Herb-Witch (Lord Alchemist Duology) (55 page)

"Ah,
so there was. I'll have to see if it holds answers."

For
my sake, yours, or just curiosity?
A darker thought occurred to
her. "Perhaps there aren't immune women because so few potions
work on us, and we die having someone's son."

Keli
paused in the darkness. "I suppose it could be difficult. And
you with those narrow hips. Though there ought to be some way . . .
We've only been able to cut open a living person and heal her back
for some thirty years – it would've been more dangerous to be
immune before that."

"You're
not helping your cause, Herbmaster."

"I
suppose I must research heavily tomorrow, to mend the damage. I
presume healing potions work on you?"

The
most recent memory was her dog-bitten arm, burning as the torn flesh
flowed back together. "Yes. But you know most painkilling ones
don't."

"Ugh."
Keli shuddered, shifting uncomfortably beside Kessa. "I didn't
birth Nicia while unconscious from a potion . . . But
I'd not've liked going without the ointment my husband made."

"Numbing?"

The
other woman half-snorted, half-chuckled. "That, too. I didn't
ask where he got the recipe, or whose depraved mind invented it for
what purpose, but I doubt it was ever intended to make childbirth
a . . . pleasant diversion. Still exhausting, though,
and not exactly
comfortable
."

It
took Kessa a moment to unravel the implications. "Oh," she
managed.

"I
might be able to find it again, in his papers." Keli's voice
went sadly fond. "Tiro kept excellent records of his research.
Not an innovative brewer, but he liked finding unexpected uses for
preparations. And before you wonder, no, it wasn't tasting some
invention that killed him," she added tartly.

"I,
er . . ." She couldn't deny curiosity; alchemists
rarely died young from disease, or even wounds. "Sorry."

"It's
a reasonable thought; you couldn't have known him. No, Tiro just
didn't wake up one morning. And for all I gave his body to the
necroalchemists and surgeons, they only told me what
didn't
kill him: not fever, not bloody lungs, not a torn heart, not
alchemy . . . Isn't that a funny thing? A world where
we can cut open a mother so she and her child both live – but
no one could tell me why my husband died."

"I'm
sorry." The usual platitudes,
rain shed your tears
or
earth keep your love
, seemed empty to Kessa. She felt the
truth of harder sayings instead, but there seemed no justice of rain
or wind in that loss.

The
older woman patted Kessa's knee. "Well, it's been some ten
years. Long enough that I can go looking in his papers and not fall
apart more than once or twice an hour. Besides, he'd have approved of
advances in curative alchemy."

"Useful
to someone, someday, at the least."

"Indeed."
Keli'd put her quiet grief back in its box. No doubt a useful skill
for a guild officer. "And if your moon-flow pains don't ebb,
it'll be good to have options, rather than going through a fiveday's
worth of hornflower paste in five hours."

"Is
that how much I took?"

"Nearly,
I think!" Keli patted Kessa's shoulder this time. "Don't
fret. If you needed it, you needed it."

Kessa
put a hand over her belly. "I suppose if I ever did have some
child, it's good practice for a knife to the gut without a potion to
dull it."

"Vivid!"
Keli said, appalled. "Perhaps I should ask how you and my
daughter are doing in Iathor's classes."

"She's
the smart one, I can taste things, and together . . ."
Kessa tilted her head. "I think we do well."

"I
hope she gets along with your sister, too. Nicia could always use
more friends."

"Ah . . .
Master Kymus told you my sister's job?"

"To
be an effective healer, Nicia needs to understand what other people
do. Understand, sympathize, and not be someone who thinks sick people
deserve sickness. My father can hold forth on that assumption at
dinner, and I'd like Nicia to have better examples. Besides,"
she added, "Iathor said your sister is a lovely and charming
young woman."

Then
why isn't he offering . . . ?
Baffling,
annoying man. "I hope they like each other, too. Nicia's very
sweet."

"Just
wait till she finds I've been telling childhood tales about her. I
suppose they could be cautionary. Trying to make potions out of
dandelions, carrots, and holly, for the horses . . ."

Kessa
might've protested the implication of
cautionary
, listening to
stories of Nicia's misadventures . . . Maila would
never've let Kessa make pretend-preparations; filching spoonfuls of
ingredients, even just brine salt, would've earned sharp-nailed
pinches and small dinners.

It
was another world. She was a rat, listening to eagles' tales, knowing
one could take her up in his talons – if only she trusted
she'd not be devoured.

They
passed Kessa's shop, once, and Keli's driver opened the panel between
his half-compartment and theirs. "Don't see anyone out in the
dark and wet, mistress. Back or . . . ?"

"A
point, Tialo. Kessa, I've a spare room too, though Nicia might want
to talk all night."

The
longer she stayed in eagle talons, the more likely she'd want the
sky. Better to scurry back to her little hole. "Thank you, but
Master Kymus'll send someone in the morning, and worry if I'm
missing. I'll be fine, Herbmaster."

"If
you say so. Turn us around, Tialo, if you will."

He
wound up turning the small carriage twice, so its door faced Kessa's
shop-door. With exchanges of
good evening
, Kessa darted to her
shop, key ready. The lanterns on the carriage cast enough light to
see there were no skulls on the door, nor bones crunching underfoot.

She
left the door open and prowled quickly through her two rooms; the
dying Incandescens Stone in her back room made as many shadows as it
revealed.

Kessa
hoped Kymus assigned another Stone's creation, so she could keep the
result. Light was an addictive luxury.

She
took it back to the open door and saw Tialo hadn't left. She called,
"I'm fine here, thanks," and waved the Stone.

"Good
evening to you, miss," the driver called, and clucked at his
horse to send it on.

Kessa
locked the door carefully.

It
was cold, though not as bitter as the past few nights. The rain'd
heralded a shift to warmth. Still, she'd wear her dress under the
blankets. She sat on her cot, Stone in one hand and her other palm
against the felt blanket Kymus'd sent. Her shelves were around her,
and all the scents of her herb-witchery. It was a small, cramped
room, never meant to be other than storage.

But
it was hers.

Kessa
leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes.

No
one rescued me. I don't need children's stories of happy endings. I
make my own. What I have . . . My own hands won.

If
she'd been younger, Maila and Tanas still alive, she'd have needed
rescuing. And if she'd known to walk up to Kymus' house . . .
She'd have rescued herself that way.

But
what she had now was the dream she'd made truth.

She
didn't
want
to be "saved" anymore.

Kessa
wrapped herself in blankets and curled up with her knife under the
pillow. All right. She'd not be his rescued bride, grateful and
helpless.

She'd
have to think on other options. Burk had a point, that mayhap she'd
decide she liked the man on his own merits. Perhaps she
respected
him now.

And,
as she'd said, the mother of Kymus' heir needn't be his
wife
.
She'd lose her entirely reliable, cheap source of maiden's blood for
dry tea . . . but perhaps she could draw upon guild
supplies?

An
odd thought, yet less terrifying than how he swamped her when she was
confused with dreams of might-have-been. Kessa drifted to sleep with
eagle wings sounding in her mind.

Chapter
LVI

T
he
next morning dawned in a damp, cool haze that might become almost
warm once the sun burned off the night's chill. Iathor waited for his
students in the guild office's entry area. Kessa arrived first,
clothing sleep-rumpled, and slanted a look through her hair. Then she
hid a yawn behind her hand.

"I
hope we didn't keep you overlong," he said, quietly enough that
it shouldn't become instant gossip.

The
herb-witch shrugged. "There was scratching around my door about
an hour before sunrise. I left the rat skull there when the buggy
came."

Iathor
frowned. "Kessa . . . I swear I'm not pushing,
but your safety–"

She
cut him off with a quick tilt of her head. "No."

"Guest
rooms! You could collect your things with Brague, your inventory'd
fit into a corner of my workroom–"

"I
said
no
, Master Kymus. Nor am I moving into your office here.
Assign more guards if you want. Send the night patrol. If there's
trouble, I'll go sleep on my sister's floor."

He
made himself speak firmly, instead of pleading. "You're in
danger. That's unacceptable."

She
looked at him, feral-eyed. "My life, Kymus, and my choice. Would
you insist for any other herb-witch? Or offer once and notify the
watch?"

He
looked away, trying to think without her distracting glare. "Blight
it, Kessa."

"After
Nicia's here, leave us in the basement and write a letter to the
Watch Commander. Besides, it's been days since the mouse skull showed
up. It'll likely be days till a cat skull appears."

"Or
something might happen tomorrow, while you're complacent."
Iathor decided looking over her head might suffice, while she kept
glaring.

"So
I'll be paranoid. I'll not be chased away."

Exasperated,
he muttered, "You'd be
safer
in a cell."

Coldly,
she murmured back, "If you're resorting to
that
, Master
Kymus . . . Go ahead. See what happens."

He
held his voice down. "That's not what I meant! I simply fear
for– Blight." The door opened on his brother's voice, raised
in pleasantries.

Kessa
stiffened, then dropped her gaze, hands clasped demurely.

From
vicious fox to timid mouse.
He wanted to marvel openly, but with
his brother's unreasonable attitude . . . Unwise.

Iasen
followed Nicia inside. The apprentice had a tense smile.

She
doesn't like him either. What did she witness?
Iathor stepped
around Kessa. "Ah, Nicia. We were just waiting for you."

The
girl's smile became relieved. "Master Kymus! I hope I'm not too
late! One of my
shoes
went missing, then a market cart was
going so slowly in front of us, and
then
someone's horse
slipped its tether and didn't want its owner catching it, so everyone
was watching that and not
moving
."

Iathor
held up a hand. "Fear not, we've been waiting only briefly.
Hello, Iasen."

"No,
no, ignore me in favor of a
pretty
girl anytime. Good morning,
brother. Still holding my student captive?"

"Personally?
No. So long as he keeps lying badly? The watch is intrigued. Please
excuse me; I need to occupy
my
students so they don't find
mischief." He made herding gestures.

With
silent obedience, Kessa let herself be herded. Nicia gave her a
worried look.

Iasen
followed as they headed for the workroom stairs. "Iathor, will
you be late to the Earl's party?"

It
was a perfectly typical question, in a perfectly normal voice. Iathor
was relieved. "I hope not. Master Iste can take over again, and
I've a formal tabard in the carriage, in case I don't get home in
time."

"At
least you're intending to go."

"I
usually go, Iasen. You're just in Cym for harvest, at the better
parties."

"And,
having made an appearance, you slip off immediately?"

Iathor
paused at the top of the stairs, waving Nicia and Kessa ahead. "No,
I usually stay an hour or two. Sometimes longer, for political
reasons or a good conversation. I doubt I'll crimp your style anyway.
Earl Irilye has a large house, and should have Fervefax Stones in his
garden." Not all earls were well-off; some were impoverished
descendants of the marchlords who'd held outposts that became towns
that became cities. Others were equally impoverished names that'd
held power in the old empire, clinging to their last vestiges of
status. Earl Irilye traced his lineage to Aeston's Marchlord's
daughter, and an Irilye from the old empire – both of whom had
proven quite able to maintain the power their parents bequeathed.