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DRAGONS AND MAGIC ARE much alike. If they do exist, the powerful will take them and use them against the weak.
—Argus Kind, usurper king
* * *
“GOOD MORNING,” GWEN said as Benjin approached her in the vegetable garden.
“Feeling better?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m sorry about last night. It was just . . . the sight of blood reminded me of something unpleasant.” She looked up at the sky as she stood with a basket full of ripe beans. “It’s a beautiful day. I thought we might do some gathering. I’ve a number of herbs to collect for Sister Brunhilda.”
“Sure,” he replied.
“I left your breakfast on the table.”
“You’re too kind, Gwen. Let me do some of the chores for you, and then I’ll come in and eat. I feel like such a freeloader.”
“All right, then. I’ve already milked Tinkles. If you could feed the chickens, that would be helpful.”
“Sure enough, miss.”
When he’d finished, he came inside, where Gwen had already begun shelling beans.
He sat down and devoured the bread and cheese she’d left for him. Touching the spot where the comfrey and honey paste had dried and crumbled away from his skin, he said, “It feels better today.”
Gwen smiled broadly. “Good. You’ll need both eyes to help me spot some of these plants.” She took Sister Brunhilda’s and Brother Bastian’s lists out of her pocket and handed them to him. “Are you familiar with any of them?”
Benjin’s gaze traveled down the list and he nodded. “Mm-hmm. And I know where to find some of them; I saw some on my way here. We’ll have to walk pretty far, though.”
“As long as we’re back by nightfall.”
“Plenty of time, then,” he said.
After he’d eaten, they set off toward a nearby valley, where Benjin said he’d found a small patch of woods and marshland. While walking at a steady pace meant to make ground, they talked leisurely, and Gwen learned Benjin had left his home to go on an adventure with a friend named Wendel. Now he regretted the decision. It had brought him nothing but pain and suffering, he admitted, but he didn’t divulge the specifics of how and why. Gwen didn’t press him for more information. She already knew what he’d say even though he hadn’t mentioned the fight with Wendel or the girl in the vision.
Benjin’s ability to remember the landscape around him, down to the tiniest details of the plants and amounts of water and sun available for them impressed her. She steered the conversation away from anything to do with the girl or Wendel and focused instead on leveraging Benjin’s knowledge to find the items on her lists.
“I think the most difficult to find will be the trees.”
“Aren’t there any fig trees in Ohmahold?” he asked.
“If there are, they must not be the kind Brother Bastian needs. He’s growing the most unusual trees, ones that bear more than one kind of fruit.”
“I didn’t know that was possible,” he said, shaking his head as if sloughing off disbelief.
“Oh, yes. I’ve seen it myself. He’s managed to grow a tree with both apples and pears on it.”
“Is the fruit sweet?”
“The apples taste like apples, and the pears taste like pears. It’s really quite amazing.”
“Truly,” he said.
“Perhaps you’d like to come and see for yourself?”
Benjin laughed. “Nah. I’m headed for the Godfist. It’s time for me to go home. I’m tired of traveling and ready to settle down.”
“Have you considered staying in the Greatland?”
Benjin stopped walking and surveyed the landscape around him, as if gaining his bearings. “Yeah. I considered it. That didn’t work out.” He pointed west. “This way,” he said and fell silent.
Gwen wanted to kick herself for reminding him of the girl again, but part of her also wanted to leap for joy. He had at least considered the possibility of staying. Maybe she could make him want to remain . . . with her.
The day’s trek netted about half of the plants, roots, and seeds Sister Brunhilda had requested. It also netted more ease in their conversations, as Gwen avoided pushing Benjin about his past and his future.
The next day went much the same, as did the day after that and the one after that. Days turned into a week, and Gwen became accustomed to spending her waking hours with Benjin doing the thing she loved most. While he helped her locate and collect specimens, she helped him by writing down information about the plants foreign to him, including preparation methods and antidote instructions. They discussed the medicinal and cooking uses for common plants. Although Gwen felt she knew more about plants than did Benjin, she still learned things she hadn’t known. When she told him she appreciated his sharing his knowledge so freely, he accepted her thanks with grace, and she could tell it gave him confidence, which filled Gwen’s heart with a joy she’d not known before meeting him. For the first time in her life, Gwen knew the true meaning of fulfillment.
Then one morning while they ate breakfast and planned their day’s trek, the Zjhon arrived.
Benjin had been the first to hear horses’ hooves approaching, and when he peered out of the window, he announced, “If they take me, I’m dead.”
“Then they aren’t taking you. Quick,” she said, retrieving her extra robe. “Put this on and cover your head.”
Gwen grabbed a kitchen knife and slid it inside of her sleeve. While Benjin put on the robe, she met the Zjhon before they reached the vegetable garden.
“Greetings,” she said to them with a nod, her arms crossed and hands hidden inside each sleeve in the monkish pose she’d seen so often.
“Sister,” the man responded gruffly as he looked at the property around him, clearly appraising it.
“You’re welcome to water your horses,” she said.
“Thanks.” He motioned to the others in the patrol, who dismounted and walked their horses over to Tinkles’s trough.
“What brings you to our humble outpost?” she asked.
“We’re looking for someone.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“A fella with a funny accent.”
Gwen chuckled but her stomach knotted painfully, and she doubted she could pull off hiding her fear for long. She responded loudly enough that Benjin would hear if he were listening, which she was certain he was doing from inside the cabin. “I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place, then. I’m not a fella, and Brother Bastian is mute. The others are in Drascha Stone, but I can’t say any of them have accents much different from my own.”
“Where’s this brother of yours?” He dismounted and motioned to a younger soldier standing nearby, who was waiting his horse’s turn at the trough. The young man walked over and took the reins of the horse.
“Inside.”
The man took a step in the direction of the cabin.
Gwen stepped in front of him and frowned. “Meditating. You do realize this is a monastic outpost, don’t you? Sacred ground.”
The man snorted. “Uh. Yeah. Whatever you say, heathen.” He pushed past her, and she followed him into the cabin.
On a straw mat, Benjin knelt with his palms and forehead pressed to the wooden slats of the floor.
“You. Get up,” the man yelled, shoving him with the heel of his boot.
Gwen held her breath.
Slowly Benjin rose and stood in front of the man, head down and arms folded in front of him.
“What’s your name?”
Benjin looked up at Gwen and brought his hands up in front of him and began twisting and turning his fingers in awkward motions.
“I told you. His name is Brother Bastian,” Gwen said.
Once again, Benjin moved his fingers.
The soldier frowned at Gwen. “What’s he saying?”
Gwen wanted so very much to say, “That you’re an idiot.” She refrained. “He said you look parched and asked if you would like a cup of tea.”
Benjin’s eyes widened then went back to normal when the man looked from Gwen to him.
“Sure,” the man said. “Why not?”
The soldier sat in a chair from which he could keep an eye on Benjin.
Gwen watched as he took down a crock from the cupboard and plucked off leaves from the plant inside it, dropping them onto a square of cheesecloth, which he tied in a knot and placed in the mug.
“So . . . any fellas you don’t know pass through here?” the man asked.
Benjin put the crock back into the cupboard and poured hot water from the kettle into the soldier’s mug.
“You’re the first person we’ve seen in weeks,” she answered.
When Benjin set the mug in front of the soldier, Gwen caught a whiff of its contents. Panic set in. What was he thinking? When the senna took effect, the soldier would surely know the tea had made him ill. She turned her head so only Benjin could see her eyes, and she gave him a brief glare. He didn’t react, but she could see the mischief in his eyes. He resumed his meditation pose on the mat.
“You don’t look well, sir. Are you overheated?” she asked the soldier.
The man picked up the mug and took a sip of the tea. “Naw. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with me.”
She’d planted the seed of doubt. Maybe he wouldn’t make a connection between the symptoms and the tea. At least, she hoped he wouldn’t.
A voice called out from outdoors. “Sergeant Blackwood. Horses watered and ready to ride, sir.”
The soldier downed the remainder of the tea and set the mug on the table, its weight thudding on the worn wood.
“If that fella shows up, you be sure to hold him ’til we get back this way. Two, maybe three weeks at most.”
“Does he have a name?” asked Gwen.
“We don’t know his name, just that he speaks with a funny accent. He’s not from the Greatland.”
Gwen nodded. The soldier tipped his hat then walked over to Benjin and kicked him in the side, toppling him. Benjin doubled over and rocked but didn’t make any sounds.
“Why did you do that?” she yelled at the man.
“Just makin’ sure, Sister.” He smirked and exited the cabin. Gwen slammed the door behind him and tossed the knife she’d hidden in her sleeve onto the table.
She heard the chickens squawking and the sound of hooves beating on the hardened dirt.
Benjin motioned for her to look out the door, and only after she’d gone outside and come back in did he speak. “Sorry son of a . . .” He held his side as he stood slowly by degrees with her help. Through gritted teeth, he spoke. “Have you got some cloth to wrap me in? I think he broke a rib.”
As gently as she could, she helped him take off his robe and shirt. As she wound the ripped strips of bedsheet tautly around his chest, Gwen struggled not to stare at Benjin’s muscled torso, back, and arms. “I didn’t stop to count, but I think they took at least two hens. He’ll regret eating once the senna sets in and he can’t control his bowels.”
“Zjhon scum. He deserves it,” he grumbled.
“Why are they looking for you?”
“Wendel and Elsa. They insisted on taking something from the cathedral in Adderhold. I told them not to, that it was too risky, but they wouldn’t listen. The way Wendel and I talk . . . no way to hide that. I knew the Zjhon would put it together eventually. I don’t even know if those two made it any farther. Maybe the Zjhon snagged them after we split up. It’d serve them right.”
The last sentence sounded unconvincing to Gwen. “Wendel is your friend from the Godfist?”
Benjin shrugged. “I wouldn’t call him a friend. But yeah. He’s the reason I came here in the first place.”
“And Elsa? Who’s she?”
Benjin’s body stiffened.
“Is she the girl you and Wendel fought over?”
His eyes widened. “How do you know about that?”
It was too late to take back the words. “Why else would you and your friend have fought? Isn’t it always over a girl?”
“She’s not just a girl,” he said, defensiveness making his voice as stiff as his posture.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.” She knelt in front of Benjin and held both ends of the strip of cloth. “Take a deep breath. This is going to hurt.”
From the wincing he did when he drew in air slowly, Gwen knew it hurt more than he was letting on. “Deeper.”
Benjin groaned but expanded his chest with more air, and Gwen pulled the ends as hard as she could and then tied them in a knot. She wasn’t wholly sorry it hurt him. “There. That should hold the rib in place. No more lifting or bending over for a while. It could just be a deep bruise; I didn’t hear a crack when he kicked you. But you shouldn’t take any chances. Give it time to heal.”
“How long?”
“At least a week.”
For the next two days, Benjin grumbled and groaned and brooded. Gwen did her best to make the straw bed in the barn more comfortable for him, but he came inside the cabin every morning looking like he hadn’t slept at all.
On the third day after his injury, Benjin ripped off the bandage. Gwen scolded him for it, but after conceding she couldn’t change his mind, she made a compress to soothe the bruises darkening his entire side. It stank like carrion, and she took some delight in seeing him periodically gag when a gush of wind would blow the stench up his nose.
On the fourth day, she returned to gathering Sister Brunhilda’s specimens. Benjin fashioned a walking stick out of a dead tree limb and insisted on accompanying her. He walked well with the stick balancing him, and Gwen surmised his injury had not been a broken rib. Still, his rib cage remained tender and his movements slow. At noon, they stopped near the edge of a stand of trees and nibbled on blueberries, bread, and cheese.
Benjin stared into the distance, and when Gwen couldn’t take his moody silence any longer, she blurted out her thoughts.
“Do you believe in destiny?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Why do you ask?”
“Mother Seema, the leader of the Cathuran order, told me I would meet my destiny in the Southland.”
“And have you?”
“I think so,” she replied. Stopping to reconsider her words, she wanted to be more honest. “No. I’m sure I have.”
“I thought I knew what my destiny was when I met Elsa Mangst, but that didn’t turn out to be the case, now did it? How can you or anyone else, for that matter, know for sure?”
Gwen set her jaw at the mention of the girl’s name. “Elsa wasn’t your destiny, Benjin. She was Wendel’s destiny.”
“How do you know that beyond all doubt? How can we ever know our futures, if there is such a thing?” His voice carried agitation.
“I feel it in my heart and in my spirit.” She stopped short of telling him she’d fallen in love with him and wanted to spend her days making him happy and chasing after a brood of little Benjins.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I love Elsa. I will always love Elsa. Does that make her my destiny? Maybe in some twisted way, I suppose.”
Gwen’s heart ached to hear him say he loved someone else: her. “You’re a fool, Benjin Hawk.” She stood, annoyed with him. “And maybe you’re looking in the wrong place for your destiny.”
Before she took a step, she saw it not more than a foot from where they’d been sitting—mother’s root, a plant so rare she hadn’t seen any since Brother Jacques showed it to her in the garden of the Varic monastery. She reached into the basket to retrieve her gloves and caught movement out of the corner of her eye as Benjin stretched out his hand toward the plant.
“No!” she yelled, slapping his hand away. “It’s dangerous. Even the slightest contact can kill.”
“Surely not. I can smell how sweet it is from here,” he said, rubbing the back of his swatted hand.
“Yes, well, that’s the danger of mother’s root. Its sweetness, both in scent and taste, masks any hint of its lethal nature when too much is taken.” Gwen put on the gloves and opened a pouch in readiness for the plant. “It must be isolated. The essence is easily transferred.” After digging up the plant, which she intended to cultivate and was certain would impress Sister Brunhilda, she placed it in the pouch and put that pouch inside another one before she removed the gloves, remembering to turn them inside out so any traces of the plant’s oils remaining on them wouldn’t come into accidental contact with anything else.
“Tell me about it. You called it mother’s root. What an odd name for something that could be lethal.”
“Maybe later,” she snapped at him. I need to collect the last of the herbs for Sister Brunhilda.” Her annoyance with him unhidden, Benjin gave her wide berth for the remainder of the gathering excursion, which suited her just fine.
By the time they returned to the cabin, Gwen had worked herself into a frenzy of thoughts. How could he not see that she was his destiny, a woman who would love him, care for him, share everything with him? Why would he love so foolishly a woman who loved another?
Inside, they discovered Brother Vaughn, Brother Mason, and the other monks.
“Sister Gwendolin!” Brother Vaughn said. “I was concerned you’d run afoul of the Zjhon. We saw them on the road a few days ago and managed to hide in a culvert until they’d passed. Brother Mason thought he recognized the two dead chickens hanging from one of the soldier’s saddle horns. I feared the worst when we arrived and discovered some of the chickens missing but had a measure of hope when I saw fresh water in the cow’s trough and a cooking fire still burning. Thank the heavens you weren’t harmed.”
“Benjin didn’t fare quite as well.” She turned and motioned to her companion, who held the walking stick.
“Benjin Hawk,” he said, extending a hand to the monk, who shook it with obvious reluctance. “It was a good thing Gwen—Sister Gwendolin—was here. She patched me up, and I’ll be just dandy with a little more time to heal.”
Brother Vaughn frowned at Benjin and cast a disapproving glance at Gwen.
“We were out gathering herbs for Sister Brunhilda. Benjin has an interest in plants too.”
The monk’s expression didn’t change.
“I still haven’t found the trees Brother Bastian asked me to bring back for him. Benjin said he saw some fruit-bearing trees west of here about two days’ walk.”
“If Benjin,” he said, venom in the tone he used to pronounce the name, “will draw us a map, we can get the saplings on our way to Vasterberg.”
“Sure thing,” said Benjin, his tone as challenging as Brother Vaughn’s.
That evening after they’d eaten a meal in tense silence, Benjin went out to the barn. Gwen followed shortly thereafter. She found him scratching out something he’d written on a parchment.
“I’m sorry Brother Vaughn was so unwelcoming.”
Benjin shrugged. “No matter. He’s just being protective. Can’t fault him for that.”
“No, I suppose not, but that’s no excuse for acting so rudely.”
He shrugged again. “I can take it. I’ll be heading out of here in a day or two anyway, and it sounds like you will be too.”
“That’s what I came to talk with you about, Benjin.” She bit her lip.
“He wants me to leave now?”
Gwen laughed. “Probably, but he didn’t say so, and that’s not what I came to talk with you about.” She sat down on the straw bed next to him and glanced over at the parchment. She saw a semiaccurate drawing of mother’s root and some crude notes about the plant.
“What is it, then?”
“It’s about Vasterberg. I was thinking maybe you could come with me. Brother Vaughn needs to get back to Ohmahold before the snows begin. I can’t see why he should make such a long journey to the Westland and risk not making it back to the monastery if I have someone else who can travel with me.”
Benjin looked at her and spoke with resolve. “Vasterberg is west, and I’m headed east, Gwen. I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said. It’s true Wendel and I fought over Elsa, and it’s true she loves him, not me. I don’t think I’ll ever get over her, but I need to leave her behind . . . here in the Greatland. I need to go home.”
Gwen almost screamed when Brother Vaughn’s voice drifted in through the barn door.
“Shall I send a messenger to your father to let him know when we’ll be arriving?” he asked, his tone a reprimand.
In that second, Gwen looked at Benjin and knew what he’d said was true. He was in love with Elsa, and his love for her would never change. And Gwen was as foolish as he. He would forever love someone who loved another, and so would she. It was their shared destiny.
Gwen took a deep breath. “No. But I’d like to send him a message and let him know I am well and will be returning to Ohmahold to take my final vows.”
Brother Vaughn left, and Benjin turned to Gwen. “What’s going on? You said you wanted to go to Vasterberg.”
“I changed my mind.” She glanced at the parchment. “That drawing’s all wrong, and you have the details all wrong too.” Her words were sharp and uncaring, and she hoped they hurt his feelings.
“I can’t remember what you said about it.” He held out the parchment and the quill to her. “I’d appreciate it if you could help me get it right.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said, taking the parchment and quill. She scratched out what he’d drawn and quickly drew another image, albeit sloppier than her usual drawings. Then she wrote down the plant’s properties, made notes about handling the plant to prevent accidental overdose, and listed the preparation instructions in the same order the monk in Sutherhold had given her. While she wrote, she could feel Benjin’s gaze on the parchment. She cast a sideways glance at him and saw the keen interest in his expression, which stung all the more. If only he’d looked at her that way.
Angry, hurt, and resentful, she shoved the parchment to the side and stood up. “I’m sure we’ll leave by dawn. Safe travels, Benjin Hawk.”
“But—”
Gwen didn’t give him a chance to finish. He could tell it to Elsa Mangst and the stupid parchment.