The Skull Throne

CHAPTER 12 FILLING THE HOLLOW 333 AR AUTUMN

“Should be out huntin’,” Wonda growled, “not answerin’ the same rippin’ questions every night and pushin’ scales like one of yur patients tryin’ to get their strength back.”

“It’s the only way to get accurate results, dear,” Leesha said, making a notation in her ledger. “Add another weight to the scale, please.”

Leesha watched through warded spectacles, her young bodyguard ablaze with magic as she pressed five hundred pounds the way another woman might open a heavy door. Leesha had been painting blackstem wards on Wonda’s skin for almost a week now, carefully recording the results.

Arlen made her swear not to paint wards on skin, then turned around and did it to Renna Tanner. If the practice was as dangerous as he claimed, would he have risked it on his own bride?

She’d meant to confront him about it before breaking her oath, but Arlen was gone a month, and had hidden his true plans from her. Even Renna lied to her face. When neither of them appeared at Waning, it was time to take matters into her own hands.

You are all Deliverers, Arlen had told the Hollowers, but had he meant it? Truly? He spoke of all humanity standing as one, but had been stingy with the secrets of his power.

And so Leesha spent a week testing Wonda to establish baselines for her metabolism, strength, speed, precision, and stamina. How much sleep she averaged per day. How much food she consumed. Every bit of data she could gather.

And then the warding began. Just a little, at first. Pressure wards on the palms. Impact wards on the knuckles. The weather had turned chill, and the blackstem stains were easily hidden under Wonda’s gloves during the daylight hours.

At night, they hunted alone, stalking and isolating lone corelings to gradually test the effects. Wonda began by fighting with her long knife in her dominant right hand, delivering warded slaps and punches with her off hand as she experimented with the utility.

Soon, she was fighting unarmed with confidence, growing stronger and faster each night. Tonight had been her most intense kill thus far, slowly crushing the skull of a wood demon with her bare hands.

Wonda eased the bar down until the basket touched the ground, then moved over to the carefully stacked pile of steel weights. Each was exactly fifty pounds, but Wonda picked up two in each hand as easily as Leesha might carry teacup saucers.

“One at a time, dear,” Leesha said.

“I can lift lots more than that,” Wonda snapped, irritation clear in her voice. “Why waste the whole night lifting one at a time? I could be out killin’ demons right now.”

Leesha made another note. That was the eleventh time in the last hour Wonda had mentioned killing. She’d absorbed more magic in a few moments than an entire Cutter patrol did in a full night, but rather than feeling sated—or overwhelmed, as Leesha predicted—it only made her desperate to absorb more.

Arlen had warned her about this. The rush of magic was addictive—something she’d witnessed firsthand with the Cutters. Those warriors Drew magic by feedback from their warded weapons. It remade them as perfect versions of themselves, healed wounds, even granted temporary levels of inhuman strength and speed.

But warded skin was something else altogether. Wonda’s body was drawing directly with none of the loss experienced through feedback. It made her a lion amongst house cats, but the signs of addiction were frightening.

“You’ve killed enough for tonight, Wonda,” she said.

“Ent even midnight!” Wonda said. “I could be savin’ lives. Ent that more important than marks on a page? S’like ya don’t even care …”

“Wonda!” Leesha clapped her hands so hard the young woman jumped.

Wonda dropped her eyes and took a step back. Her hands were shaking. “Mistress, I’m so so—!” Her words choked off with a sob.

Leesha went to her, reaching her arms out for an embrace.

Wonda tensed and took a quick step back. “Please, mistress. I ent in control. Y’heard how I spoke to ya. I’m magic-drunk. Coulda killed ya.”

“You would never harm me, Wonda Cutter,” Leesha said, squeezing Wonda’s arm. Night, the girl was shaking like a frightened rabbit. “It’s why you’re the only one in creation I trust to test this power with.”

Wonda remained stiff, looking at Leesha’s hand skeptically. “Got upset. Really upset. Don’t even know why.” She looked at Leesha with frightened eyes. For all her size, strength, and courage, Wonda was only sixteen.

“Never hit ya in a million years, Mistress Leesha,” she said, “but I might’ve … dunno, shaken ya or something. Don’t know my own strength right now. Might’ve torn yur arm off.”

“I’d have drained the magic from you before that happened, Wonda,” Leesha said.

Wonda looked at her in surprise. “You can do that?”

“Of course I can,” Leesha said. She thought she could, in any event. She had drugged needles and blinding powder ready, if not. “But it’s on you to see I never need to. The magic will try to sweep you up, but you need to account for it, like you’re aiming your bow in the wind. Can you do that?”

Wonda seemed to brighten at the comparison. “Ay, mistress. Like I’m aiming my bow.”

“I never doubted it,” Leesha said, going back to her ledger. “Please add the next weight to the scale.”

Wonda looked down and seemed surprised to find she still held two fifty-pound weights in each hand. She put one on the scale, restacked the others, and went back to the bar.

Leesha tried to take up her pen, but her fingers were stiff with tension. She squeezed her hand into a fist so tight her knuckle cracked, then flexed the fingers back to dexterity before dipping for fresh ink. The vein in her temple throbbed, and she knew a headache was coming.

Oh, Arlen, she wondered. What was it like for you, going through this alone?

He had told her some of it, on the many nights they spent in her cottage, teaching each other in wardcraft and demonology. In between the lessons they shared hopes and stories like lovers, but never so much as held hands. Arlen had his couch and she hers, a table carefully between them.

But she always walked him to the door, and offered a farewell embrace. Sometimes—just sometimes—he put his nose in her hair, inhaling. Those times she knew he would accept a fleeting kiss, savoring it a moment before pulling away, lest it lead to more.

She lay awake in bed after he left, feeling his lips on hers and imagining what it would be like if he were beside her. But that was out of the question. Arlen had many of the same fears and mood swings as Wonda, terrified of hurting her, or getting her with a magic-tainted child. Her offers to take pomm tea were not enough to persuade him.

But like warding skin, all that had changed when Renna Tanner came along. She was nearly as strong as he was, and could take the punishment he’d feared to unleash in passion with Leesha. The whole town knew about the noise those two made.

Creator, Arlen, where have you gone? she wondered. There were questions she needed to ask, things only he or Renna could understand.

I don’t care if we never kiss again, just come home.

“Have a look at this,” Thamos said. He had his shirt off, and it was a moment before Leesha realized he was holding a coin in his hand. He flipped it to the bed, where she caught it.

It was a lacquered wooden klat, the common coin of Angiers. But instead of the seal of the ivy throne, the coin was stamped with a standard warding circle of protection, the lines sharp and clear.

“This is fantastic!” Leesha said. “No one will ever be left without wards for the night again when every coin in their pocket is a guide.”

Thamos nodded. “Your father made the original mold. I have half a million ready to disperse, and the presses are running day and night.”

Leesha flipped the coin over, and laughed out loud. Stamped there was Thamos’ likeness, looking stern and paternal. “It looks like you when one of the Hollowers forgets to bow.”

Thamos put his face in his hand. “My mother’s idea.”

“I would have thought she’d want the duke’s face,” Leesha said.

Thamos shook his head. “We’re making them too fast. The Merchants’ Guild feared the value of the duke’s klats would plummet if it were tied to entitlements in the Hollow.”

“So the coins will be worthless in Angiers,” Leesha said.

Thamos shrugged. “For a time, but I mean to make them worth as much as Krasian gold.”

“Speaking of which,” Leesha said. “Smitt is going to complain about Shamavah stealing his business again today.”

Thamos sat back down on the bed, putting his arm around Leesha and pulling her close. “He insisted Arther add it to the agenda. I can’t say he doesn’t have a point. Trading with the Krasians has risks.”

“As does refusing it,” Leesha said. “We don’t need to be abed with the Krasians to want civil relations and contacts in Everam’s Bounty, and those are made through trade.”

Thamos looked at her, eyes probing, and she regretted her choice of words. Abed. Idiot. Why not just slap him in the face with it, as Mother would have?

“Besides,” she added quickly, “Smitt’s motives are far from pure. He’s less interested in politics and security than he is in keeping down a rival.”

There was a knock on the bedchamber door. Early in her relationship with the count the servants Leesha made jump, especially when she was in a state of undress. But she had grown accustomed to the constant, discreet presence of Thamos’ staff. Most of his intimate servants had been with his family for generations, their loyalty beyond question.

“Let me handle them.” Leesha put on stockings and stepped back into her dress, then rang the bell. Thamos’ manservant Lord Arther entered silently with an older maid. Tarisa had been Thamos’ nurse since he was in swaddling. The count was one of the most powerful men in the world, but he still jumped when Tarisa snapped for him to sit up straight.

“Your Highness, my lady.” Arther glided across the room, eyes down, not daring to so much as glance at Leesha’s bared back as Tarisa came to tighten the laces.

“How is my lady this morning?” the woman asked. Her voice was kind, and whatever she might think of finding an unmarried woman in the count’s bedchamber, she had never once given an inkling. Of course, with Thamos’ reputation, she had likely seen far worse.

“Very well, Tarisa, and you?” Leesha said.

“I’d be better if you’d let me do something with this hair,” the old woman said, taking a brush to Leesha’s dark tresses. “Things have gotten so dull for me since His Highness learned to count past his fingers and wipe his own bottom.”

“Nanny, please,” Thamos groaned, burying his face in his palm. Arther pretended not to notice, and Leesha laughed.

“Yes, nanny, please go on,” she said. “Do whatever you wish, so long as you relate every last detail of His Highness’ privy training.”

She watched the old woman’s face in the mirror. Her smile lines became great fissures as she began to efficiently section and pin Leesha’s hair. There was nothing Tarisa loved more than telling stories of her lord as a boy.

“I called him the little firefighter,” Tarisa said, “for he sprayed like a hose all over the …”

Tarisa had many stories, but the nanny’s nimble fingers never stopped working as she spoke. Leesha’s hair was pinned up exquisitely, her face powdered and lips darkened. Somehow the woman had even talked her into a new gown, one of the many Thamos had presented her with.

All the preening and posturing for appearances at court would once have been anathema to her, but slowly, her association with the ever style-conscious Thamos had begun to wear her defenses. She was a leader that her people looked up to. There was no shame in presenting herself at her best.

Wonda was waiting as Leesha left Thamos’ chambers, falling in behind her wordlessly. The girl looked calmer now—Leesha had sent her for a walk in the sun to burn off the excess power while she met with the count. Wonda had no illusions about how she and Thamos spent their time, but like Arther and Tarisa, she never spoke, never judged.

Thamos was still inside, fussing over clothes and the trimming of every last hair on his beard, though Leesha knew it was as much that he might make an entrance after his councilors had been kept waiting a bit, and to give her time to leave in secret and enter properly.

Leesha exited by a side door to her private herb garden within the count’s walls. As the Royal Gatherer, His Highness’ health was her responsibility, so it was perfectly normal to be seen leaving the garden on her way to the main doors.

The deception seemed unnecessary for an open secret, but surprisingly it was Thamos who insisted they keep appearances, if only to keep his mother at bay. Araine seemed to approve the match, and—from what Leesha knew of the old woman—likely didn’t care what they did abed, but appearances were everything at court.

Leesha’s hand drifted to her belly. Soon enough, it would swell and force the issue. All would assume it belonged to the count, and there would be pressure from every direction for them to marry. When that happened, she would have to make a choice between evils.

Thamos was a good man. Not brilliant, but strong and honorable. He was prideful and vain, demanding obeisance from his subjects, but he would give his life for the least of them in the night. Leesha found she wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of her life sharing his bed and his throne, leading the Hollow together. But when Ahmann’s child was born with olive skin, it would all tear apart. Leesha was no stranger to being the center of scandal in the Hollow, but this … This they would not forgive.

But the alternative, revealing the child’s parentage when it was still vulnerable in her womb, would be all the more dangerous. Inevera and Araine would wish the child dead, and be happy to send Leesha off with it.

Leesha felt the muscles in her temple twitch. Morning sickness had faded, but the headaches were worse than ever as the pregnancy progressed, and it only took a little stress to trigger one.

“Mistress Leesha!” Darsy was waiting at the pillars by the main entrance to the count’s manse. The big woman fumbled with her papers as she dipped an awkward curtsy. Leesha had nearly cured her and the other Gatherers of such needless formality when the count came to the Hollow, but Thamos, accustomed to palace life, expected such treatment, and it was a hard habit to break. Now Leesha left a trail of bows and curtsies wherever she went.

“Looked in the garden,” Darsy said. “Guess I missed you.”

Leesha breathed deeply, her smile warm and serene. “Good morning, Darsy. Are you taking good care of my hospit?”

“Doin’ my best, mistress,” Darsy said, “but need your word on a dozen things.”

She began handing Leesha papers as they walked, and one dozen turned into two before they made their way to the council chamber. Leesha made notations on patient cases, approved shift rotations and allocations of resource, signed correspondences, and anything else Darsy could shove in front of her.

“Can’t wait till Vika gets back from Angiers,” Darsy grumbled. “Been gone for months! Ent cut for this. I’m better at setting bones and settling fights between the apprentices than planning shift rotations and recruiting volunteers to give blood and help with the wounded.”

“Nonsense,” Leesha said. “There’s no one better for setting bones, it’s true, but you do yourself a disservice if you think your worth ends there. I wouldn’t have made it this last year without you, Darsy. You’re the only one I trust to tell me things everyone else is afraid to.”

Darsy coughed, her face reddening. Leesha pretended not to notice, giving her time to collect herself. The reaction told Leesha she didn’t compliment the woman nearly enough. Darsy vexed her at times, but every word she’d said was true, and Darsy deserved to hear it.

As they reached the council chamber, she turned to Darsy one last time. “The Gathering is set?”

Darsy nodded. “Every hospit will have apprentices covering the day. Almost every Gatherer is planning to attend.”

Leesha smiled. “Not a word of it inside.”

Darsy nodded. “Gatherers’ business.”

The other council members were already in attendance when they opened the door. Lord Arther led the way as the men rose to their feet and bowed, waiting for Leesha to sit before doing the same. Such formalities seemed out of place in the Hollow, but Thamos expected no less in his council chambers, and Arther had browbeat even the most stubborn until they adapted.

It was said in Angiers one always knew where they stood with a host by the chair they were given. There were twelve seats around the great table. Rojer, Lord Arther, Captain Gamon, Hary Roller, Smitt, Darsy, and Erny all sat in armless chairs, their legs and hard backs carved of fine goldwood in the ivy scrollwork of the Angierian royal family. The feathered cushions were green silk embroidered in brown and gold.

Inquisitor Hayes and Baron Gared faced each other at the middle of the table, both with narrow, high-back armchairs to denote their status. The Tender sat with quiet dignity on his velvet cushion. Child Franq was at his side, sitting on a simple backless stool, his posture perfect. Gared looked squeezed into his, like an adult in a throne built for a child. His legs stretched far under the table, and his huge hands seemed in constant danger of snapping the arms off if he moved too quickly.

Leesha’s chair at the foot of the table wasn’t quite a throne, but it was far more than would normally ever be accorded to a Royal Gatherer. It was wider than the baron and Inquisitor’s together, soft-cushioned and richly upholstered with wide arms and room for her to curl her legs under her if she wished.

But if Leesha felt her chair ostentatious, she had only to look at the gold-and-velvet monstrosity of Thamos’ throne at the head of the table, looming over the other chairs like Gared loomed over other men. Even empty as it was now, it was a reminder to all of his power.

A few minutes later, a boy came in to signal Lord Arther, who again was the first to stand at attention. The others followed, and all bowed as the count entered. Leesha gave him a wry smile as she dipped into her curtsy.

“Apologies for keeping you waiting,” Thamos said, meaning no such thing. No doubt he had paced his room, counting to a thousand after the pages informed him the last of his council was seated. “Arther, what is first on the agenda?”

Arther made a show of consulting his writing board, though of course he knew it all by heart. They had rehearsed while dressing.

“The same as ever, Highness. Elections, land, and entitlements.” Arther had learned to mask much of his distaste at that last word, but his lips still puckered as if it soured his tongue. “Mistress Leesha’s invitation to the Laktonians continues to grow the population of Hollow County at an alarming rate.”

Entitlements. Leesha hated the word, too, but not for the same reason as Arther. It was a cold word, used by those with full bellies to bemoan feeding those without.

Leesha smiled. “The Hollow is strong, my lord. Not just because of our leaders, or our magic. It is people that give us that strength, and we must welcome with open arms as many as will come. Already Cutter’s Hollow and three other baronies are off the program, and providing substantial tax revenue to Hollow County.”

“Four out of nearly twenty, mistress,” Arther noted. “Three more still being rebuilt, and another dozen in their infancy. The cost exceeds the revenue by a firm margin.”

“Enough,” Thamos said. “I was sent here to grow Hollow County, and that work cannot be done on empty stomachs.”

“Nor shall it,” Leesha said. “The fertilizers and farming techniques Darsy and I prepared this summer more than tripled our yield. They will be implemented in every barony before spring.” Silently, she thanked her mentor Bruna for the books of old world science that made much of it possible.

She looked to Smitt. “How are the rabbits breeding?”

Smitt laughed. “Like you’d expect. Bees and chicks, too. Shipments go out like clockwork. We’ve got hives, burrows, and hatcheries in every barony. Even the ones that are just a bunch of tents.”

Thamos looked to Gared. “Baron, how are the Cutters progressing on the new greatwards?”

“Should finish another this week,” Gared said. “Land’s mostly clear, just digging foundations and clipping the hedges.” Clipping the hedges was the Cutter term for shaping the outer perimeter of the tree line to meet the exact specifications of the Warders. He cocked his head toward Erny, who had been made master of the Hollow Warders’ Guild.

The difference between the two men was multiplied tenfold by the difference in their seats. Leesha’s father looked like a mouse next to a wolf.

Again Leesha’s mind flashed back to the night she had caught Gared and her mother coupling. She shook her head sharply to throw off the image. No one else noticed, but Thamos raised an eyebrow at her. She forced a smile and winked in return.

“The ward should activate in the next day or two,” Erny said, “but the area is well patrolled. Now that new moon is past, folk can begin moving in and building. We won’t have full potency until buildings, walls, and fences reinforce the shape.”

Arther passed Thamos a list. “These are the proposed names for the new baronies, and the barons and baronesses elected to lead them for your approval. All are willing to kneel and swear oath to you and to the ivy throne.”

Thamos grunted, glancing at the paper. He was still not pleased about letting the refugees elect their own leaders, but the count and the Wooden Soldiers he brought to the Hollow were fighting men, not politicians. Better to let the groups govern themselves as much as possible, so long as they kept the peace and did their part for Hollow County.

“And recruitment?” Thamos asked.

“Got men making the rounds at every barony, letting folk know there’s training to help protect their own if they join the Cutters. Raw wood comes in every day, and more men are ready to stand each night.”

Thamos looked to Smitt. “And how are we equipping the raw wood? Have the weapons shortages continued?”

“The fletchers are struggling to keep up with demand, Highness, but we have more than enough spears.” Smitt glanced at Erny. “The delay is in warding them.”

Erny set his mouth as all eyes turned on him. He might not stand up for himself with his wife, but at the council table, he was not to be trifled with. “I’ll leave it to Your Highness to decide which takes longer, making a stick, or warding it. My Warders are working as fast as they can, but we don’t have nearly enough to meet demand.”

Thamos was not cowed. “Then train more.”

“We are,” Erny said. “Hundreds, but one doesn’t learn wardcraft overnight. Would you want to wager your life on a first-year student’s warding?”

Smitt coughed, breaking the tension and drawing attention back to himself. “These things take time, of course. There will be more horses, in the meantime.”

Thamos sat up at that. He had lost his favorite horse, and much of his cavalry, at new moon six weeks past. He had bought a giant Angierian mustang much like Gared’s own stallion Rockslide since, and he talked of it so often Leesha had once suggested he might prefer sticking the mare to her.

Gared nodded. “Jon Stallion hired a bunch of Hollowers out at his ranch. Big as a town now, with hundreds out catching and taming mustang. Says you’ll have all the Wooden Soldiers lost and to spare by spring. Cost is a bit more than we’d like …”

Arther rolled his eyes. “Of course.”

“Pay it,” Thamos said. “I need my cavalry back, Arther, and don’t have time to dicker over klats.”

Arther’s mouth was a flat line as he gave a shallow bow from his seat. “Of course, Your Highness.”

“Perhaps Darsy might give us an update on the convalescent initiative?” Leesha asked. In addition to the loss of cavalry, thousands of Hollowers had been injured in the attacks. Leesha used hora magic to heal those with the most critical cases or important positions, but the vast majority were required to heal naturally after the Herb Gatherers stitched them back together. Many were just beginning to use broken bones again, and needed proper exercise and attention to return to self-sufficiency.

Darsy gave an awkward move that Leesha took as a seated curtsy. “Got local gatherers making rounds throughout the county. Volunteers gather in town squares to help the injured build their strength walking, stretching, and lifting weights.” She thrust her chin at Rojer and Hary. “Jongleurs been touring, keeping spirits high as folk struggle to rebuild.”

Rojer nodded. “More than touring. Teaching. Town squares are more than just rehabilitation for the injured. Starting kids playing as soon as they can hold a bow or pluck a string.”

“We’ve sent for instrument makers from Angiers,” Rojer began tentatively, taking a sheet of parchment from his leather case. “The cost …”

“I’ll take that, Master Halfgrip,” Arther said, reaching for the paper. Rojer had been promoted to master by the Jongleurs’ Guild with the last Messenger, but the title still sounded fresh to Leesha’s ears. The lord scanned the contents, passing it to the count with a frown.

Even Thamos gave a profound sigh as he read the numbers. “You’re quick to claim the Jongleurs as your own and not subject to me, Master Halfgrip, until you need coin. If you would reconsider your position as royal herald of the Hollow, it would be easier to secure funds for you.”

Rojer pursed his lips. He had refused the count when he first made the offer, months ago, but Leesha felt his resolve weakening as it became more and more likely that she would soon be countess. Rojer had a stubborn streak, though, and didn’t care to answer to anyone. Thamos pushing like this was only going to strengthen his resolve.

“With all due respect, Your Highness, we’re not asking for luxuries,” Rojer said. “Those instruments will save as many lives as your horses and spears.”

Thamos’ nostrils flared, as did the pain in Leesha’s temple. She wondered if Rojer would be a good herald in any event. He had a knack for saying the wrong things.

“How many of your Jongleurs died on Waning, Master Halfgrip?” Thamos asked quietly. They both knew the answer. None. It wasn’t a fair comparison, but Thamos wasn’t always fair.

Hary cleared his throat. “We’re working with what we’ve got in the meantime, Your Highness. Everyone’s got a voice, and most can be taught to carry a tune. Not every barony has a Holy House yet, but they’ve all got choirs. Master Rojer and his, ah, wives have seen to that. On Seventhday you can hear the Song of Waning for miles around. Enough to hold an entire copse of wood demons at bay.

“Master Rojer even wrote a lullaby version,” Hary went on. “One that can protect a parent and child even as it soothes the babe’s cries.” Thamos looked unconvinced, but he let the matter drop.

“Amanvah and Sikvah have been giving sharusahk lessons, as well,” Rojer added. “Simple sharukin to help the healing stretch muscles and scars back to full flexibility.” The Hollowers might still look askance at the Krasians in their midst, but they had all taken to sharusahk. Arlen had begun to teach the Cutters, but now it was a craze that spread throughout Hollow County.

“Krasian songs in the Holy Houses,” Inquisitor Hayes griped. “Krasian exercises in the town square. Bad enough we have a heathen priestess teaching choirs of the Creator, but now we must corrupt our people further by teaching them to murder in the fashion of the desert rats?”

“Ay!” Gared said. “Lot of Cutters alive who wouldn’t be without Rojer’s music and Krasian fighting moves. Don’t like the desert rats any more’n you, but we’re forgettin’ the real enemy if we turn noses up at what’s keeping folk strong in the night.”

Leesha blinked. Wisdom from the baron. Wonders never ceased.

“It’s not just that,” Hayes amended. “What of the silks this Shamavah is selling? Women are parading about like harlots, forgetting all decency and putting sin in the minds of men.”

“I beg your pardon,” Leesha snapped, lifting a silk kerchief she had purchased just last week. Abban’s First Wife Shamavah had come to the Hollow with her, and set up a Krasian restaurant in town that never had an empty seat. She had set up a pavilion out back, selling southern goods at shockingly low prices, and a steady stream of supply carts had come from Everam’s Bounty since with much-needed trade.

“If all it takes to put sin in the minds of men is women flashing a bit of silk,” Leesha said, “perhaps the problem is with your sermons, Inquisitor, and not the Krasians.”

“Still got a point,” Smitt cut in. “Shamavah’s selling on the cheap to cut into my business, but she’s making up for it in the back waving gold in workers’ faces then paying them klats. Getting folk dependent on our enemies for things we can do without or make here in the Hollow.”

“I think you’ve gotten too used to being the only store in town, Smitt Inn,” Leesha said. Indeed, the Speaker of the Hollow had many connections with the Merchants’ Guild in Angiers, and had grown steadily wealthier even as those around him suffered the depredations of the last year. “I’ve seen what you charge hungry folk for a loaf of bread. A little competition will do you good.”

“Enough,” Thamos cut in. “We’re in no position to refuse the trade right now, but as of today there will be an import tax on all goods from the Krasian lands.”

Smitt and Hayes broke into wide grins at that, but the count checked them with a finger. “But you’re both going to have to get used to a little silk and competition in exchange. Don’t make a habit of wasting my time with these petty complaints.”

Leesha held back her own smile as the curve fell from the other men’s lips.

“I trust the new cathedral is not a petty matter?” Hayes said testily.

“Not at all, Inquisitor,” Thamos said. “In fact, it vexes Arther daily when he prepares the tallies. You’ve barely broken ground, and by all accounts already exceeded your yearly budget and every line of credit available.”

“There are no braver men or women in all Thesa than the Hollowers, Your Highness, but they are woodsmen,” Hayes said, the derision in his tone almost undetectable. “Canon—and wisdom—demand a Holy House be built in stone. In Angiers, where stoneworkers are more common, the cost would be a third as much.”

Smitt coughed. He was one of the many creditors waiting on the Inquisitor for payment.

“You have something to add, Speaker?” Thamos asked.

“Begging Your Highness’ pardon, and no disrespect to the Inquisitor,” Smitt said, “but that just ent true. Demons did most of our quarrying for us at new moon. Stone is cheap in the Hollow, and so is muscle. Wasn’t our idea to make this the first building in history in the shape of a ripping greatward.”

“Ent the whole barony a greatward?” Gared asked.

“Even the baron agrees it’s a redundant waste,” Smitt said.

Gared’s face took on the strained look it did when someone said something he didn’t understand. “A what?”

Child Franq ignored him, glaring at Smitt. “How dare you question the Inquisitor? Hollow Cathedral will be the last refuge if the corelings take the county, as they nearly did at new moon.”

“A project that will take decades to finish properly,” Erny said, “and leave you with irregularly shaped rooms with vastly wasted footage. A basic wardwall would be cheaper and far more efficient.”

“Demons make it all the way into the center of the Hollow,” Gared said, “ent no wall or ward gonna stop ’em. Better to use the place to pray for the Deliverer to return.”

“Mr. Bales himself denies he is the Deliverer,” Hayes reminded him. “By his own words. We must continue to look to the Creator for true succor.”

Gared’s hands curled into fists at the words. He had become more pious of late, but it was due to his belief—shared by tens of thousands across Thesa—that Arlen Bales was the Deliverer, sent by the Creator to lead humanity against the corelings.

The Inquisitor had been sent to the Hollow by the Tenders of the Creator in Angiers to study these claims, preferably disproving them and outing Arlen as an imposter. But the Inquisitor was no fool. A public stance against Arlen would turn the entire Hollow against him.

“With all due respect, Inquisitor,” Leesha said, “Arlen Bales never said any such thing. He denies he is the Deliverer, true, but it was one another he told us to look to.”

Gared’s fists thumped the table, rattling goblets and making papers jump. All eyes in the room turned to his dark glare. “He is the Deliverer. Don’t understand why we’re still talking like he ent.”

Inquisitor Hayes shook his head. “There is no proof …”

“Proof?!” Gared boomed. “He saved us when we’d all have been et. Gave us back the power to save ourselves. Ent none can deny that. You all saw him floating in the sky, throwing lighting from his rippin’ hands, and you still want rippin’ proof? How about how there wan’t a mind demon attack last Waning?”

He looked to the count. “You heard him during the fight. ‘You’re my last piece of business before I take the fight to the Core,’ he told Jardir.”

“Demons still come every night, Baron,” Thamos said. “Homes burn. Warriors bleed. Innocent people die. I’ll not deny what Mr. Bales has done, but neither do I feel ‘delivered.’ ”

Gared shrugged. “Maybe he did the hard part, and we’ve the rest to do ourselves. Maybe it’s gonna get hard again, an’ he just bought us time to grow strong. Ent no Tender. Don’t pretend to know the Creator’s whole plan. But I know one part, sure as the sun rises. Creator sent Arlen Bales to deliver the fighting wards back to us and show us how to fight.”

He looked back at the Inquisitor. “Rest we’ll see when we get down the road. Maybe we’ll be worthy an’ win back the night, and maybe our sins’ll weigh us an’ we’ll fail.”

Hayes blinked, caught for a reply. Leesha could see the man warring within himself, trying to reconcile Arlen’s “miracles” with the desire of his order to hold on to power.

“So we are supposed to bow down to Arlen Bales?” Thamos demanded, giving the thought voice. “All the Tenders and Shepherds—I and my brother and Euchor of Miln? All of us voluntarily abdicate power to him?”

“Abdi-what?” Gared asked. “Course not. You’ve met him. Mr. Bales dun’t care about thrones and papers. Dun’t think the Deliverer cares about anythin’ ’cept keepin’ us safe in the night. So where’s the harm in givin’ him credit for what he’s done, ’specially now when he’s gone on to the Core itself for us?”

“We have only his word on that, Baron,” Child Franq noted.

Gared turned a cold glare at him. “You callin’ him a liar?”

The Child shrank back, clearing his throat. “Of course not, I, ah …”

Hayes laid a hand on his arm. “The Child will be silent.” Immediately, a look of relief crossed Franq’s face, and he dropped his eyes, withdrawing from the debate.

“I don’t see what difference it makes,” Leesha cut in. Gared glared at her, but she met his gaze coolly. “If Arlen had wanted to be called the Deliverer, he wouldn’t have spent his every other breath denying it. Whether he is or isn’t, he thinks folk won’t put their backs into the fight if they’re waiting to be saved.”

The Inquisitor nodded, perhaps too eagerly. Leesha turned to him next. “As for your plans, Inquisitor, I’m afraid I must agree with my father, Speaker Smitt, and the baron. They are impractical and wasteful.”

“That is not for you to decide, Gatherer,” Hayes snapped.

“No, but it is for me to decide how it will be paid for.” Thamos’ voice had taken on the quiet tone that showed his patience was at an end and folk should listen well.

All eyes returned to the count. “If you insist on continuing the cathedral in this fashion, Inquisitor, the Tenders are welcome to shoulder the cost. There will be no more talk of royal funds until you change plans to something more sensible.”

Hayes gave Thamos a cold look, but he dipped a shallow bow. “As you wish, Highness.”

“As for the matter of Arlen Bales,” the count said, “I can assure you, Baron, this will be a topic addressed during your visit to court. You’ll have the opportunity to make your case to Shepherd Pether and the duke in person.”

The zealous look on Gared’s face melted away. “Ent no Speaker, Highness. Plenty others got better words’n me on the topic. Tender Jona …”

“Has been questioned at length on the matter,” Thamos said. “But my brothers remain unconvinced. You have witnessed his rise firsthand. If you truly believe Arlen Bales is the Deliverer, you will speak for him. If you haven’t the courage, it will say even more than your words.”

Gared’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Deliverer told me life ent always fair. If the weight’s on me, I’ll carry it and more besides.”

The meeting went on for some time, each councilor in turn asking the count for funds to pay for one project or another. Leesha rubbed her temple as she tried to follow each councilor’s accounting, and calculate the true numbers they sought to hide. Even when she disagreed with his choices, she didn’t envy Thamos in having to make them. She wished she were at the other end of the table by his side, so she could touch him and whisper advice only he would hear.

She was surprised at how strongly the image resonated with her. The more she thought of it, the more she wanted to be countess.

She took her time gathering her papers when the session ended and the other councilors began to file out. She hoped to steal another moment with Thamos before heading to the hospit, but the Inquisitor moved over to him, stealing the opportunity.

Leesha left the room slowly, passing as close to them as possible, ears open.

“Your mother and brother will hear of this,” the Inquisitor warned.

“I’ll tell them myself,” Thamos snapped back. “And that you’re being a ripping fool.”

“How dare you, boy,” the Inquisitor growled.

Thamos raised a finger. “I’m not beneath your cane anymore, Tender. Try to swing it at me again and I’ll break it over my knee and send you on the next coach back to Angiers.”

Leesha clutched her papers, smiling as she left the room.

Smitt was lingering outside, speaking to his wife, Stefny, and their youngest son, Keet. The Speaker looked at her, bowing. “My apologies if I offended you earlier, mistress.”

“The council chamber is meant for debate,” Leesha said. “I hope you know that the Hollow owes you a great debt for your service as Speaker in these difficult times.”

Smitt nodded, slapping Keet on the shoulder. “Just telling the boy here to see if we can’t lower the price of bread, like you asked. If there’s a way, he’ll find it. Good head for numbers, just like his da.”

Out of his line of sight, Stefny rolled her eyes at Leesha. They both knew the boy was not really Smitt’s son, but the illegitimate son of the Hollow’s late Tender, Michel.

Both Leesha and Bruna had used the knowledge like a lash against Stefny when the woman was out of line, but now, with an illegitimate child of her own growing in her belly, Leesha knew she had been wrong to do so.

“A word,” she said to Stefny, as the two men walked off.

“Ay?” the woman asked. They had never been anything approaching close, but both had faced down corelings for the sake of wounded Hollowers, and there was respect between them now.

“I owe you an apology,” Leesha said. “I’ve threatened you with Keet before, but I want you to know I would never have done it, to Smitt or to the boy.”

“Nor Bruna, whatever the witch might have said,” Stefny agreed. “I may not agree with everything you do, girl, but you keep your Gatherer’s oath. You can keep your apology with it.”

She tilted her head at Smitt and the boy. “Even if you hadn’t, Smitt never would have believed you.” She shook her head. “Funny thing about children. People see in them what they wish to see.”

Rojer smiled to see Amanvah’s coach waiting in the courtyard of Thamos’ keep. Heavily warded and powered with hora, the princess’ coach was as safe as any building in the Hollow.

Pulled by four brilliant white mares with golden traces, the coach was painted to match. The white and gold was typical of austere Krasian artisans, but in the North, where a typical Jongleur’s Wagon looked like the vomit of a rainbow and every two-klat Messenger had his own colors, the stark white was louder than even Thamos’ royal coach.

Inside, it was a Jongleur’s paradise, with multicolored silks and velvet on almost every surface. Rojer called it the motley coach, and he loved it so.

The driver was Coliv, the Krevakh Watcher Jardir had sent to escort Leesha’s entourage back to the Hollow. The man was a cold and efficient killer, and like the other Sharum, had looked at Rojer like a bug they were waiting for the order to squash.

But they had shed blood together at new moon, and that seemed to change everything. There were not friends—the Watcher gave new depths to the word taciturn—but Rojer now received a nod of respect when he saw the warrior, and it made all the difference.

“They inside?” he asked.

The Watcher shook his head. “Sharusahk in the Alagai Graveyard.” His words were even, but Rojer could sense the tension in them. Since the death of Amanvah’s bodyguard Enkido, Coliv had appointed himself to the role, and never let Amanvah out of shouting distance, save at her direct command. Rojer was not convinced the man ever slept or even took a piss.

Maybe he wears a sheep’s bladder under those loose pants. Rojer kept his Jongleur’s mask in place, giving no sign of his amusement. “Let’s go see them.”

He could sense Coliv’s relief. He was cracking the reins before Rojer had even closed the door behind him. He was thrown into the pillows as the coach started with a jerk. He inhaled his wives’ perfume and sighed, missing them already.

Had he been anywhere else, Sikvah at least would have been waiting inside to greet him in her colored silks. But some fine point of Krasian honor kept them from coming within a mile of the count’s keep without a formal invitation—which happened all too infrequently for Amanvah’s satisfaction. They were blood of the Shar’Dama Ka, after all.

He saw them in the bandshell as the coach pulled into the Corelings’ Graveyard, stretching in the gentle—yet strenuous—movements of sharusahk. In the square, nearly a thousand women, men, and children practiced with them.

They slipped into scorpion, a pose even Rojer, a professional acrobat, had trouble with. Rojer saw shaking limbs as many struggled to hold the pose—or their closest approximation of the impossible thing—but their faces were all serene, their breathing even. They would hold as long as they could, and every day, they would get stronger.

More and more dropped out. First the men, and then the children. Soon the women began to drop off, as well. And then there were but a few, including Kendall, Rojer’s favorite apprentice. And then none. Still Amanvah and Sikvah held the pose effortlessly, like marble statues.

Rojer called them Jiwah Ka and Jiwah Sen, and he loved them so. Arrick had taught Rojer to fear marriage like a plague, but what the three of them had was unlike anything Rojer ever dreamed.

Sikvah seemed to sense when he wanted to be alone and would vanish, reappearing as if by magic the moment he needed something. It was uncanny, and amazing. She was warm and inviting, caressing him and giving his every word and wish—not to mention every twitch in his motley pants—her utmost attention and effort. He confided in her as they lay in the pillows, knowing full well it would get back to Amanvah.

Sikvah was the heart of their little family, and Amanvah, of course, was the head. Always serious, always in control, even in lovemaking. And usually, Rojer had learned, right. Amanvah demanded surrender in all things, and Rojer had learned it was best to give it to her.

Unless the fiddle demanded it. Since the night they first used their music to kill corelings, his wives had known that in this, he led. Amanvah was the head and Sikvah the heart, but Rojer was the art, and art must be free.

They finished the session at rest position on their backs, then kicked themselves upright. Their students remained on their backs, treating Rojer to a chorus of panting and groans while he approached the bandshell, kissing his wives as they came down the steps from the stage, their breathing calm.

Kendall was the first of the Hollowers on her feet, coming over to them. Amanvah and Sikvah treated his other apprentices like servants, but Kendall they had taken to. She was the most skilled of the lot, turning their musical trio into a quartet, and limber enough to have a real chance at even the most difficult sharusahk moves one day. Her breathing was deep and even, but it was quick with exertion.

“You did well today, Kendall am’Hollow,” Amanvah said in Krasian, giving that rare, dignified nod that meant more from his Jiwah Ka than the loudest praise. Kendall had been included in the Krasian lessons they gave Rojer, which was a great help to him, allowing him a practice partner who struggled as much as he.

Kendall beamed, pulling her loose motley pants into an impressive curtsy. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

Her practice robe fell open a bit as she rose, and Rojer’s eyes dipped, catching sight of the line of thick scars on her chest.

Kendall caught him looking, smiling at first until she glanced down and realized he was staring at the scars and not her exposed cleavage. Suddenly the girl blushed, pulling the robe to cover herself. Rojer quickly looked away. The shame in her eyes made him wish he was cored.

Amanvah picked up on the discomfort in the air immediately. She tilted her head slightly at Kendall, and immediately Sikvah took the girl’s arm.

“You are ready for more advanced sharukin,” Sikvah said, “if you can perfect your scorpion pose.”

“Thought I had that one,” Kendall said.

“Better than any of the chin, perhaps,” Sikvah said, “but you must reach a greater standard if you are to be instructed in higher forms. Come.”

Kendall glanced at Rojer, but allowed herself to be led a short distance away to practice. Amanvah watched the women go, then turned back to Rojer the moment they were out of earshot. “Husband, explain. You often lament at how your people behave at the sight of your alagai scars, yet you do the same to your apprentice.”

Rojer swallowed. Amanvah had a way of cutting right to the heart of a matter. He was more than a little afraid of her sometimes.

“It’s my fault she got them,” he said. “I wanted to show off how good she was at charming demons with her fiddle. Pushed her to solo before she was ready, then wandered too far from her side. She made a mistake, and I wasn’t there to keep her from being cored.”

His vision blurred with tears. “It was Gared who saved her. Waded right into a pack of demons and carried her out. She nearly died as Leesha operated. I gave blood till I felt I might pass out, but it was barely enough.”

Amanvah looked at him sharply. “You gave her your blood?”

The tone pulled Rojer up short like a bucket of cold water. Krasians had a thousand laws and customs when it came to blood, but Rojer had never grasped more than the rudiments. Giving Kendall his blood might make her his sister, or it might mean she and Sikvah needed to have a knife fight. Creator only knew.

Amanvah lifted a finger toward Sikvah. She and Kendall had barely done anything at all, but immediately Sikvah began complimenting Kendall’s improvement. In moments, they rejoined Rojer and Amanvah. Kendall looked confused, but she, like Rojer, had learned it best to simply ride along when his wives began acting strangely.

“You must join us for lunch.” Amanvah’s words were as much command as invitation, an honor that could not easily be refused.

Kendall dipped another curtsy. “Be honored, Your Highness.”

They all climbed into the motley coach, riding to Shamavah’s restaurant. The count had forbidden the Krasians from owning property, but that had done little to slow Shamavah when she saw the building, a large ranch house not far from the center of town. Abban’s First Wife had deep pockets filled with gold, and it had taken her only one session of haggling with the owner to walk away with a century lease that would stand in any magistrate’s court in Thesa. Craftsmen had been at work night and day, adding extensions and additional floors. Already it was unrecognizable as the more modest building it had been before.

First to be finished were luxury quarters for visiting Krasian dignitaries. His wives, finding their room at Smitt’s Inn unacceptable, had transferred their things immediately. Rojer had not been consulted, but could hardly complain. Shamavah showered them in splendor while they waited on construction of Rojer’s manse.

Manse. He shook his head at the thought. He’d never truly had a home at all, and since Arrick died, he’d never had more than a single room to lay his head. Soon he’d be able to house an entire acting troupe with room to spare.

A crowd was forming outside Shamavah’s, waiting for tables at the bustling establishment. Many of the Hollowers had developed a taste for spicy Krasian cooking, and no sooner did one backside lift from the pillowed floor than another took its place.

But Amanvah was Krasian royalty, and Shamavah never failed to greet her—or even Rojer—personally. “Your usual table, Highness?”

“Inevera,” Amanvah said. It meant “If Everam wills,” but as with Kendall, all knew it was a command. “But first, a bath to wash away the sweat of sharusahk.”

Rojer had neither seen nor smelled a hint of sweat on his wives, but he shrugged. Those two bathed more than every noble in Angiers. He had plenty of papers to review in the meantime.

He escorted the women to the large bathing chamber, where Shamavah’s people were already carrying in steaming buckets to heat the water. “I’ll be in the—”

“—bath with us,” Amanvah said, her tone pleasant and relaxed, as if his refusal was unimaginable.

Rojer and Kendall exchanged an uncomfortable glance. “I bathed just this morning …”

“A clean body is Everam’s temple,” Amanvah said, her grip on his arm like a steel vise as she led him into the steamy, wood-floored room. Sikvah had a similar hold on Kendall. Both of them resisted as the women began to pull at their clothes.

Amanvah clicked her tongue. “I will never understand you greenlanders. You bare flesh enough on the streets to bring a flush to the cheeks of a pillow wife, yet you balk at the thought of seeing one another in the bath.”

“Thought men ent supposed to see women naked unless they’re married,” Kendall said.

Amanvah waved a hand dismissively. “You are unbetrothed, Kendall am’Hollow. How would you ever find a husband if men were not allowed to inspect you?”

Sikvah began unbuttoning Kendall’s vest. “The dama’ting will ensure your honor remains intact, sister.”

Kendall relaxed, letting herself be undressed, but Rojer felt something akin to panic rising as Amanvah did the same for him. Her quiet tone was gently scolding. “You will wrap your apprentice in the intimacy of your music, but not share hot water with her?”

“She can have all the water she wants,” Rojer replied quietly. “Don’t need to see her bare bottom for that.”

“It’s not her bottom you fear,” Amanvah said. “And that cannot stand. You will face her scars and make your peace with them, son of Jessum, or by Everam, I will—”

“Ay, ay,” Rojer said, not even wanting to know the rest of the threat. “I get it.” He let her finish stripping him and moved to the bath.

Rojer’s wives never failed to tend him in the bath, and normally by this point he was fully aroused. Don’t want her thinking I’m trying to stick her.

Never stick your apprentices, Master Arrick used to say. No good can come of it.

Thankfully, Rojer’s nerves were taut and fraying, and he remained slack. But then Kendall gave him an appraising look, and he was suddenly nervous about that, as well.

“A woman will forgive a small cock sooner than a limp one,” Arrick taught. Rojer turned to angle his crotch from her as he hurriedly slipped into the water. His wives followed, and Kendall was the last to join them.

Rojer had spent so much time looking away from his apprentice, he had never truly seen her. She was young, yes, but not the child he thought of her as.

And her scars …

“They’re beautiful.” Rojer had not meant to say the words aloud.

Kendall looked down. Rojer realized she was once again unsure what he was staring at. He made a show of dropping his eyes lower for a moment, then looked up, meeting hers with a grin. “Those are beautiful, too, but I meant your scars.”

“Then how come you ent looked at me for more than a second since I got them?” Kendall demanded. “All of a sudden you put a river between us.”

Rojer dropped his eyes. “My fault you got them.”

Kendall gave him an incredulous look. “I’m the one that screwed up. I’m the one so busy trying to impress you I didn’t keep my mind on the strings.”

“I never should have pushed you to solo,” Rojer said.

“I never should have pretended to be ready when I knew I wasn’t,” Kendall countered.

Amanvah tsked. “The water will grow cold before you finish this argument. What does it matter? It was inevera.”

Sikvah nodded. “Nie sent the alagai, husband, not you. And Kendall lives, while they were shown the sun.”

Rojer held up his three-fingered hand, the crippled thing that had earned him the name Halfgrip. “My wives’ people understand the beauty of scars, Kendall. The missing part of my hand is where my mother gave her life for me. I treasure it every bit as much as my thumb.”

He nodded to the raised scars that ran across Kendall’s chest from the demon’s claws and the puckered half-moon on her shoulder from its bite. “Seen a lot of people get cored, Kendall. Hundreds. Thousands. Seen the ones who live to tell the tale, and the ones who don’t. But I ent seen many that get it like that and make it through. They’re a portrait of your strength and will to live, and I have never seen anything so beautiful.”

Kendall’s lip quivered. Water ran down her face, not all of it from the steam in the air. Sikvah moved to hold her. “He’s right, sister. You should be proud.”

“Sister?” Kendall asked.

“Our husband gave you his blood the night you received these.” Amanvah traced a finger along Kendall’s scars. “We are family, now. If you wish it, I will accept you as Sikvah’s Jiwah Sen.”

“Ay, what?!” Rojer had relaxed into the hot water, but now he sat up with a splash.

Sikvah bowed to Kendall, her breasts dipping into the water. “I would be honored to accept you, Kendall am’Hollow, as my sister-wife.”

“Hold on, now,” Rojer said.

Kendall snorted uncomfortably. “Doubt we’ll find a Tender willing to perform that ceremony.”

“Inquisitor Hayes won’t even acknowledge Sikvah,” Rojer noted.

Amanvah shrugged, not taking her eyes from Kendall. “The heathen Holy Men are irrelevant. I am a Bride of Everam and the daughter of the Deliverer. If you swear the marriage oath before me, you will be wed.”

Like I’m not even here, Rojer thought, as the bathing women negotiated his third marriage. He knew he should protest further, but words failed him. He never set foot in a Holy House any time he didn’t absolutely have to, and a Tender’s words had never meant a corespawned thing to him. Creator knew he, and his master before him, had led many a wife to forget her marriage vows. For a few hours, at least.

But that kind of thing always led to trouble. The Creator might not care, but maybe the Tenders had a bit of wisdom in their dogma.

“Ay,” Kendall said, looking down at the water, and Rojer felt a thrill run through him. She raised her eyes and met Amanvah’s. “Ay, all right. I do. I will.”

Amanvah nodded, smiling, but Kendall held up a hand. “But I ent swearing any oaths in the bath. Want to know more about this Jiwah Sen business, and I’ll need to tell my mum.”

“Of course,” Amanvah said. “No doubt your mother will wish to negotiate your dower, and seek the blessing of your patriarch.”

Rojer relaxed a bit at that, and Kendall seemed to settle as well.

“Ent got a patriarch,” Kendall said. “Corelings took everyone but my mum.”

“Now that you are intended, she, too, will have a man to care for her,” Amanvah promised. “Rooms for you both will be added to our husband’s new manse.”

“Ay, wait,” Rojer said. “Don’t I get a say in this? All a sudden I’m intended, and have to live with my new mother-in-law?”

“What’s wrong with my mum?” Kendall demanded.

“Nothing,” Rojer said.

“Corespawned right,” Kendall said.

“A grandparent will be a great assistance when the children begin to come, husband,” Amanvah said.

“What happened to my needing to be free?” Rojer asked. The words sounded like a mouse squeak, and all the women, even Kendall, laughed.

“May I make a confession, sister?” Sikvah asked.

“Of course,” Kendall said.

Sikvah’s demure smile curled just a touch. “I lay with my husband in the bath before we were wed.”

Rojer expected Kendall to be scandalized, but instead she, too, gave a sly smile, turning to meet his eyes. “Ay? Honest word?”

Leesha glanced at the water clock, shocked to find it was nearly dusk. She had been working for hours, but it seemed only moments had passed since she went down into her cellar laboratory. Working hora magic had a similar effect to what happened to warriors who fought the corelings with warded weapons. She felt energized, strong despite all the time spent hunched over her workbench.

For the past year she’d used the cellar almost exclusively for brewing flamework and dissecting demons, but since her return from Everam’s Bounty it had become a warding chamber. She had learned many things in her travels, but none more compelling than the secret of hora magic. In the past, she had been able to do her warding in sunlight, needing dark and demons only to power its effects. Now, thanks to Arlen and Inevera, she understood far more.

A dark, ventilated shed had been built on her land, far enough from her cottage to keep the stench away, where the bodies of slain demons, rich with magic, slowly desiccated. The ichor was collected in special opaque bottles for powering spells, and the polished bones and mummified remains were warded and coated in silver or gold to give permanent, rechargeable powers to weapons and other items. Some few even worked in daylight.

It was an incredible advancement, one that could change the course of the war with demons. Leesha could heal wounds once thought beyond repair, and blast corelings from a distance without ever having to risk a life. Already her apron needed more pockets for her growing assortment of wardings. Some of the Hollowers called her the ward witch, though never to her face.

But for all the power of the discovery, warding and hora magic was too much work for her to make a difference alone. She needed allies. More ward witches to help with the making, and to spread word and make sure these powers were never lost again.

She went up the stairs, careful to close the thick curtain before lifting the trap and coming into her cottage. There was still a bit of light left in the windows, but Wonda had already lit the lamps.

Leesha had just enough time to wash and put on a fresh dress before women began to arrive for the Gathering. Her tendons twisted like a tourniquet in those few minutes. She felt as if she might snap as the first coach came up the warded road.

But then Wonda opened the door, and Leesha saw Mistress Jizell, a heavyset woman now in her fifties, with great streaks of gray in her hair and deep smile lines on her face.

“Jizell!” Leesha cried. “When you never wrote back, I assumed …”

“That I was too coward to brave a few nights on the road with the demons to come when family calls?” Jizell demanded. She swept Leesha into one of her crushing hugs, stealing her breath and making her feel as safe and protected. “Love you like my own daughter, Leesha Paper. I know you wouldn’t have asked us to come if you didn’t truly need us.”

Leesha nodded, but she did not loosen her hold, keeping her head on Jizell’s comforting bosom just a moment longer. She shivered, and suddenly she was weeping.

“I’m so frightened, Jizell,” she whispered.

“There, poppet.” Jizell stroked her back. “I know. Got the world on your shoulders these days, but I ent seen a stronger pair in all my days. If you can’t hold it, no one can.”

She squeezed tighter. “And me and the girls will always be there to lend our backs to it.”

Leesha looked up. “The girls?”

Jizell let go and took a step back, reaching into her cleavage and producing a kerchief with a wink. “Dry your eyes and say hi to your new old apprentices.”

Leesha took a deep, calming breath, drying her eyes. Jizell kept close, the big woman giving her the privacy to compose herself before opening the coach doors again. Roni and Kadie, apprentices that had been Leesha’s students up until she returned to the Hollow last year, veritably leapt from the coach into her arms. Their excitement was palpable, and Leesha laughed with the joy of it.

“We saw the greatward light up, mistress!” Kadie squeaked. “It was amazing!”

“Not as amazing as the men we saw,” Roni said. “Are all the Hollowers so tall, mistress?”

“Night, Roni,” Kadie rolled her eyes, “we’re standing out in the open in the dark and all you can think of is boys.”

“Men,” Roni corrected her, and even Leesha snickered.

“Enough, giggleboxes,” Leesha said, falling easily back to her stern instructor’s voice. “We can talk warding and boys later. Tonight, there’s work to be done.” She pointed to the freshly built operating theater at the far end of the yard. “Go and help Gatherers to their seats as they arrive.” The girls nodded, running off.

“My new old apprentices?” Leesha asked.

“Long as you can stand their prattle,” Jizell said. “They’ll learn far more in the Hollow than they will in Angiers.”

Leesha nodded. “And have more asked of them. We often don’t have the luxury of a clean hospit to work in, Jizell. Before long, they’ll be cutting and stitching folk right where they fell, just to get them back to the hospit alive.”

“World’s marching off to war, one way or the other. Gatherers can afford to hide behind the walls anymore.” Jizell put a hand on Leesha’s shoulder. “But if someone’s got to teach them the lesson, I’d rather it be you. Proud of you, girl.”

“Thank you,” Leesha said.

“How many weeks since you last bled?” Jizell asked.

Leesha’s heart stopped. Her voice caught in her throat and she froze, wide-eyed.

Jizell gave her a wry look. “Don’t look so surprised. You’re not the only one of us trained by Mistress Bruna.”

From all over Hollow County, Herb Gatherers came up the warded road. Some on foot from the hospit just over a mile away by the Corelings’ Graveyard. Others in coaches sent to collect them from the outermost baronies, and everywhere in between. There were even a few from the migrant refugee villages that had not yet been absorbed.

“Bandits,” Wonda said, after they greeted a few of the lean, hard-eyed women.

“That’s enough of that talk, Wonda Cutter,” Leesha said. “This is a Gathering. Every woman here has taken oaths to save lives, and you will treat them all with respect. Is that clear?”

Wonda’s eye quivered, glistening just a little, and Leesha wondered for a moment if she had been too harsh. But then the girl swallowed hard and nodded. “Ay, mistress. Din’t mean no disrespect.”

“I know you didn’t, dear Wonda,” Leesha said. “But you must never forget the real enemy comes from the Core. Their attack at new moon was little more than a feint, and they almost destroyed us, even with Arlen and Renna in the Hollow.”

Wonda clenched a fist. “He’ll come back, mistress.”

“We don’t know that,” Leesha said. “And if he did, he’d tell you himself that we’d best make every ally we can.”

“Ay, mistress,” Wonda said. “Still say you should’ve let me hide the silver.”

Leesha shook her head, counting the women already in the theater and those still on the road. The parked carriages stretched out of sight now, and every Gatherer arrived on foot.

Amanvah and Sikvah were the last to arrive, leaving Rojer waiting in the yard with the other men as they followed Leesha and Jizell into the theater. The chatter of the women grew markedly louder at the sight of the Krasian women standing behind Leesha at the entrance to the floor.

Leesha took a deep breath. Jizell gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze, and she stepped out into the center of the theater floor. The din died instantly.

Leesha turned a full circle, trying to meet every eye in the theater, if only for a moment. Nearly two hundred women leaned forward, waiting expectantly for the ward witch to speak.

It wasn’t nearly enough. As near as the talliers could tell, Hollow County and its environs had swollen to almost fifty thousand inhabitants. Few in number even before these troubled times, many Gatherers had been captured or killed on the road as they fled the Krasian invasion, or fallen prey to the destruction at new moon.

Less than half the women were true Gatherers. Leesha knew many of them from correspondence and interviews when they first came to the Hollow. Some few had real skill and knowledge of old world techniques, but others were glorified midwives, grandmothers who could pull a babe from its mother and brew a few simple cures. Few if any of them could read, and almost none of them, even Jizell, could ward.

The rest were apprentices. Some young girls in training, others older, women drafted into the hospits when the wounded began to mount, likely with no more skill than boiling water and bringing fresh linen.

You’re all Gatherers now, Leesha thought.

“Thank you all for coming,” Leesha called, her voice strong and clear. “Many of you have traveled great distance, and I welcome you most of all. There hasn’t been such a Gathering in the Hollow since my teacher, Mistress Bruna, was young.”

Many of the women nodded to themselves. Bruna was known to all of them, the legendary Herb Gatherer who had lived to be one hundred twenty before the flux had taken her.

“Gatherings used to be commonplace,” Leesha said. “After the Return, it was the only way left to us to pool the secrets of the old world and try to gain back something of what we lost when the demons burned the great libraries.

“It must be so again. There are too few of us, and too much to share, if we are to survive the coming moons. We must recruit as heavily as the Cutters, and train together as they do. My apprentices have been copying my books of chemics and healing—all of you will be sent home with your own copies to study. And from this day forward, there will be regular lessons in this theater, covering everything from healing and warding to demon anatomy. Even some of the secrets of fire. For some I will be the teacher. For others,” she looked back to Jizell and Amanvah, “I too will be a student.”

“Ay, you can’t expect us to take lessons from some Krasian witch!” one old woman had the guts to cry. Many others echoed their approval. Too many.

Leesha looked back at Amanvah, but for all the pride she knew the young princess carried, she remained serene, refusing to be baited. Leesha gave a clap, and her apprentices carried in an injured Cutter on a stretcher. He had been given a sleeping draught, and the girls grunted as they lifted the burly man’s dead weight onto the operating table.

“This is Makon Orchard, from the barony of New Rizon,” Leesha said, drawing the white cloth that covered him down to his waist, revealing black and purple bruising around a neat line of stitches that stretched across his abdomen. “He was injured clearing land for a new greatward three nights ago. I spent eight hours cutting and stitching him back together. Are there any here who witnessed this?”

Six Gatherers and a score of apprentices raised their hands. Still, Leesha pointed to the old woman who had called out. “Gatherer Alsa, isn’t it?”

“Ay,” the old woman said with a suspicious look. She was one of the migrant refugee Gatherers, come from one of the many hamlets that had fled the Krasian invasion. It was true that many of the migrants had turned to banditry, but their desperation had not happened without cause.

“Will you come and inspect the wound, please?” Leesha asked.

The Gatherer grunted, thumping her walking stick and pushing to her feet. Roni moved to escort her, but Alsa swatted at her and the girl wisely kept her distance as the old woman shuffled down to the theater floor.

Despite her gruff exterior, Gatherer Alsa seemed to know her business, inspecting Makon’s injury with firm but gentle hands. She squeezed the stitches and rubbed her thumb and forefinger under her nose, sniffing.

“You do good work, girl,” Alsa said at last. “Boy’s lucky to be alive. But I don’t see what this has to do with us sharing secrets with desert rats.” She pointed her stick rudely at Amanvah. The young dama’ting eyed the stick, but maintained her calm.

“Lucky to be alive,” Leesha echoed. “Even so, it will be months before Makon can walk, or pass a stool without blood and pain. He will be on a liquid diet for weeks, and may never be able to fight or do hard labor again.”

She gestured to Amanvah, who stepped forward, careful to keep her distance from Alsa. She produced a curved silver knife.

“Ay, what are you doing?” Alsa demanded coming forward, her stick held ready to strike. Leesha checked her with an outstretched hand.

“Patience I beg, mistress,” she said.

Alsa looked at her incredulously, but stayed her hand as Amanvah skillfully cut away Leesha’s neat stitches, pulling them free and tossing them aside. She held out a hand and Sikvah placed a fine horsehair brush in it, producing a porcelain ink bowl for dipping.

Makon’s chest and belly had been freshly shaved, leaving a clean, smooth surface for Amanvah to work. She dipped the brush and wiped the excess ink on the edge of the bowl, painting precise wards around the wound. She worked quickly and with confidence, but it was still several minutes before she finished. When she was done, there were two concentric ovals of wards surrounding the line of stitches.

She then reached into her hora pouch, producing a demon bone that looked like a chunk of charcoal. She passed this slowly over the wound, and immediately the wards began to glow. Softly at first, then brighter. The two ovals seemed to rotate in opposite directions, wards flaring brighter and brighter until those closest had to shield their eyes.

The light faded a few moments later, and Amanvah brushed her hands as the bone crumbled to dust. Sikvah came forward again, this time with a bowl of hot water and a cloth. Amanvah took it and wiped away the crusted blood and ink wards, then stepped back.

There were gasps throughout the theater. All could see that Makon’s skin had gone from black and purple to pale pink, and the wound was gone.

Alsa shoved past Leesha, moving to inspect the warrior, running her hand over the scarless flesh, pressing, squeezing, and pinching. At last she looked up at Amanvah. “That ent possible.”

“All things are possible with Everam’s grace, mistress,” Amanvah said. She turned to address the Gathering.

“I am Amanvah, First Wife of Rojer asu Jessum am’Inn am’Hollow. We are Krasian, yes, but my sister-wife and I are Hollow tribe now. Your warriors are our warriors, and regardless, all who stand against the alagai are the charges of the dama’ting. With hora magic, many of those who might have died can be saved, and many left crippled will be able to fight again. Tomorrow night, Makon am’Orchard will once again lift the spear with his brothers in defense of Hollow County.”

She turned, looking Gatherer Alsa in the eye. “If you let me, I will teach you to do the same.”

Out in the yard, Rojer couldn’t make out many of the words in the Gathering theater, but his trained ear could still pick out voice and tone, Leesha’s most of all. He’d spent hours training her to dominate the theater by projecting like a Jongleur. Leesha took well to the lessons, especially with the masterful performances of the count to study. Thamos could speak a normal tone to those closest him without eavesdroppers catching a word, and project whispers across his entire courtroom clear as day. Trained from birth to command, the Royals of Fort Angiers could put an entire acting troupe to shame. Obedience was assumed so they were free to be genial unless pressed, and dignified even then.

Rojer had seen personally how quickly that affable tone could turn into a lash. Just a subtle shift, not losing a touch of politeness, could express displeasure without ever giving offense, and let everyone else in the room know how their leader expected them to behave.

Now Leesha’s voice rang through the theater in the same manner. Polite. Respectful. And utterly in control.

She would make a brilliant countess, once she and Thamos stopped sticking in the dark and announced the inevitable match. He hoped it was soon. If there was anyone in the world due for a bit of happiness, it was Leesha Paper. Night, even Arlen found a wife, and he was crazier than a mustang stampede.

The theater went silent and he saw the pulsing lights of Amanvah’s performance. When it was over, his Jiwah Ka’s voice took over the Gathering, thrumming throughout the theater in a powerful spell.

Amanvah needed no training from Rojer. Even common Krasians rivaled the Angierian royal court for dramatic performances, and where Thamos had been raised prince of a duchy, his First Wife had been raised princess of the world. She closed her speech with such a tone of finality Rojer expected the women to come filing out soon after, but the Gathering went on for hours as they lectured, debated, and argued about what form Leesha’s new Gatherers’ Guild would take. That Leesha would be guildmistress was never in question, but the women had plenty to say on the rest.

Rojer didn’t mind the wait, idly testing new tunes on his fiddle as his head spun with thoughts of Kendall. The scent of her, the talent, the beauty. The way she kissed.

It was only a few hours ago, but already it seemed a dream.

But it ent, he thought. It really happened. Tomorrow Amanvah’s going to visit Kendall’s mother and all the Core’s gonna break loose.

He felt his nerves clench and played the lullaby his mother used to sing until he calmed again.

Not like they can run you out of town, he told himself. You’re the Warded Man’s fiddle wizard. Hollow needs you.

But he’d already given them the Song of Waning. Did they really need him anymore?

Got to have a private talk with Leesha, he realized. She’ll know what to do. Not like she’s got a leg to stand on when it comes to scandal.

He took a deep breath as the Gathering finally broke and women started filing out. His wives wasted no time in coming to him, ignoring the stares of the other women and moving with dignified haste until they were safely in the motley coach.

“Let us go quickly,” Amanvah said. “I may have agreed to teach hora healing to these women, but I have no desire to weather their stares any longer than I have to. As if I were to blame for their foolish and cowardly flight from my father’s glorious coming.”

“One way to look at it,” Rojer said. “Doubt they see things the same way, what with all the fire and murder chasing them out.”

“All training leaves scrapes and bruises, husband,” Amanvah said. “They will understand when my father leads them to victory in Sharak Ka.”

Rojer knew better than to argue. “You’ll make no friends here with that sort of talk.”

Amanvah gave him a withering look. “I am not a fool, husband.”

Rojer sketched a bow. “Forgive me, Jiwah Ka. I never meant to suggest such.”

He thought the sarcasm in his tone might get it in trouble, but like many Royals, Amanvah took obsequious words as her due. “You are forgiven, husband.” She inclined her head at the carriage steps. Rojer had still not climbed in. “May we go?”

“You go on ahead,” Rojer said. “Need to talk to Leesha.”

Amanvah nodded. “To discuss Kendall, of course.”

Rojer blinked. “… and you’ve no protest?”

Amanvah shrugged. “Mistress Paper acted as your sister in arranging our own marriage, husband, and spoke honestly and true. If you wish her advice on the contract, that is your right.”

Advice on the contract, Rojer thought. Meaning she can dicker the dower, but the marriage is happening.

“And if she tells me it’s a bad match?” Rojer said.

“It is a sister’s right to raise such concerns.” Amanvah gave Rojer a cold look. “But she had best have good reason, not some greenland prudishness.”

Rojer swallowed, but he nodded. He closed the door and stepped away as Amanvah rang her bell and the driver took off for Shamavah’s restaurant.

Gatherers were filing away to their own coaches or heading down the road in groups, chatting animatedly and clutching the books Leesha was handing out as they left.

“I’m too old to be an apprentice again,” one hag was saying as he approached. She smelled like incense and tea, dry and stale.

“Nonsense,” Leesha said.

“Not as fit as I used to be,” the woman continued as if Leesha had not spoken. “Can’t be coming all the way out here all the time.”

“I’ll arrange lessons in your own barony,” Leesha said. “I have apprentices who can teach you the basics of warding, and help train your own.”

“Corespawned if I’m going to take lessons from some girl that ent reddened her wadding yet,” the woman snapped. “Ent had an apprentice in a dozen years. I was retired before the Krasians came.”

Leesha’s eyes grew hard. “Times are dark for everyone, Gatherer, but you’ll take your lessons, and apprentices, too. Hollow County won’t lose a single life because you’re too stubborn to change your ways.”

The woman’s eyes widened, but she wisely did not argue further. Leesha saw Rojer waiting and turned to him, dismissing her as expertly as the Duchess Mum.

“Not going back with your wives?” Leesha asked.

“Need to talk to you,” Rojer said. He, too, had a trained voice, and his tone made clear the seriousness of the matter.

Leesha drew a deep breath, ending in a faint shudder. “Need to talk to you, too, Rojer. Mum’s got my head in a spin.”

Rojer smiled. “Creator, what are the odds? That only happens on days when the sun comes up.”

Leesha barked a nervous laugh at that, and Rojer wondered what could rattle her so. She signaled Darsy and Wonda to hand out books and make farewells. She and Rojer made their way into her cottage.

Only to find Renna Bales waiting for them.

“’Bout time,” Renna said. “Startin’ to think I’d be waitin’ all night for you to finish up.”

Leesha put her hands on her hips. She tired easily now, and arguing with every stubborn woman in the Hollow at once had left her drained of energy and patience. The only thing not feeling drained was her bladder, which was fit to burst. She was in no mood for Renna and her superior attitude.

“Perhaps if you’d let me know you were coming instead of sneaking into my home, Renna Bales, I might have accommodated you.” She put just a touch of emphasis on might.

“’Pologies for disrespectin’ your wards,” Renna said. “Din’t want folk seein’ me.”

“And why not?” Leesha demanded. “You were the only thing giving them hope when Arlen disappeared, and then you up and vanished for weeks on end. Where in the Core have you been?”

Renna crossed her arms. “Busy.”

Leesha gave her a moment to elaborate, but Renna just stared at her, daring her to press.

“All right,” Rojer said stepping between them. “Everyone’s got big paps. Can we stop comparing them and sit down?” He reached into his multicolored bag of marvels, pulling out a tiny clay flask. “I’ve got couzi to take the edge off.”

“Night, that’s all we need.” Leesha had made some of the worst decisions of her life when she drank. “Please, have a seat. I’ll put on tea.”

Renna had already taken the flask and tipped it back hard. Leesha thought she would have spat fire after a gulp like that, but Renna gave only a slight cough, handing the bottle back to Rojer. “Creator, did I need that.”

Leesha’s head throbbed as she put the kettle on and set a tray of cups and saucers on the counter, but it was nothing compared to the pressure down below. She glanced at the privy, but could not bear to miss a word. Renna, like Arlen, had a tendency to vanish if one took their eye off her for even a moment.

“Glad you’re all right,” Rojer was saying as she joined them in the sitting room. “When new moon came with no sign of you, we all feared the worst. It’s a miracle we survived without you.”

“Minds weren’t coming to the Hollow last Waning,” Renna said. “They had other business.”

“What business?” Leesha demanded. “Enough vagaries. Where were you? Where is Arlen?”

“Don’t expect to see either of us again after tonight,” Renna said. “Hollow needs to stand on its own. We were the reason the mind demons came. We draw them.”

Leesha looked at her a long time. That would certainly explain Arlen’s disappearance. If he was drawing the minds’ attention to the Hollow, he would put himself as far away as possible. “Why?”

“Mind demons take this Deliverer business seriously as Tenders,” Renna said. “Scared as piss about it. Unifiers, they call us. Ones who get so strong they draw followings. Wern’t gonna rest till we were dealt with, and you ent ready for that kind of demon attention. Need time to fill the Hollow.”

“So Arlen killed Ahmann and went into hiding?” Leesha demanded. “What’s to stop them going after Thamos, next?”

Renna waved a hand so dismissively Leesha was offended on her lover’s behalf. “’Less he learns to shoot lightning from his arse, count’s beneath the minds’ notice.”

She looked at them pointedly. “You two, on the other hand, need to step careful. Minds know who you are. Strike at you, they get the chance.”

Leesha felt her face go cold. Rojer looked like he might slosh up. “How can you know that?”

Renna opened her mouth, but Rojer answered for her. “She’s right. Saw it myself at new moon. Stepped beyond the wards, and every demon on the field turned to me at once. Felt like I had a flaming bullseye on my chest.”

Leesha saw it in her mind’s eye, imagining hundreds of cold coreling eyes turned upon her and the vulnerable life she carried within. The child would barely be bigger than her curled little finger, but she could have sworn it kicked. Her bladder cried out to empty, but she clenched her thighs and ignored it.

“So you’re going to leave the Hollow at the mercy of the demons while you go off and … what? Take your honeymoon without a care?”

“Corelings ent got any mercy, Gatherer,” Renna said. “You of all people should know that. Don’t tell me I don’t care. Hollowers been good to me like no others. Just because I ent here don’t mean I ent fighting for ’em every corespawned night.”

“Then why’d you come back?” Rojer said. “Just to tell us you ent coming back?”

“Ay,” Renna said. “Owed you that much. Need to know help ent coming.”

“You could’ve just left a note,” Leesha said.

“Can’t write,” Renna said. “Not everyone grows up with a rich da and time to spend learnin’ letters. Expect you’ve got questions, so make ’em quick.”

Leesha closed her eyes, breathing deeply. Renna had a way of infuriating her past her ability to think. She might ask directly if Arlen was alive, but there was little point. She didn’t believe for one moment the woman would be so calm if he wasn’t.

“Just tell me one thing,” Leesha said.

Renna crossed her arms, but she waited on the question.

“Did Arlen kill Ahmann?” Leesha asked. Her hand went to her belly as if to shield the child from the answer.

“He ent comin’ back, either,” was all Renna said. “Hollowers ent the only ones need to stand on their own.”

“That’s not an answer,” Leesha said.

“Told you to ask,” Renna said. “Din’t say I would answer.”

Insufferable woman. Leesha eyed her. “Why do you and Arlen have powers in the day, when no others do?”

“Eh?” Renna asked.

“In the count’s throne room, you defeated Enkido,” Leesha said. “His blow should have paralyzed you, but instead you forced him back and threw him across the room. No woman your size could do that without magic, but it was broad day. How? It’s more than just the blackstem, isn’t it?”

Renna paused, choosing her words with care. The delay answered Leesha’s second question if not her first.

Just as the woman was about to answer, the front door slammed open. “Mistress Leesha!” Wonda cried.

Leesha only took her eyes off Renna for an instant, but when she looked back, the woman was gone.

“Creator!” Rojer cried, leaping to his feet as he, too, noticed the disappearance.

Wonda burst into the room an instant later. “Mistress Leesha!” Her eyes were wild and terrified. “You need to come quick!”

“What is it?” Leesha asked.

“Krasians,” Wonda said. “Krasians attacked Lakton. Cutters found refugees on the road. They’re bringing them in as they can, but there’s wounded, and lots still out in the naked night.”

“Night,” Rojer said.

“Corespawn it,” Leesha growled. “Send runners to catch the Gatherers and have them meet us at the hospit. The Cutters will be mustering, and I want volunteers to go out with them. You and Darsy go with Gared.”

Wonda nodded and vanished out the door. Leesha felt a gentle breeze, and looked back. There was a fog along the floor, barely noticeable an instant ago, but now it was pooling together, growing bigger, solidifying.

And then Renna stood before them again. Leesha should have been startled to see her dissipate and reform like Arlen, but for some reason it was no surprise. There were bigger matters at hand.

“You said the Hollow needs to stand on its own,” she said. “Does that include the Laktonians, too?”

“Ent a monster,” Renna said. “Every second we waste talkin’ is a second I’m not looking out for those on the road. Send the Cutters out quick as you can. I’ll see those farthest away last until help arrives.”

Leesha nodded. “Creator watch over you.”

“And you,” Renna said, vaporizing right before their eyes.

Rojer and Leesha stood silent a long time before breaking the silence as one.

“I need to use the privy.”