Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

333 AR WINTER

The envelope was fine paper, sealed with wax and stamped with Araine’s crest, but the note within was surprisingly informal, written in the Duchess Mum’s own hand. Leesha could almost hear the old woman’s voice as she read it:

L—

The problem we discussed upon your last visit persists. This business in Lakton makes it all the more urgent. The Royal Gatherer has all but given up. Your expertise is required.

It isn’t just Ward Witch the peasants are calling you now, did you know? Leesha Paper, neo-countess of the Hollow. Your name is expanding. Something else to discuss while you’re with us.

—A

Expanding. The word was like a stone, weighing the paper down. Araine knew about the child. But how much did she know? What had Thamos told her?

Regardless, the tone of the letter was clear. Thamos and the others might have a brief stay in Angiers, but Leesha would not be coming home anytime soon. Not if she needed to ensure a royal heir before the Krasians found a way to strike at Lakton proper.

Once the city on the lake was conquered, there would be nothing to stop the Krasians turning their attention to the north. But Euchor of Miln, secure in his mountains, would not join his forces with Angiers so long as he thought he could use the threat to leverage his own issue onto the throne.

Leesha passed the paper wordlessly to Jizell, who read it with a frown.

She shook her head. “You can’t go. They’ll keep you locked in the palace until the child is born.”

“I don’t see what choice I have,” Leesha said.

“You’re too ill to travel,” Jizell said.

“I fainted from stress and exhaustion a fortnight ago,” Leesha said. “I’m not an invalid.”

Jizell shrugged. “I’m your Gatherer, and I say otherwise. Send me in your stead. I am Bruna-trained, too. There’s nothing you can do for the duke that I can’t.”

Leesha shook her head. “It’s not just a matter of skill. It’s one of access. Rhinebeck won’t even admit he has a problem. Araine needs someone she can hide in plain sight at court. If I need to operate, a Royal Gatherer and potential member of the family is the only one with a chance of being trusted to put the duke under the knife.” She left unsaid that Jizell had consulted her on complicated fertility matters far more often than the reverse.

Jizell raised an eyebrow. “You’ll be lucky if the count keeps you on as his Royal Gatherer, much less promises you now.”

Leesha nodded, biting the inside of her mouth to keep the wave of emotion the words brought from overcoming her. “Ay, but Araine may not know yet that the child isn’t his. In any event, she’s canny enough to keep that secret until she has what she needs from me.”

I hope.

“I’m sorry, Stela,” Leesha said. “I’ve been ordered to Angiers by the duke himself.”

“But mistress, the blackstem will fade in just a few days.” The panic in the girl’s eyes was worrisome.

“We’ll take up the experiments again when I get back, honest word,” Leesha said.

“But the others get to keep their weapons when you go,” Stela protested. “They can still fight. It’s the rest of us that have to go back to being nothing.”

“You’re hardly nothing, Stela,” Leesha said, but the girl wasn’t listening. Stela shifted from foot to foot, scratching at the blackstem wards on her skin. She stood in the shadows away from the window, trying to hold the power just a little bit longer, but even the ambient light in the room was enough to slowly leach the magic from her.

The others whose skin Leesha had warded were much the same. They had taken to dressing in plain robes, much as Arlen had when she first met him, with long wide sleeves and deep hoods, shading the wards from the light. Many would hide in darkened cellars and barns during the day, stealing a few hours of fitful sleep rather than go back to mortal strength. Wonda flushed them out into the light when she could, but she couldn’t be everywhere.

There were other problems with the blackstem-warded children as well. Domestic violence on the rise. Stefny had related an argument with the normally passive Stela where she had punched her fist down on a heavy table, cracking it in half. Ella Cutter had struck her boyfriend when she caught him talking to another girl, cracking his jaw. Jas Fisher might have been justified in protecting his mother from his abusive father, but he had nearly killed the man. Leesha had been forced to use precious hora just to save his life, and even now it was unclear if he would ever walk again.

Perhaps it was best to let them have a few weeks to cool down before something truly terrible happened.

“Can I come with you?” Stela asked hopefully. “A guard on your trip north?”

Leesha shook her head. “Thank you, child, but I will have an escort of Cutters and Wooden Soldiers as well as Wonda to see to my protection.”

“You could tattoo …” Stela began.

“No,” Leesha said firmly. “We don’t know what that would do to you.”

“Course we do!” Stela snapped. “I’d be like Renna Bales, who held back the demons when the Deliverer fell.”

“Absolutely not,” Leesha said. Stela clenched a fist, and Leesha moved her hand away from her teacup to the pocket of blinding powder in her apron.

Wonda was faster, between them before Leesha realized she’d moved. She raised her own balled fist, twice the size of Stela’s. “Ya want to open that hand, girl, and apologize to Mistress Leesha.”

They locked stares, and Leesha worried for a moment that Wonda was only making things worse. Magic heightened the impulse to fight, even against unlikely odds, and Stela was still holding enough to be a problem.

But the girl remembered herself, stepping back and opening her hands, bowing deeply. “Sorry, mistress. I just …”

“I understand,” Leesha said. “The magic makes a spark of anger into a flame, and a flame into demonfire. All the more reason you and the others take some time off.”

“But what if the mind demons come back at new moon with you away?” Stela pressed. “Hollow’ll need every hand.”

“I should be back by then,” Leesha lied. “And the mind demons were scattered in their last assault. They’ll be back, but not soon, I think.”

“Could you at least paint me fresh?” Stela begged, holding up her arm, the once dark stains of the blackstem faded to a light brown. “These ent gonna last but another few days.”

Leesha shook her head. “I’m sorry, Stela. I haven’t the time. You’ll just have to make do without for a fortnight.”

The girl looked like she had been asked to make do without her arms, but she nodded sadly and allowed Wonda to lead her out.

“Stela’s a good kid,” Wonda said when she returned, though they were the same age. “Understand how she feels. Couldn’t you … ?”

“No, Wonda,” Leesha said. “I’m starting to wonder if this whole experiment was a mistake, and I’m not about to leave it running while I’m away.”

There was a knock at the door, and Wonda moved to answer. Leesha rubbed at her left temple, trying to massage the pain from her head. There were teas that could numb the sensation, but they left her dizzy and unable to think clearly. Worse, she worried over the effect they would have on her child.

The one cure that always helped was beyond her. Thamos hadn’t touched her in weeks, and her own ministrations failed to have the same effect. She would just have to get used to the pain.

But then her mother entered, and it got worse.

“What’s this about the duchess throwing Gared a ball?” Elona demanded. “Parading every half-bloomed flower in Angiers for him to sniff and pluck?”