“The ward should activate in the next day or two,” Erny said, “but the area is well patrolled. Now that new moon is past, folk can begin moving in and building. We won’t have full potency until buildings, walls, and fences reinforce the shape.”

Arther passed Thamos a list. “These are the proposed names for the new baronies, and the barons and baronesses elected to lead them for your approval. All are willing to kneel and swear oath to you and to the ivy throne.”

Thamos grunted, glancing at the paper. He was still not pleased about letting the refugees elect their own leaders, but the count and the Wooden Soldiers he brought to the Hollow were fighting men, not politicians. Better to let the groups govern themselves as much as possible, so long as they kept the peace and did their part for Hollow County.

“And recruitment?” Thamos asked.

“Got men making the rounds at every barony, letting folk know there’s training to help protect their own if they join the Cutters. Raw wood comes in every day, and more men are ready to stand each night.”

Thamos looked to Smitt. “And how are we equipping the raw wood? Have the weapons shortages continued?”

“The fletchers are struggling to keep up with demand, Highness, but we have more than enough spears.” Smitt glanced at Erny. “The delay is in warding them.”

Erny set his mouth as all eyes turned on him. He might not stand up for himself with his wife, but at the council table, he was not to be trifled with. “I’ll leave it to Your Highness to decide which takes longer, making a stick, or warding it. My Warders are working as fast as they can, but we don’t have nearly enough to meet demand.”

Thamos was not cowed. “Then train more.”

“We are,” Erny said. “Hundreds, but one doesn’t learn wardcraft overnight. Would you want to wager your life on a first-year student’s warding?”

Smitt coughed, breaking the tension and drawing attention back to himself. “These things take time, of course. There will be more horses, in the meantime.”

Thamos sat up at that. He had lost his favorite horse, and much of his cavalry, at new moon six weeks past. He had bought a giant Angierian mustang much like Gared’s own stallion Rockslide since, and he talked of it so often Leesha had once suggested he might prefer sticking the mare to her.

Gared nodded. “Jon Stallion hired a bunch of Hollowers out at his ranch. Big as a town now, with hundreds out catching and taming mustang. Says you’ll have all the Wooden Soldiers lost and to spare by spring. Cost is a bit more than we’d like …”

Arther rolled his eyes. “Of course.”

“Pay it,” Thamos said. “I need my cavalry back, Arther, and don’t have time to dicker over klats.”

Arther’s mouth was a flat line as he gave a shallow bow from his seat. “Of course, Your Highness.”

“Perhaps Darsy might give us an update on the convalescent initiative?” Leesha asked. In addition to the loss of cavalry, thousands of Hollowers had been injured in the attacks. Leesha used hora magic to heal those with the most critical cases or important positions, but the vast majority were required to heal naturally after the Herb Gatherers stitched them back together. Many were just beginning to use broken bones again, and needed proper exercise and attention to return to self-sufficiency.

Darsy gave an awkward move that Leesha took as a seated curtsy. “Got local gatherers making rounds throughout the county. Volunteers gather in town squares to help the injured build their strength walking, stretching, and lifting weights.” She thrust her chin at Rojer and Hary. “Jongleurs been touring, keeping spirits high as folk struggle to rebuild.”

Rojer nodded. “More than touring. Teaching. Town squares are more than just rehabilitation for the injured. Starting kids playing as soon as they can hold a bow or pluck a string.”

“We’ve sent for instrument makers from Angiers,” Rojer began tentatively, taking a sheet of parchment from his leather case. “The cost …”

“I’ll take that, Master Halfgrip,” Arther said, reaching for the paper. Rojer had been promoted to master by the Jongleurs’ Guild with the last Messenger, but the title still sounded fresh to Leesha’s ears. The lord scanned the contents, passing it to the count with a frown.

Even Thamos gave a profound sigh as he read the numbers. “You’re quick to claim the Jongleurs as your own and not subject to me, Master Halfgrip, until you need coin. If you would reconsider your position as royal herald of the Hollow, it would be easier to secure funds for you.”

Rojer pursed his lips. He had refused the count when he first made the offer, months ago, but Leesha felt his resolve weakening as it became more and more likely that she would soon be countess. Rojer had a stubborn streak, though, and didn’t care to answer to anyone. Thamos pushing like this was only going to strengthen his resolve.

“With all due respect, Your Highness, we’re not asking for luxuries,” Rojer said. “Those instruments will save as many lives as your horses and spears.”

Thamos’ nostrils flared, as did the pain in Leesha’s temple. She wondered if Rojer would be a good herald in any event. He had a knack for saying the wrong things.

“How many of your Jongleurs died on Waning, Master Halfgrip?” Thamos asked quietly. They both knew the answer. None. It wasn’t a fair comparison, but Thamos wasn’t always fair.

Hary cleared his throat. “We’re working with what we’ve got in the meantime, Your Highness. Everyone’s got a voice, and most can be taught to carry a tune. Not every barony has a Holy House yet, but they’ve all got choirs. Master Rojer and his, ah, wives have seen to that. On Seventhday you can hear the Song of Waning for miles around. Enough to hold an entire copse of wood demons at bay.

“Master Rojer even wrote a lullaby version,” Hary went on. “One that can protect a parent and child even as it soothes the babe’s cries.” Thamos looked unconvinced, but he let the matter drop.

“Amanvah and Sikvah have been giving sharusahk lessons, as well,” Rojer added. “Simple sharukin to help the healing stretch muscles and scars back to full flexibility.” The Hollowers might still look askance at the Krasians in their midst, but they had all taken to sharusahk. Arlen had begun to teach the Cutters, but now it was a craze that spread throughout Hollow County.

“Krasian songs in the Holy Houses,” Inquisitor Hayes griped. “Krasian exercises in the town square. Bad enough we have a heathen priestess teaching choirs of the Creator, but now we must corrupt our people further by teaching them to murder in the fashion of the desert rats?”

“Ay!” Gared said. “Lot of Cutters alive who wouldn’t be without Rojer’s music and Krasian fighting moves. Don’t like the desert rats any more’n you, but we’re forgettin’ the real enemy if we turn noses up at what’s keeping folk strong in the night.”

Leesha blinked. Wisdom from the baron. Wonders never ceased.

“It’s not just that,” Hayes amended. “What of the silks this Shamavah is selling? Women are parading about like harlots, forgetting all decency and putting sin in the minds of men.”

“I beg your pardon,” Leesha snapped, lifting a silk kerchief she had purchased just last week. Abban’s First Wife Shamavah had come to the Hollow with her, and set up a Krasian restaurant in town that never had an empty seat. She had set up a pavilion out back, selling southern goods at shockingly low prices, and a steady stream of supply carts had come from Everam’s Bounty since with much-needed trade.