by Hannah King
He’d tried to lay down with an empty stomach, hoping to drift off to sleep, but after swatting away some insects, taking a swig from his water skin, and adjusting the itchy, moth eaten blanket just so, his body had refused to relax. Instead it had insisted, with good reason, that the hours between ten at night and three in the morning were designated for watching, no matter what the circumstances were.
Knowing it would be a useless battle to convince his system otherwise, he’d stood up and noiselessly tiptoed over his sleeping comrades. Pulling a leather book from his pack, he’d run as soundlessly as only a Swiftfoot could toward the tree furthest from the squadron tents, yet still furthest from the nearest watchman for ultimate privacy.
Taking out a stubby piece of frale, he’d pulled a small knife from his boot and began to sharpen it, taking caution not to shave off too much of the precious writing utensil. Then he’d set to his usual work. There was no one there to see him or mock him, and so he began to write.
Tumtrum Berry Tea (An Old Cronin Recipe)
Boil Hot Water (not too hot or it will weaken the tumtrums)
Press fresh tumtrums into a paste
Add a leaf of sage
Pour hot water over the tumtrums and the sage and stir.
Skim the top to remove the tumtrum seeds, (this is essential, as tumtrum seeds are inedible and will cause significant bodily trouble.)
He laughed to himself at the thought. He doubted anyone would be ignorant enough to not know the effects of tumtrum seeds, but nevertheless, he would give proper warning. In the wild chance that someone from a far realm ever stumbled across the recipe, Wes’ compassionate nature would rather note the common fact than be guilty for causing someone intestinal hell for three hours. The tumtrum berry was delicious, but its seeds were nothing short of devious.
A tent flap rustled. His instincts pulled his eyes off the page for a moment to observe. It was probably someone on their way to do some personal business, the sort that watchmen tried to pretend never happened, though he’d seen more than he’d cared to over his years of watches.
It was a captain. Captain Lewis to be exact, and Wes was ready to melt into the darkness as best he could be-fore eye contact was made and both watchman and captain turned red at the apparent reason for his rising. Captain Lewis didn’t seem to see the small young man sitting so perfectly still, and he disappeared through the line of tents. Wes relaxed and returned to his writing.
Add goats’ milk to the mixture
Add sweet honey (from bees, not ixs, or the milk will curdle)
Wes licked his lips. It had been ages since he’d tasted either. Creamy goat’s milk, or anything remotely like honey. Sweet things had always been his weakness. His mother had once given him a glass of milk with honey stirred into it every morning. It would help him grow strong and tall, she’d said, and maybe it would have if the crop failure and the war hadn’t come, ending the tradition before he was ten. After years of malnourishment he was only five feet and four inches, and the width of his shoulders was an embarrassment when standing next to anyone, especially Camphraz.
It’s all right, his cousin Byrne always told him. You don’t have to break any size records if you’re a Swiftfoot. He was right. It damaged his pride, but it didn’t damage his gift. He could run faster than most of his fellow code and hide easier due to his lack of stature.
Wes sighed sleepily. He was flexible and quick when life called for it, but he was happy to be unmoving at the moment, enjoying his favorite pastime.
His thoughts flicked back to Captain Lewis. Idly he wondered what could be taking him so long. He wryly thought back to the tumtrum seeds and hoped his superior hadn’t been the one person who needed a reminder about such things. With a shrug he completed the recipe.
This mixture is delicious when served hot. It can be used for the well and the sickly. It’s known to calm the mind and ease aching feet.
Yet another reason he wished this recipe were readily made in camp and not only a figment from his memory. Many a long day and night he spent on his feet and the healing drink would have been welcome.
Add ground spynut for a warming effect, or cypress for a pleasing aroma on festival nights.
Hm. It isn’t too far from The Festival of Many, he thought, judging by the moon’s position. This would have been the perfect beverage to celebrate with, he thought, then wondered if there was a way to replace the goat’s milk and honey with something else. He doubted a palatable replacement could be found near their current campsite. It was too marshy. There was always milk root, but it would be too watery. The less discerning tongue wouldn’t care, but he would know and couldn’t live with it.
Wes looked up. Captain Lewis hadn’t returned yet. The camp was deathly still, Dormal still at his post, eyes fixed on the dark woods.
Maybe the captain is holding a secret meeting with someone, or perhaps he’s ill, he grimaced. If he was ill, he might need someone to assist him. Wes frowned and shook his head. He was the sort of person that would help anyone in need almost to a fault, but he hesitated to catch superior officers in situations they would deem private.
“You can’t take care of everyone Wes,” he scolded himself. The captain had seemed to be heading south after all, and Jare, the usual south post watchman, could attend the captain if he needed anything, Wes decided. If he couldn’t sleep, the least he could do for himself was shirk off his usual guard dog instincts that came with the duties of a watchman.
Wes hadn’t really wanted to be a watchman or a messenger when he’d first joined the Sustainers, but after he had made his way up through the ranks and been assigned, he’d learned to be content with the positions. Aside from his watchmen shifts, he was the daily messenger to the captains and leads. That was his favorite job. It was exciting to watch the camp’s leaders interact, and he always picked up interesting tidbits of news; but deep down Wes felt like he hadn’t really had much of a choice in either occupation.
Logically the jobs matched his code and seemed like good fits. Swiftfoots were often chosen as messengers, doubling as scouts and watchmen, simply because it only made sense to have the quickest people take such positions. It would be silly to have a person who could run faster than a deer working in a medical tent or with the kitchen staff, almost as silly as a Strongbearer not being a warrior, or a Lantern not being a hunter. Not everyone allowed the slant of their code to determine their future however.
He’d always admired Talitha for the way she had insisted upon a position out of the ordinary. She’d seen it modeled by Captain Gray, the skilled archer who was a Lantern same as she was. Talitha had begged her superiors to let her train as a fielder in spite of her code. She had fought to learn the skills she’d been interested in.
There were days when Wes wished he was in the medical tent helping people recover, blending herbs and bringing food to the weak or wounded. He’d even be happy as a gatherer, a lowly job others didn’t want. He was a natural forager. Nevertheless, he kept that dream alive in the rough pages of the leather journal, recording old remedies and recipes that he recalled. They reminded him of the old days in Cronin, when he would run errands for the local apothecary and spy into the back of the shop where the old man bent over his flower presses and mortar and pestle.
The healing treatments he’d scribbled down could be useful someday, if he ever needed to help a fellow fielder on a journey or during a raid. At least he’d know what to do. And the recipes? It was doubtful he’d ever find any of the ingredients he’d listed when cooking for himself on an expedition, but it was simply comforting to think about food sometimes, even when the best of it hadn’t entered his mouth for years.
Wes’ stomach moaned and he began to wonder why Talitha had forgotten to bring him food after his watch. All that was left once he’d made it to the kitchen tent was the last mal loaf that nobody wanted. By then it was too dark to tell but he was sure it was sprouting mold. It wasn’t like Tali not to keep a promise. He hoped she wasn’t mad a
t him for some odd reason.
A half hour passed, and Wes continued to distract himself from his weariness by scribbling more notes. Lewis had still not returned, but by then Wes had finally allowed himself to forget his surroundings. Once he’d finished a few rough sketches to go with the three recipes and remedies he’d recorded that evening, he felt more relaxed. A yawn came over him, causing him to think he’d be able to sleep if he returned to his bed.
He got up, stretched, and quietly began heading back to his tent, moving faster than he should have. Out of nowhere he struck an obstacle and stumbled back. It was Captain Lewis, returning to his tent at last.
Wes drew back in surprise, “It’s just me, Wes Perimen,” he rushed to explain. “Forgive me sir.” But the man appeared more confused than startled.
“What are you doing up and about at such an hour?” the captain asked in a low, agitated whisper. “Isn’t Dor-mal at your post tonight?”
“I, just, can’t sleep sir.”
Lewis’ expression turned somewhat sympathetic. “That’s an epidemic in this camp.” The man took a deep breath. “Lavalt knows we have plenty of worries to keep us awake.”
Wes nodded.
“Be a good lad and try to catch a few winks,” Captain Lewis said, patting him on the shoulder with a heavy hand. “The Ralstag expedition is supposed to return tomorrow afternoon. You’ll want to be fresh and ready to help with the unloading.”
Wes accepted the order with a bow of his head and watched the captain disappear. The folds of Lewis’ cloak billowed behind him as he walked, and a familiar scent lingered in the air in front of Wes. His heart froze.
Was it? It couldn’t be. He shook his head, but the motion didn’t erase the fragrance that surrounded him. It was more than the usual scent that came from the Elm Bed’s marsh, the swampy mess of grass and elm tree skeletons only a few miles beyond where they’d set up camp.
He was used to odd smells of all sorts, especially when camping. The smells of waste, poor hygiene, sweat, fish, spoiled meat, tanning leather. But this scent differed. It was light and sweet, and it might have been considered welcoming to anyone except for him.
In fact, he might not have noticed it if he were anyone else, but it grabbed him with the full force of the memory it recalled in his mind.
It was the fragrance of reig leaves. He recalled the cold nights when his father would press the grayish-green reig leaves into his palms. A satisfied look would appear in his eyes, so rare and almost welcome.
At first, he’d loved how it changed his father’s usually harsh and anxious nature, but the more his father enjoyed the leaves, the more their pleasures eventually waned and wore out, and often he would slump into a useless state, unable to work for days until the effects of it subsided.
In a time when even those who worked had almost nothing to eat, the plant had nothing but negative connotations to Wes. His mother had broken her back over that plant, for a man who didn’t love her as much as he should have.
It was reig, he grew surer the longer he stood and sniffed, and the scent had come from Lewis. He realized he’d smelled it the moment he’d crashed into the captain, and during their entire encounter.
That’s impossible, Wes tried again to dismiss it. Where could he have gotten it? Reig wouldn’t grow in the wetlands, he knew. It came from drier realms, brought over to more civilized places by slave trader caravans. It wasn’t allowed within the confines of the camp. It was forbidden due to its mind-numbing effects. Even if it had been allowed, it was expensive and difficult to get a hold of.
The caravan raid, Wes thought. The fielders could have stumbled across some, and perhaps it wasn’t processed correctly. The goods from raids always went to the captain’s tent to be sorted and approved. Had Lewis pocketed some of the reig before the other captains locked it up? It seemed the only explanation. He’d smelled fresh reig on the man as freshly as you could smell alcohol on the village drunk.
Of course, that smell would be gone by tomorrow. Reig’s perfume lasted about as long as it’s effects. When Lewis woke up the next morning, no one would be the wiser.
It disappointed Wes to think that someone like Captain Lewis, whom he’d looked up to, was stealing, breaking rules and dulling his code. The biting insects and the dark, dank air of their surroundings seemed to be causing a sort of desperation. The kind that some people, even captains, would apparently use anything to fill. Wes sighed, even more disappointed that he hadn’t been able to sleep that night. Then at least he could have avoided the dark memories the herb had conjured up.
He thought of Jare, the south post watchman that night. Jare was, sad to say, the least competent watchman they had. Wes believed he would have happily let the captain go past the camp boundaries and into the forest without any questions asked. He might have even been bribed to stay silent on the matter by a present of the herb itself. If Wes had been on duty that night, Lewis would have had a tougher time getting out of camp without sanction to indulge his addiction.
Wes frowned and sat back down for a minute, feeling a need to mull everything over.
He would have to report this to a superior, he decided reluctantly. It wasn’t in his nature to doubt others or start trouble, but it was his job to expect the worst of people and of situations. That had been drilled into him during training. It went against the grain of his personality, but it’d stuck.
He would bring his concerns to Captain Tratis the next day if he could catch him alone. He was an understanding sort of man, he might be able to approach Captain Lewis peaceably, and smooth things over as a friend and equal; remind him that a captain’s judgment should never be clouded by an herb, especially with the return journey approaching so quickly.
“Wounded man!” someone shouted. Wes felt himself jumping soundlessly to his feet. There were more shouts coming from the north, the sounds of many horses and soldiers, but more than that, the sound of panic.
CHAPTER FOUR
TALITHA
STRANGE SMELLS WELCOMED me as my eyelids fluttered open. They were pungent, bitter and sweet, like herbs and tonic. I was wrapped tightly in hot, itchy blankets and sweat trickled down my forehead. I attempted to move, but a series of aches and pains erupted all over my body. I’m sick, I realized dimly. I tried to think back to what had happened, but my memory was fuzzy.
Something about my eyes… That was all I could remember.
I heard the rustle of clothing as someone approached my bedside. It was Healer Farris, his tired eyes and wrinkles match-ing the way I felt.
He was studying my face, probably inspecting my eyes to see if what the others had said held any truth. If he saw the flecks, he didn’t comment on them. He only hemmed a little.
“Amlai?” He addressed me with my home name. Talitha was my first name and most of my friends called me that. I didn’t like it when they shortened it to “Tal” or “Tali”, but that never stopped them. Amlai was my second name, the name of my home, and no one in the high ranks ever called anyone by anything else.
“Amlai?” he said again when I didn’t react to his first utterance of it. I blinked.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” I heard myself say, my voice sounding hollow and raspy.
“You had a bout of Parsley fever,” he explained, pulling a second covering over me.
“No, I’m too hot,” I groaned, then shivered again.
“It has all the signs of Parsley,” he said, pouring a teaspoon of something into a cup. Parsley fever was becoming a common malady, especially now that we were camped in the Elm Beds.
“What about my eyes?” I asked hazily. His forehead creased in confusion.
“Your eyes?” he echoed, and then a recollection spread across his face. “Oh, yes,” he chuckled, “I remember, your friends said a thing or two about them. They claimed they saw flecks of light within your pupils. I’d almost forgotten. They brought you in last night just before sunset. This is the second time you’ve been conscious, though I doubt you rem
ember your last waking. As for your eyes, they’re brown as they have always been. I’d assume the lighting and your overall look of unwellness fired up their imaginations. Young Camphraz came down with the same fever this morning.”
“So, I was simply ill?” I rasped.
“You still are,” the man said, handing me some bitterroot mixture and gesturing for me to swallow it. It stunk like the marsh, but I didn’t complain.
“When can I leave this place?” I asked hopefully, but the healer’s attention was no longer on me. He was hurrying over toward an anxious group that had entered the tent. The people were blurry to my tired eyes, especially in the dim light.
A man was groaning in pain. There were hushed, urgent voices giving orders of care. Pushing myself up with my arms I caught a glimpse of someone being set on a pile of blankets, but my head was starting to spin again. I slid back down to the pillow and shut my eyes, still listening as a wave of aches and dizziness washed over me.
“The trading post at Ralstag, it was swarming with Parter Cavalry,” a young man was saying, his voice tight and hollow. “The whole village was overturned. They saw us coming from the lookout and surprised us at the river.”
“Hellish sort of hornet’s nest,” another voice said shakily.
“Lucky you made it back without being followed,” Healer Farris muttered. “Bring me fresh water, perdram, and half a pound of cusper,” the healer snapped at a young woman. “If treated soon enough he may recover,” he diagnosed. “Close call nevertheless.” Then he swore and exclaimed exasperatedly, “Carry him into the next tent, there is Parsley fever here!” There were hems of concern and shuffling of feet.
“Speak to the leads,” someone directed a messenger in a husky whisper. “Tell them Ralstag was compromised and the trade was unsuccessful. Captain Warner is wounded, but likely to mend. With their permission, one of his scouts will report to inform them thoroughly of the territory’s condition. Explain to them what you have seen, but do not speak of it to the rest of the camp.”