The King's Blood (31 page)

Isadora dumped the used water and blood into a slowly filling pot hanging over the fire and refilled the basin. Most would look accusingly at the witch's "cauldron of blood" as they called it, but anyone actually in the cottage was not in a place to complain about it. They'd wait until their foot fungus had healed to regale their fellows about the evil spirits them nasty witches was communing with, naked. And drinking the blood of virgins. Who were also naked.

Never once did any think:
hm, maybe sanitizing human blood before disposing of it might be slightly smarter than dumping it back into the river and facing an entire village with scarlet fever.
But her mother preferred the virgin blood theory; she said it kept most of the curiously stupid ones at bay. And if their stupidity overpowered them, she'd set one of her raspberry jams outside and label it "Blood: Millers '83." They got the message after that.

Isa hated this part of the job. She looked over at the farmer who'd gotten most of the hat brim off now and said, "It looks like a breech, and there was some putri...dead stuff, but my mother's working on it."

The man stared over top of her, which at glancing near five feet most people did, but that didn't deter her from trying to gain his attention. "If she can clear it all out, your wife should make a near full recovery," Isa said, not fully lying. The last time she'd seen a twin death the mother survived but became sterile. Luckily, this worked out well for her, as she had a home of five brats already on the ground to return to.

Isa sighed, having given her "Buck up" speech she swung a few of the towels warming by the fire over the arms. As she picked up the basin, the man coughed quietly. Her pale eyes turned on him, causing him to twitch at the intense stare.

But he'd been working on this speech ever since he found his wife collapsed in the barn, "Miss...If 'n."

Isa folded up her arms, the towels covering up her slightly stained apron. "Yes," she prompted. She wasn't happy about the goings on in her bedroom, but it was preferable to being trapped with the customer.

"If 'n my wife, if she... if it comes down to saving the baby or her life, I want you to save the baby."

A punch socked the man's jaw, sending him backwards into the table, scattering the juniper berries. Growing an extra two feet in her rage Isa towered over the cowering farmer, who nursed his jaw line in shock.

Out of all the piece of shit, false martyr arguments, that had to be the worst Isa heard far more often than she'd thought possible. Husbands kept thinking it better to invest in a screaming six-pound wad of flesh than the woman they married. And some women, in the delirious throes of labor, would grab her arm and say the same thing, even if they were going through a picture perfect birth.
²⁵

No one ever seemed to think maybe it would be better all around if the mother, who probably already had some kids at home, was left to live another day and try for another child. It was simple mathematics for the witch. She raised a fist once more in threat and waved it at the farmer, but the only curse that could break through her cloud of anger tumbled out in defeat, "Consider yourself lucky I don't tell my mother what you said."

Isa spun about and picked up the towels quickly. As she was once again about to bring in the pan, her mother called from the room, "Would you get the door, dear?"

"There's no one at the..." Isa started when a small knock rapped against the door, rattling a folksy wooden sign that said, "You don't have to be evil to work here, but it helps."

The farmer gasped in amazement, and grasped his hands together while praying to one of their mud gods. As he cried out for something that spent all its time trying to impregnate women as a sea slug, Isadora shook her head. Her mother was always doing that, playing the part of a mystic, babbling on about the vapors and spirits talking to her. Not once did anyone ever think maybe she could see someone approaching the door through the window in the bedroom. Another knock punctuated the room filling with the growing sounds of heavy breathing from both the imminent mother and her husband. Isa, still loaded with towels, threw open the door to a pair of children a handful of years younger than her.

The boy seemed skittish; his hair kept flopping over in the winds as he yanked his soft face back from the warmth of the cottage. The red robes peeking out beneath his coat surprised Isa a bit, but you tended to see all sorts when you were the final choice. The girl was as different as night to the boy's day. She stood strong, but also seemed annoyed to be there, her foot barely touching the threshold lest she get pulled in.

Having measured them up, Isa said, "I'm afraid we're all out of black cohosh, but you could try eating a hell of a lot of oranges in the meantime."

"Excuse me?" the boy said. His voice was fairer than his skin, like patting a baby duck, with a strange lilt at the end of each word. And judging by the lack of anything approaching proper winter attire, probably from the Northern counties. Or a moron.

"There are a few other options you can try, but I wouldn't recommend them. Unless you really like internal bleeding," Isa said, slowly folding her arm towels to show just how very busy she was.

"I'm not here for any internal bleeding or that other stuff you mentioned...black cash," the baby duck argued back, looking to his companion, who only shrugged.

Isa smiled cruelly, "There's no need to be capricious. Accidents happen to all manner of couplings."

The dark woman threw down her arms and pointed to the baby duck who was fitting the pieces together in his mind, "What? You think he and I? Oh no, no, no."

Isa frowned, first at being wrong about the pair of teenagers not requiring something to ward off the need for a quick wedding, and second at the girl's voice. Isa spent enough time near the western front to know a Dunner's voice and far preferred it to the few Osteros who dared cross the border, but this was harsh, scratchy, like a pine tree dragged across the road. The girl sounded like she came from the Caddatch mountain ranges.

The baby duck turned an interesting shade of pink as his mind caught up with hers and he looked over at the girl, "We're not here for that...I'm
not
here for that," he corrected at her scowl.

"Then what do you want?" Isa started to mentally go over the list of things that were available. Doubtful they'd be needing her legendary bowel clearing prune and cumin jelly, but anything was possible.

"A witch saved my life, in return she said we should come to this cottage in three months time," the baby duck said solemnly, even bowing slightly.

Isa; however, spun on her heels and called into the back room, "MOTHER!"

The couple looked at each other, the dark ones eyebrows arching. "Get them a cup of tea and a sit. I'll be a little while," her mother's voice echoed back. She tried to sound professional but Isa could hear the smile embedded within. She enjoyed tormenting her daughter.

Isa glared at the two shuffling at the doorstep. It was just like her to keep the important things to herself. She'd spent most of her life trying to fill in the gaps her mother would conveniently forget to lay out for her. The tipping point came when they took the northeastern shift and traveled to this cottage. One day her mother simply vanished. She left no note, no instructions, just faded into the forest, leaving Isa to pick up the slack.

And she did a damn good job, keeping the villagers from burning down their own colons, the Lords from burning their own loins, and anyone from second guessing why a woman barely into her second decade was bossing them about their eating habits. "If the berries taste like someone stuck your tongue with a thousand needles, maybe you shouldn't have eaten an entire bush full." That admonition wore so much she eventually took to just torching the damn bushes herself, earning her the respect and slight fear of the villagers. No one knew what to do with a witch known for setting her own fires.

"Come in," Isa said dejectedly, and held the door open for the pair who kept a wide berth after her accusing them of being coupled off.

"Forget the shit stain in the corner," she said as the additions paused, looking around the cottage. "There's tea on the fire. Don't mind the blood. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a baby to deliver."

And, finally picking up the washbasin, which turned lukewarm with all the distractions, she joined her mother in the birthing room.

"Well, this is certainly worth it," Ciara said, rolling around in her hands the cup of tea she poured for herself.

Aldrin, seated as far from her as he could get on a two person bench just managed to drain his blush about an hour since they arrived at the witch's door, proverbial hats in hand. It took a lot of arguing with the Chancellor, the Deans, the Professors, the Associates, and some more with Ciara before they relented and begrudgingly admitted that it might be in everyone's best interest to not piss off a witch. But Medwin refused to let a single one of them follow past the road. If Aldrin was so insistent upon tossing his body onto the pyre, he would go alone.

He was a bit surprised, as he wrapped a scarf about his neck and cinched his belt tighter to catch his rusty sword, to find Ciara bundled for a climb through the arctic mountains puffing in the clearing. Everyone else had scattered for the night, pretending they had no part in this madness, while ears strained to overhear every breath.

She glanced over Aldrin silently and he smiled widely, 'thank yous' tumbling from his mouth. His beleaguered belt took that moment to give up its fight and crashed to the ground. Sheepishly, he gathered the sword up in one hand and tried to pull the belt higher. He'd have to borrow Chase's nail later to punch a new notch.

"Well," Ciara said, pointing into the forest, "let's get this over with."

Despite her reluctance and the thorough work of Lady Winter, she seemed in high spirits, even challenging Aldrin to a game of "guess what mess we're about to walk into now."

"The cottage will have no floor, just a deep pit filled with vipers."

"My father called that the parlor," Aldrin said, climbing through a deep bank, using a stripped branch for leverage.

Ciara turned to look at him, a pale light moving through the dusky grey, "You're kidding."

Aldrin laughed, "Yes, the vipers preferred the treasury house anyway."

She smiled herself, forgetting the snow working its way into her shoes and clinging to her mittens ready to melt and then freeze to ice at a moments notice.
 

"There!" Aldrin pointed to a puff of smoke pouring through the naked trees, glittering like the night's cloudless sky.

It was a much less interesting walk to the cottage than the last time. No assassins popped out, no stabbings, not even a bear pit. But Ciara kept pausing and glancing behind them, saying she heard something. Aldrin would shrug; all he heard was his breathing and the plop of disturbed snow, maybe the occasional rabbit pissed as hell at the humans trampling through its cozy nest. Ciara seemed certain they were being followed but he chalked it up to perhaps a healthier paranoia after her ordeal at the castle.
 

No one ever got more than a few words from her about how she escaped exactly, but then most didn't want to know, feeling incredibly guilty the moment she mentioned, "So then the portcullis slammed shut and..."

"Wow, it's exactly the same as the one by Dawning," she said drawing into the clearing and looking upon the thatched 'A' that made up the bulk of a witch's home. A small extension was crashed on the side, but witches made their lives everywhere outside the bedroom. This was considered to be a large source of their magical power and why any virgin over the age of eighteen was watched with a close eye.

Aldrin felt a familiar stab of pain as the stitch in his side flared up from all the heavy climbing through snow. "What now?" he asked and cringed as soon as it was out of his mouth. He'd been trying to cut back.

But Ciara didn't notice, she was looking for a pair of chickens scratching in the snow but could only spot an elderly goat bunkered down in its small enclave. "You go up and knock on the door."

"Oh, right." Aldrin stood tall, causing his belt to slip again, but he caught it with his hand and walked triumphantly to the door.
 

Knock Knock Knock.

He waited, putting all manner of the horrors witches inflicted upon those they found disagreeable, or just un-agreeable, or if they were in a really foul mood, out of his mind. Still no one answered. He glanced back to Ciara, who inched one foot onto the stone step. She motioned to try again.

A bit more delicately, he tapped his knuckles against the freshly painted blue door. If there wasn't a witch at home what were they supposed to do? Did simply coming fulfill their part of the bargain?

As he was about to turn back to Ciara and suggest they make a very hasty exit back into the forest, the door opened and a woman looked up at him, her eyes squinting either from the lack of light or because she was about to turn him into a toad.

This witch's features were so delicate you'd expect to only haul them out once a year for Soulday feast to eat a chicken stuffed inside a pheasant then stuffed into a bear. (It had been a strange hunt that day). Most would expect a witch living in the woods with a nose so tiny it nearly vanished, to be as thin as a reed, her hunger to match her evil; but she was "pleasingly plump" as those who wished to ever have sex again would say.