Leeched

9.) To Trust a Brewer

"Is she alright?"

Wen stood over Gendra, his face scrunched with worry, as she knelt beside Ferren.

"Water," Gendra said, nodding to her flask at the edge of the stream. Wen scurried towards it, scooping it up and returning in a flash. Gendra splashed some onto her hands, patting it gently around Ferren's sweaty face and neck.

"She's sick, isn't she?" Wen asked. "That's why you're going to Pelesia."

Gendra frowned up at him. She didn't trust him yet. Would it be wise to expose Ferren's weaknesses? Her mind turned to the townspeople in Olline. There was no telling how he might react if she told him the truth.

He knelt down on the opposite side of Ferren, pressing two fingers into her wrist. Gendra went rigid. She wanted to yank Ferren's skinny, pale wrist from his hand.

"This is no natural sickness," he shook his head, staring down at Ferren's face. "The scholar doctors in Pelesia won't be able to help her."

"We're not going to Pelesia to find a doctor," Gendra said through gritted teeth, pulling off her knitted vest and placing it beneath Ferren's head. "We're going there to find a guide. Then we'll be heading to Jemorae."

"Jemorae." Wen whistled. "It'll be almost two weeks' journey from Pelesia to the capital. Are you sure she'll last that long?"

"I can't be sure of anything," Gendra sighed, staring down at Ferren's gray face. "But we don't have any other choice. Only the Ever Mother can help us."

His eyebrows raised at the mention of the powerful sorceress that ruled over Hailiah. "That may be, but just look at her. She's weak and pale, and—"

"Yes, but what else can I do!" she snapped.

His mouth twisted into the smallest of smirks. "I can help."

"You?" Gendra scoffed. "What could you possibly do?"

His eyes wandered back to where the cart sat. "I'm a brewer. I could mix some potions, nothing that would cure her, but something to help restore her strength, at least until you get to Jemorae—"

"You're a brewer?" Gendra spat out the word. She glared with disgust at the boy sat across from her. He flinched and his face fell. It was as if he'd been expecting her negative reaction.

She should have known. Something about him had seemed untrustworthy from the moment they'd met. He was a potion maker, a craftsman in a dying trade that carried with it a history of deceit and betrayal. Gendra rose to her feet.

"We can find our way to Pelesia on our own, thank you. We can pay you for your time and help, but our journey together ends here."

"I don't need any money," Wen said, staring up at her. "I only wanted to help."

"As I said, we don't need—"

"Gendra?"

They both looked down to see Ferren squinting up at them.

"Are you alright?" Gendra fell back to her knees. She grabbed the flask and tipped it to Ferren's lips, and she drank gratefully. Ferren took the flask and tried to sit up. Gendra and Wen moved to help her at the same time, but a white-hot glare from Gendra sent his hands back to his sides.

"What's this I heard about us finding our own way to Pelesia?" Ferren asked, her voice breathless.

"I think it would be best for us to go on our own," Gendra explained. She leaned in closer, whispering into her ear, "Wen is a brewer!"