“I noticed there were burris reeds growing at the water’s edge,” he said. “They’re tall, with gray fuzzy tops. The root makes a good salve. Would you mind fetching some?”
Leah left the cover of trees and ran to a place on the river where the reeds grew thick. She made her way down the slope, avoiding the muck at the bottom as best she could, and thrust her hands into the water, bringing it to her mouth and sucking greedily. It tasted slightly gritty and metallic, but delicious. She drank her fill until her belly rumbled and grew heavy, then plucked several reeds from the soft ground. They came up easily, their wormlike, puffy-white roots dangling from her grasp as she climbed back up the bank and returned to the trees.
Cain laid the roots on the rock, pulled another round rock the size of a fist from the ground, and rolled it across them a few times until they had been crushed into a milky paste. Then he sat down, carefully removed his sandals and the cloth wrapping his feet, and spread the white salve of the root across his raw patches of flesh, hissing slightly as if it burned him. After a long moment, he sighed and closed his eyes. “I believe there’s an element in this particular plant that numbs the pain, and the salve protects and dries out the damaged flesh so it can heal properly. Pepin helped heal many wounds like this in Tristram, after the . . .” He glanced at Leah. “I suppose you’re hungry. We need to eat to keep up our strength. Look in my rucksack; I think there’s some bread left.”
Leah needed no further invitation. She searched his sack and found a small end of a loaf under a bewildering number of books; small, mysterious boxes; and scrolls. Cain watched her devour it, and shook his head. “We should find you something more than that,” he said.
Leah followed him back down along the banks of the river to a place where a bend harbored a slow, calm pool. A tree growing on the bank spread its roots across the pool’s edge, creating a warren of shadows and a tangle of black tentacles within the muck. He filled a small water pouch from his sack, then took out a scroll and kneeled on the riverbank under the tree and read the runes inscribed upon it. Then he took the end of his staff and dipped it into the water.
A crackling, blue light shot off into the depths, and a fat, silver fish began to emerge from the murky gloom beneath the tangled roots, floating to the surface, motionless.
“Take it, quickly now,” Cain said softly. Leah reached down and scooped it up. Its body was soft and slippery. Another emerged, this one small and sleek, then another, the largest of the three. She pulled them out, one at a time. Cain stood up slowly, wincing as if his body pained him. “The words give the wood a charge, which transfers to the water. It relaxes muscles and paralyzes the fish for a time. The charge is not very powerful. But it’s far easier than baiting a hook, and it’s gotten us our supper. Now gather those up, and let’s make a fire.”
They returned to the area under the trees as the last of the light faded from the sky. She put the fish next to the large rock, and Cain built a fire pit from smaller rocks and piled dry grasses and sticks inside. The air quickly grew colder, and she found James’s cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders once again, grateful for its warmth and now-familiar smell.
The old man was clearly some sort of wizard. There were mages in Caldeum, but she had rarely seen any kind of magic other than simple street tricks, and his abilities intrigued her, despite her distrust of him. He dug into his pack again, sprinkled some sort of powder on the fire pit and struck a flint. Sparks flew and ignited the grasses, and the powder crackled and popped, smoke rising from the pit as tongues of flame began to lick hungrily at the wood.
Cain laid a flat rock across the top of the circle as the fire rose higher, and set the fish on it. Leah sat a few feet away from him as the delicious scent of them filled the night air. Her stomach rumbled again, even more loudly, and the heat from the flames warmed her hands and face. She began to relax, and that led to an unexpected trembling, and then great, shuddering sobs tore through her, a torrent of tears streaming down her cheeks.
The old man sat for a long time in silence, as if he hadn’t noticed. “I’d expected this earlier,” he said finally, without looking at her. “I know it’s difficult, for a young one, but you must remain in control. You’re having a physical reaction to trauma, now that the immediate danger has passed. It’s perfectly natural, nothing to be afraid of, Leah.”
“My—my mother, she’s—dead?”
“No, Gillian is not dead,” Cain said. Now he looked at her, and there was something in his eyes she could not read. “And she’s not your mother.”
That made her sit up, the shock of what he had said stopping her tears abruptly. She waited, heart pounding, mouth dry.
“I’ve been debating how much to tell you about this, but I see no reason to wait. Regardless of your age, you should know the truth.” The old man was watching her intently. His eyes sparkled in the firelight. She imagined two burning coals buried in the depths of black wood. “Your real mother was a woman named Adria from Tristram. A woman with very unique gifts.”
“I—I don’t believe you.”
“Adria and Gillian came to Caldeum together, to escape Tristram, where we all lived. Adria gave birth to you here, but she was never one to remain still for long. She was not the type to care for a young child. Gillian had become better settled in Caldeum; she was safe enough, and she seemed to be the best option to care for you, since Adria could not, and I . . . well, I was quite ill equipped for the job, even after I had been freed from my bonds.”
“You’re lying!”
“No,” Cain said, his voice growing firm. “I’m afraid not.”
“Yes, you are!”
“Leah, you must remain calm—”
“I—I hate you! Leave me alone!” Leah burst into fresh tears as the fire abruptly flared up with a crackling hiss. She stood and stumbled away from him and the now-nauseating smell of cooked fish, her hands outstretched in the darkness, remembering the look on Cain’s face, the way his eyes shone in the firelight.
She felt branches brushing her skin, and she thrust herself through the trees and into the cold night air, running blindly through the grass, her body threatening to bring up the hunk of bread that now sat like a stone in her belly as her mind went over the words again and again in her head: She’s not your mother . . . she’s not your mother . . .
A rage built inside her. How could he say such a thing? Everything she had been feeling, all the hopelessness and terror and loneliness, crashed over her once again. Of course Gillian was her mother; it was impossible to imagine anything different. Yet . . . hadn’t she always felt alone in a way that she could never understand? Hadn’t the boys always teased her about being an outcast, a girl with no ties to anything and no place to belong?
She remembered a violent storm that had come up over Caldeum when she was a very little girl, the wind whipping through the valley, picking up the tents and throwing them against the city walls. Gillian had hurried home, clutching Leah’s hand tightly as drops of rain as fat as grapes had begun to fall, exploding all around them, and then hail, hammering copper rooftops like drums and shattering glass. Gillian had lifted her up and run with her, and Leah had clung on for dear life until they reached the house, where Gillian had sung to her and stroked her hair, promising that the storm would pass soon and everything would be fine. A mother’s promise.