Herb-Witch (Lord Alchemist Duology) (28 page)

Kymus
sorted through the basket and its few cloth and leather laces. She'd
never gotten the knack of winding her hair up and pinning it with
wooden sticks, or bone ones as Maila had after her hair was
alchemically changed to the colors of fire.

He
settled on one of the laces, and began puzzling out how to put her
hair into its customary swoops to either side of her face. This
involved holding a bit with one hand and running his other fingers
along the edge of her hair, brushing her cheek more often than not.

Kessa
had no experience with seduction, save what Laita'd mentioned, but if
he was trying . . . His timing would be horribly off
again, and surely he'd have tried to kiss her by now? Or
something
obvious?

"Why're
you being so . . .
nice
?" she asked again.
Polite. Gentle. Soothing.

He
had to think about the answer again, and for longer. He sounded
amused when he asked in return, "Would you prefer I not be?"

Yes.
No. I don't know.
She told him the truth. "Perhaps."

"Why?"

A
good question. Why did it bother her? He'd already proposed and never
rescinded it – and likely wouldn't without another immune girl
added to the mix. Why shouldn't he trouble himself to be nice?

Sometimes
realization exploded, like an alchemical bomb. Sometimes it closed
over one's head in an drowning wave. And sometimes it leaked in, like
rain through a roof.

He
wasn't
courting
her, with gifts meant to bedazzle the eye till
she let him ruin her for dry tea. He was just moving into her life,
finding the niches she'd not managed to fill – food, warmth,
company in pain – and settling himself there. Not a
passionate, fleeting dance, but methodically arranging their lives
into patterns
meant
to last.

He's
swamping me.
One raindrop at a time. With cold calculation,
determined sincerity, or perhaps both. He might repeat his proposal
only when they were curled up by his fireplace, so she needn't camp
upon his couch that night – offering the hook to a fish
already netted, cooked, and lying on the plate.

And
Kessa didn't have the energy to fight both him and her moon-flow
pains. Not when he'd seemed determined to find some cure for what was
broken inside her.
Even if he's a cad, he's still a brilliant one,
she'd said. If she kept herself shielded . . . It
wouldn't matter that she was crying, while he stroked her back as if
she were a cat.

Chapter
XXVII

I
athor
worried about the crying. Crying was usually a
bad
sign, from
everything he'd learned of women.
She's hungry,
he told
himself.
And in pain.
He'd hoped to restore some of her
composure, fixing her hair – unsettling that it hadn't worked.
But Kessa hadn't yelled at him, nor forbade him to touch her.

He
hated feeling so helpless.

If
his brother wasn't out of his house in the next three fivedays,
Iathor
would
go to Iasen's home, with or without his students,
and uncover the problem. And
that
was something he could fix.
Even if it required burning and rebuilding, he'd send Iasen to a
hostel for the duration.
Then
he could court Kessa properly,
and find a time to restate his proposal without his brother's notions
of humor interacting with Kessa's prickly temper.

It
would, after all, be troublesome if Kessa attempted to strangle
Iathor's current heir. Much as Iasen might deserve it.

He
moved his hands up and down Kessa's back; the advantages of her
wearing a thick cloak over her clothes were countered by the act of
touch, but perhaps it would be comforting enough that the
impropriety'd be overlooked. Otherwise, he suspected that when she
recovered, he'd be glared at again. (Why
would
she prefer he
not be nice? Baffling.)

In
the outer room, he heard knocking; Brague went to the door,
floorboards creaking with his steps, then called, "M'lord, it's
Jeck with one of Herbmaster Keli's apprentices."

Iathor
asked Kessa, "Shall I go see what they bring?"

She
nodded, and hissed in pain again.

He
squeezed her shoulders gently, fretted at how thin they were, and
stood.

In
the outer room was a young girl, perhaps two or three years away from
her own moon-flows. Round-faced, red-haired, and eyes of
astonishingly dark green, looking overawed. No freckles marred her
creamy complexion, though, and Iathor said, "Would you,
perchance, be Count Urnbury's youngest?"

The
girl pulled herself straighter, mustering her manners in the face of
direct address. "Aelyta Urnbury, Master Kymus, and
second-youngest these five years."

"My
apologies, Miss Urnbury. I'd forgotten your baby sibling."
Iathor was impressed that Herbmaster Keli'd secured a Count's
daughter as an apprentice. "Was your teacher able to answer my
request?"

The
girl swung her basket around, extracted a letter, and held it out.
"Herbmaster Keli sends you this, a Fervefax Stone, and some
books and preparations, Master Kymus!"

"Thank
you. Would . . ." He remembered this was
Kessa's
home, however indisposed that herb-witch was, and hoped Kessa would
forgive Keli for sending someone. He called, "Kessa, may I send
in Herbmaster Keli's apprentice, with a Fervefax Stone?"

There
was a wavering
yes
, and Iathor nodded to the girl. She bobbed
at him, dug a wrapped Stone out of the basket, and trotted off,
leaving the basket. Within, Iathor found a half-dozen vials and jars,
abbreviated names scratched into their wax seals. Under those were
four books of varying sizes.
Pregnancy and Moon-flows, A
Compilation by Keli Greenhands
capped one pile. The other was
topped by a smaller anatomy text. Below, accusingly, was a thin book
by Iathor's own great-grandfather:
The Nature of Immunities and
Tolerances
. The last was also thin, and attempted to analyze the
geometries of dry tea. Iathor snorted at it; analyzing geometries of
metal-salts was difficult, but possible. Analyzing the geometries of
herb-witchery ingredients was like washing a cat. It looked simple,
but sprouted extra legs when you weren't watching, and
wiggled
.

He
sat on the window-ledge, where light came through the partly-opened
shutter, and unfolded the letter. It was in hasty graphite, not
careful ink, and hadn't been sealed, but was definitely Keli's hand.

Iathor
supposed this favor would cost him when their agendas diverged in
guild meetings, but there was a reasonable chance that wouldn't
happen soon. Besides, he realized, his marrying an herb-witch would
be a political coup for Keli, raising the respectability of the
profession.

Basket
in hand, he went to the curtain. "I've the potions. May I
enter?"

Kessa's
yes
was strained, but probably from pain and not implying
if
you want to die.
He stooped for the other basket and brought them
both.

Inside,
Kessa clutched the fabric-wrapped Stone to her belly while Lettie sat
on the cot's edge. The apprentice seemed to be fighting dismay at her
surroundings. Iathor nodded to the girl and sat on the floor near
Kessa. "Herbmaster Keli sent brews known not to interfere with
dry tea. She said some are bitter, but could be taken with honey or
jam."

"Willow
bark and meadowbride powders don't work," Kessa said. "Redcup
flower isn't safe for dry tea and doesn't work more than a few
minutes anyway."

Iathor
set two jars aside. "This is . . . pink wax,
marked 'horn fruit W'?" He handed it to the apprentice.

"Dried
fruit of the pink hornflower, mixed with willow leaves and a
flour-paste." Lettie blinked. "This is dangerous!"

He
took the jar back. "What dosage, Miss Urnbury?"

"Ah . . .
As little as possible, Master Kymus."

"Mm."
He opened the jar. The paste was brownish with flecks of green, and
smelled like old leaves – with bittersweet undernotes of
alchemical potency. "Have you ever tried this, Kessa?"

"Not
for . . . No."

Not
for . . . pain?
Another mystery for later. He
gathered a spoon from the breakfast basket (regrettably, the
egg-crepe had likely gone cold) and dipped the tip of the handle into
the paste, so he could lick it himself.

Strong . . .
But not filling his mouth and nose with the bittersweet of it. He
half-filled the spoon. "If Herbmaster Keli believes this won't
threaten the blood's purity, we should try it."

Kessa
took the spoon, sniffed the glob, and ate it. "It's not
alchemy," she said, with an air of complaint.

Iathor
asked Lettie, "How long until it takes effect?"

The
apprentice twisted her hands together. "I'm not sure, Master
Kymus. A quarter hour? That's usual for herbal preparations.
Herbmaster Keli's book might say."

"Indeed."
At the least, it might distract Kessa. Iathor pulled the basket into
use as a table. Even with the old Incandescens Stone flickering on
one of Kessa's shelves, it was still dark in the inner room. He took
out his smaller Stone and handed it to Lettie. "If you would?"

"Yes,
Master Kymus."

In
the better light, he saw Kessa's eyes slitted open, and angled the
book so she could read it.

The
first chapters had to do with pregnancy. Iathor paged past, dismayed
that there were so many things that might need treating.

The
second section began with dry tea, followed by recipes that might
induce a miscarriage. Purgatorie, such as Darul Reus was being
treated with, was one; the blood-flows it caused were unsuitable for
dry tea. Near the end . . . Hornflower fruit was
listed as dangerous to pregnancies, sometimes used with goatweed to
induce miscarriages when necessary to save a life and ease the
trauma. Iathor muttered, "And thus unlikely to counteract dry
tea."

Still,
that was not for relief of pain. He continued to turn pages. Last in
the chapter came a discussion of sterilizing ointments and brews,
used in the empire for women soldiers in the imperial army.
Definitely contraindicated in the case of dry tea, as they had to be
applied internally rather than drunk or eaten.

Moon-flows
were covered in the last section. Proper collection for dry tea
ingredients. Too scanty, too heavy . . . Too painful.
Iathor slowed his hand, scanning each page more thoroughly.

Hornflowers
were in the very back. Time between ingestion and effect varied, but
was usually no more than three-quarters of an hour. The plant caused
visions, forgetfulness, and irrational behavior, but also an easing
(or forgetting) of pain. As it bloomed in moonlight, it was easy to
moon-steep. The danger was the hair-thin line between a sufficient
dose and a poisonous one; the recipe was included for cases of
sufficient desperation and so poisoning might be recognized. The
latter was especially relevant if one interacted with barbarians, who
sometimes ate the fruit for their own reasons and might offer it.

Are
high tolerances or immunities more common among barbarians?
Iathor wondered, lingering on that last sentence. He'd never heard of
such, but the wandering savages were not so advanced in herb-witchery
as Cymelians were. Perhaps they simply ate preparations near-raw, and
the tolerant survived.