“Is it full?”
Kahlan hurriedly wiggled out the whittled wooden stopper. “Yes.”
“Half,” Richard said. “In with any of the other oils.”
“I found the feverfew,” Jennsen said as she hopped down from the stool.
“Make a tincture,” Richard told her.
Kahlan replaced the stopper in the bottle and squatted down beside Richard. “What next?”
“Make an infusion of mullein.”
“Mullein, mullein,” Kahlan mumbled as she turned to the task.
As Richard gave them instructions, half a dozen people worked at boiling, blending, crushing, grating, filtering, and steeping. They added some of the preparations together as they were completed, and kept others separate as they worked on them. As they worked, the number of various tasks were combined and reduced at specified points.
Richard gestured for Owen. Owen brushed his hands clean on his trouser legs as he bent down to await instruction.
“Cold,” Richard said, his eyes closed. “We need something cold. We need a way to cool it.”
Owen thought a moment. “There’s a stream not far.”
Richard pointed to various stations where people labored. “Pour those bowls of preparations and powders into the boiling water in the kettle, there. Then take it to the stream. Hold the kettle down in the water to cool it.” Richard held up a finger in caution. “Don’t put it in too deep and let the water from the stream run in over the top, or it will be ruined.”
Owen shook his head. “I won’t.”
He stood impatiently as Kahlan poured the contents of shallow bowls into the boiling pot of water. She didn’t know if any of this made sense, but she knew that Richard had the gift, and he certainly had figured out and eliminated the problem he had been having with it. If his gift could guide him in making the antidote, it might save his life.
Kahlan didn’t know anything else that would.
She handed the kettle to Owen. He ran out the door to put it in the stream to cool it. Cara followed him out to make sure that nothing happened to what might be the only thing that could save Richard’s life.
Jennsen sat on the floor on the other side of him, holding his hand. With the back of her wrist, Kahlan pushed her hair off her face. She sat beside Richard and took his free hand to wait for Owen and Cara to return.
Betty stood in the doorway, her ears pricked forward, her tail intermittently going into a hopeful blur of wagging whenever Jennsen or Kahlan looked her way.
It seemed like hours until Owen came running back with the kettle, although Kahlan knew it really hadn’t been all that long.
“Filter it through a cloth,” Richard said, “but don’t squeeze the cloth at the end; just let the liquid run through until you have half a cup of it. Once you’ve done that, then add the oils to the liquid you collected in the cup.”
Everyone stood watching Kahlan work, snatching up what she needed, tossing it away when she was finished with it. When she had enough liquid from the kettle collected in the cup, she poured in the oils.
“Stir it with a stick of cinnamon,” Richard said.
Owen climbed up on the stool. “I remember seeing cinnamon.”
He handed a stick down to Kahlan. She stirred the golden liquid, but it didn’t seem to be working.
“The oil and water don’t want to mix,” she told Richard.
His head was rolled to the side away from her. “Keep mixing. A moment will come when they suddenly come together.”
Dubious, Kahlan kept stirring. She could see that the oils were sticking together in globs and not mixing with the water she had filtered through the cloth. The more it cooled, the less and less it looked like it was going to work.
Kahlan felt a tear of desperation run down her cheek and drip off her jaw.
The contents of the cup stiffened. She kept stirring, not wanting to tell Richard that it wasn’t working. She swallowed past the growing lump in her throat.
The contents in the cup began to melt. Kahlan gasped. She blinked. Everything in the cup suddenly went together into a smooth, syrupy liquid.
“Richard!” She wiped the tear from her cheek. “It worked. It mixed together. Now what?”
He held his hand out. “It’s ready. Give it to me.”
Jennsen and Cara helped him to sit up. Kahlan held the precious cup in both hands and carefully put it to his mouth. She tipped it up to help him drink. It took a while to get it down. He had to stop from time to time as he sipped, trying not to cough.
It was a lot more than had been in any of the little square-sided bottles, but Kahlan figured that maybe he needed more, since he was so late to be taking it.
When he was finished, she reached up and set the cup on the counter. She licked a drop of the liquid off her finger. The antidote had the slight aroma of cinnamon and a sweet, spicy taste. She hoped that was right.
Richard worked at recovering his breath after the effort of drinking. They gently laid him back down. His hands were trembling. He looked miserable.
“Just let me rest, now,” he murmured.
Betty, still standing in the doorway, watching intently, bleated her wish to come in.
“He will be all right,” Jennsen said to her friend. “You just stay out there and let him rest.”
Betty pulled softly and then lay down in the doorway to wait along with the rest of them. It was going to be a long night. Kahlan didn’t think she was going to be able to sleep until she knew if Richard would be all right.
Zedd pointed. “There’s another one, there, that needs to be cleaned up,” he said to Chase.
Chase wore a chain-mail shirt over a tan leather tunic. His heavy black trousers held a black belt set with a large silver buckle emblazoned with the emblem of the boundary wardens. Beneath his black cloak, strapped everywhere—legs, waist, upper arms, over the backs of his shoulders—was a small arsenal of weapons, everything from small thin spikes held in the fist and used to puncture the skull to a crescent-shaped battle-axe used to divide a skull cleanly with one blow. Chase was deadly with any of them.
It had been a while now since they needed the skills of a boundary warden. Chase seemed to be a man without a mission.
The big man walked across the rampart and bent to pull a knife from beneath the body.
He grunted in recognition. “There it is.” He held the walnut-handled knife up to the light as he inspected it. “I was worried I’d lost
it.”
He slipped the knife into an empty sheath without having to look. With one hand, he grabbed the waistband of the trousers and picked up the stiff body. He stepped into an opening in the crenellated wall and heaved the body out into the air.
Zedd looked over the edge. It was a drop of several thousand feet before the rock of the mountain flared enough for anything falling to make contact. It was several thousand more feet down a granite cliff before the forest began.
The golden sun was getting low in the mountains. The clouds had taken on streaks of gold and orange. From this distance, the city below was as beautiful as ever, except Zedd knew that it was an empty place without the people to bring it life.
“Chase, Zedd,” Rachel called from the doorway, “the stew is ready.”
Zedd threw his skinny arms into the air. “Bags! It’s about time! A man could starve waiting for stew to cook.”
Rachel planted her fist with the wooden spoon on her hip and shook a finger of her other hand at him. “If you keep saying bad words, you’ll not get any dinner.”
Chase let out a sigh as he glanced over at Zedd. “And you think you have troubles. You wouldn’t think that a girl who doesn’t come up to my belt buckle could be such a trial.”
Zedd followed Chase to the doorway through the thick stone wall. “Is she always this much trouble?”
Chase mussed Rachel’s hair on the way past. “Always,” he confided.
“Is the stew good?” Zedd asked. “Worth watching my language for?”
“My new mother taught me how to make it,” Rachel said in a tempting singsong. “Rikka had some before she went out, and she said it was good.”
Zedd smoothed back his unruly white hair. “Well, Emma can cook better than any woman I ever met.”
“Then be good,” Rachel said, “and I’ll give you biscuits to go with the stew.”
“Biscuits!”
“Sure. Stew wouldn’t be stew without biscuits.”
Zedd blinked at the child. “Why, that’s what I always thought, too.”