Millian lit an extravagance of candles within her cottage and, with each one she lit, he could make out a little more within the home. All was hushed outside. Charlot hoped the bear would stay where he was.
“I can give you anemone powder,” he offered, more to save himself the stink of tapperroot than to be kind.
“After. A whip can’t kill me,” she tutted. “Can you hold the boy, or have you not the strength?”
“I can hold a normal boy. How far along is the flush?”
“Far,” she said. She pulled the blanket off the child. The drifting clouds of darkness beneath his skin were roiling thunderheads now, and he was covered in a sheen of sweat from head to toe. All his hair had fallen out, and some remained on the pillow, ringing his head like a sad halo.
Charlot could see veins of an angry purplish color streaking through the billowing discoloration. He couldn’t help but look on in fascination. It was a shame shay flush was lethal. The effect was quite beautiful in a way.
Charlot relaxed his glamor again, wanting his full focus should the boy begin to thrash. He took the boy’s wrists, a worried look crossing his face. Even for a child, they felt extraordinarily thin and delicate.
The poison had ravaged him, and the faint smell of excrement lingered, even though the boy had been cleaned and the straw of the pallet had been changed. Millian had taken good care of her charge. The fool who’d dragged her from that care and tied her to the whipping post deserved his fate.
“If the flush takes him while I work, let go of him and run. I will put him down,” Millian said. She took a hatchet from her workbench. It seemed terrible to think it might come to that. Milian’s face was granite, and her concentration total.
She unwrapped the bundle and held each needle to the light, taking the smallest one of the nine and setting it aside. Then, she straddled the boy and pressed a hand against his forehead, pushing his head down hard against the straw pillow.
“Hold tight now,” she commanded and pierced the boy at the bridge of his nose, right between the eyes.
The boy jolted to life in Charlot’s arms, and only her warning kept him from thrashing free. Berto was slick with sweat and suddenly possessed a man’s strength. He kicked his legs and wrenched his arms, but he could not get Millian’s bulk off him, nor wrench his arms free from the wizard’s grip.
Charlot watched as the needle drank up the boy’s blood. She’d jabbed him in the middle of a large patch of the flush. He could see the taint being sucked up into the needle, like ink into the nib of a quill.
When she pulled the needle out of his brow, a droplet of bright red blood rolled down his face and into the well of his eye. The skin around where she’d pierced him was a pale white, the flush was gone!
It was a great effort to hold the boy. He struggled the whole time, and the day’s labors had left Charlot exhausted. But he voiced no word of complaint, seeing Milian working with her back laid open.
All over his body, Millian jabbed the boy, until the last drop of shay flush was drawn, and seven of the needles had grown a silvery iridescent black with tainted blood. As the poison was tapped, the struggles grew weaker until Charlot could hold him down more easily. It was a child’s strength opposing him now. Then, as the last needle was drawn, the boy went completely limp.
“I think we’re in time. You can release him,” Millian said, a deep relief in her voice. Her own forehead was beaded with sweat, running from her temples down her neck to her ample chest. Charlot’s eyes followed the path until Millian shot him a curious look.
She raised her eyebrows, and then snorted wearily, as if this were the last thing she needed after the long day. His cheeks blazed.
“Just wondering if you’re well,” Charlot interjected quickly. “I haven’t been concerned with carnal matters since before you were born.”
What a lie! His thoughts had strayed that way a dozen times today. He’d even been shot as a result. Should all fortune tellers flee, should every augury and omen fail, there would still be one divining rod left to forever lead men astray.
Millian seemed unconvinced. From a pail, she poured water into a copper kettle and hung it on a hook over the hearth to boil.
“The anemone dust,” he offered again, sure she was going to go for the tapperroot.
“I’ll not be in a wizard’s debt,” she said, taking leaves from jars, inspecting each and placing them in a tidy pile.
“You’re already in my debt,” Charlot reminded her, but she did not reply. “I can stitch those if you have sinew and needle.”
“Have you stitched a wound before?”
“Many,” he said, trying to brush away the memories the question brought.
She winced but nodded. Two lashes had cut deep, and they stood raw and wide. They would not heal well without stitching. “Let me make the poultice first, then you can stitch.”
She weaved sycahee leaves together into a mat to serve as the foundation for her poultice, tying the ends and leaving the corners in long loops, so that she could tie it to herself with string. Into the kettle went the leaves, and she added red clay from a covered pail. Then, sure enough, she sliced the bits of tapperroot and threw them in as well.
Soon, the whole cottage reeked of cat piss until Charlot wanted to retch. Finally, she took the kettle off the flame with a hook and stirred it, adding some black bark-blight once it had cooled enough.
Charlot was impressed. There was not one step of the preparation that was fueled by superstition or ignorance. No chanting, and no components that didn’t work. They were a rare breed these Manatramord.
“Now, the stitching. Hold the needle over the flame before,” Millian demanded, as if he were a rank amateur. She took a coil of thin sinew and set it in a clay cup, then poured a clear liquid in. From its acrid smell, Charlot was certain it was strong vinegar.
Charlot said nothing, he only heated the needle, and then swiftly stitched closed the two wide gashes, tying each end in a neat barber’s knot. Even this weary, his hands never trembled. He worked cleanly and evenly, closing the gashes. She was quiet and didn’t flinch, though many times her breath halted as the needle entered.
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“Tell me the rest. Don’t move your arms,” Charlot said.
“Pour the poultice onto the mat, spread it evenly with the mezzaluna. Before it cools, set it across the wounds. It will adhere on its own. Then, tie the strings around me. I may cry out, but I will be still.”
He did as he was bid. The poultice was almost too hot for him to handle, and his hands were tough, used to working with hot crucibles and cauldrons. He did not envy how it would feel against those wounds. Carefully, he set the poultice against the lash wounds on her back, and she hissed out air. Despite clenching her fists, she wept from the pain.
She turned her face from him, and he ran the string through the loops and tied them together over her heart in a double poacher’s knot. It was impossible to keep from brushing his hands against her breasts as he worked, and he felt himself stirring against all desire to the contrary. It was the crying that did it–he had never understood why that happened, and it made him feel wretched.
When he was through, she sat still, eyes tightly shut with pain, and her face streaked with tears. When she opened her eyes again, Charlot helped her put on a loose shirt. She could not move her arms well without pulling at the stitches. It would be a rough few days for her.
“Thank you,” she said finally.
“Do you need something for the pain?” he asked, and her eyes went suddenly wide with warning.
“No! I will manage,” she said quickly.
“The sinew must come out in nine days,” he instructed, and she nodded quickly. She already knew, but it had to be said. Charlot checked the boy. Berto was still breathing, and some of his color had returned.
“I haven’t found a servant for you yet. They seized me as I went out to make inquiries. It will be much harder now you’ve slain all those shants.”
“It was the bear that slew them, not I,” Charlot said. Millian shrugged, then winced immediately. She would need to take that motion out of her repertoire for some time.
Charlot stroked his beard, considering the situation. Having this woman in his debt might be far more helpful than having a servant. The soldiers were dead, the shants would either flee or be slain, and someone was going to wind up in control of Fraughten.
“You will take over the town tomorrow?” he asked.
“I will try.”
“To what end? Is this your idea or the Manatramord’s?”
“They are one and the same.”
“What the hell does the Manatramord want with Fraughten?” Charlot wondered. Millian gave him a flat look as she repressed the urge to shrug again. She would tell him nothing.
“I need to know now. Do your plans concern me or my tower in any way?”
“No,” she said. Charlot stared into her eyes, looking for any sign of deception. Of course, she would not tell him if they planned to attack his tower.
“I will believe you, if only because there’s nothing worth having north of the Citadel. Let your order know that as well. I need only will it, and the Void will swallow the whole island. Everything within a day’s walk will die quite horribly. They need only take the most cursory glimpse at my wards to see the truth of it.”
“We have no designs on you or your tower.”
“Ha! I know the Manatramord. They have designs on everything. Yet, let us not be led astray. I need two things from you. One, regular trade with the village now that Bricksson is gone. Two, I need every man, woman, and child in Fraughten to understand that anyone who passes the warning stone on the northern path will die. Anyone who swims or rows to my island will die. There are beasts I cannot leash, defenses I cannot lower. And if I am pressed too far…”
He left the rest unspoken.
“Then, the debt is paid?” Millian asked.
“Pah, no! You still owe me a favor. These things are just common-sense measures that benefit all involved. I believe I have gone far above my end of this bargain.”
Millian swallowed hard and exhaled through her nose. She understood what it meant to be in a wizard’s debt.
Charlot grinned. This was a good outcome for him, though he would have to find out what the hell the Manatramord were up to. They could be terrible foes.
“I am going to go after the boy I came here for. Which way did he go?”
“He asked for directions to Urth’Wyrth. Of course, I told him not to go, but he would not be dissuaded. That boy is willful and fearless. It’s a miracle he’s alive. The straightest path is southwest, through Vedanvale, but I cautioned him to take the northern path at the fork and go the long way. The Vedar would put him to the torch as a witch. Superstitious fools.”
Charlot nodded in agreement. It was sage advice.
“I don’t suppose you have a hair off his head or he told you his name?” Charlot asked.
She shook her head.
“He’s got a day’s head start on you, and you are old. You can’t catch him,” Millian said.
“We shall see,” Charlot said with a secret grin. He cast the glamor over himself again. It was far harder now that he was weary.
They left the cottage, and there was a hushed circle of townsfolk observing the bear from a safe distance. Charlot could just barely make them out by the light of their lanterns. Not content to eat just Thum Clay, Korak had peeled the armor from the other soldiers as easily as if he were prying open clams and devoured them, too.
Korak lay on his back, twitching his paws in the air and groaning. Charlot wanted to go make sure the bear was unhurt, although he suspected Korak had only overeaten.
But first was the boy’s mother. She stood just outside the door, her face tight with worry.
“The poison is drawn. The child will likely live,” Millian said, her hands lifting slightly in anticipation. Indeed, the woman clung to her a moment later, weeping against her chest. Millian grimaced in pain, but she did not push the woman away.
“Thank you! Thank you!” she cried again and again, and Charlot found his own eyes were a touch damp. He looked away, pretending to be interested in the bear.
Was that a good trade? Four for one? Men for a child? If the Wyrth came while the village was disarmed, the whole town would burn for this. It would burn if the shant families up the hill came back with an army.
If the sky should rain flame, if they all disappeared and were never seen again. It was all useless speculation. The deed was done. Crucially, he ought to be far, far from here in case Millian’s plan failed.
He saw the shadowcat pelt lying unmolested where he’d left it and picked it up. He made a show of driving Flaccaro into the earth so that no one would wonder why it stood on its own.
“Korak! Up, you lazy glutton. We must be going.”
The bear groaned but rose to his feet, wobbling a little, licking his chops, and then letting out a mournful groan. Four men and a shadowcat! The bear had to be splitting at the seams. Still, Korak permitted Charlot to tie the hide around his massive neck again. Charlot retrieved Flaccaro, and the townspeople looked on agog as he climbed up and mounted the silverpaw bear. He had his grand moment after all.
Grinning, Charlot nudged the reluctant bear into ambling out of the town as the folk watched him go from behind doorways and around corners. Regretfully, he looked at the door of the widow Ytrette, but it was closed. Perhaps she’d slept through the whole thing, with no idea of his heroism. How he wished he could knock on that door, trouble her for more stew and see her smile again. But those were a young man’s dreams, and they did not fit an ancient arcanist’s body. The bear plodded forward. Before long, Fraughten was far behind them.
He was into the black now, and he could see nothing. He had to trust that Korak knew to follow the road. Truly, it mattered not whether the bear did or didn’t. The key was to get distance between himself and the town.
If soldiers came for revenge, they could surely find him. The bear left an unmistakable trail. If he had to fight, he wanted to be far in the wilderness so he didn’t burn down the whole town.
The bear plodded forward into the night. Though Korak was too full to do anything but amble, he was still far swifter than the old magician. Charlot could make out nothing but the brightest stars and the sliver of the waxing moon, some old friends to follow him through the dark of night.