Lenesa made it to the ferryman's bridge in time to see Bramthaus scoop his son up in his arms, surrounded by the crowd that had gathered at the end of the street despite the rain.
"He spat up water a bit earlier," an older woman was saying, raising a knobby finger from beneath the cloak she held over her head. "He may be breathing again, but he hasn't regained consciousness."
"Let us help you carry him back to your home," a rain-soaked man suggested, holding out his arms in offering. Bramthaus drew back.
"Thank you, but I must—"
"The poor boy looks cold as a fish. It's best you get him out of this weather and by a fire as soon as possible," a motherly figure interjected.
Bramthaus tried again. "Exactly what I'm trying—"
"A proper swallow of whisky will set him right again," what looked to be the husband of the first woman interrupted, while she nodded sagely beside him. "Never was nothing that whisky couldn't fix." He held a wrinkled hand above his head, blinking up against the rain.
Lenesa turned away from the conversation with the intent of sneaking into the Ferryman's Rest ahead of Bramthaus. Before she turned completely, however, her eye caught the hulking figure standing beneath the eaves of the building closest to the crowd on the bridge, glowering at the spectacle through the rain with crossed arms.
The sight of the man locked Lenesa's muscles and bound her to the spot, injecting her veins with a fear that roiled within her stomach and left a sharp sour taste on her tongue.
It's a set up!
To the people of Patachal City, Death was a solemn man with a gaunt face shadowed by stormclouds and long fingers that snagged souls from their bodies. But to Lenesa, Death could not be embodied by anyone other than Sarav Decliteur. The witch hunter had an overpowering presence that sucked out the light from around him and cloaked his scarred frame in icy shadows. There was no mistaking the broad shoulders, as rigid as carved stone, nor the thick beard that added to the darkness already lining the furrows of the man's face. Death was not a wispy wraith; rather, he came in the form of a cunning, brutal man who smelled of human blood and fed on pain.
Lenesa rued her hastiness to follow after Bramthaus. She had foolishly been swayed by the pleas of a desperate man only to be led to her death. Now, she would be ambushed and imprisoned for torture. Memories flickered through her mind's eye, bringing with them a sense of helplessness and grief.
The longer she stood there, however, the more it seemed to her as though the witch hunter had not noticed her yet. Rather, it looked as though he had merely come to observe the spectacle at the bridge.
Lenesa quickly surveyed the streets, but there were no other witch hunters around that she could see. Was it possible that this was only a coincidence? That the man known for his careful planning and calculations had only stumbled onto the scene by chance? And surely if Bramthaus was acting in league with Decliteur, he would have quit the charade by now.
She wasn't about to risk her luck. The longer she stood there, the greater possibility there was of the head witch hunter noticing her. It took a great effort to finally force her limbs to move, but at last, Lenesa pushed through the door at her left and into the bright, humming atmosphere of the Ferryman's Rest.
"Welcome, welcome!" a booming voice proclaimed as Lenesa shook the droplets from her cloak, careful to keep the hood shielding her face in shadow. "How can I help you? Some ale, perhaps?"
Lenesa turned to find the innkeeper beaming up at her, the short man's voice and convivial personality the largest things about him.
Recognition sparked in his eyes. "Why, you're the one who—" he broke off, then leaned in to continue in a whisper, "helped my wife with her cold and brought back our goats!"
"Yes, but I require your discretion, please," Lenesa urged, still feeling a chill from her close encounter just outside. "I need to borrow one of your rooms upstairs for only a few hours. A man named Bramthaus will be coming in soon with his son—send them up to me. No one else must know I'm here."
The innkeeper nodded. "I heard about the accident at the bridge. It's truly a shame you can't go public with your doctoring skills, miss. I'd dare say you're even better than Doctor Gheris! Not to worry, I'll send them right up, and no charge for the room this time. Room eight should be available." He fished around on his belt for a moment before finding the right key and holding it out to her. "Second door to the right of the far staircase."
"You're most kind," Lenesa said, slipping the key from his grasp. The other patrons of the inn, most likely travelers and traders from the nearest city of Miche-en-Mir, mercifully seemed too immersed in their own conversations and drinks to notice her as she passed them by to the stairs.
The second floor was much quieter than the inn's tavern below. Lenesa found room eight and slipped the key into the lock, painfully aware of the metallic click that echoed down the hall as the door unlocked.
The room was plain and simple, with whitewashed walls and a bed with a straw mattress that looked as though it had seen better days. Lenesa crossed to the fireplace at the far wall and struck a match to light the grate, wishing Shwei was by her side. She had left the wisp beneath a large oak tree several paces from the faerie ring at the foot of Nagamora. He hadn't taken too kindly to being left in the rain, and she couldn't blame him. But Kivirra had been right—she'd needed to return to the city. A blue light at her side would only make things more dangerous, especially with Decliteur roaming the streets.
Bramthaus's hasty footsteps were the only warning Lenesa had before he stumbled through the door, not bothering to knock. She followed him over to the bed, where he laid his son on top of the patched blankets and brushed a wet lock from the child's forehead.
"Can you save him?" Bramthaus asked, looking on anxiously as she pressed a hand to the boy's chest. His heartbeat was slow and his breaths were coming out in crackling wheezes. It would be difficult with the fluid still in his lungs, but not impossible since there was still life in him. Lenesa's scar burned at the memory of the last time she had tried to take death from its quarry. She wouldn't—couldn't go to such lengths this time.
"Stand outside the room and guard the door," Lenesa told Bramthaus. "We can't have anyone interrupting us."
Bramthaus's worried frown only deepened. "But—what will you do? How do you know it'll work?"
"I must try something, but I can make no guarantees," Lenesa said, rummaging through her basket for the items she would need.
"Are those herbs?" Lenesa froze at the hesitation in his voice, bordering on accusation. "Doctor Gheris doesn't use herbs, I know that. You don't use witchcraft, do you?"
Lenesa faked a put-upon sigh and pulled a strand of hair from beneath her hood. "My hair is brown, as you can see. Not the silvery-blue sheen of those affected by magi—witchcraft."
Bramthaus thought for a moment, then opened his mouth to protest again. Lenesa cut him off before he could speak the words.
"My methods are strictly scientific, I assure you," she continued, adding a steely edge to her tone. "These plants contain specific chemical properties that react positively with the humors to counteract any ailments and their effects. Doctor Gheris may be more the type to rely on pills and blood-letting, but his results are not as effective as mine, which begs the question of which of the two of us truly knows what we are doing. Now, your son is growing weaker by the second—please, go keep watch at the door."
At the mention of his son, worry immediately replaced the suspicion in Bramthaus's eyes, and he strode to the door without another word. With a last glance at the prone form of his son, Bramthaus left the room and shut the door with a soft click behind him.
Lenesa sighed and turned back to the boy, removing her gloves and doing her best to ignore the black spirals that had yet to disappear from her skin. There was nothing to be done about that for the moment. She had to focus on saving the boy.
His skin was clammy and cold as she pressed a hand to his forehead, and Lenesa let out a shaky breath. She would need to be careful in what she did next, both for the sake of the boy's health and for her own safety. Small charms surreptitiously slipped from her fingers would not work for this. She would need a spell, and for that, she would have to trust that Bramthaus would not return to the room until she invited him back in. Otherwise, there would be no way of denying what she was.
The words of the spell could have been mistaken for a lullaby as Lenesa began to summon the magic needed to heal the boy. Her voice lilted through the air as loudly as she dared without Bramthaus or anyone else hearing. Gently, Lenesa set her hands on either side of the boy's face and picked up the pace of her words, calling the fluid out of his lungs. She could feel the pull from deep within the boy as his body responded, droplets forming at his lips and rolling down the sides of his face.
Lenesa shut her eyes only when she saw some of the droplets start their way up her arms instead, searching for a new host. It wasn't much longer now—they wouldn't reach her in time, she assured herself against her rising panic. Again, her scar throbbed in a painful reminder of her past mistakes.
It won't happen again. I won't let it.
Still, Lenesa could feel the liquid as it trickled up her arms beneath her sleeves, and the boy continued to wheeze with every breath. She felt through the spell's magic as more water was pulled from his lungs, streaming out onto the bed or up her arms, attracted to the sound of her voice and the melodic tune of the spell.
Something wet tickled at her shoulders, slowly edging along her collarbone and up her neck. Lenesa scrunched her eyes tighter and continued her chant, words fading to a whisper as the last of the fluid was drained and the boy's lungs healed. With a shuddering breath, he arched against the bed, and Lenesa closed the spell just as a drop reached her jawbone.
Immediately, she lurched backwards and clapped a hand to her mouth, wiping away any drops of water lest they claim her as their next victim. Then she gave a start when she noticed her hands, so gloved in the black threads of her tired magic that it looked as though she had dipped them in pitch.
It was only getting worse!
She hurried to the window to check her reflection in the glass. The charm on her hair still held for the most part, but threads of slivery-blue were beginning to show. Lenesa shoved the offending strands further under her hood and turned back to Bramthaus's son...then froze.
All that effort, for what? A thought whispered through her mind. The boy wouldn't have lived without you. It's unnatural. He should have died. You should have killed him. It's not too late...
No!
Horrified at her thoughts, Lenesa scrambled for her basket to distract herself, unable to control her shaking hands. What had she been thinking? With thoughts like those, she wasn't sure if she could trust herself. Perhaps it was just the fatigue of the past few weeks making her...irritable.
Yes. That had to be it.
She forced her attention to the materials before her. The ginger was always a safe go-to remedy, and she unwrapped her paring knife to slice a few slivers from the root and drop them in the ceramic mortar she had brought. A clove of garlic, sage leaves, a sprig of rosemary, and pinch of turmeric were added to the mix, and Lenesa used the pestle to grind them up to a paste. Only then did she feel recovered enough to face the man standing out in the hall.
"Hot water," she told Bramthaus, opening the door only a sliver. "Be quick." Could he hear the tremor in her voice?
The man hurried downstairs to do as she bid, and was back soon after, this time giving a hesitant knock at the door before entering with a sloshing kettle directly from the inn's kitchen.
Lenesa tugged up her gloves self-consciously as Bramthaus entered. He poured the steaming water into a bowl as she directed, and watched as she stirred the lumpy mixture into the water.
"It won't taste good," she said, "but it'll help him recover faster."
Already, the boy's color had returned, and his breathing was deeper and steadier.
"Make sure he drinks the entire thing," Lenesa instructed.
"Wait—where are you going?" Bramthaus objected. "You aren't leaving, surely."
Lenesa nodded at the boy. "As long as he is kept warm and rested, he should make a full recovery," she said. "I've done the work that was needed. The drink is just an extra precaution."
She set the room key on the nightstand. "And make sure to return this once you're finished."
"Thank you," Bramthaus called as she paused at the door. "Truly, I am forever in your debt."
Lenesa felt a sardonic smile creep on her face, wondering if he would be so grateful if he knew the truth. "It's what I'm here for," she said finally. "Good evening."
The trip downstairs and out of the inn passed without incident, much to Lenesa's relief. She snuck past the tables of hungry patrons in the common area with only a few curious glances and one friendly wink from the innkeeper before she stepped back outside. The rain had let up to just a light mist, and the crowd at the bridge had dissolved. Only a few people now braved the slick cobblestones, and a torchbearer was making his way down the street to light the wall sconces and fend off the approaching evening. Lenesa turned in the direction of the city gate and then paused, wondering if she should stay a bit longer to search for Gil.
Heavy booted footsteps made the decision for her.
"Hey, you," a voice said, the tone as heavy and dangerous as an axe cutting into a tree. A quick glance to the side confirmed her fears.
Decliteur!
Did he recognize her? Her heart pounded with a fearful ferocity.
Stiffly, Lenesa shifted so that she half-faced the witch hunter. His eyes were dark and cold as they bored into her, as if trying to see through her hooded cape to what she was hiding beneath. A few more steps, and he would be within arm's reach, inescapable. Dare she stay and risk pretending to be an ordinary citizen?
Then she saw it—a crystal, gleaming white from a leather strap on his belt.
She ran.