Page 13 of The Wand of Lore

“That’ll be enough from you, Collin.”

“I speak the truth, and you know it. Even now, the young and the widowed don’t have enough to eat, and the king will send his men here soon for another round, just to fill their fat bellies while our children go hungry. I’m not afraid of the truth. We all know it and feel it.”

Vaylor glowered at him, ignoring the warmth spreading across his body.

“Well, you should be,” replied the innkeeper. “If you’re fond of your head, that is.”

“Two rooms, if it pleases you,” interrupted Vaylor.

“Of course, it’ll just be—” The innkeeper was interrupted by a woman who appeared suddenly on the doorstep. Blood dripped down both legs, visible under a dress torn at her knees, and she clutched her swollen belly.

“Mom!” cried the pregnant woman, bracing herself against the doorframe with her free hand.

Vaylor stared at the woman as the blood coalesced into miniature rivers running from her groin. His stomach lurched at the sight, and he looked away.

“Please! Please can someone fetch the midwi—” The woman gave a deep, loud groan, sounding more beast than human. She clutched the column of the house as she folded forward, belly hanging straight down. Gwenneth ran to her and put an arm around her shoulder.

Another gush of blood slithered down her leg. Vaylor swayed at the sight, dizziness overtaking him.

“No, Cici! It’s far too early,” shouted the innkeeper. “The midwife won’t be in the village for another month at least!” The plump woman rushed out from behind her desk and held her daughter’s arms tightly.

“Marvin,” commanded Gwenneth, her purple eyes looking serene and calm in a sea of chaos. As she whipped her head from the woman to Vaylor, her long red braid swung with her. Gone were any traces of her dimple, and she spoke with authority. “Fetch me my pack, and go find some milkweed and thistle. Ask for assistance if you need it.” She pointed to the man sitting at the table, “You go fetch this woman’s husband if she has one and bring him here. And you,” she said, turning to the innkeeper. “Take us somewhere private with a bed, and we’ll need boiled water as well.”

“Oh gods, can you help her?”

“Today we should all pray to the goddesses and let the gods rest. They alone will determine the outcome, but perhaps I can be their vessel.”

“No!” said Vaylor, and everyone turned to him. “You mustn’t.”

In Loews Hollow, she had grown up as a witch. People were used to her, even as they were suspicious, but not every village had a witch, and those who had never met a witch beforemight carry deeper superstitions and fears. Best they not walk around all of Innsbrook advertising her unique connection with the Devil in villages that might never have seen a witch. Need he remind her that even in Loews Hollow, where she was known and presumably loved, the people were very nearly ready to turn on her? He could have fomented a mob attack with only a few more days.

The pregnant woman let out another groan, and Gwenneth shot him a brief glare before wrapping an arm around her shoulder. She held her silently until the groans subsided, then said, “You’re going to be all right. Don’t listen to that foolish man. Come on, let’s go have this baby.”

“Cici is my daughter, and she lives next door. She will have a kettle and clean linen there.” The innkeeper spoke in a tight, high voice, as if choking back sobs. She placed a hand on Gwenneth’s arm and looked at her with gleaming eyes, like a needy puppy. “Please save my daughter and grandchild.”

Vaylor rolled his eyes. This whole affair was a little much, and he sincerely hoped that Gwenneth would change her mind, heed his advice, and mind her own business, or at least that this would be a fast and simple detour en route to the castle. He kept these thoughts to himself as he grabbed Gwenneth’s pack, then stepped aside as the innkeeper and Gwenneth bustled about the bloody woman, helping her out the door. The treasonous man who had been sitting in the inn looked pale, even in the dim light of the evening, and the two of them stared at each other in silence before the man abruptly stood, pushed his chair back, and walked rapidly out the door.

“Get the husband,” he muttered under his breath, then was gone.

Vaylor was alone in the inn and surprised to find his hands were shaking. He was not accustomed to seeing so much blood pouring out of a woman. The deaths he administeredas part of his duties were clean, impersonal affairs: smooth slices through buttery necks, discreet puncture wounds through covered chests. No red blood gushing down legs, mixed with something white and viscous, the mother moaning as if something was being wrenched from her body. Bleh, his stomach lurched at the thought. Childbirth was repugnant. It was unthinkable that his own entry to the world could have been so undignified. (But of course, he had killed his own mother through childbirth just as smoothly as he separated heads from torsos. Perhaps she, too, had appeared out of nowhere in a doorway, pleading for help while howling in pain. Perhaps she, too, had had rivulets of blood flowing down her legs as she gasped for relief. All he knew was that he was born a killer.)

“Please gods, let the woman and the baby live,” he whispered. “Goddesses,” he corrected, then went outside before anyone saw him.

Thistle and milkweed. Blast, what did he know about thistle and milkweed? He wandered around the village, staring momentarily at different plants. There was a dandelion, that much he could identify, with its wispy seeds blowing in the breeze. Beyond that, the twining stalks of green with multicolored heads meant little to him. He hadn’t even noticed their existence only moments earlier. Roses, he knew those too. But the white-petaled flowers with open faces dancing in the wind? Looked milky enough to him. He bent down to touch a plant; should he pick it or pull it up? Curse the witch for her opaque instructions! He was clawing at the dirt to dig it out when, to his surprise, he heard a grunt in front of him.

He looked up and immediately regretted it. Towering over him was a man dressed immaculately for a peasant. He wore a clean tunic, bright blue in color, and thick leather boots over his trousers. Vaylor wished to disappear. To be seen digging in the dirt like a commoner? It was unnatural. The man tippedhis hat, and only then did Vaylor notice him clenching his fists at his sides, worry etched deep into his forehead.

“My wife!” he said before Vaylor could explain himself. “Have you seen her, stranger? She was here. They say she may not make it, and I just couldn’t bear it. And my poor son!”

Vaylor looked away to give him privacy as he emitted heaving sobs. When he didn’t stop, Vaylor rose to his feet and dusted his hands. “She doesn’t look great.”

The man let out a wail and put his head in his hands. “I knew it!”

Vaylor cursed his poor choice of words. “She’s in great hands, though. We are travelers passing through, and my companion is attending her. I assure you she is quite skilled.”

The man nodded but didn’t stop crying. Vaylor rolled his eyes and sighed. Gods, it was annoying listening to him blather, and him a man at that.

“I hope they hurry,” Vaylor added, hoping that would pass as empathetic.

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