself in the night, he had nothing left to lose, no one left to mourn him. If he died, he would not fill so much as one tear bottle. But could he take those risks, if Leesha was waiting for him in safe succour? Would he give up the fight; become like his father? Become so accustomed to hiding that he could not stand up for his own?
Children need their father, he heard Elissa say.
'What if I get you with child?' he whispered between kisses, not knowing what he wanted her to say.
'I hope you do,' she whispered back.
She pulled at him, threatening to pull apart his entire world, but she was offering something more, and he grasped at it.
And then he was inside her, and he felt whole.
For a moment, there was nothing in the world but the pounding of blood and the slide of skin on skin; their bodies easily managing the task as soon as their minds let go. His robe was flung aside. Her dress was a crumple around her midsection. They squirmed and grunted in the mud without a thought to anything but one another.
Until the wood demon struck.
The coreling had stalked them quietly, drawn by their animal sounds. It knew dawn was close, the hated sun soon to rise, but the sight of so much naked flesh aroused its hunger, and it leapt, seeking to return to the Core with hot blood on its talons and fresh meat in its jaws.
The demon struck hard at the Painted Man's exposed back. The wards there flared, throwing the coreling back and slamming the lovers' heads together.
Agile and undeterred, the wood demon recovered quickly, coiling as it struck the ground and springing again. Leesha screamed, but the Painted Man twisted, grasping the leading talons in his warded hands. He pivoted, using the creature's own momentum to hurl it into the mud.
He did not hesitate, pulling away from Leesha and pressing the advantage. He was naked, but that meant nothing. He had been fighting naked since he first warded his flesh.
He spun a full circuit, driving his heel into the coreling's jaw. There was no flare of magic, his wards covered in mud, but with his enhanced strength, the demon might as well have been kicked by Twilight Dancer. It stumbled back, and the Painted Man roared and advanced, knowing full well the damage it could do if given a moment to recover.
The coreling was big for its breed, standing near to eight feet, and strength for strength, the Painted Man was overmatched. He punched and kicked and elbowed, but there was mud everywhere, and almost all his wards were broken. Barklike armour tore his skin, and his blows were to no lasting effect.
The coreling spun, whipping its tail into the Painted Man's stomach, blasting the breath from his body and throwing him down. Leesha screamed again, and the sound drew the demon's attention. With a shriek, it launched itself at her.
The Painted Man scrambled after the beast, grabbing its trailing ankle just before it could reach her. He pulled hard, tripping the demon, and they wrestled frantically in the mud. Finally, he managed to hook his leg under its armpit and around its throat, locking with his other leg as he squeezed. With both hands, he held one of its legs bent, preventing the demon from rising.
The coreling thrashed and clawed at him, but the Painted Man had leverage now, and the creature could not escape. They rolled about for long moments, locked together, before the sun finally crested the horizon and found a break in the clouds. The barklike skin began to smoke, and the demon thrashed harder. The Painted Man tightened his grip.
Just a few moments more…
But then something unexpected happened. The world around him seemed to grow misty; insubstantial. He felt a pull from deep below the ground, and he and the demon began to sink. A path opened to his senses, and the Core called to him. Horror and revulsion filled him as the coreling dragged him down. The demon was still solid in his grip, even if the rest of the world had become only a shadow. He looked up, and saw the precious sun fading away.
He grasped at the lifeline, releasing his leglock and pulling hard on the demon's leg, dragging it back up towards the light. The coreling struggled madly, but terror gave the Painted Man new strength, and with a soundless cry of determination, he hauled the creature back to the surface.
The sun was there to greet them, bright and blessed, and the Painted Man felt himself become solid again as the creature burst into flames. It clawed at the ground, but he held it fast.
When he finally released the charred husk, he was oozing blood everywhere. Leesha ran to him, but he pushed her away, still reeling in horror. What was he that he could find a path down into the Core? Had he become a coreling himself? What k
ind of monster would a child of his tainted seed turn out to be?
'You're hurt,' she objected, reaching for him again.
'I'll heal,' he said, pulling away. The gentle, loving voice he had used just minutes before had changed back to the cold monotone of the Painted Man. Indeed, many of his smaller cuts and scrapes were already crusting over.
'But…' Leesha protested, 'what about..?'
'I made my choice a long time ago, and I chose the night,' the Painted Man said. 'For a moment I thought I could take it back, but…' he shook his head. 'There's no going back now.'
He picked up his robe, heading for the small cold stream nearby to wash his wounds.
'Damn you!' Leesha cried at his back. 'Damn you and your mad obsession!'
30
Plague
332 AR
Rojer was still asleep when they returned. They changed their muddy clothes silently, backs to one another, and then Leesha shook Rojer awake while the Painted Man saddled the horses. They ate a cold breakfast in silence, and were on the road before the sun had risen far. Rojer rode behind Leesha on her mare, the Painted Man alone on his great stallion. The sky was heavy with cloud, promising more rain to come.
'Shouldn't we have passed a Messenger headed north by now?' Rojer asked.
'You're right,' Leesha realized. She looked up and down the road, worried.
The Painted Man shrugged. 'We'll reach Cutter's Hollow by high sun,' he said. 'I'll see you there, and be on my way.'
Leesha nodded. 'I think that's best,' she agreed.
'Just like that?' Rojer asked.
The Painted Man inclined his head. 'You were expecting more, Jongleur?'
'After all we've been through? Night, yes!' Rojer cried.
'Sorry to disappoint,' the Painted Man replied, 'but I've business to attend.'
'Creator forbid you go a night without killing something,' Leesha muttered.
'But what about what we discussed?' Rojer pressed. 'Me travelling with you?'
'Rojer!'Leesha cried.
'I've decided it's a bad idea,' the Painted Man told him. He glanced at Leesha. 'If your music can't kill demons, it's no use to me. I'm better off on my own.'
'I couldn't agree more,' Leesha put in. Rojer scowled at her, and her cheeks burned. He deserved better, she knew, but she could offer no comfort or explanation when it was taking all her strength to hold back tears.
She had known the Painted Man for what he was. As much as she'd hoped otherwise, she had known his heart might not stay open for long, that all they might have was a moment. But oh, she had wanted that moment! She had wanted to feel safe in his arms, and to feel him inside her. She stroked her belly absently. If he had seeded her and she had found herself with child, she would have cherished it, never questioning whom the father might be. But now…there were pomm leaves enough in her stores for what must be done.
They rode on in silence, the coldness between them palpable. Before long, they turned a bend and caught their first glimpse of Cutter's Hollow.
Even from a distance, they could see the village was a smoking ruin.
Rojer held on tightly as they bounced along the road. Leesha had kicked into a gallop upon the seeing the smoke, and the Painted Man followed suit. Even in the damp, fires still burned hungrily in Cutter's Hollow, casting billows of greasy black smoke into the air. The town was devastated, and again Rojer found himself reliving the destruction of Riverbridge. Gasping for breath, he squeezed his secret pocket before remembering his talisman was broken and lost. The horse jerked, and he snapped his hand back to Leesha's waist to keep from being thrown.
Survivors could be seen wandering about like ants in the distance. 'Why aren't they fighting the fires?' Leesha asked, but Rojer merely held on, having no answer.
They pulled up as they reached the town, taking in the devastation numbly. 'Some of these have been burning for days,' the Painted Man noted, nodding towards the remains of once-cozy homes. Indeed, many of the buildings were charred ruins, barely smoking, and others still were cold ash. Smitt's tavern, the only building in town with two floors, had collapsed in on itself, some of the beams still ablaze, and other buildings were missing roofs or entire walls.
Leesha took in the smudged and tear-streaked faces as she rode deeper into town, recognizing every one. All were too occupied with their own grief to take notice of the small group as they passed. She bit her lip to keep from crying.
In the centre of town, the folk had collected the dead. Leesha's heart clenched at the sight; at least a hundred bodies, without even blankets to cover them. Poor Niklas. Saira and her mother. Tender Michel. Steave. Children she had never met, and elders she had known all her life. Some were burned, and others cored, but most had not a mark on them. Fluxed.
Mairy knelt by the pile, weeping over a small bundle. Leesha felt her throat close up, but somehow managed to get down from her horse and approach, laying a hand on Mairy's shoulder.
'Leesha?' Mairy asked in disbelief. A moment later she surged to her feet, wrapping the Herb Gatherer in a tight hug, sobbing uncontrollably.
'It's Elga,' Mairy cried, naming her youngest, a girl not yet two. 'She…she's gone!'
Leesha held her tightly, cooing soothing sounds as words failed her. Others were noticing her, but kept a respectful distance while Mairy poured out her grief.
'Leesha,' they whispered. 'Leesha's come. Thank the Creator.'
Finally, Mairy managed to collect herself, pulling back and lifting her smudged and filthy apron to daub at her tears.
'What's happened?' Leesha asked softly. Mairy looked at her, eyes wide, and tears filled them again. She trembled, unable to speak.
'Plague,' said a familiar voice, and Leesha turned to see Jona approaching, leaning heavily on a cane. His Tender's robes had been cut away from one leg, the lower half splinted and wrapped tight in bandages stained with blood. Leesha embraced him, glancing meaningfully at the leg.
'Broken tibia,' he said, waving his hand dismissively. 'Vika's seen to it.' His face grew dark. 'It was one of the last things she did, before she succumbed.'
Leesha's eye's widened. 'Vika's dead?' she asked in shock.
Jona shook his head. 'Not yet, at least, but the flux has got her, and the fever has her raving. It won't be long.' He looked around. 'It may not be long for any of us,' he said in a low voice meant for Leesha alone. 'I fear you've chosen an ill time for your homecoming, Leesha, but perhaps that too is the Creator's plan. Had you waited another day, there might not have been a home for you to come to.'
Leesha's eyes hardened. 'I don't want to hear any more nonsense like that!' she scolded. 'Where is Vika?' She turned a circle, taking in the small crowd. 'Creator, where is everyoneV
'The Holy House,' Jona said. 'The sick are all there. Those that have recovered, or been blessed not to fall prey at all, are out collecting the dead, or mourning them.'
'Then that's where we're going,' Leesha said, tucking herself under Jona's arm to support him as they walked. 'Now tell me what's happened. Everything.'
Jona nodded. His face was pale, his eyes hollow. He was damp with sweat, and had obviously lost a great deal of blood, suppressing his pain only with great concentration. Behind them, Rojer and the Painted Man followed silently, along with most of the other villagers who had seen Leesha's arrival.
'The plague started months ago,' Jona began, 'but Vika and Darsy thought said it was just a chill, and thought little of it. Some that caught it, the young and strong, mostly, recovered quickly, but others took to their beds for weeks, and some eventually passed. Still, it seemed a simple flux, until it began to strengthen. Healthy people began to take ill rapidly, reduced overnight to weakness and delirium.
'That was when the fires started,' he said. 'People collapsing in their homes with candles and lamps in hand, or too sick to see to their wards. With your father and most of the other Warders in sickbed, nets began to fail all over town, especially with all the smoke and ash in the air marring every ward
in sight. We fought the fires as best we could, but more and more people fell to the sickness, and there weren't enough hands.
'Smitt collected the survivors in a few warded buildings as far from the fires as possible, hoping for safety in numbers, but that just spread the plague faster. Saira collapsed last night during the storm, knocking over an oil lamp and starting a fire that soon had the whole tavern ablaze. The people had to flee into the night…' he choked, and Leesha stroked his back, not needing to hear more. She could well imagine what had happened next.
The Holy House was the only building in Cutter's Hollow made wholly of stone, and had resisted the flaming ash in the air, standing in proud defiance of the ruins. Leesha passed through the great doors, and gasped in shock. The pews had been cleared, and almost every inch of floor covered in straw pallets with only the barest space between them. Perhaps two hundred people lay there groaning, many bathed in sweat and thrashing about as others, weak with sickness themselves, tried to restrain them. She saw
Smitt passed out on a pallet, and Vika not far off. Two more of Mairy's children, and others, so many others. But there was no sign of her father.
A woman looked up at them as they entered. She was prematurely grey and looked haggard and drawn, but Leesha knew her blocky frame instantly.
'Thank the Creator,' Darsy said, catching sight of her. Leesha let go of Jona, and moved quickly to speak with her. After several minutes, she returned to Jona.
'Does Bruna's hut still stand?' she asked.
Jona shrugged. 'So far as I know,' he said. 'No one has been there since she passed. Almost two weeks now.'
Leesha nodded. Bruna's hut was far from the village proper, shielded by rows of trees. It was doubtful the soot had broken its wards. 'I'll need to go there and get supplies,' she said, stepping back outside. It was beginning to rain again, the sky bleak and bereft of hope.
Rojer and the Painted Man were there, along with a cluster of villagers.
'It is you,' Brianne said, rushing up to embrace Leesha. Evin stood not far back, holding a young girl in his arms with Callen, grown tall though he was not yet ten, next to him.
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