“All the more reason you let him go,” Leesha said. “What’s the alternative? Divorce da and marry Gared? You think the Inquisitor would bless such a union? The count? The Duchess Mum?”
Elona had no ready reply, and Leesha pressed the attack. “You think Gared will still love you if you cost him his title? Night, do you think he loves you now? The only reason he ever touched you was because you looked like me.”
“That ent—” Elona began.
“It is,” Leesha cut her off. “Told me himself. You were just an old rag to jerk his cock into while he thought of me.”
Elona stared at her, eyes wide, and Leesha knew she’d taken it too far. Her mother never failed to bring out the worst in her.
The silence hung in the air a moment, then Elona stood, brushing off her skirts. “You say I’m horrid, girl, but you can be mean as a demon when you want to.”
Leesha watched sadly from the window of her coach as the Hollow passed by. It was foolishness, surely, that she felt she might be seeing it for the last time.
When Leesha was a child, Cutter’s Hollow had been a small town of a few hundred people, barely big enough to be on the map. Its paths and structures were so familiar as to be a part of her, and everyone knew everyone else’s name. And business.
Little remained of that childhood home, just the Holy House and a few cottages and trees. Even those bore scars from fire and demons.
But from the charred remains had risen Hollow County, a place that would soon match—and likely exceed—the Free Cities in population. In less than two years, tens of thousands had fled here from the Krasian advance, or come from the north to answer Arlen’s call to arms against the corelings.
The streets of Hollow County were freshly creted, but Leesha knew them every bit as intimately as the old paths. She had been there at his side as Arlen shaped a pattern of greatwards that could be expanded in ever-increasing circles until Cutter’s Hollow was the center of the warded world.
Perhaps Gared was right. Perhaps Arlen really was the Deliverer.
And you let him slip away. Even with her miles behind, Leesha was not free of her mother’s voice.
“It will be a week at least till we reach Angiers,” Jizell said. “Are you two going to spend all of it staring out the window?”
Leesha started, returning her attention to her coach companions, Jizell and Vika. Jizell needed to get back to her hospit in Fort Angiers, and Vika to visit her husband—Leesha’s childhood friend Tender Jona—held for inquisition by the Tenders of the Creator. Leesha had the duchess’ word he would not be harmed, but it was nevertheless time he returned home.
Another thing to discuss with the Duchess Mum.
Like Leesha, Vika had spent the last few hours staring out the window, tearing at her cuticles until they were raw.
“I’m sorry,” Leesha said. “My thoughts were miles away.”
“Ay,” Vika agreed.
“Well bring them back,” Jizell said. “When’s the last time the three of us had a quiet minute together, much less a whole week? We should make the most of it.”
“Shall we discuss work?” Leesha brightened at the thought. Work would take her out of the whirlwind of her thoughts, give her something to focus on beside a vague sense of impending doom.
“We’ll get to it,” Jizell said, “but I don’t mean to spend a week straight working, either. I was thinking we might play a game.”
“What kind of game?” Vika asked.
Jizell smiled. “We’ll call it Hag Bruna’s Stick.”
Leesha instinctively rubbed the back of her hand. It still hurt when she thought of that stick. It was thick enough for her to hang her full weight on when needed, but light, and her mistress could wield it as deftly as Ahmann did the Spear of Kaji. It was a club, knocking aside fools who stood between her and her patients, but also a whip that could crack across a girl’s hand like a shock of electricity. It never left a mark, but could sting for long minutes.
Bruna didn’t strike Leesha often, or without cause. Each time had been a lesson. One that would have made the difference between life and death. Like a memory trick, the slaps had trained her from repeating foolish behavior, reminding her of the power and responsibility of the Gatherer’s apron. She had written of every one in her journal, but knew all the stories by heart.
“How do we play?” Leesha asked.
“You start,” Jizell said. “What was the first time Bruna hit you, and what did you learn?”
“I mixed grayroot with ovara seed, thinking it would cure Merrem Butcher’s headache,” Leesha said. She smiled, clapping her hands together and raising the pitch of her voice in imitation of Bruna’s shriek. “Idiot girl! You think being blind for a week is better than a ripping headache?”
They all laughed, an almost foreign feeling to Leesha. And for a moment, the sense of doom faded.
“Me next!” Vika cried.
Rojer had little desire to practice with Kendall and his wives as the slow caravan trundled over the miles. Even more pleasurable pursuits had little interest for him. There had been a hangman’s noose slack around his neck for years, but now he could feel it tightening. He sat tuning his fiddle, seeking that impossible perfect tune.
You’ll never find it, Arrick said, but that doesn’t mean you should stop looking.
The women sensed his mood, leaving him to his thoughts as they played Krasian board games and read Kendall passages from the Evejah. There was laughter and Rojer was glad to hear it, even if he could not share in it. There was no telling what Angiers would hold for any of them. Even Kendall, with her skill at charming corelings, would catch the duke’s attention. If he tried to make a claim on her, it would be another reason to keep them from ever leaving.
The Hollow had grown so large that a full day’s ride from Cutter’s Hollow barely had them to the border. But there was an inn at least. The next few nights would be spent sleeping in tents, something Rojer had never cared for. Amanvah’s tent was more a pavilion, with half a dozen servants to tend their every need, but for bedding down, Rojer would trade it for a broom closet if the walls were solid and kept the sounds of corelings at bay.
The inn had been cleared in expectation of the royal caravan, but the count took dinner in his rooms. Leesha was not invited to join him, something that spoke volumes in Angierian tea politics.
Jasin, too, was absent from the common, though that was no surprise. He seemed to want to avoid Rojer as much as Rojer did him.
Amanvah, too, would have been pleased to retire, but Rojer did not allow it, loudly inviting Leesha, Gared, and Wonda to join them in the common. He was learning when Krasian customs worked in his favor, for his jiwah could not refuse an invitation once made. Sikvah took over half the kitchen, cowing the staff and putting Amanvah’s dal’ting servants in charge of serving their table. Creator forbid some barmaid offend Her Highness by bowing the wrong way.
Jizell and Vika took another table with a few apprentices, all of them more than happy to have Hollowers serve them. Coliv stood by the wall, watching everything, rigid as a hitching post. Rojer had never seen the man eat.
“Tell us of this Duke Rhinebeck, husband,” Amanvah said between courses. “You knew him, did you not?”
“Ay, a bit,” Rojer said. “Back when Master Arrick was royal herald. I learned to read in the palace library.”
“That must have been wonderful,” Leesha sighed wistfully.
Rojer shrugged. “Suppose you’d think so. For my own part, I couldn’t wait to get back to fiddling and tumbling. But Mistress Jessa insisted I learn my letters, and even Arrick agreed.”
“Mistress Jessa was Royal Gatherer?” Leesha asked.
“Not exactly,” Rojer said.
Leesha’s eyes narrowed. “Weed Gatherer.” Rojer nodded.
“What is a Weed Gatherer?” Amanvah asked.
“You’d get along well.” Leesha did an impressive job of adding venom to her voice. She was really quite a natural. “A Weed Gatherer is the royal poisoner.”
Amanvah nodded her understanding. “A high honor for a trusted servant.”
“There’s no honor in poison,” Leesha said.
“It’s more complicated than that,” Rojer snapped. He caught Leesha’s eye. “And I’ll not sit and listen to you talk about Mistress Jessa like that. She was the closest thing I had to a mum after mine died. Creator knows I bite my tongue about Elona.”
Leesha snorted. “Fair and true.”
“So I saw the duke here and there in the palace,” Rojer said, “usually stumbling to or from the royal brothel. He and his brothers have their own private tunnel there, so they can visit unseen.”
“Of course they do.” Leesha sawed at the meat on her plate like she was amputating a limb.
“This is common in Krasia as well,” Amanvah said. “Men of power must have many children.”
“Creator, not a chance,” Rojer said. “All Jessa’s girls take pomm tea. Can’t have royal bastards running all over the city.” Leesha glared at him, and Rojer coughed.
“They …” Amanvah paused, in that way she did when she was searching for the right word in Thesan. “These Jiwah Sen take herbs to prevent children?”
“Disgusting,” Sikvah said. “What kind of woman would make herself kha’ting?”
“They are not Jiwah Sen,” Leesha told Amanvah. “They are heasah.”
Amanvah and Sikvah put their heads together at that, whispering rapidly to each other in Krasian. Rojer didn’t know the Krasian word, but he could well guess its meaning. This conversation was growing more uncomfortable by the second.
Amanvah straightened, carved from pure dignity. “We will not discuss such matters where we break bread in Everam’s name.”
Rojer was quick to bow. “Of course you are correct, Jiwah Ka.”
“Tell me more of Rhinebeck’s clan,” Amanvah said. “How do they trace their blood to Kaji?”
“They don’t,” Rojer said.