Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

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.