The young officer swallowed, coughing. “Now don’t hack it back up again, it’s rather dear stuff,” Hamish said. “Haven’t much time now before it kicks in—your name?”
“Elias Hardinghold,” the young man murmured. I started—he was of the same family as Pauline, from Viola’s salon. He wasn’t just a Royalist officer; he was a son, a brother, or a cousin to someone I knew. A hollow ache opened in my chest, an awareness of someone else’s pain I could hold at bay when the man was a stranger to me.
“And have you any affairs you’ll need settled?”
My charm magic snuffed out, retracting as I recoiled. I had thought Hamish only waiting to treat the man, taking care of his pain before addressing the wound. No, he was a dead man, lying on the table in front of me.
“I’m yet a minor. Lately fostered by my aunt. Lady Rynne Hardinghold. Please inform her. Don’t tell her—don’t tell her…” His fingers trembled toward the gaping wound, and Hamish laid his hand on them.
“Of course I won’t mention the unsavory details,” Hamish replied. “You were wounded fighting in admirable fashion and died with little pain, how’s that for a story? Ah, feeling tired now, then.”
Hamish strode back toward the chest nearest me, digging for more bandages. “Why…?” I asked.
“Gut shot. Could smell the shit already—nothing to be done. That size dose of tincture of nightbloom spares him several hours of agony.” He glanced at my drawn face. “Common enough practice, to let them die dreaming instead of howling.”
I watched the young man’s eyelids flutter, dipping into a placid sleep. I wove a thick blanket of pure gold and laid it gently over him.
19
MORNING BROKE ON A CELEBRATORY MOOD AROUND THE CAMP. An incursion of Royalist troops had been rebuffed from Hazelwhite, leaving the town Reformist territory. Sianh returned to the farmhouse kitchen after reviewing the morning inspection. “Casualties?” Theodor asked immediately, pouncing on him as he walked through the door.
“Very limited. Forty wounded, mostly minor. All but a couple will be back on service before the week is out.”
“Then why do you look so grim?”
Sianh’s jaw was set in a firm line. “It was a foray. As Sophie has suggested to me, probably testing our strength after the casting. They would have taken the town had we yielded easily, but they did not press us. Those men on parade, all puffed up like parrots?” He shook his head. “I am afraid they think that is all there is to this war. That it was easy.”
“So now the Royalists, and we, know how long the casting lasts. Not very,” Alba said, appearing with an earthenware cup of musty tea.
“And Sophie is right,” Sianh said, “that they would require some kind of antidote if they were to try to occupy the same space while the casting was active.”
“As far as we know, none exists.” I had taken an inventory of which soldiers wore my charms and which hadn’t during the attack. Though my charms had alleviated the worst symptoms and those wearing them recovered quickest, no one felt battle-ready during the casting itself. “That evens our odds significantly. As far as I know, they can’t pinpoint their casting the way I can.”
Alba finished her tea with a flourish. “Well! If that’s the Serafans’ great secret weapon, and it barely dented us, I think we’re in fine shape. No need to grouse.” She nudged Sianh with her foot. He glared back at her. “I could make you some coffee if you like, would that wipe that sour look off your face?”
Sianh had discovered a penchant for Galatine-roasted coffee. “I suppose,” he conceded. “They will still use their casting, make no mistake. The Serafan military does not waste its resources, and casting remains a resource. They will recalculate.”
Alba snorted. “You tried to make coffee with only a third of the water you needed yesterday morning. Don’t tell me about impeccable Serafan calculations.” She pulled the crane over the hearth toward her and hung a kettle of water. “Does anyone want tea? Or am I only making coffee for the Serafan bear?”
“Where did you find tea?” Theodor asked Alba. “I thought we were out.”
“It’s foxwort. Mint family. In the hedgerow outside. It’s not very good,” she added, sipping. “But it does help settle the stomach, which, after that Serafan stunt, was helpful.”
I sniffed the foxwort tea—it smelled like mint left in a trunk of moldering linens for a very long time. “Coffee,” I said. “If we’re out of tea, how long will we even have coffee?” I wondered as she handed me a cup, chipped at the side but filled with richly scented brew.
“We didn’t have much tea to begin with,” Alba replied. “Coffee, flour, salt pork and fish, dried peas and beans—we have an abundance of those. Not much sugar.”
“You made quick work of memorizing the quartermaster’s inventory.” I smiled as she flushed—first she had herded supplies into Hazelwhite, and now she was shepherding them.
“What good am I here otherwise?” Alba replied. “I can’t fight, I don’t know tactics well enough to be of any use in planning, the good soldiers have no reason to trust a Kvys nun so I shan’t hang about the surgery, and I hate laundry. So, I assigned myself to the quartermaster.”
“What she does not say,” Sianh said, “is that she improved his inventorying systems, suggested better storage methods for the fresh produce, had a root cellar dug, and reworked the ration rolls. All of that will prolong our stores by at least four months. I am less concerned about winter than I was.”
Alba flushed. “I am only making myself useful.”
“Sounds like you’ve done a good job of it,” I said, sipping the coffee she’d handed me. It was quite good.
“We’ll need more than foxwort tea and reorganized supplies,” retorted Kristos. “We’re stagnating here. We need to move forward.” I knew what goaded him, perhaps more than anyone else in our cadre of leaders—the thought of siege on Galitha City, of our home under bombardment, the eventuality as uncertain as how much time we had to stop it.
“And so we will,” Sianh said. “You have put out your pamphlet for elections. And we have seen a significant influx of volunteers from it.”
“Elections, then, and boost their morale with a formal government, and then we move north,” Theodor said. “I need to work more with the artillery officers on range calculations.” He grimaced. “Wish them—and me—luck. Arithmetic was never my strong suit.”
Sianh sent Fig to summon the artillery officers while Theodor set out books and charts in the long, sparse parlor that ran along the other side of the hall from the kitchen. I noticed Sianh didn’t complain about Fig, his little mosquito, tagging along with him any longer, though he did box his ears once for leaving a map out in the dew.
“Your impatient brother is right. We’ll be pushing north sooner rather than later,” Alba said. “I’m working to prepare our supplies for that—we’ll need to talk, rather seriously,” she said to Sianh, whose shoulders slumped. “But I wonder if there is any preparation Sophie ought to undertake.” I knew she was thinking of the Royalist ship and my curse casting, and what effect it might have in battle. I stiffened as she hesitated. “But how, precisely?”