and looking out into the yard. “You could have told me.”
“Told you what?” Leesha asked, knowing full well.
“About you and ‘Arlen,’ ” Rojer said.
“I don’t see that it’s any of your business,” Leesha said.
“But Kendall’s love potions are yours?” Rojer snapped. “Maybe my teaching’s not so bad after all. Maybe the girl just had her mind on sweet tea when it should have been on the demons.”
“That’s not fair,” Leesha said. “I thought I was doing you a favor.”
Rojer snarled at her, a look she ’d never seen on his face outside of mummery. “No, you thought you were shoving me off on some other girl to make yourself feel better about not being interested yourself. You’re more like your mother than you know.”
Leesha opened her mouth to respond, but no words came to her. Rojer set down his bowl and walked off, putting his fiddle under his chin and playing an angry melody that drowned out anything Leesha might have said to call him back.
The Corelings’ Graveyard was in chaos when Leesha and the others returned to town. Hundreds of folk, many of them injured and none of them familiar, filled the square. All were filthy, ragged, and half starved. Exhausted, they rested in grim misery on the frozen cobbles.
Tender Jona was running to and fro, shouting orders to his acolytes as they tried to give comfort to those in need. The Cutters were dragging logs out to the square so people would at least have a place to sit, but it seemed an impossible task.
“Thank the Creator!” the Tender called when he caught sight of them. Vika, his wife, ran to embrace him as he hurried over.
“What happened?” Leesha asked.
“Refugees from Fort Rizon,” Jona said. “They just started pouring in this morning, a couple hours past dawn. More arrive at every moment.”
“Where is the Deliverer?” a woman in the crowd cried. “They said he was here!”
“The wards in the entire city failed?” Leesha asked.
“Impossible,” Erny said. “Rizon has over a hundred hamlets, all individually warded. Why flee all this way?”
“Wasn’t the corelings we fled,” a familiar voice said. Leesha turned, her eyes widening.
“Marick!” she cried. “What are you doing here?” The Messenger was as handsome as ever, but there were yellowed bruises on his face only partially obscured by his long hair and beard, and he favored one leg slightly as he approached.
“Made the mistake of wintering in Rizon,” Marick said. “Usually a good idea; the cold doesn’t bite so hard in the South.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “Not this year.”
“If it wasn’t demons, what happened?” Leesha asked.
“Krasians,” Marick said, spitting in the snow. “Seems the desert rats got sick of eating sand and decided to start preying on civilized folk.”
Leesha turned to Rojer. “Find Arlen,” she murmured. “Have him come in secret and meet us in the back room of Smitt’s Tavern. Go now.” Rojer nodded and vanished.
“Darsy. Vika,” Leesha said. “Have the apprentices triage the wounded and bring them to the hospit in order of severity.”
The two Herb Gatherers nodded and hurried off.
“Jona,” Leesha said. “Have your acolytes fetch stretchers from the hospit and help the apprentices.” Jona bowed and left.
Seeing Leesha giving direction, others drifted over. Even Smitt, the Town Speaker and innkeep, waited on her word.
“We can hold on food a moment,” Leesha told him, “but these people need water and warm shelter immediately. Put up the wedding pavilions and any tents you can find, and have every spare hand you can find hauling water. If the wells and stream don’t provide fast enough, put cauldrons on a fire and fill them with snow.”
“I’ll see to it,” Smitt said.
“Since when does the whole Hollow hop to your commands?” Marick asked with a grin.
Leesha looked at him. “I need to see to the wounded now, Master Marick, but I’ll have many questions for you when I’m through.”
“I’ll be at your disposal,” Marick said, bowing.
“Thank you,” Leesha said. “It would help if you could gather the other leaders of your group who might have something to add to your story.”
“Of course,” Marick said.
“I’ll settle them in the inn,” Stefny, Smitt’s wife, said. “Surely you could use a cold ale and a bite,” she told the Messenger.
“More than you could imagine,” Marick said.
There were broken bones to set and infections to treat, many from blistered feet that had burst and been left untreated as folk spent more than a week on the road, knowing that to fall behind the main group meant almost certain death. More than a few of the travelers had coreling wounds, as well, from crowding into hastily put- together circles. It was a wonder any had made it to Deliverer’s Hollow at all. She knew from their tales that many had not.
There were several Herb Gatherers of varying skill among the refugees, and after a quick check of their own state, Leesha put them to work. None of the women complained; it was ever the lot of the Herb Gatherer to put aside her own needs for those of her charges.
“We would never have made it without Messenger Marick,” one woman said as Leesha treated her frostbitten toes. “He rode ahead each day and warded campsites for our group to succor when the corelings came. Wouldn’t have lasted a night without him. He even felled deer with his bow and left them on the road for us to find.”
By the time Rojer reappeared, the worst of the wounds had been treated. She left control of the hospit to Darsy and Vika and went with him to her office.
When the door closed behind them, Leesha slumped against Rojer, finally allowing her exhaustion to show. It was late in the afternoon, and she had been working for hours without a break, treating patients and fielding questions from apprentices and town elders alike. It would be dark in a few short hours.
“You need to rest,” Rojer said, but Leesha shook her head, filling a basin with water and splashing it on her face.
“No time for it now,” she said. “Have we found shelter for everyone?”
“Barely,” Rojer said. “All told, there’s more refugees than the entire population of Deliverer’s Hollow twice over, and I’ve no doubt there will be more tomorrow. Folk have opened their homes, but Tender Jona still has people sleeping sitting up in his pews, just to keep a roof over them. If this keeps up, every inch of the greatward will be covered in makeshift tents by week’s end.”
Leesha nodded. “We’ll worry over that come morning. Arlen is waiting at Smitt’s?”
“The Painted Man is there,” Rojer said. “Don’t call him Arlen in front of those people.”
“It’s his name, Rojer,” Leesha said.
“I don’t care,” Rojer snapped, surprising her with his vehemence. “These people need something bigger than themselves to believe in, and right now it’s him. No one is asking you to call him Deliverer.”
Leesha blinked, taken aback. “I’ve gotten used to everyone leaping when I say hop.”
“Well you can trust me never to do that,” Rojer said.
Leesha smiled. “I want it no other way. Come. Let’s go see the Painted Man.”
The taproom of Smitt’s Tavern was filled to capacity when Rojer and Leesha arrived, even though the new inn was twice the size it had been when it burned down the year previous.
Smitt nodded to them as they entered, and jerked his head toward the back room. They hurried through the crowd and ducked through the heavy door.
The Painted Man was in the room, pacing like an animal.
“I should be out hunting for more survivors before nightfall, not waiting on council meetings,” he said.
“we’ll be as swift as we can,” Leesha said, “but it’s best we do this together.”
