Herb-Witch (Lord Alchemist Duology) (27 page)

"I
don't know," Kessa whispered. "What makes a cut hurt? I
can't take anything anyway."

"What?
Why not?"

She
twisted her head to look up at him. In the shadows of the room, with
strands of her hair tangled across her face, it seemed he held some
injured creature, and for a moment he half-marveled that she could
talk. She closed her eyes. "Because I make dry tea, Guild
Master."

Idiot
Guild Master, she likely meant, and that was equally deserved.
Maiden's blood – traditionally moon-blood – preserved
with boiled brine-salt and flaxseed oil, dried to black and cracking
flakes and ground to powder with laceburrs. The result was used to
smoke tea leaves, mint leaves, or rose petals. Dry tea, that women
drank to keep from conceiving. Add cotton seeds instead of laceburrs,
and it was men's tea, blighting the seed for two or three days after
a single strong-brewed cup.

She
was right; there were geometries of salts which would disrupt the
purity of the blood and render it useless. Probably an equal number
of herb-witcheries could do likewise.

And
Iathor . . . had no idea what
wouldn't
spoil
the blood for dry tea. His mother hadn't been fully immune, so more
potions worked on whatever minor aches she had, and the issue of
blood-purity had been moot.

"Just
go away," Kessa whispered. "I can't eat. Not till the worst
is over. Hurts too much."

That
explained the queasy smell of vomit, for all that her stores of clae
fought it. Iathor turned his face to her hair to take steadying
breaths; the odors of a clae-dusted body were less troubling than
what'd been trapped in the room. "There must be something. The
tolerant herb-witches must have similar issues."

He
was nearly sure that was a stifled sob. "Kymus, I
can't
.
Just go. I've lived before."

Lived
in a cold, airless room, with the smell of sickness and blood. Lived
with pain, and still done what was necessary to collect the blood.
"There must be
something
," he insisted. "Someone
could research at the hospice–"

"No,"
she said, with pain or pleading. "Don't tell Nicia."

"Her
mother, the Herbmaster? In some subjects, her own library exceeds the
scope of the guild's. This might well be one of them." Women's
concerns, women's pain, and thus herb-witches' aegis.

"You'll
not leave till you've told
someone
," Kessa grumbled.
"Fine. Her. No one else!"

He
was surprised that wasn't accompanied by a glare. "Just her."
He hoped Keli'd not be upset that her daughter's potential was so
bluntly rendered less important. Over his shoulder, he said, "Brague,
you heard? Sort out which of you can go. I'm staying."

Brague
slipped out the door with a
Yes, m'lord
as Kessa croaked,
"Why?"

Because
if I go now, how will I ever convince you I'd stay to help any other
time you were in pain?
He couldn't say that. It would lead to
talk of heirs and proposals; if a prison cell wasn't the right place,
the middle of moon-flow agony was even less the right time. "Because
I'm meddlesome and annoying. You may yell at me later."

"Oh,
may I?" she asked, wiping at her face with the back of one
wrist. "Ha, permission."

"As
if you needed it."

"You'd
be–" Her voice broke, and she hissed, "–surprised."

"If
you say so." There were times to fight and times to agree. This
seemed the latter. "Would you be more comfortable in your bed?"

"I'm
cold," she admitted.

"Let
me help you up."

She
did, complaining, "I'm fine some of the time. Just a little
sick. Then–" She hissed in her teeth.

"I'll
take your word for it, but I doubt I can sort 'fine' from 'not' until
you tell me." He provided more moral support than physical as
they moved toward her back room. Light flickered from behind the
curtain; she'd kept the Incandescens Stone.

Kessa
paused, using one forearm to lean on the bedroom's doorframe. "Why–
Why're you being so nice?"

Iathor
looked down at the top of her head. "I've absolutely no reason
not to be." It was a relief. There was no reason to badger her
about her past, about Darul Reus – about anything. He wasn't
likely to get better truths than before, and far more likely to get
pain-filled, unreasonable shouting.

"You'll
save it for when I'm feeling better?"

He
ducked his head against hers. "Yes."

"Something
to look forward to." She pulled herself straighter. "Give
me a moment. To get arranged. There's . . ." She
waved a hand.

She'd
have a blood-collection bowl, from the strength of scent behind the
curtain. "I'll fetch the basket for when you feel better."

"Mmph."
She slipped behind the curtain.

Turning,
Iathor saw Brague'd stayed, as he should've expected. His dramsman
handed him the basket.

"Brague,
could you open the shutters a little, for light? You can tell
visitors the herb-witch is ill – and being attended to by an
alchemist." He smiled wryly.

"Yes,
m'lord."

Iathor
knocked on the doorframe, uncomfortable about intruding in her
bedroom. There was a tired call of
fine
and he pushed the
curtain aside, glad the smell of moon-blood was merely overpowering,
not actively repelling.

Kessa
knelt beside her bed, skirt covering whatever arrangements she'd made
for blood-collection. Her cloak was around her shoulders; she leaned
one arm on the bed, her head on that arm, eyes closed. Her
red-stained fingers didn't quite touch the mattress. "I've no
idea why you want to–" She winced. "–to stay."

Because
it's just been driven home to me that, if I'm to do my duty to the
guild and Cymelia,
he thought, thinking of Tania speaking of her
sister's childbirth,
I'll bear responsibility for the other side
of this coin.
Too fraught. Instead, he replied, "Call it
perverse masochism."

She
slitted her eyes a little open, but there was an actual quirk of her
lips.

A
smile. Small, bitter, and edged with pain, but a smile.

Iathor
sat beside her, pleased with himself.

Chapter
XXVI

C
ongratulations,
half-breed. Baron Kymus, Guild Master and Lord Alchemist, is in your
bedroom, admitting to perverse masochism.

Laita
would adore it. Kessa being in the hardest, nastiest part of her
moon-flows made it perfect.
Serve her right if I suggested he
needs a proper concubine.
But that might start discussions of a
proper wife, and
that
wasn't anything Kessa wanted to talk
about while rabid foxes gnawed out her belly.

She
winced again, trying not to cry, as another cramp sliced through her.
It's all in your mind,
she tried to tell herself. Maila'd
certainly said it. Accused her of malingering, or having the heaves
from spite. Even Laita'd said she should "just relax more."

Kymus
touched her wrist gently. "Does anything help?"

"No.
It's worse when it's cold."

"I
should've sent Jeck after Fervefax Stones." He sounded nearly
stricken.

"What
are those?"

"Like
Incandescens Stones produce light, Fervefax Stones produce heat,"
he said, slipping into the cadence of a lecture. "They're
primarily used to heat rooms without danger of fire, but can function
as warming pans, or be wrapped in fabric to heat parts of the body.
They're different from Igni Stones, which react to two other
ingredients – traditionally kept in liquid form – to
produce flame for kindling tinder."

He
paused. Kessa asked, "How're they made?" Maila'd never
crafted alchemical Stones. Perhaps the lecture would distract her
from the rats eating her entrails.

"Mm."
Perhaps he guessed her curiosity was less interest and more desperate
grasping for respite. "First, one must find a suitable stone.
Incandescens Stones are easiest; they'll work with nearly anything
but refined metal. Fervefax and Igni Stones must be able to withstand
heat without cracking. Meanwhile, a Frigi Stone, which radiates
chill, must withstand the cold."

Kessa
lost track, between waves of varied pain, of exactly which
metal-salts had to be baked into glazes at what temperatures, versus
the compounds put in "liquid suspension" for the Igni
Stones. But, of all his annoying traits, at least Kymus could lecture
without a drone, whine, or mumble.

She'd
not slept well, of course, once the cramps and moon-flow started.
Even with a smooth, comforting pattern of words, she couldn't manage
to doze. Only drift a bit, legs numbing from the blood-catching pot.
She was aware of when he stopped talking; it was just too much effort
to comment. His clothes rustled. She felt him touch her cheek,
pushing her hair from her face. Startled, she blinked her eyes open,
then shut them again. "Mm?" Hopefully he'd take her
uncertain tone for pain.

"If
I'd a comb . . ."

She
pressed her face against the bed. "Ah. I'm too blighted for
words." No money for public baths, nor weather for an isolated
pond out where herbs grew wild. Nothing but clae baths, like a bird
in a dust-puddle – with the dust too valuable to waste.

"I'd
take you home and have a bath drawn, if only . . ."
Another of his frustrated sighs, that one.

"If
only I weren't a vile-tempered, bleeding half-breed?"

He
snorted at her. "I can recognize a trap. No, if only my brother
weren't ensconced there."

"So
kick him out?"

"My
staff would approve. But he's nowhere to go. He left a student access
to his workroom, and I'm told the house is unlivable for stench. Two
of his dramsmen came back reeking. So Iasen stays and pillages my
wine, throws parties without my permission – well,
one
party – and reads my mail."

"I
won't send you any."
Ow.
More distraction was needed.
"What's wrong with his house?"

"Besides
the smell?"

She
fisted her hands against a cramp; her head twitched almost on its
own. "Wh-why wouldn't clae've worked?"

"It's
only been . . . mm, a bit over a fiveday. He appeared
on my doorstep the very day that, ah, you did. So to speak."

I
only wish I'd appeared on your doorstep, rather than you on mine.
Kessa reminded herself he might be feigning kindness, to lull her
suspicions while she was even less appealing than usual.
Laita
could have moon-flows with pale dignity and the occasional graceful
faint. Kessa just bled and suffered. "It's still that bad?
What'd his student
do
?"

"I've
not asked."

"Mayhap
you should. Sounds like your brother has little need to brew better
clae."
Wait, why'm I trying to make it easier for him to drag
me to his home?
Because she wanted his current kindness to be
real. Stupidity and lack of food were a dangerous mixture.

"Perhaps
I should hire you to repair the damage." That sounded amused.

"If
it stinks that badly, the price starts with silver leaves and go up,
Kymus."

"A
bargain. We're feeding his entire household, after all."
Definitely amused.

"Take
me and Nicia over and give us a project?"

"Perhaps,
indeed." He paused. "I'm glad you like her."

You'd
better not've picked her as your concubine,
she thought. "She's
sweet. Sheltered, but sweet."

"Mm."
He pushed her hair back over her shoulder, his finger trailing
against her cheek. It sent goosebumps down her arm and back. "That's
true. Where's your comb?"

Belatedly,
she realized that talking about how sheltered Nicia was would lead to
how sheltered Kessa
wasn't
. No wonder he'd dropped the
subject. She shifted to dig in the basket under her cot, bringing out
the gap-toothed wooden comb. She glared at his hand as he took it. "I
could do this myself."

"You're
feeling unwell. Humor me."

More
high-handed orders she was too tired to fight. So he wanted to play
with her dirty, coarse, barbarian hair. Fine. Let him. Let him sit on
her cot behind her and try to put her tangled hair in order. It was a
distraction.

It
put goosebumps on her back: a secret pleasure she'd thought reserved
for when one of her crèche-siblings (usually Laita) brushed her
hair. When another cramp struck and she tensed, he paused and put a
hand on her shoulder. Just . . . being there.

Like
family.

Kessa
realized that scared her. It should've outraged her – how dare
he?! – but she didn't have the energy.

"How
do you fasten your hair?" His fingers were at the back of her
neck.

He
paid attention . . . ?
Of course he paid
attention to your hair, half-breed. You keep your head down. It's
what he sees.
But he'd paid attention to
her
. She gritted
her teeth through a stab from her belly. "A tie, usually. I've a
basket . . ." She pulled it out, hoping he'd get
this over with. Hoping, of a sudden, that she wasn't his secret
fixation
because
she was half-barbarian. Surely there were
other, prettier ones somewhere in the city . . .
Moon-flowing women? No question that she'd balk at
that
;
ruining her blood for dry tea was no option. Not when Laita needed it
and Kessa was her cheap, dependable brewer.