“Try and break it,” Benn encouraged.

Leesha cast the vial down onto the cobbles as hard as she could, but the glass only bounced, ringing a clear note. She picked it up, studying it closely; there wasn’t the slightest mark upon it.

“Impressive,” she said. “Your warding is improving.”

Benn smiled and bowed. “You can break one on an anvil, if you’re determined, but it ent easy.”

Leesha frowned and shook her head. “They should resist even that. Let me see one you haven’t charged yet.”

Benn nodded, signaling an apprentice who brought another vial, almost identical to the first. “Here’s one of those we mean to charge tonight.”

Leesha studied the vial closely, tracing her fingernail down into the grooves of the etching. “Might be that the depth of the groove affects the power of the charge,” she mused. “I’ll think on it.” She slipped the vials into a pocket in her apron for later study.

“We’ve got production running smoothly now,” Rojer said. “Benn and his apprentices blow and ward by day, and my apprentices and I lure corelings in to charge them at night. Soon every home will have windows of warded glass, and we’ll be able to store liquid demonfire in quantity without fear.”

Leesha nodded. “I’d like to observe the charging tonight.”

“Of course,” Rojer said.

Darsy and Vika were waiting by the hospit doors. “Mistress Leesha.” Vika greeted her with a curtsy as they arrived at the hospit. She was a plain woman, neither beautiful nor ugly, sturdily built with breeder’s hips and a round face.

“You don’t have to curtsy every night, Vika,” Leesha said.

“Course I do,” Vika said. “You’re town Gatherer.” Vika was a full Herb Gatherer herself, but she and Darsy, both years Leesha’s senior, accepted Leesha as their leader.

“I doubt Bruna put up with that,” Leesha said. Her mentor, the town’s last Gatherer, had been a woman of terrible temper who spat upon meaningless formality.

“The old crone was too blind to see it,” Darsy said, coming up and giving Leesha a nod of greeting. Bowing and scraping was not Darsy’s way, but there was as much deference in that nod as in all Vika’s curtsies and mistresses.

The daughter of Cutter stock, Darsy was tall and heavyset, though more with muscle than fat. She could overmatch most men at festival feats of strength, and the heavy warded blade at her waist had cut the limbs from more than one demon seeking to finish off an injured person on the battlefield.

“Hospit’s ready, if the Cutters come back with wounded,” Darsy said.

“Thank you, Darsy,” Leesha said. The hospit was always busiest at midnight, when Cutters came back from the hunt. Even against warded axes, wood demons could be a terrifying foe. Under the canopy of trees, their skin blended into the bark as if they wore Cloaks of Unsight, and while some walked the forest floor, looking much like trees themselves, others stalked the limbs like monkeys, dropping unexpectedly on their prey.

Even so, fatalities among the Cutters were few. When a warded weapon struck a demon and flared to life, there was always feedback. The magic jolted through the wielder, bringing with it a flash of ecstasy and a feeling of invincibility. Those who tasted the magic were stronger and healed faster, at least until the dawn. Only Arlen still had power in the day.

“What are the apprentices working on?” she asked Vika.

“Eldest are embroidering your cloak patterns,” Vika said. “The rest are sterilizing instruments and practicing their letters.”

“I’ve brought fresh books and a new grimoire I’ve completed,” Leesha said, handing her the satchel.

Vika nodded. “I’ll have it copied right away.”

“You have your Gatherer’s apprentices copying wards?” Rojer asked. “Isn’t that better handled by Warders’ apprentices? I could have a word…”

Leesha shook her head. “Every one of my girls gets warding lessons now. I won’t have them left helpless at sunset like we were.”

Leaving Leesha to make her rounds in the hospit, Rojer went over to the music shell at the edge of the square where his apprentices gathered. They were a mixed bunch, as motley as Rojer’s pants. Some were Hollowers, but most had come from other towns, drawn to the tales of the Painted Man. Half of them were too old to lift a tool or weapon, and so they decided to try the fiddle, only to find that their fingers lacked the necessary dexterity. Several others were children whose skill might not tell for many years.

Only a handful of the remainder showed promise, pretty Kendall most of all. She was Rizonan, and new to the Hollow. Old enough to handle complex arrangements, but young enough to still learn quickly, she had a real aptitude for music. She was slender and quick, as adept at tumbling and acrobatics as fiddling. She would make a fine Jongleur one day.

Rojer did not immediately acknowledge his apprentices, and they knew to keep back until he did. He took out his fiddle and plucked the strings, checking their tune. Satisfied, he took up the bow in his crippled hand. He was missing his index and middle fingers, bitten off by a flame demon when he was only a child, but his two remaining fingers were limber and strong, and the bow became like an extension of his arm.

All the feelings he had hidden behind his Jongleur’s mask that night found voice in his music then, as he filled the square with a haunting melody. Layer by layer, he added complexities to the music, limbering his muscles and readying himself for the night’s work.

The apprentices applauded when he was finished, and Rojer bowed before taking them through a series of simpler melodies to warm them up. He winced at all the discordant notes. Only Kendall was able to keep pace with him, her face knit tight in concentration.

“Terrible!” he snapped. “Has anyone other than Kendall even lifted their fiddle since last night? Practice! All day, every day!”

Some of the apprentices grumbled at that, but Rojer played a jarring series of notes on his fiddle, startling them. “Don’t want to hear your grumbles, either!” he barked. “We’re looking to charm demons, not spin a wedding reel. If you ent gonna take that seriously, it’s time to put your fiddle back in its case!”

Everyone looked at their feet, and Rojer knew he had been too harsh. Not half as harsh as Arrick would have been, but more than felt fair. He knew he should say something encouraging, but nothing came to mind. Arrick hadn’t set much example there.

He walked away, breathing deeply. Without even thinking about it, he put his bow back to work, turning his guilt and frustration into music. He let the emotions drift off with the sounds, and he looked back to his apprentices and made the music speak to them, giving the hope and encouragement his words lacked. As he played, folk began to straighten, their eyes growing determined once more.

“That was beautiful, Rojer,” a voice said when he finally took bow from string. Rojer saw Kendall standing beside him. He hadn’t even noticed her approach—lost in his music.

“Are you thirsty?” Kendall asked, holding up a stone jug. “I brewed sweet tea. Still hot.”

Did Leesha know all along she meant it for me? Rojer wondered.

You ent good enough, fiddle boy, Elona had said, and you know it.

Leesha knew it, too, it seemed. She might as well have tied Kendall with a bow.

“Never much cared for sweet tea,” Rojer said. “Makes my hands shake.”

“Oh,” Kendall said, deflating. “Well…that’s all right.”

“I want you to solo tonight,” Rojer said. “I think you’re ready.”

Kendall brightened. “Really?” She gave a squeal and threw her arms around him, hugging a bit longer than was precisely necessary.

Of course, that was when Leesha chose to arrive. Rojer stiffened, and Kendall pulled back in confusion until she saw Leesha. She quickly stepped away from Rojer and dipped into a curtsy. “Mistress Leesha.”