The Warded Man
Page 62

She entered the house, seeing Bruna at the table. “Good morning,” she said. “I didn’t expect you up so early; I would have made tea before going into the garden.” She set her basket down and looked to the fire, seeing the steaming kettle near to boil.
“I’m old,” Bruna grumbled, “but not so blind and crippled I can’t make my own tea.”
“Of course not,” Leesha said, kissing the old woman’s cheek, “you’re fit enough to swing an axe alongside the cutters.” She laughed at Bruna’s grimace and fetched the meal for porridge.
The years together had not softened Bruna’s tone, but Leesha seldom noticed it now, hearing only the affection behind the old woman’s grumbling, and responding in kind.
“You were out gathering early today,” Bruna noted as they ate. “You can still smell the demon stink in the air.”
“Only you could be surrounded with fresh flowers and complain of the stink,” Leesha replied. Indeed, she kept blooms throughout the hut, filling the air with sweetness.
“Don’t change the subject,” Bruna said.
“A Messenger came last night,” Leesha said. “I heard the horn.”
“Not a moment before sundown, too,” Bruna grunted. “Reckless.” She spat on the floor.
“Bruna!” Leesha scolded. “What have I told you about spitting inside the house?”
The crone looked at her, rheumy eyes narrowing. “You told me this is my ripping home, and I can spit where I please,” she said.
Leesha frowned. “I was sure I said something else,” she mused.
“Not if you’re smarter than your bosom makes people think,” Bruna said, sipping her tea.
Leesha let her jaw drop in mock indignation, but she was used to far worse from the old woman. Bruna did and said as she pleased, and no one could tell her differently.
“So it’s the Messenger that has you up and about so early,” Bruna said. “Hoping it’s the handsome one? What’s his name? The one that makes puppy eyes at you?”
Leesha smiled wryly. “More like wolf eyes,” she said.
“That can be good too!” the old woman cackled, slapping Leesha’s knee. Leesha shook her head and rose to clear the table.
“What’s his name?” Bruna pressed. “It’s not like that,” Leesha said.
“I’m too old for this dance, girl,” Bruna said.
“Name.”
“Marick,” Leesha said, rolling her eyes.
“Shall I brew a pot of pomm tea for young Marick’s visit?” Bruna asked.
“Is that all anyone thinks about?” Leesha asked. “I like talking to him. That’s all.”
“I’m not so blind I can’t see that boy has more on his mind than talk,” Bruna said.
“Oh?” Leesha asked, crossing her arms. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
Bruna snorted. “Not a one,” she said, not even turning Leesha’s way. “I’ve been around long enough to know that trick,” she said, “just as I know Maverick the Messenger hasn’t made eye contact with you once in all your talks.”
“His name is Marick,” Leesha said again, “and he does, too.”
“Only if he doesn’t have a clear view of your neckline,” the crone said.
“You’re impossible,” Leesha huffed.
“No cause for shame,” Bruna said. “If I had paps like yours, I’d flaunt them too.”
“I do not flaunt!” Leesha shouted, but Bruna only cackled again.
A horn sounded, not far off.
“That will be young master Marick,” Bruna advised. “You’d best hurry and primp.”
“It’s not like that!” Leesha said again, but Bruna dismissed her with a wave.
“I’ll put that tea on, just in case,” she said. Leesha threw a rag at the old woman and stuck out her tongue, moving toward the door.
Outside on the porch, she smiled in spite of herself as she waited for the Messenger. Bruna pushed her to find a man nearly as much as her mother did, but the crone did it out of love. She wanted only for Leesha to be happy, and Leesha loved her dearly for it. But despite the old woman’s teasing, Leesha was more interested in the letters Marick carried than his wolf eyes.
Ever since she was young, she had loved Messenger days. Cutter’s Hollow was a little place, but it was on the road between three major cities and a dozen hamlets, and between the Hollow’s timber and Erny’s paper, it was a strong part of the region’s economy.
Messengers visited the Hollow at least twice a month, and while most mail was left with Smitt, they delivered to Erny and Bruna personally, frequently waiting for replies. Bruna corresponded with Gatherers in Forts Rizon and Angiers, Lakton, and several hamlets. As the crone’s eyesight failed, the task of reading the letters and penning Bruna’s replies fell to Leesha.
Even from afar, Bruna commanded respect. Indeed, most of the Herb Gatherers in the area had been students of hers at one time or another. Her advice was frequently sought to cure ailments beyond others’ experience, and offers to send her apprentices came with every Messenger. No one wished for her knowledge to pass from the world.
“I’m too old to break in another novice!” Bruna would grouse, waving her hand dismissively, and Leesha would pen a polite refusal, something she had gotten quite used to.
All this gave Leesha many opportunities to talk with Messengers. Most of them leered at her, it was true, or tried to impress her with tales of the Free Cities. Marick was one of those.
But the Messengers’ tales struck a chord with Leesha. Their intent might have been to charm their way into her skirts, but the pictures their words painted stayed with her in her dreams. She longed to walk the docks of Lakton, see the great warded fields of Fort Rizon, or catch a glimpse of Angiers, the forest fortress; to read their books and meet their Herb Gatherers. There were other guardians of knowledge of the old world, if she dared seek them out.
She smiled as Marick came into view. Even a ways off, she knew his gait, legs slightly bowed from a life spent on horseback. The Messenger was Angierian, barely as tall as Leesha at five foot seven, but there was a lean hardness about him, and Leesha hadn’t exaggerated about his wolf eyes. They roved with predatory calm, searching for threats … and prey.
“Ay, Leesha!” he called, lifting his spear toward her.
Leesha lifted her hand in greeting. “Do you really need to carry that thing in broad day?” she called, indicating the spear.
“What if there was a wolf?” Marick replied with a grin. “How would I defend you?”
“We don’t see a lot of wolves in Cutter’s Hollow,” Leesha said, as he drew close. He had longish brown hair and eyes the color of tree bark. She couldn’t deny that he was handsome.
“A bear, then,” Marick said as he reached the hut. “Or a lion. There are many kinds of predator in the world,” he said, eyeing her cleavage.
“Of that, I am well aware,” Leesha said, adjusting her shawl to cover the exposed flesh.
Marick laughed, easing his Messenger bag down onto the porch. “Shawls have gone out of style,” he advised. “None of the women in Angiers or Rizon wear them anymore.”