Read Online Herb-Witch (Lord Alchemist Duology) by Elizabeth McCoy - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth McCoy
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fine." Her voice felt disconnected from her mind.
Mayhap he'd lied, and fed her a dramsman's draught in the prison.
He
bent closer, forearm along the edge of her counter. Now his tone was
interested. "What's the preparation?"
"Strip
the rushes after the third month, in darkness or moonlight, and add
enough water to cover them. Boil to string and pulp, then add the
targetbloom and stir till they're mixed well. The sweetflower should
still have water when it's added. The goatweed powder comes last, and
everything's boiled down again. It can dry in the sun if necessary.
It's ground to powder before use. A dose is . . .
about a spoonful." She'd gotten a tiny sachet of water-stained,
still-expensive silk. Darul Reus'd made no move to serve the tea, so
Kessa had, and tipped the powder into the teapot itself when she took
the strained leaves from it.
"You
knew you were immune to it?"
Miserably,
she nodded. She'd tested it; a yawn and she'd been normal again. Were
guards outside the door, waiting to hear her confession?
"An
unusual recipe."
How
could she tell what he was thinking, when he used that mild voice?
Kessa huddled in the blanket.
She
heard his clothing, felt the creaking of the wooden floor, and saw
the darker darkness of his cloak as it blocked the faint light from
outside. Still, she twitched a little at how close his voice was to
her ear. "Who was your teacher, Kessa Herbsman?"
"M-Ma– My teacher was Chiftia. She lives about a day outside the city." A
part of her mind whispered, despairingly, Tell him everything.
It'll be over with.
But
she'd not worked these past four years just to give up. She sat
straighter, though she felt his hair brush hers. Her scalp tingled in
chilled reaction.
"It's
said Herbsman Chiftia is . . . mmm, senile."
Blight
him, he sounded near-amused. "Just because she can't remember
the month, or her apprentice's name, doesn't mean she doesn't know
recipes. Master Kymus."
"I
suppose that's possible." That sounded smug , as he
straightened. "Have you any remains of that 'tonic'?"
She
shook her head. "No. I didn't make much." Enough to test,
enough to use, and a tiny packet for Jontho to sell.
"Hm."
His voice changed to embarrassed diffidence. "I fear . . .
I must examine your storeroom."
She
looked up; he'd turned his head away, as people did when they felt
awkward. "My . . . storeroom."
"I'm
aware it serves double-purpose for you. I assure you, I've no
interest in your sleeping quarters."
"Then–" –what're you proposing for? No, don't ask. "It's dark.
I've no lamp-oil to spare. I can bring everything out tomorrow."
"Hm?
No, I can manage." He pulled white light from his robe.
Kessa
flinched her gaze away, blots dancing in her vision. "I didn't
know you'd a glowstone."
"An
Incandescens Stone," he corrected absently. "Alchemy's
stone branch was started by ancient philosopher-priests who thought
minerals were stored in the body forever, and sought a permanent
Vigeur elixir by binding the youthening effects into pill-sized
spheres of granite. They swallowed the spheres and myriad potions
that probably killed half of them, in hope of eternal life. Later,
dragon-oil peddlers made 'transmutation' stones, with metallic dyes,
claiming they'd turn things to gold with a touch. More like an ooze;
most were sponges . . ."
"I
know about the sponges," Kessa broke in. "I'm not an
apprentice anymore."
"True,"
he agreed. "You could be a student, though."
That
sounded like an offer. Or something like a proposal. Chancy ground.
"You can look in my storeroom." He didn't have to
ask her, bed or no. And she didn't have to go in. Or sit on her bed.
Alone with him. "I'll be out here, tending my brew."
"Thank
you." He pulled aside the curtain, leaving it open.
She
watched him rummaging in the upper shelves: the bundles of dried
herbs wrapped in cheesecloth; folds of unused cheesecloth and cheap
paper; empty jars, bowls, and sachet-sacks. He moved down to the
shelf for ingredients and
Mayhap he'd lied, and fed her a dramsman's draught in the prison.
He
bent closer, forearm along the edge of her counter. Now his tone was
interested. "What's the preparation?"
"Strip
the rushes after the third month, in darkness or moonlight, and add
enough water to cover them. Boil to string and pulp, then add the
targetbloom and stir till they're mixed well. The sweetflower should
still have water when it's added. The goatweed powder comes last, and
everything's boiled down again. It can dry in the sun if necessary.
It's ground to powder before use. A dose is . . .
about a spoonful." She'd gotten a tiny sachet of water-stained,
still-expensive silk. Darul Reus'd made no move to serve the tea, so
Kessa had, and tipped the powder into the teapot itself when she took
the strained leaves from it.
"You
knew you were immune to it?"
Miserably,
she nodded. She'd tested it; a yawn and she'd been normal again. Were
guards outside the door, waiting to hear her confession?
"An
unusual recipe."
How
could she tell what he was thinking, when he used that mild voice?
Kessa huddled in the blanket.
She
heard his clothing, felt the creaking of the wooden floor, and saw
the darker darkness of his cloak as it blocked the faint light from
outside. Still, she twitched a little at how close his voice was to
her ear. "Who was your teacher, Kessa Herbsman?"
"M-Ma– My teacher was Chiftia. She lives about a day outside the city." A
part of her mind whispered, despairingly, Tell him everything.
It'll be over with.
But
she'd not worked these past four years just to give up. She sat
straighter, though she felt his hair brush hers. Her scalp tingled in
chilled reaction.
"It's
said Herbsman Chiftia is . . . mmm, senile."
Blight
him, he sounded near-amused. "Just because she can't remember
the month, or her apprentice's name, doesn't mean she doesn't know
recipes. Master Kymus."
"I
suppose that's possible." That sounded smug , as he
straightened. "Have you any remains of that 'tonic'?"
She
shook her head. "No. I didn't make much." Enough to test,
enough to use, and a tiny packet for Jontho to sell.
"Hm."
His voice changed to embarrassed diffidence. "I fear . . .
I must examine your storeroom."
She
looked up; he'd turned his head away, as people did when they felt
awkward. "My . . . storeroom."
"I'm
aware it serves double-purpose for you. I assure you, I've no
interest in your sleeping quarters."
"Then–" –what're you proposing for? No, don't ask. "It's dark.
I've no lamp-oil to spare. I can bring everything out tomorrow."
"Hm?
No, I can manage." He pulled white light from his robe.
Kessa
flinched her gaze away, blots dancing in her vision. "I didn't
know you'd a glowstone."
"An
Incandescens Stone," he corrected absently. "Alchemy's
stone branch was started by ancient philosopher-priests who thought
minerals were stored in the body forever, and sought a permanent
Vigeur elixir by binding the youthening effects into pill-sized
spheres of granite. They swallowed the spheres and myriad potions
that probably killed half of them, in hope of eternal life. Later,
dragon-oil peddlers made 'transmutation' stones, with metallic dyes,
claiming they'd turn things to gold with a touch. More like an ooze;
most were sponges . . ."
"I
know about the sponges," Kessa broke in. "I'm not an
apprentice anymore."
"True,"
he agreed. "You could be a student, though."
That
sounded like an offer. Or something like a proposal. Chancy ground.
"You can look in my storeroom." He didn't have to
ask her, bed or no. And she didn't have to go in. Or sit on her bed.
Alone with him. "I'll be out here, tending my brew."
"Thank
you." He pulled aside the curtain, leaving it open.
She
watched him rummaging in the upper shelves: the bundles of dried
herbs wrapped in cheesecloth; folds of unused cheesecloth and cheap
paper; empty jars, bowls, and sachet-sacks. He moved down to the
shelf for ingredients and
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