Glasswrights' Master (5 page)

Kella knew that she should not believe him. After all, he was young enough to be her son, and a late child at that. His hands were strong; his arms well-muscled. The moonlight glinted on his cheekbones, silvering his hair even as his lips curved into a grin. “Easy words, traveling man.”

“Hard ones,” he grinned, and he closed the distance between them. She felt his hands across her back, firm and commanding. She breathed in the smell of him–woodsmoke and sweat and a vague, unidentified dusting of spice. She held her body stiff for a moment, but then his lips warmed her; his hands melted her.

When she pulled back from his kiss, the embers were dying in the night, flickering out the last of their orange life beneath the stars. The working was ended then. She had helped another deserving soul. She turned back to the man beside her and twined her fingers between his. “Very well, traveling man. Come speak to me of other things. Share more hard words with me, and I'll see what I can do to ease them.”

He quirked a smile at her, and her heart raced faster. She was foolish to respond to him so. Her hair was grey; her joints ached. She was no girl. She should not let him manipulate her. She shook her head and bit off a laugh. “Come, Tovin. Come to bed.”

And he did.

 

* * *

 

She awoke before dawn, smelling dew on the grass outside. The night must have been cool–much water had accumulated. That was good, for her purposes. The sweetvine would bloom with the sunrise. If she could pick the petals before they dried in the morning air, she could brew the strongest love-draught in her books.

She slipped from beneath her sheets, and the scent of lavender followed her across the room, seeping from her mattress. There was no witchy power in the herb, but she had always been charmed by its fragrance.

Kella crouched by her hearth and began to poke in the ashes, burrowing down to the banked embers. There. A solid heart of orange, glowing in a grey silk bed. She filled her lungs and blew softly on the fire, encouraging it to strengthen, even as she squinted her eyes against a dusting of ash. Her fingers automatically reached for the dried deergrass she kept in a pot by the stove. She sprinkled the powdery stalks over the ember, waiting for them to kindle into tiny yellow flames.

Deergrass, to bring vision and caution to her day. She'd reached for it often since the traveling man came to her. She'd felt the need for careful steps around him, for delicate maneuvers. And she wasn't quite willing to ignore the Sisters' rumors that deergrass wove its way into a man's heart, bound him to the hearth where first he smelled the weed's clean sharpness.

She turned to look at Tovin, and she was not surprised to see him gazing back at her. She added a clutch of small twigs to the fire, and then she stood, brushing her hands against her apron. “Don't speak to me. Hold on to your thoughts.”

“I would have helped you with the fire.”

“Hush.”

“I would have!”

“You would have made a mess.” His young lungs were strong. He would have sent ash swirling across the floor. “You should be concentrating, not talking.”

“Ah, yes. My morning interrogation.”

“Interrogation?” Despite herself, despite her intention to keep him quiet and focused, she snorted. “Do all you northerners fear questions so?”

He smiled and shrugged. He was always relaxed when he awoke, lazy and soft, as if he only donned his sarcastic guise with his clothes. She crossed back to the lavender-scented pallet and stretched out beside him. His scarred hands folded around her, wandering down her flanks, but she stilled him with her own twisted fingers.

“Go ahead, then,” she said. “Look into the flames.” His fingers walked up her arm. “Don't try to distract me, traveling man.” He sighed in mock frustration, but he directed his attention to the hearth. “Tell me,” she urged. “Before you forget them.”

He was silent for a long minute, and she forced herself to lie still beside him. She measured out her breath, slow and even. She was trying to support him, trying to assist. It was important for him to remember, to speak. After several deep breaths and silence, though, she could not keep herself from prompting: “Do you recall anything? Even images, if you can't remember an entire dream.”

“I've told you, Kella. I don't dream.”

“Everyone dreams. You must train yourself to remember what you see.”

“I can tell you anything that I see with my waking eyes. I'm not some lazy child. I know how to use my senses.”

“I know you're not lazy. I also know that you're not concentrating.”

“Kella, why is this so important to you?”

Why? She wasn't sure how to answer him. Perhaps it was important because she had always shared her own dreams–first with her mother, then with her younger sister, then with her long-ago husband. Perhaps it was important because of the answers she had found to her own questions, answers lurking in the twisted hallways of sleep. Perhaps it was important because there was true witching power in dreams, true energy and force that could be helped along by wisely-chosen herbs.

Perhaps it was important because she thrilled to hear the player man speak, thrilled to feel the rumble of his words rising in his chest, echoing down her spine.

“Look into the flames, Tovin. Concentrate, and remember your dreams.”

Kella listened to him breathe beside her. She heard the fire whisper on the hearth, the nibble of the small flames as they worked their way through the dry wood. She heard a breeze pick up in the trees outside, the rustle of leaves and the rub of one branch against another. No words, though. No dreams. After a long silence, Tovin sighed. “Nothing.”

“Nothing,” she repeated.

“I've tried, Kella.”

“Of course you have.” She tried to keep her tone matter-of-fact.

“As well as you have,” he countered, and she wasn't surprised to hear his argument begin. “It's only fair for
you
to try now, Kella. You promised.”

She had, hadn't she? In some moment of weakness, when she'd been more intent on keeping the man beside her than on following her own common sense. What had she been thinking? The Sisters would laugh her out of their circle, if they saw her here, swayed by a handsome young man.

“There's nothing to be afraid of,” he said easily, smiling as anger tensed her shoulders. He certainly knew how to get her to react. She watched the easy curve of his lips, and she reminded herself to be amused as well. After all, she wasn't doing anything she didn't want to do. Not really. And she might yet learn how to harness the power of his trick, use it in her own witchery.

She fell back on the bed, her arms rigid beside her body, close to her sides like the petals of a tight-wrapped rosebud. “Let's be quick about this, then. I've sweetvine to harvest.”

“I'll help you with the sweetvine,” he said. She snorted. He was as casually brutal as a child when he had anything to do with her plants. His hands were covered by a network of scars, thin white lines that crossed each other like straggling roots. He'd bruise the petals for sure. Nevertheless, she let his voice soothe her. “Sit back, Kella. Lie down on the pallet.”

His hands passed over her sides, relaxing her as if she were a fine beeswax taper. She tried not to dwell on the warmth of his flesh. She was getting foolish, here, at the end of her middle passage. She should not let the thought of one boy turn her mind so. The sun would rise soon. The sweetvine would dry out. She'd lose the petals for the entire year, have to make do with the dried stuff that already hung between the rafters of her cottage. No handsel would pay good coins for potions made solely of dried goods.

“Breathe deeply, Kella. Think of your most soothing herbs. Imagine them strewn upon the pallet. Breathe their scent. Smell them. Taste them at the back of your tongue. Remember, Kella. Remember the peacefulness that comes from your own working, from your own success.”

Her own working. What did he presume to know about that? He had never joined with the Sisters. He could not understand her powers as she manipulated her herbs. He could not understand the balance between the fire herbs and ones of ice, between the earth plants and the airy ones.

“Relax, Kella. If you let me guide you, you can visit power you've only dreamed of. Follow my voice. Come with me when you're ready.”

Follow his voice. The voice of a man half her age. If she had a son, he would have that voice. But she had never found the time to nurture a child-seed inside her. Her husband had left her because of that. She had been too busy tending her herbs. Her studies. She had been too busy traveling through the woods, meeting with the Sisters. Women like her, like her mother. Old women. Wise women. Women who did not prattle on about meaningless things.

“Kella, you need to let your thinking mind go. Stop counting out the days until the next harvest.” Days? Hours! She needed to finish the harvest by the second hour after dawn. This traveling man knew nothing.

“Kella, you have the power to concentrate. I've seen you focus on your workings. Stop resisting what I'm saying, and let yourself travel to the soothing herbs, to the gentle ones.” Soothing herbs. As if he could name a single one of them. As if he knew the first thing about her, about her workings.

She sat up on the pallet, pulling away from the gentling hand that he attempted to rest on her arm. “There's no strength in your Speaking, man.”

She thought that he would be angry. He had been each other time that she had failed to follow him. This time, though, he only sighed. “I've strength, Kella. Strength enough for every Speaker who has ever come to my players. You've got more power than I, though. You can resist me more than any other I've tried to help.”

Tried to help. She had never asked him for assistance. He seemed intent to get her to Speak, to harvest her story like she would harvest some precious herb in the forest. She forced her voice to be light. “I'm not resisting you, traveling man. I've merely got other things on my mind. Other problems. Other goals.”

His sigh was deep enough that she cast a worried glance toward him. This was why no man had stayed with her for longer than a season. They tired of not understanding her. They tired of not being able to change her way of thinking. They wanted to redirect her energy toward their own projects, their own goals.

“And what would that be?” he asked, and the question was so wary that he might have been a coney, darting from his burrow on a clear summer day.

“First off, harvesting the sweetvine. And since you've delayed me here with your mysterious Speaking, you can help me. We don't have long until the sun will be too high.” He could carry the sack, at least. The sack and a water pouch. And a blanket, so that they could be comfortable when they took a break from their labors.

The traveling man rose from the pallet, bowing deeply before her. The fire glinted off his young skin, rippling from the normal array of scars and imperfections that men wore. “Your wish, my lady, is my sole desire.”

She heard him slip into his player's tone, and she resisted the urge to tug him back beside her. After all, the sweetvine
might
not be at its height today. It might be best tomorrow. It might be best after she had fallen back on the pallet, after she had pulled him down beside her, after she had acted the part of a younger woman, a loving woman.…

She shook her head and made herself laugh out loud. This traveling man was dangerous; he threatened to overturn all that she had learned in her years of witching. “Come along then. And leave your Speaking games behind.”

“As you command, good lady.” She scowled at the courtly words, but her disapproval merely let her move faster. She made quick work of shrugging on her overdress and cape and gathering up her close-woven sack. As she struck off down the forest path, she was pleased to hear Tovin's breathing grow sharp beside her. She still had strength left in her. Strength enough to keep ahead of a traveling man.

He remained silent throughout the morning, barely grunting as she indicated the clinging masses of sweetvine, the sticky lengths that needed to be tugged from the southern sides of oak trees. At the first clump, he watched her strip petals into her sack, and then he nodded twice, his eyes squinting into animal-wise slits. Perhaps she had not been fair. Perhaps he knew more than she thought. Or maybe he could learn.

He submitted to her inspection as he stripped his first vine, and he pretended that he did not notice her scrutiny as he attacked the second. He was actually doing a decent job, and she
could
accomplish more if she did not monitor his every move. After all, he was hardly a child; he was a man. The thicket was dense with sweetvine, and Kella knew that she could use it all to turn a hearty profit from the village girls, come the boring days of winter. Thrusting down her misgivings, she gave Tovin his own collecting sack, and she began to count out in her mind how much potion she could brew from the sticky double harvest, how many handsels she could turn.

All too soon, the sun rose. The strong light began to pry apart the forest canopy, warming the earth at the base of the oaks. Kella felt the heat spread through the air, making each breath a little heavy.

The sweetvine petals began to shrivel on her fingers. Their dew started to dry, leaving behind an uncomfortable stickiness. Kella redoubled her efforts, determined to strip the last vine on the tree before her. She did not bother heading on to the next one, though. The magic was gone, burned away by the late summer sun.

Instead, she cinched the mouth of her sack, sealing it closed against the heat's prying fingers. The petals would last fine, in the dark. They'd soak in their own juices, intensify their flavor. If she left them in the sack overnight, they would be even stronger for her potion. She smiled, thinking of the fragrance that would fill her cabin tomorrow afternoon, the heavy aroma of the sweetvine petals, boiled down into syrup over long, quiet hours. The labor would be easier with Tovin to help. He would bring her wood, for as long as she needed to feed the flames.