She nodded, tension relaxing on her squirming guts. He kept a firm grip as he gained his feet beneath him and, bent over, pulled Carstin over the wagon bed, the man’s pallid face swaying. She reached over the wagon bed, stretching to keep the glass tubing, joined by pig gut joints, intact. Ōbhin and Stone set him down with care.
“Stay with him,” she said and hurried to Dualayn. He hovered over his medicinal trunk. The man rubbed his hands. “He’s clutching to the Colours, Father.” The man was nearly dead, clinging to life.
“His heart is strong, child.” The man shook his head. “I’ve been dreading this. I thought Ni’mod would be enough protection . . .”
“The bandits?” she frowned, opening the trunk.
“Their boss.” He sighed. “He was not happy when I parted ways with our partnership in exchange for other benefactors.”
Confusion rippled through Avena as she pulled out the herbs she needed, measuring with care. Powerful men played their games, wrestling for influence throughout the kingdom. The crown, the church, the merchants, and, in the last few decades, the inventors all jostling for wealth. Jewelchines were revolutionizing the world. Powerful men would be greedy to uncover long-dead glories like how the Recorder was constructed.
She never thought Dualayn soiled his hands in politics. He must have his reasons.
The bandits hadn’t ruined the ruby jewelchine in their camp kettle. She filled it with water from a sapphire aquifer. Swiftly, the glowing gem heated water to a boil. She poured it into the cup and added the herbs and a large dose of honey to it. She let it cool as the bandits finished their packing, loading everything on the wagon around Carstin.
“Careful! Careful with that,” Dualayn shouted as two ruffians manhandled his discovery. He marched over, rubbing at his dark waistcoat. “I know your boss, and he’ll skin your hides if you break that.”
Avena returned to the wagon with her treatment. She cradled the earthenware cup. It was cooled to the warmth of her skin. The scent of honey and the herbs filled her nose. She mounted the wagon and found Ōbhin continuing to clean his gloves.
“Give him sips of this,” she said.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Beetroot to strengthen blood production, garlic and oregano to fight infection, turmeric to give vigor to his heart, and honey to give his body some nourishment.”
He nodded and held the cup to the man’s lips. As he did, he glanced at the Recorder. His brow furrowed.
“That will change the world,” she told him. “If he can unravel its secrets.”
“If he gets to keep it.” He tilted the cup, pouring more of the drink with tender care into the wounded man’s mouth.
A shiver raced through her body. The hand clenching her stomach tightened. Dualayn’s wife needed that knowledge.
*
“You drive the wagon,” Avena said, her face set as she settled down by Carstin.
Ōbhin cocked his head. “Me?”
“Do you think I trust any of your red-blinded compatriots to do it?”
His eyes flicked to the fuming Ust shouting orders. They would all go on foot. None in the band owned any horses. They were too valuable not to sell when the troop captured them. “Your Tone resonates with Raleth.”
Her forehead furrowed. Two years living with bare-faced women, and it still shocked him to see the emotion playing across her features. Sometimes, it brought warmth to his cheeks at the intimacy of seeing Avena’s face. She covered the rest of her body like it was holy, but the most personal part of her she left exposed for any man to see.
“Raleth?” she asked. “Sounds like Reylis, the Archon-Supreme of the Devas.”
“The Tone of Truth,” he said, moving to the wagon.
“Oh,” she said, her voice tight. “One of the pagan gods you worship.”
“I suppose,” he said. He’d seen what the Onderian and Lothonians called “worship.” Lots of kneeling and bending over and muttering words to some remote entity up in the heavens. Their Elohm. The Tones just . . . existed. They vibrated through all of creation.
How else would jewelchines work?
“Go slow,” she said as she climbed over onto the wooden driver seat. “No bumps. Lose time if you must. Jostling him is the worst thing you can do to him with that glass tube in his lung and how weak he is.”
“She is quite right,” the older man said. He grunted as he climbed into the back. “But never fear, we shall do for your friend all we can.”
Ōbhin shook his head. It still stunned him that the two would help Carstin. He’d expected defiance, even anger. He’d killed their companion. He occasionally caught annoyance from Avena. Her emotions were so free on her face.
“Get that Black-damned wagon moving,” barked Ust. “I want to be out of these cursed woods before we’re all stained red.”
“Good sir, I can assure you that the month we spent here has done nothing to dye our skin,” Dualayn said.
Ust spat juices laden with what the locals called Tethyrian weed. The plant came from across the sea, grown in the vast fields of Tethyr. It was prized for its energizing effect, but it could make a man erratic, even violent.
Ust pushed more into his mouth, his cheek bulging with it.
Ōbhin flicked the reins, the leather of his glove creaking.
He followed Avena’s advice. He went slow, watching the darkening cotter’s path. He guided the horses, one a pure dun and the other a deep black save for the splotch of white on its right flank, to avoid this rut or that divot. When he had no choice, he slowed them to a crawl while Ust spat brown on the road, his beard bristling like a thorny bush.
The sun sank to Ōbhin’s left, peeking through red-stained trees. The road led south. The croak of frogs echoed as twilight
