Free The Shepherd of Weeds by Susannah Appelbaum Page A

finger. She then turned to the hovering gray cloud that remained, and, glancing about Axle’s cluttered desktop, she found what she needed: an old specimen jar in which the trestleman had stored a few broken pencils, a pearl button. Into this Babette coaxed the majority of the fluttering creatures, sealing the jar, which she then pocketed
.
    The Mildew Sisters spent a further few uncomfortable minutes cowering as the few remaining moths dissipated, and then looked at their sister appreciatively
.
    “They’re gone,” Babette reported
.
    Babette wrote something now on a scrap of paper. Rolling it, and tying it with a ribbon from her hair, she presented it to the crow. “For the apotheopath,” she instructed
.
    Turning back to her treacherous sisters, Babette frowned
.
    “Show me your hands,” she ordered
.
    The three held out their gnarled hands for inspection, a fine display of calluses. Large knuckles bulged within wrinkled skin. Veins ran ladders over discolored liver spots, and the deep ridges of the sisters’ palms were maps of uncharted lands. Babette nodded appreciatively, and the room relaxed
.
    “Ladies, the time has come again for us to weave!” Babette announced
.

Part III
The Creatures of the Air
    From pitch and swill
A savage weed blossoms
Everything is extinguished.
    —Prophecy, Chimney Swift fragment

Chapter Twenty-one
Rowan
    he city of Templar, the ancient walled capital of Caux and once the seat of power for the Good King Verdigris before the Deadly Nightshades assumed power, was a pleasant mix of eclectic buildings, twisting streets, and a formidable bridge upon which most of the city’s commerce was conducted, the Knox. For years, under the tyranny of the Tasters’ Guild, the city languished. It became a favorite for scoundrels and urchins, and most of the respectable storefronts and shops were shuttered or reborn into the poison trade. Spectacles of debauchery were common; the Cauvians of the time were conniving, plotting, and expert at poisoning. And even the annual Festival of the Winds—a celebration under the tranquil rule of King Verdigris—was hijacked into a distasteful occasion for executions.
    The last such public execution was to be a heretic apotheopath, under the truly awful charge of quacksalvery.
    At one time, before the Deadly Nightshades and the Tasters’ Guild, apotheopathy was a revered and sacred form of medicine, harnessing the forest for its healing properties. Its study took many long years, and the memorization of many arcane charts and tables, but its results could be astounding.
    But the execution of this apotheopathic heretic was interrupted, a very fortunate event for the prisoner, a man named Cecil Manx. It was interrupted by his niece, Ivy Manx, and some very potent and ancient words the apotheopath spoke, awakening a set of ancient tapestries.
    This very apotheopath heretic was currently crushing a few dried leaves and berries in a mortar and pestle with uncharacteristic impatience. Cecil Manx was mixing a potion he hoped would both alleviate the grogginess from a potent sleeping draught and jog the memory of his current companion. He turned his attention to a shelf of odd bottles, but since few seemed to be labeled, he soon gave up. His long, graceful fingers paused beside a plain box labeled
staunchweed
and stiffened. The lid lifted easily enough, and inside, Cecil inspected the finely crumbled leaves. He sniffed carefully at it, but just as quickly flipped the lid closed and continued his search.
    “How my niece finds anything in this mess, I’ll never know,” he grumbled. “It’s chaos. Pure carelessness.”
    Rowan opened his mouth to inform the apotheopath that Ivy had often commented on Cecil’s own apparent lack of order—his disorganized shelves and penchant for hiding things even from himself—but thought better of it. Instead, he stifled a yawn.
    “She has her staunchweed here—of all places! Devastating, if used improperly. Can ruin a whole