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"God, why are you punishing me?" A desperate, scratchy voice climbed up the cold rock walls towering above the painter. Sitting on the sandy ground, hands pressed around his ankle, his face kept looking up toward the sky. "I never wanted any of it to happen. Have I not suffered enough?" A flock of bird silhouettes circled quietly above the trees, whose leaves wrapped around the small window into the bright day.
A branch snapping underneath someone's feet broke Voyta out of his hopeless calls to God. His head turned to follow the sound so fast it was a wonder he hadn't blocked his neck in addition to his already existing injury.
"Didn't mean to startle you," the man let out apologetically as he emerged from behind the bend, "but I heard a voice, and this time it didn't sound like bandits, so I followed." His kind face underneath a straw wide-brim hat wore a gentle smile, the basket in his hand was brimming with herbs. He stepped closer.
"Well, then I am glad you found me sooner than they did." Voyta eyed the man cautiously, but the first wave of shock had already worn off, and his body relaxed a bit despite the pain in his leg.
It didn't take a genius to guess why the man was sitting on the ground, rolling his expensive clothes in damp sand and dust. "Can you stand up?"
"I tried, no use. I can't put any weight on the leg, otherwise I embarrassingly wobble to the ground again."
"Let's hope it's just twisted and not broken. Look, I'm no sawbones, but I know my way around regular injuries. I live nearby, we just have to get you there first. I'll take your bag. Here, lean on me. You'll just have to hop on one leg." Slinging the canvas bag across his body, the herbalist crouched down next to him to wrap the painter's arm around his shoulder. "It will be less painful than having the bandits find you."
"I suppose you're right." The man seemed honest, and it was better to trust him than die a horrid death in the middle of nowhere.
With the refined balance of a toddler and some serious strength of his savior, Voyta finally stood up on one leg and could view the world from an elevated point once more, after almost getting used to the height of a child.
"I’m Barnaby, by the way," the herbalist smiled and briefly glanced at the painter from quite an intimate distance, carrying half of his weight.
"Voyta. Very pleased to make your acquaintance." He huffed as he hopped along at a snail’s pace. Barnaby’s warm gaze helped dissolve the remains of the painter’s initial doubts about this stranger. Something inside Voyta’s mind whispered that this man meant no harm, and he chose to fully believe it.
"You’re not from around these parts, are you?"
"Hah, what gave it away?"
"Apart from never seeing you before? Wandering around these tall rocks alone, dressed like you’re running late to a royal banquet, unarmed, and injuring yourself along the way. You’re lucky you haven’t managed to get further into Apollonia east of here. Then probably nobody would find you in that maze at all, if you didn’t roll off the slippery cliffs in the first place."
"Ah, shame, I wanted to at least sketch the scenery, the rocks would make for such a beautiful setting. And it would be a lovely change from the regular requests I get to decorate parchments or paint the same coat of arms on shields over and over again."
"You work at the castle then, I take it? The roads leading south from there and around Troskowitz are much safer than here, and even then it’s better to travel with company. Folk tend to avoid this area completely. It’s not safe here."
Voyta fell silent for a second. A grain of uncertainty scratched in his throat. "But you live here."
"I don’t have much of a choice. As a herbalist, I have to live where herbs do as well." Barnaby’s confident demeanor wavered, and he bit himself in the tongue. Others wouldn’t even dare speak a word of me to anybody anyway, why scare and drive him away myself? He’ll learn sooner or later either way.
Barnaby’s beloved four-legged friend joyously wiggled his tail when he saw him from the gate. Despite having been trained to guard the herbalist’s humble property to fend off intruders, when he realized his master was running out of strength supporting this injured stranger, he decided to help him by dashing through the underbrush toward them and circling around them in hopes to transfer some of his energy to the two exhausted men.
"Here, take this." To distract the animal and prevent him from tangling himself between their legs, Barnaby gave the dog his basket, who happily chomped down on the handle, tail still wagging. "Home." As the herbalist pointed toward his cottage, the beast took off in the same manner he had arrived, scattering herbs along the way. "I'll have to gather new ones, but at least he won't get under our feet."
"I think it's adorable, him welcoming you like this. As much as I love my cats, I suspect they're running a secret competition to see who ignores me best."
Barnaby chuckled. "Luckily he doesn't get bloodthirsty when he smells a cat on someone, otherwise we would have a bigger problem than just your ankle now."
Just a few more clumsy hops in the final stretch, and they arrived at the herbalist's flowery kingdom, allowing Voyta to finally sit down in the cabin and its pleasant shade, now both his legs suffering in pain.
"Thank you for helping me," the painter let out with exhaustion.
"Don't thank me yet, I still have to have a look at the ankle. Unless you'd rather the castle's bonesetter took care of it."
"No, no, I fully trust your abilities. Besides, the doctor has been gone for a while now, who knows when he is coming back." Voyta shifted on the hardwood bench and rested his back against the wall.
Barnaby nodded and reached into the shelf for a neatly kept roll of bandages. Kneeling down at Voyta's feet, he cautiously yet firmly grasped the boot imprisoning the injured ankle.
"Now, slowly and carefully, try to pull out your foot."
As the boot came off, a current of pinching pain sliced through the ankle, resulting in the painter firmly clenching his jaw. Barnaby held the bare leg with utmost care, as if his hands were cradling a week-old puppy. "It has swollen a bit."
"Is it bad?"
"Let's hope not," the herbalist glanced up at Voyta and gave him an encouraging smile. "How much does this hurt?" He watched for a reaction as his fingertips gently pressed into the tender skin. The painter’s toes curled under the unpleasant touch while he briefly gasped for air.
"Taking the shoe off was worse, but I still wouldn’t wish to feel this again either."
Barnaby chuckled and slowly lowered the foot to let it rest on his thigh. "Don’t worry, I am not going to torture you." Unwrapping the roll of bandages, he continued, "I don’t see too much bruising, and the swelling isn’t bad either, but the pain worries me. It might take a few weeks before you can walk again."
"Weeks?" Voyta exhaled in desperation.
"From my experience, yes. But if you rest properly and keep it bandaged, it shouldn’t take too long for you to recover." His comforting tone and a tender smile helped calm the painter down. Then the herbalist carefully began wrapping the bandage around the injury, not to accidentally nudge into the sore spot, but tightly enough to keep it compressed without limiting the blood flow. Voyta watched his focused face and skilled fingers dancing around the ankle, strangely enjoying the gentle pressure of the bandage hugging his skin. After a couple overlapping layers of the dressing and one tied knot to keep it in place, Barnaby’s task was done. Shame, thought the painter, wishing the process would last just a bit longer.
The warm hands now let the foot come down from the herbalist's lap, and Barnaby stood up. "It’s best if you keep your leg up on the bench as well, it relieves some of the tension. And I’ll give you something for the pain."
Voyta carefully dragged his leg up onto the bench and listened to the rummaging sounds coming from the small room behind his back as the herbalist sorted through his chest containing most of his decoctions. Barnaby emerged soon after, holding two phials of medicine with an odd symbol drawn on them, probably for him to easily recognize which is which.
"I’ll give you two. These are pretty strong, so it’s enough to take a sip here and there, and it should take you through the worst. You can try it now."
The painter reached up for the phial Barnaby was handing him, then held it in his hand but didn’t bring it to his lips just yet. "Thank you. How can I repay you? I didn’t bring any coin with me, since it was supposed to be just a short walk to the forest."
"You don’t have to bother yourself with that," the herbalist smiled kindly. "I didn’t help you to get money out of it."
"Absolutely out of the question. You might have just saved my life, God knows for how long I could have stayed there, or what would’ve happened if wolves or bandits came." Voyta placed the phial by his side and briefly searched through his bag for something of value, then glancing upon his own hands brought him the answer. "Here, take my ring. It might fetch you some good Groschen."
"This is too much, I can’t-"
"You can, and you will," the painter didn’t allow him to finish whatever he was about to say. He took Barnaby’s hand, placed the ring in his palm and closed the fingers around it.
"Thank you," the herbalist lowered his eyes and gazed upon the silver band with a small shiny gemstone embedded in it. He hadn’t held anything nearly as pretty for longer than he could remember.
"I thank you."
Voyta then finally took a sip of the painkiller medicine while Barnaby went to safely stash the ring away, finding an empty linen satchel to keep it in and locking it in his chest.
"How am I going to get to the castle now?" the painter spoke quieter than earlier.
"No worries, I'll go there and tell them what happened. They will send a coachman for you."
"You would do that? I feel like I'm asking too much of you already."
"Unless you'd prefer to stay here, but I have a hunch I cannot provide the comfort of a castle." Barnaby smiled, putting his straw hat back on to embark on the uphill journey. "I'll leave the dog here with you to stand guard, but nobody should bother you anyway. People steer clear of this place, so you'll be safe. Before I go, do you need anything?"
Voyta shook his head, already feeling more than grateful to his savior. After the door closed behind Barnaby's back, the painter heard him talk to the dog outside, then his footsteps faded out of earshot as they led out of the gate.
The moment the herbalist stepped out of the forest and onto the meadow, aiming for the wide route, a familiar sensation stirred in his stomach, tightening it as it pleased. He did his best to ignore it, remembering the injured man waiting patiently at his home, relying on his help, and threw away all the doubts that whirled through his mind about daring to show his face at the castle.
The scorching early summer sunlight made surmounting the steep hill a much harder task than it should’ve been, although after dragging a man out of the forest it was little wonder when new rivers of sweat poured down Barnaby’s back. Despite it all, his face remained stern without a sign of a struggle. The last thing he wanted was to appear weak in front of whoever he would be dealing with, old enemy or not. After eventually reaching the final stretch of the dusty road leading toward the gate, a guard stepped forward and blocked his path into the courtyard.
"You, what do you want here?" His tone was authoritative with a noticeable portion of disdain mixed in.
Barnaby didn’t recognize his face, but the guard had clearly heard about him in full color. He might have been watching him crawl up the hill the whole time, knowing too damn well who he had the pleasure with. The herbalist didn’t allow the guard’s disrespect to throw him off.
"Just wanted to let Sir von Bergow know that if he wants his painter back, he is sitting injured in my cabin after I found him in the rocks, unable to walk. And he probably won’t be able to for another few weeks, so the only way to get him is to send a wagon."
"Pft, if it were up to me, that madman might as well stay there," the guard waved his hand dismissively.
"Hah, with him? Yeah, but then it wouldn’t be just his leg that would hurt, but also his ass!" the other guard at the gate chimed in, amusing himself with what was apparently the height of his wit, cackling like a dying crow. The other guard burst out laughing as well. Barnaby’s expression remained stonelike even despite the anger starting to simmer inside. After decades of hearing such jabs, there was nothing new these two oafs might come up with, yet somewhere deep within it still stung. He swallowed this bitter serving and just waited for it to be over.
"Whatever, maybe we’ll tell someone who cares enough, and they might come for him. Or not. Now get lost," the guard ordered when he was done laughing.
Without a word, Barnaby turned around and was more than happy to leave, having accomplished his mission somewhat successfully. Even as the screechy guard’s voice gradually grew distant, Barnaby still could hear some of the jokes he just had to get out of his system, followed by bouts of laughter, until even those dissolved in the wind.
As Barnaby was slowly reaching his home, he was expecting his dog to rush toward him as he always did, except this time, there was nobody greeting him. Despite already being so close he could be easily spotted by his furry friend, the air stood still without a sound or movement. The uneasy silence and a gut-wrenching feeling forced Barnaby to rush to the gate and race against his speeding anxious thoughts. The door into the cabin was wide open, yet he could swear he had shut it when he was leaving. No, no, no, no… He dashed to the door, breath speeding more from fear than physical exertion.
Finally learning what had happened in there, he exhaled, leaned against the door frame, took off the straw hat and pressed his sweaty forehead into his sleeve. A smile spread on his face. Inside the cabin, Voyta was feeding the dog bits of a salami while chewing on some himself. Seeing the tall shadow towering in the doorway, he smiled back at him, diverting the dog’s attention from the snacks to the herbalist as well. Finally realizing his master was back home, he hopped toward him full of joy.
"Back already? Has something happened?" Voyta worried about Barnaby’s breathlessness.
"Luckily not. When I saw the door open and the dog gone, I feared someone had barged in, and… I’m glad that wasn’t the case, and instead this little beast was just making a new friend, weren’t you?" The herbalist crouched to meet the dog at eye level, resulting in his face being licked with love and warm salami breath.
"I hope you don’t mind, I had this with me, got hungry and wanted to share a bite with him." The painter spoke in an apologetic tone.
"Not at all," Barnaby kept his smile and rose to his feet, "he doesn’t get to meet many new people, so I’m glad you two kept each other company while I was gone."
"And how did it go?"
The herbalist’s smile somewhat wilted. "Let’s just say the guards at the gate weren’t the friendliest individuals I’ve had the pleasure to talk to, but someone should arrive to pick you up if they’ve done their one job." Barnaby turned around to glance at the hill behind his back. A small wagon pulled by a horse was slowly descending the winding road down from the castle. "And it looks like they actually have." He himself was surprised by the outcome, for a while he had already believed nobody would care to even spit in his house’s direction, let alone ride there.
"Thank you so much, Barnaby. And if those guards were the same ones who had stood there in the morning when I was leaving, don’t worry about them. They’re full of hot air, but that’s about it."
Hearing this provided Barnaby with some relief, yet it saddened him if they were giving Voyta a hard time as well, remembering one of them calling him a madman. Who knows how much truth there was to the guard’s claim at all, so far the painter seemed quite friendly.
It didn’t take long for the wagon to arrive as close to Barnaby’s cabin as possible, even despite the narrow overgrown path. They only sent a small carriage, almost half the size of the regular one, with only one horse to pull it. When the coachman successfully maneuvered the horse to turn the wagon around and have it face the cabin, he hopped down on his feet and took a few hesitant steps in the herbalist’s direction.
"Hey! Hey! Anyone here?!" he called from behind the bushes as soon as he caught a glimpse of the thatched roof. A yellow tunic showed up in the garden. Before he managed to answer, the man continued, "I’ve the wagon, bring the painter here!" His voice faltered momentarily, as if he had just seen a ghost.
Don’t dare come closer, eh? Barnaby snickered and walked back into the house. He helped Voyta back on his one foot, and the same way they had managed to get to the cabin, they were now leaving it as well. Slowly but surely, with one arm holding tightly around Barnaby’s shoulders and the other hand clasping his shoe, Voyta managed to hop all the way to the wagon. The coachman was getting visibly more uncomfortable the closer the herbalist inched, even despite him not paying any attention to him whatsoever.
"Thank you again, Barnaby, for helping me." Once seated comfortably, he took his bag back from the herbalist. "Once I’m able to walk again, I’ll come visit you."
"I’ll be glad to see you again," Barnaby spoke softly, possibly so that the coachman would not hear him. The last word ended up drowned out by the nervous driver’s holler, spurring the horse to carry him away from this wretched existence. As they set off on their journey and grew distant, something gently nudged the herbalist’s leg. His faithful furry companion knew better than anybody when a certain kind of sadness weighed on him. Barnaby smiled and scratched behind the dog’s ears, earning a happy smile from him.
"Let’s go home," he said quietly and turned back.
There wasn’t a day when Barnaby’s gaze wouldn’t wander off to the castle. He wondered if Voyta’s windows were facing his side of the world, or in which part of the castle he lived at all. Days slowly poured into weeks, until Barnaby grew more and more assured that Voyta had already learned the ugly truth, which had driven him away completely, never to be seen again.
One day he was toiling in his garden, ridding the flowerbeds of persistent weeds and cursing under his breath when his dog, lying in the sun and scratching his back against the rocky path, suddenly rolled over and darted out of the gate. For a moment, the herbalist had no clue what had just happened, only knelt there, his hands covered in dirt, staring out of the empty gate. Had there been an intruder, the dog would be barking and growling to chase him off, but so far he could only hear his friendly woof coming from the meadow. Then it dawned on him. It was his welcoming manner, and there weren’t that many people he liked.
"Of course I brought you something," a familiar voice carried from behind the bend, announcing the visitor before he could be spotted. "Here, just for you."
Barnaby rose to his feet, quickly rinsed his hands in the trough, and when checking his reflection in the water once the ripples evened out, he corrected his straw hat to sit on his head evenly. Swiftly making sure there were no dirt smudges on his tunic, he was ready to greet the guest, although less maniacally than his dog. The painter slowly descended the path toward the gate, accompanied by his new tail-wagging friend.
"Voyta!" The herbalist welcomed him with a cheerful tone. "I’m happy to see you. And that you’re doing well, of course."
"Barnaby," the painter exhaled with relief, joyous he had made it to him eventually at all. "No more than I, trust me," he smiled through the exertion. "I was starting to go mad, stuck up there, in a small room that wasn’t even mine because I couldn’t climb the stairs to my workshop. I had to start walking again soon to get out of there for a change of scenery."
"Come sit down. It must’ve been quite a journey to get here," he let Voyta into his cabin. The painter’s step was slow and cautious, and he could finally breathe easier the moment he sat down at the table. Barnaby poured him some water to drink and took a seat opposite him.
"Tell me," Voyta started once he gratefully swilled down the mug like a dying plant, "have you received any reward from the castle for helping me?"
The question took Barnaby aback. "No. And neither was I expecting to."
"Well, I was. Luckily, I know their stinginess already, so I came prepared. Here, on behalf of Sir Otto, albeit unknowingly, a little something for your efforts." Voyta flipped his canvas bag open and pulled out a full wineskin, two linen satchels packed with dried meats and one filled with spice.
"Voyta… how did you get your hands on all this?" Barnaby looked over the feast laid out in front of him.
"I took obtaining these as part of my training to get back on my feet again. Besides, I had some unfinished business with someone there. So some getting into places I wasn’t supposed to served us both."
The herbalist shook his head in disbelief, but accompanied it with a grateful smile. "Well, I hope, since you’ve risked quite some trouble for yourself, that you’re going to partake here with me."
"I’ll gladly have a taste. Since I normally only get to eat what the servants do, this will be a pleasant change."
Barnaby brought two wooden cups for the wine and a bowl for the dried meat. As they began sampling the Lords’ treats, Voyta asked the herbalist about the Trosky region, not having had much time to explore all of it himself, and especially which places to avoid lest he end up in danger or injured once more. Barnaby gladly provided a detailed description of the whole wide area stretching from his neck of the woods all the way south to Nebakov and the Semine mill, intentionally avoiding any and all mentions relating to his own personal history. In turn, the herbalist was curious about life at the castle, and Voyta was the first friendly person who had spent some time among its walls and met all the various people living there.
After closely illustrating the maze that the castle was and how many times he had managed to get lost in there while admiring the previous artists’ murals on the walls, he recollected, "Oh, you’d love the doctor’s room, with all its contraptions and ingredients lying everywhere. I’ve poked my nose in there once to pick up his herbarium to illustrate it for him, and was surprised how much he had managed to cram into such a tiny room."
"I bet I could learn something useful from a learned scholar like him. Speaking of the doctor, has he checked your leg properly?"
The painter stirred uneasily. "He… didn’t make it back. He was part of Sir Otto’s retinue, but they got ambushed, and most of them were killed on the spot. I was still stuck in bed when Sir Otto arrived back at the castle, so the only information I received was from the servants’ gossip."
"I’m sorry to hear that. Now there is no sawbones far and wide anymore at all. Not that the common folk could afford him, but at least we had some certainty the castle garrison and Lord Bergow were well looked after, should anything happen."
"Oh, from what I’ve heard about him, he was quite the brute, God rest his soul. I would be wary of committing myself to his care. Besides, now that I have learned that you are here, Barnaby, I know where to go should I need something."
Voyta’s sincere smile was mirrored by the herbalist. "Absolutely."
"In fact," he continued, although with some difficulty, eyes flicking aside for a brief moment, "there is something I wanted to ask of you. I believe I can entrust it to you, unlike the others I’ve met around here."
Barnaby listened and nodded as an impulse for him to continue. Without realizing, his brow furrowed under his growing concern, uncertain of what was about to come next.
"There is this specific decoction I must drink to ease my condition. Initially I had thought I was bringing enough with me here, but now it looks like my stay at the castle will be extended, and I have run out during my recovery. If you agree to prepare it for me, I’ll pay you, of course. With coin, this time at least."
"Sure thing, I might even have some ready here, what decoction is it?"
"I wouldn’t be so sure about that," Voyta’s voice grew quieter and his mind insecure. "I know the recipe by heart at this point, I can recite it to you."
As if reading it from the pages of a book, the painter went through the list of ingredients and process of preparation step by step while Barnaby listened attentively to remember it as precisely as he could. Once the instructions were complete, the herbalist’s eyes, full of unanswered questions, fixated on the man in front of him.
"Voyta, I’ve… never heard anything like this. What kind of condition is it?" He honestly wanted to understand.
Barnaby’s genuine worry tugged at the painter’s heart. "I wish I knew how to explain it. My head is a mess. The constant noise and chaos won’t let me work a lot of the time, or even sleep. This is the only thing I’ve found that helps. I prefer to keep it to myself, but now… I am growing desperate."
"I will prepare it for you, don’t fear," the herbalist spoke in a reassuring tone, seeing the pain behind Voyta’s eyes. There was something about this strange man that made him trust him, and he rarely had that feeling, if ever. "But since I’ve never had to go search for such ingredients, it might take a few days at the very least."
The man opposite him breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Barnaby. Also for not thinking that I am insane. Or if you are thinking it, at least you’re not showing it or running me out." Voyta rummaged in his canvas bag of wonders, pulled out a small pouch and handed it to the herbalist. "And, here. I can make finding some of the things easier for you."
Barnaby pulled at its drawstring keeping the pouch shut and found a couple of river pearls inside. The painter continued, "I was lucky to run into a local fisherman who knows all the rivers here like the back of his hand and was more than happy to point me in the right direction. In exchange for a lewd drawing."
"You truly are full of surprises," the herbalist smiled, shaking his head, and closed the pouch securely before the shiny treasure would roll out. "And if it’s not just folk tales, I believe a mandrake can be found around cemeteries, so I suppose I’ll go pay old Ignatius a visit." He was one of the very few people on friendly terms with him.
"Thank you again, Barnaby. I truly appreciate your help." Voyta talked slowly to emphasise how important this was to him. He cautiously moved his hand and laid it on top of Barnaby’s, resting on top of the table, as if he were to pet a stray cat, unsure about its reaction.
The herbalist almost startled, but didn’t move a muscle. The unexpected touch rendered him speechless for the moment, his lips parted, but no sound came out. His eyes connected with the man in front of him, who was tenderly gazing back at him. Barnaby smiled softly through his uncertainty, unsure how to react.
Voyta took that burden off him. "Don’t worry. I know why you have to live all the way here. And it was in fact a pleasant finding."
Now that his royally guarded secret was out, Barnaby lowered his eyes, exhaled, relieving some of the tension within, and his voice returned to him. "So, the people at the castle have told you?"
"Something like that." It was especially Voyta’s other skull who had become extremely chatty when it came to the herbalist, and it just wouldn’t shut up. Partially on account of the lacking potions that would usually silence it.
"That’s a change. Normally they avoid so much as just peering my way, so that it doesn’t poison them and their whole family."
Barnaby couldn’t keep his eyes off their hands and carefully returned the gesture by brushing his thumb alongside the painter’s finger. Voyta’s smile widened, grateful he had mustered up the courage to show his own interest, otherwise his skull would keep pestering him about it until he would break anyway.
"And do they… have a clue about you?"
The painter shook his head. "Or at least I don’t think so. To them I am already just a nutcase of an artist who lives in his own world. And they might be right. But it is the perfect cover for all else. I don’t bother them, they don’t bother me. And I’m happy to keep it that way."
"Then I hope you won’t have to follow my fate, especially now if they get wind of you visiting me," Barnaby exhaled, hints of worry spilling into his words.
"Don’t fear," Voyta uttered calmly, "I have a gift of getting out of sticky situations. Sometimes it even involves being rescued by charming herbalists," he shot a playful smile Barnaby’s way, whose gaze shied away from him for a second, smiling to himself and relishing the fuzzy feeling swirling around his stomach. He had thought he was too old to feel like this ever again, yet all it took was one slightly odd, but enchanting stranger to prove him wrong.
The painter quietly sighed. "I’m afraid I’ll have to go now, to finish illustrating the parchments they had piled on me. But I am glad I got to see you again."
"Thank you for coming over to see me. And for bringing the gifts. I had a great time talking to you." Getting up from the table, their hands separated reluctantly, and Barnaby walked Voyta to the door and into the garden. Hearing the two men coming out of the cabin, the dog targeted the painter as his victim to beg for some head scratching, happily blocking his way until his toll would be paid in full, and Voyta gladly obliged.
"Regarding that decoction, it all depends how fast I manage to get my hands on the mandrake. Give me a few days, and it should be ready."
"I appreciate it, Barnaby, it means a lot. God be with you." The painter straightened his back, gave Barnaby an easy, fleeting smile and set out of the gate. Both the herbalist and the dog watched on as Voyta’s back disappeared in the sunlit meadow, each of them captivated by him in their own way.
Setting out toward Troskowitz filled Barnaby with all-too-familiar dread, even more intense than his visit to the castle weeks earlier. This tension could only be eased by reminding himself of who he was doing this for, and how difficult it must have been for the painter to even just admit his mind was troubling him. While keeping Voyta’s smiling face vividly on his mind, the herbalist managed to get to the cemetery unseen using a secluded path lining the forest. He went knocking on Ignatius’ door immediately without wasting any precious time.
"A mandrake? Now that’s a request I haven’t heard yet. I do understand that you dabble in poisons, for your own safety’s sake, but a mandrake? You haven’t started messing with witchcraft, Barnaby, have you?" The gravedigger spoke with genuine concern.
"God, no, nothing like that. It’s for a sort of a remedy. Low doses seem to soothe a restless mind."
Ignatius sized the herbalist up. "You don’t seem to be so sure of it. Is something weighing on you that you must be seeking such ends? Remember that you’re not the youngest anymore either, Barnaby, experiments such as these can easily go awry for a man your age."
The herbalist smiled, clearly amused. "Ignatius. I appreciate you looking out for me, but it isn’t for me. Someone visited me and asked for a concoction containing a mandrake. Nothing more, nothing less."
The gravedigger, who had always been like an older brother to Barnaby on account of them both being outcasts, got wind of something amiss, and his eyes narrowed into two doubtful slits. "That person wasn’t just a regular anybody, were they? You tend to turn people away when they request insane things, and this smells," he pointed at the herbalist. "I would know, being the knacker and all."
Barnaby exhaled audibly, giving up. "And I get accused of doing magic, while you can clearly read other people’s minds yourself."
Ignatius presented a proud smile underneath that unkempt beard of his while wrinkles creased his face with joy. "Come on in then, and tell me everything."
"I should’ve guessed there’s a man involved," Ignatius laughed, one cup of wine later.
"Couldn’t you yell louder? I believe the folk in Jitschine must’ve misheard you," Barnaby lamented over his own already empty cup.
"No worries, the dead won’t tell, and old Margaret’s ears aren’t what they used to be either."
"She still comes here?" Barnaby hadn’t heard that name in ages, but would never forget her tale.
"Aye, every day, without failure. Poor woman."
The herbalist’s gaze softened and fixated on the rough pattern of the wooden table. "It must be something to have someone love you this much." He took a pause for a deep breath and mumbled mostly to himself, "The least I can do is try. So, will you help me?"
"How could I say no," Ignatius smiled, "just promise me you won’t do anything rash. Behind the cemetery wall, there are some rose bushes and flowers I haven’t seen much anywhere else, come to think of it. You might try your luck there, you know plants better than I do anyway."
"Thank you a lot, Ignatius. I won’t forget it."
Another day was inching to a close, orange sunrays flickered through leaves and grasses slow-dancing with a mild evening wind. Barnaby’s cabin was cast into the shadows already, hugged by the tall trees and thick underbrush. He was sitting on the bench in front of the hut containing his brewing table and now also fresh herbs hanging all around the walls to dry and be stored for the upcoming colder seasons. He was enjoying the fruits of his labor, inhaling the sweet mixture of scents flowing out of the hut.
The crunching sound of feet treading down the dirt path disturbed the otherwise heavenly peace. Barnaby’s dog was currently dozing off amid the flowerbeds, but lazily raised his head when he realized they had company. The herbalist glanced at him, waiting for his reaction, to know whether he should go grab the crossbow or make sure he looked his best. Since his furry friend worked as reliably as an elderly person’s joints predicting the weather, seeing his happy smile widen with the tongue sticking out and tail begin to wag slowly, Barnaby could rest easy and swiftly combed through his hair with his fingers, then put his straw hat back on. He himself couldn’t stop a tender smile from appearing on his lips.
"Good evening, Barnaby," Voyta lowered his head in humble greeting. "I apologize for not showing up earlier, but work kept me. And of course, good evening to you too," he bowed to scratch the dog behind his ears the moment he rested his head on Voyta’s leg.
"No need to apologize, I am happy to see you anytime," the herbalist rose to his feet. "I also see you’re walking much better than last time, and it’s only been what, two, three days?"
"I haven’t been exactly resting, that much is true," Voyta admitted. "In fact, it’s also part of the reason why I am this late. I was finishing something for you and needed it to dry first." The painter carefully pulled out of his bag a wooden panel wrapped in cloth to protect it from any damage while it dangled on his shoulder on the way to the herbalist. It was the perfect size to fit into the bag, forcing him to leave most of his usual trinkets back in his workshop. He waited for Barnaby to unwrap the cloth and see what was hiding inside. The herbalist instantly became speechless.
"Remember last time, when we were talking about the province, and you spoke so fondly of the Tachov waterfall? I decided to take a walk there the next day and paint it for you, so that you can always have it nearby without having to risk your safety just to go there again yourself."
The painting was a play of light on the river stream flowing down the cascade of rocks, glistening amid the lush green trees, moss and grass, much more vibrant and full of life than Barnaby could possibly remember. "Voyta, this is… beautiful. I didn’t expect this at all, I don’t know what to say."
"Your reaction said more than enough. Honestly. I just wanted you to have it." The painter adored the sparkle glimmering in Barnaby’s eyes when he was taking in his artwork.
"As I have already said, you really are full of surprises. Thank you," the herbalist lifted his eyes from the painting and smiled. "I also have something here for you, come in and take a seat."
Barnaby followed the painter into the cabin and displayed the painting on the table by propping it against the wall. Then he walked over to the shelves lined with all variants of concoctions, each bottle having a symbol drawn on it, indicating its use. There were a few unmarked phials tucked in the corner, and those were the ones the herbalist reached for.
"First try only a small dose, just to make sure I’ve got the recipe right. I’ve no way of finding out for myself with nothing to compare it to." Tensed up, he quietly waited for Voyta’s reaction as he uncorked the bottle and tipped it against his lips. The painter rolled the sample around on his tongue for a brief moment, then swallowed.
His eyes brightened. "Barnaby, I mean it when I say, this is the best version of the decoction I’ve ever had. How did you manage to get it so clear? Whenever I attempted brewing it myself, I always ended up with bits of the root and pearl dust floating around, bittering the taste."
The herbalist’s posture relaxed as he exhaled through a gentle smile. "I would say it’s a lifetime of experience. But I am truly relieved I managed to deliver. I had my doubts initially."
"No need to, you are a master of your trade. I knew I entrusted it to the right person. And as promised, here is the reward. You went out of your way to do this for me, and I just got paid for a finished work, so I threw in some extra. I am genuinely grateful." The pouch jingling with coin put a nice weight into Barnaby’s palm, one could certainly get used to that feeling.
After Barnaby humbly expressed his thanks for Voyta’s generosity, he went to put the coin away while the painter sipped on some more of the much-needed liquid relief from his inner turmoil. He already felt better just knowing he didn’t have to suffer through the rest of his stay at Trosky with a free-range voice running amok inside his head.
"Listen," the herbalist emerged from behind the corner, grasping a large bottle in his hands, "you brought some really fancy wine last time, so I thought why not repay the favor with some homemade mead? It’s well-aged at this point, and in my opinion, such things are best. What do you say?" The remark accompanied with a playful glint in Barnaby’s eye didn’t go unnoticed.
"Well, I wholeheartedly agree," Voyta said without breaking eye contact. "It would be foolish to turn down such an offer." As he spoke, a warm smile found its way to his lips.
"Glad to hear it. Would be a shame if I had to drink it all by myself," Barnaby added, setting the bottle with two cups on the table and taking a seat opposite the painter. The bottle uncorked with a loud plop before its contents started spilling into the cups.
"To your good health," the herbalist raised a toast.
"To yours," Voyta mirrored the motion and tasted the sweet-smelling gold, washing down the mandrake aftertaste. "I see you’re not only skilled in medicine, but also beverages. How did you learn to make this?"
"I had to experiment a lot until I got the proportions and procedure right. Although the truth is, we first attempted to make our own mead as kids," Barnaby reminisced with a smile and nodded when Voyta’s eyebrow raised with curiosity. "It was our own kind of rebellion. We saw all our elders drink in the tavern, and nobody wanted to share with us, so we scoured the area and robbed a few beehives for it. Some of us got stung pretty nastily. And of course we were unsuccessful, none of us had the faintest idea what had to be done, so we just ended up with rotting honey water. Multiple times. Then we gave up."
Voyta burst out laughing heartily, imagining small Barnaby stealing honey and fleeing from bees, making the herbalist laugh together with him. It was one of the very few precious memories he had from his early life, and it made him happy it had cheered Voyta up. Once they could keep their hands steady after laughing, they were pouring themselves another cup.
"Speaking of the past," the painter said when he could breathe calmly again, "will you tell me how you ended up all the way here?"
Barnaby’s previously merry expression fell off, and he peered into the half-empty cup in front of him. "It really isn’t an interesting story, nor entertaining."
"But it’s yours. And I’d love to know." He gently caressed the herbalist’s hand to encourage him. No matter what the skull had been whispering in Voyta’s ear all day long, he wished to hear it from Barnaby himself.
The herbalist took a deep breath and a swig of mead. "Alright then." He began at the start, spoke about his work in Troskowitz and the people around him, including Sarah, who had fallen head over heels for him, and how rejecting her led to the others learning the truth and wanting to settle accounts with him. And even successfully fending them off all by himself didn’t mean he had won, but merely entered the era of solitude and survival. "Luckily there are still some people unafraid of talking to me, like our gravedigger Ignatius. He’s the most honest person I know," he concluded on a more positive note and poured some more mead onto his tongue to wash the bitter story off.
"It saddens me to see how people can treat one another, even when they’ve done nothing wrong," Voyta shook his head, eyebrows furrowed.
"It’s in the past now. At least it showed me who isn’t worth my time. And who is," Barnaby glanced into the painter’s eyes with fondness, watching the same kind of smile returning back to him. "Let’s talk about something more pleasant. What’s it like in Kuttenberg?"
Knowing Barnaby had never set foot outside of the Trosky region, Voyta did his best to paint a vivid picture with his words, from the mighty walls and tall towers visible from far and wide, through the countless merchant stalls and colorful houses, to the quieter surroundings outside the city with the river meandering in the south and the monastery’s vineyards up north. The herbalist listened keenly and imagined this completely unknown place to the best of his ability. From the way Voyta spoke about the city, Barnaby had no doubts he loved the place.
The mead kept flowing and so did their tales until there was no more drink left to be poured, and the bottle remained empty. Looking out of the dark window, the painter only then realized how much time had passed.
"It was a very lovely evening, Barnaby, but I should probably go, it’s already late." An uncertain hint of a smile showed on Voyta’s face as he got up from the table. He stood up slowly, so that the mead in his veins wouldn’t cause him to suddenly lose balance.
"Don’t go," Barnaby heard himself say from underneath the mead-induced haze and got up as well. He cautiously stepped closer to the painter and gathered courage to continue what he had already begun. "You said it yourself, it’s late and dark already. What if you misstep and injure yourself again, who would be finding you now, in the middle of the night?" He raised his hand and gently caressed the painter’s cheek, now blushing subtly in the fire’s orange glow. "Wouldn’t you rather stay the night?"
Voyta’s eyes were fixated on Barnaby’s and couldn’t look elsewhere even if he wanted to. There was absolute silence in his mind after what had felt like an eternity of constant whispers. The mandrake decoction had done its job, clearing the way for him to make his own decision without the jury present. Even despite the considerable amount of alcohol in his blood, he felt his head was much clearer now than in the past month. Nothing was casting any doubts on his choice.
"I would," Voyta almost whispered and felt a smile spread on his lips.
The warmth of Barnaby’s hand moved down to his neck as the herbalist came even closer, leaving barely any space between them. The painter waited with bated breath, his heart’s pounding echoed throughout his whole body, as if it were the only organ there. As Barnaby drew near slowly, their eyes began to close. As soon as their lips met, their arms wrapped tight around each other’s body to finally feel the other man’s presence physically. Soon their kissing became deeper and their bodies pressed into each other lustfully, fully giving into the heat of the moment.
When their mouths briefly separated to catch a breath, Barnaby smiled and nodded toward the back of the cabin, where his simple straw bed waited for them. Voyta nodded, and seconds later the two men clumsily stumbled through the room together while kissing again, unable to wait to get there.
The soft, sweet morning air tickled in Voyta’s nostrils, half waking him up. It had been ages since he last woke up in a forest cabin. The recognizable scent, accompanied by birds chirping, brought him all the way back to his youth and the dugout near Maleshov where he and his friends had spent long years together. His eyebrows furrowed under that memory, and wishing to chase it away, he instinctively brought his face closer to Barnaby’s chest to find safety and inhale his warmth instead. In response, the arm wrapped around his body tightened the grip on its own in a protective manner, as if aware of the unwelcome images in that sleepy head of his.
He was close to dozing off again, all safe and warm, when a nearing sound of hoofbeats pounding into the dirt disrupted his sleep once more. The thundering noise now woke up the herbalist as well, who was slowly coming to his senses one by one. There was only one person who would come visit him on horseback.
"Heeeey, Barnaby?! You home?" a young man’s voice called from outside. "Good doggy, hello," followed soon after in a more muffled way.
"God, no, why now?" the herbalist grumbled sleepily and blinked a couple times to get used to the daylight violently assaulting his eyes. "I’m sorry, I’ll be right back," he whispered to Voyta and planted a kiss in his hair before sitting up and fumbling for his braies lying nearby. The painter could at least get one more good look at his physique as he walked barefoot to the door.
"Henry, what are you doing here this early?" Barnaby peeked out of the door, blocking the view into the cabin with his torso.
"Early? You’re usually up and about at this time. Has something happened? Are you feeling unwell? I can-"
"Now really isn’t a good time, Henry, can it wait?"
The visitor fell silent for a second, cogs visibly turning behind his blue eyes. Then his face brightened with boyish glee. "Ooooh, you’ve got someone here, haven’t you? Who is that lucky man?" he intoned playfully while attempting to keep it quiet just for the herbalist’s ears, but failing miserably.
"Henry," Barnaby sifted through his teeth, face turning serious.
"Alright, fiiiine, I’m going. I’ll just quickly grab what I need, leave the Groschen behind the brewing table, and then I’ll fuck off. Have fun," Henry smiled widely and wiggled his eyebrows before disappearing into the hut beside the cabin to stock up on a few missing ingredients.
Barnaby sighed and rolled his eyes, then disappeared in the cabin again and locked the door behind himself. "The youngsters these days," he shook his head as he was returning to Voyta, who was very clearly entertained by the exchange.
"For a moment there I was thinking if I should clear out to leave some space for him as well," the painter teased him jokingly.
"Oh, come on," Barnaby sneered. "That was Henry, my most frequent customer as of late," he explained while finding his way back under the blanket and making himself comfortable beside the painter.
"He didn’t sound very sick."
"Well, he doesn’t come here for medicine. Quite the opposite. Let’s just say he gets rid of pests. With poison."
"Oh, like rats and similar vermin? Then there would be a blessed ton of work for him at the castle, let me tell you."
"No, I meant bandits." Hearing that, Voyta’s expression froze and stared at Barnaby like a stunned deer. The herbalist continued to clarify, "As I’ve told you, this area isn’t exactly safe. Henry’s found out there are a few bandit groups who had made themselves at home around Apollonia, somewhat tolerating the others’ existence. So he goes around poisoning their food, hoping it would make them suspect the others are trying to take over their spot, and fight it out among themselves. So far he’s had some success, either the camp is empty, or he finishes off whoever is left there. Sells their valuables, gets more poison, the cycle continues. I’d say his guardian angel is working his ass off, since he hasn’t been caught yet."
The horse outside the gate neighed as Henry’s spurs bit sharply into its skin, and the drumming of its hooves soon faded into the distance, leaving the two men on their own once more. It gave Voyta a much-needed distraction to process what he had just heard.
"And, say, hasn’t one of the bandits had a special kind of helmet? With a sort of a notch in it?" The painter fumbled for words while trying to keep his heartbeat steady.
"No idea, he doesn’t tell me everything. Why? Is something wrong?" The sudden shift in Voyta’s demeanor and his faster breath didn’t escape Barnaby’s attention.
"I, uh… heard there’s a generous bounty on one with such a helmet, Burkhard is his name. Henry could claim it for himself, should he be successful." He paused, then continued in a hushed voice, mostly to himself, "And some of us might rest easier."
"Voyta," Barnaby said gently and wrapped his arm around him again, pulling him closer. "What are you not telling me?"
The painter’s gaze fell to the ground. He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep his secrets forever, although he was unsure how to approach them. He hadn’t told a living soul about it, but this might be his only chance. "I know him. That is, I knew someone who knew him. He was my friend, we were young and naive, and Burkhard used that to his advantage, recruiting him with false promises. I knew it was a road leading straight to hell, so I tried to convince him to leave Burkhard and do something better with his life." Voyta took a deep breath to stave off the tears. "And this bastard found out and killed my friend, leaving him for me to find him like that. As a warning. He has taken so many young and innocent lives, and yet still roams free, I…"
"Come here," Barnaby tightened his embrace and held the trembling painter close to his chest, hand tenderly caressing his hair. "No need to say more. I’ll tell Henry about the bounty next time he shows up, and to be extra careful around him, alright?"
Voyta nodded and raised his eyes to meet Barnaby’s. "Thank you. If he manages, I’ll be indebted to him, that is for sure."
"We’ll see what he thinks up. And you needn’t worry, you are safe with me, alright?" The herbalist smiled softly as his fingers lifted Voyta’s chin to kiss him. He then held and comforted him in his arms, feeling his hair tickling on his neck and warm skin pressing against his body.
After a modest breakfast, it was time for the painter to bid Barnaby farewell and journey up to the castle again. The two men stood by the door in a heartfelt embrace, soaking in the feeling, as though to store it for the moments of the other’s absence.
"Thank you for a wonderful night, Voyta," the herbalist whispered in his ear before their arms loosened their grip and freed the other man.
"I thank you, Barnaby. For everything."
"Will you come see me again soon?" the herbalist asked after a second of hesitation.
"Of course I will," Voyta sounded almost surprised by that question, then a sly smile crawled onto his face. "I would be insane not to."
"I wish I could come visit you as well sometime. See the castle and the view from there. But you know how things are," Barnaby’s gaze sank to the floor.
"I know. But I won’t keep you waiting for long, you can rest assured." Voyta took advantage of Barnaby’s lowered head and pressed a kiss on his forehead. "Take care, Barnaby. See you soon."
"Stay safe." The herbalist stepped aside to let Voyta walk through the door, and when his figure vanished behind the bushes, Barnaby went to see how many of his supplies Henry had cleared this time.
Even though they couldn’t show their faces together anywhere, or rather Barnaby couldn’t show his, for that matter, their secret meetings didn’t remain confined just to the herbalist’s home. In between the hidden moments of intimacy kept strictly in the cabin, the two dared venture out for short walks to nearby places Barnaby had known to be safe, yet they never strayed too far from his house.
One of such days they strolled to a close-by meadow blooming with all sorts of colors, where Barnaby could fill his basket with herbs. As he knelt down and began collecting them, Voyta found a comfortable spot and pulled out a thin wooden panel with a charcoal stick and started sketching his favorite person at work, hunched over with his straw hat poking out of the sea of flowers like a giant mushroom after rain. In his head he was already listing all the pigments needed to bring this little piece to life, and while it certainly wouldn’t result in being his magnum opus, it would be just his own for safekeeping, a little window into good memories, and that was more than enough for him right now.
Returning back to the cabin with a finished drawing and a basket brimming with herbs, Barnaby let Voyta go inside while he made for the drying rack in his hut to leave his fresh bounty to dry before it would dampen. As soon as he grabbed the first few stalks, the painter’s voice called from the cabin.
"Barnaby?!" The urgent tone ensured the herbalist would appear behind his back in the blink of an eye. Voyta stood motionlessly at the door, peering inside. "Looks like you've had a visitor."
"What? Is something missing?" The herbalist tried to glimpse into the cabin over Voyta’s shoulder, but his eyes hadn’t adjusted from the blinding sunlight just yet.
"Quite the opposite." The painter stepped into the house to let Barnaby inside as well, his gaze piercing something on the table, stunned by disbelief.
In the center of the table was placed a helmet, smeared with dirt and slightly dented in a few places, but its most striking feature was a sharp ridge carved into its rim, an easily recognizable element feared by many.
"That’s…" Barnaby pointed at the unexpected gift.
"Burkhard’s helmet," Voyta finished the sentence for him. "Seems Henry has actually managed to send him to hell." A light smile embellished the painter’s face, relief washing through him like a river, finally quenching his scorching thirst for that murderer’s death. The bittersweet taste of revenge after decades of inner turmoil had eventually come, and he would never forget its flavor. He didn’t dare touch the helmet, just staring at it filled his mind with long-gone images and moments, forcing him to shake his head to stop them from flooding in and drowning him in pain like they always used to.
Barnaby’s arms wrapped around the painter’s waist from behind, and his chin rested on Voyta’s shoulder, bringing him back to reality from his sudden flashback of grievous memories. "I knew that lad would manage, one way or another. I hope I can introduce you to him soon, but you two just keep missing each other here."
The painter turned around in the embrace to face Barnaby and lay his arms around his neck. Looking into his dark smiling eyes soothed him. "I do hope I get to meet him. I want to thank him personally for bringing about the sorely needed justice. And I am thankful to you too, you know, for nudging him in that direction." Voyta’s hands rested on the herbalist’s nape to gently slowly pull him closer and express his gratitude directly. What had started off as an innocent couple of kisses, managed to get out of hand, although neither of them minded.
Being left breathless, Barnaby’s fingers fidgeted restlessly with the painter’s belt buckle. "Are you perhaps in the mood for celebrating?" he offered with a subtle smile, not wanting all that generosity to go to waste.
"You bet I am," Voyta chuckled and allowed Barnaby to take good care of him like he always did, wishing to be held safely in his arms, comforted, and reminded that right there and then, everything was alright, and the past was gone.
Returning back to the castle was never Voyta’s favorite pastime, since strolling downhill to see Barnaby was always much easier, but this time something weighed heavily on him as he was grabbing his sketch from earlier, getting ready to leave. Barnaby noticed that abrupt change, seeing the painter’s eyebrows furrow and his smile wilt a little, with his head hanging lower like a flower that hadn’t seen the sun in a good while. The herbalist stepped closer and brushed his fingers alongside Voyta’s cheek.
"What’s the matter?" he asked softly, trying to connect their eyes, although Voyta’s were glued to his drawing.
"I…" the painter finally looked up at him, "My job here at Trosky is almost finished. Soon I will have to go back home to Kuttenberg." Those words dragged out of him with sorrow, heavy like lead, and just as poisonous.
The massive hole this rammed through Barnaby’s chest was devastating. He nodded without a word and hung his head, so that the painter couldn’t see the tears welling up in his eyes. Barnaby knew Voyta’s stay was only temporary, and their time together would once have to come to an end, and yet he’d rather have a herd of horses trample him into the mud than be forced to endure this crushing blow to his heart. He just stood there in front of him, frozen, unable to think of a single word to say.
Voyta rested his forehead against Barnaby’s, sensing his own breath beginning to tremble. While fighting the same kind of torture within himself, he inhaled deeply. "Come with me," he whispered.
The herbalist pulled his head away in shock to gain some distance, his eyes wide open. The tears in them glistened, but new ones stopped flowing in after that surprise. "What?"
"Please," Voyta’s voice got stuck in his throat, resulting only in a raspy, desperate whisper.
"A-are you serious?"
"I wouldn’t joke about something like that." The painter put the drawing aside and cradled Barnaby’s face in his palms. "I truly care about you. I don’t come here to you just to…" his eyes flicked toward the bed, "you know. Look. I have been thinking about this for a good while now. In Kuttenberg, we are sorely missing skilled herbalists or apothecaries. There already weren’t too many of them before, but now that Sigismund has claimed the city, most of them fled. Although, no matter who we call the King, the reality for the regular commoner like me has not changed. We still have to work to put food on the table and to keep the clothes on our backs. Only now, plenty of people have basically nobody to turn to for medicine, treatment or even just advice. You would be so much appreciated there, and the burghers know how to be grateful. With your experience and knowledge you’d be in high demand in no time.
And as for living, you can stay with me. I have a house all to myself, so you needn’t worry you’d have nowhere to go. Besides, there’s a backyard that I have no use for, you could start your own garden there, and the dog will have a place to sleep as well. You would have everything you’d need."
After taking in this exhaustive monologue, Barnaby’s lips parted to maybe utter something, although nothing but stunned silence escaped out of them. It was like hearing one of those stories of faraway lands that seemed too distant, different and more akin to a fairytale, except this time it was a real offer, an option to start a new life, although still impossible to imagine, resulting in a knot in the pit of his stomach.
Witnessing the obvious overwhelm behind Barnaby’s eyes, Voyta continued, "I do not need your answer immediately. That’s why I’m telling you somewhat ahead of time. I just dread the idea of leaving you here like this, alone, in the middle of a forest, with murderous bandits for neighbors. While the times are wild even around the city, it’s still much safer to be within its walls than here, having to fend for yourself, with nobody coming to your aid. And I am not going to lie to you, it will be completely different than what you are used to now. But even then, you will be but a short walk away from nature. And I would love to show it all to you. That is all I wanted to say."
The herbalist exhaled, suffocating in this flood of new information. Everything suddenly became too much to take in. He cleared his throat. "And when is it you have to leave?"
"In a few weeks’ time. By the end of the month at the latest." Voyta brushed his fingers alongside Barnaby’s beard. "You can decide until then. Having the coachman take one more turn to come here for you would be the least of my worries. I have to go back to the castle now, but I’ll visit you soon again, alright?"
Barnaby nodded and kissed him goodbye. As soon as the door closed behind Voyta’s back, the herbalist sank onto the bench and buried his face in his palms. His thoughts raced through his mind like they were set on fire, leapt back and forth and bounced off each other to the point it became unbearable. He might have sat like that for minutes, maybe even an hour, until he decided to get up and open a new bottle of mead to flush the mess out to start thinking later again with a clearer head.
Each of their subsequent meetings were turning more and more bittersweet the fewer days there were left until Voyta’s looming departure. The last thing the painter wanted was to pressure Barnaby into anything, and so he didn’t bring up the question again, although the silent uncertainty was killing him inside, constantly chipping away at the remains of his sanity. And so he absorbed each and every touch, moment and glance through all his pores, knowing they might easily be their last. He wanted to remember the way Barnaby’s beard tenderly scratched on his skin, the warmth of his hands, the adoration in his eyes whenever he looked at him, and the love of his mouth he devoted to him, both the verbal and the unspoken kind. As their time together was slowly coming to an end, sorrowful tears would stain Voyta’s pillow at night when he would wake up in the dark, drenched in cold sweat and shaken by horrendous nightmares tormenting him with Barnaby’s suffering from every angle.
With the last day of the month approaching, the sleep-deprived painter wandered down the hill unable to think, although at that point he knew the winding road and its each stone by heart, and he could sleepwalk all the way down to Barnaby without a problem if he wanted to.
Upon reaching the fence and glancing over the garden, he had to blink a couple times to make sure he was in fact awake. The flowerbeds typically overflowing with rich colors were now barren, not a trace of their previous inhabitants left behind. His four-legged furry friend came to greet him with glee as always, although Voyta only patted him absentmindedly, frantically looking around himself in disbelief. He then peeked into the hut by the house. Where there used to be clutter, phials and drying herbs, now only empty racks stared back at him. The brewing table was clean like never before, even the pot, jugs and distiller were gone.
The painter hurried to the door. Opening it in a rush, he found Barnaby standing at the shelves, sorting through them and clearing their contents. The sudden movement of the door startled the herbalist, and luckily he wasn’t holding anything fragile, as it would come crashing into pieces on the ground. Seeing speechless Voyta standing at the doorframe and staring at him in shock, he gave him a gentle smile.
"Barnaby," the painter muttered, "does this mean…" He gestured at the herbalist and the opened chest behind him stuffed with his belongings and took a few careful steps forward.
Barnaby turned to face him with his body as well, his smile widened, and he nodded. Not a word needed to be uttered. The happiest smile spread across Voyta’s lips, and tears of joy filled his tired eyes as he rushed forward to wrap him in his arms and hold him tight. Nothing he could say would express how he felt at that moment, and so kissing him was the only way to tell him everything he needed. The herbalist laughed when Voyta’s lips then kept planting a trail of little kisses on his cheek and up toward his temple.
Still holding him in his embrace, Voyta glanced into his eyes. "Thank you," he whispered.
The herbalist chuckled. "I should be the one thanking you, no? For offering me a new life like that, that’s not something that happens twice." His expression grew more serious. "Although I must admit I am terrified. What if they find out the truth again? About me, us? Two men, living together like that."
Voyta caressed Barnaby’s face. "Believe it or not, it is different in a big city. There are thousands of people, it’s impossible it would be just us. Unlike in smaller villages, your life will not be under scrutiny. And from the people I know, quite a few of them share similar living arrangements. Hell, some people even rent rooms in bathhouses permanently, and nobody bats an eye. And while we absolutely do have to be careful, you can use being unknown to your advantage. Let’s say your wife died during childbirth or something like that. But truth be told, it is easy to disappear within the crowd. I have seen my fair share of individuals during those decades of living there. We will be alright. Trust me."
Barnaby had no choice but to believe Voyta, even despite his doubts gnawing at his nerves and the paralyzing fear that he might end up putting this lovely man in danger. On the other hand, he had heard stories of goings-on in the big cities, and while they were no doubt tall tales inflated with a few beers on top, each of them hid a grain of truth.
"Alright," he smiled and kissed him again to seal the deal.
They remained in each other’s arms for a moment longer. Their heartbeats celebrating together their new shared future were soon accompanied by a rhythmic drumming of horse hooves sounding from afar, then drawing nearer.
"Perfect timing," Barnaby uttered and released the painter from his embrace. "You two finally get to meet each other."
When the herbalist emerged out of the cabin, Henry gaped at the lifeless garden the same way Voyta had just moments earlier. Seeing some yellow movement from the corner of his eye, he pointed at the sad brown patches of dirt.
"Barnaby, what the hell is the meaning of this?" Henry then focused his eyes on the man coming out of the house, noticing the other one right behind him, all clothed in elegant, dark colors. "Oh. Am I interrupting something again?"
"No, not at all, you’ve come just in time," the herbalist laughed. "I can finally introduce you two. Henry, this is Voyta, he was the one to point out the bounty on Burkhard. Voyta, this is Henry, our local bandit-poisoning hero."
"Glad to be finally meeting you, Voyta," the young man gently bowed his head in greeting.
"The pleasure is all mine, Henry." The painter mirrored the gesture. "You have seriously taken a thorn out of my side. And not just mine. So with all sincerity, I thank you for ridding the world of that rotten bastard. I hope the bounty was worth that effort."
"It definitely was. I was surprised how much coin Thrush was willing to part with, all things considered. If you know about any more whoresons whose necks could use some wringing, let me know."
"I will, more than happily. And I hope we will get to meet again, Henry. For now, I think I should go, you two probably have some things to talk about. I will show up later, alright?" Voyta winked at the herbalist, leaving the two alone.
As soon as the painter was out of earshot, Henry nudged Barnaby with his elbow. "Phew! That one’s a catch! You’ve got great taste."
The herbalist smiled, a hint of rosy tint poured into his face. "I know."
"And I am happy for you. But what the hell’s all this?!" Henry stretched his arm toward the sorry state of the garden.
"That is connected to Voyta, in fact, and I am glad you managed to catch him here, as this might have been your last chance, truth be told. His job at the castle was only temporary, and he is going back home to Kuttenberg in a matter of days. And I am going with him." Saying it out loud brought with it a strange emotion. As if up until then, his decision still could’ve been retracted, but now it was carved in stone.
"What?!" Henry bulged his eyes.
"Mhm, that was my exact reaction when he proposed it to me as well. But such an offer only comes once in a lifetime for folk like me, if ever at all. And while I do feel like an old fool, I believe that with him I can manage this. By the way, Henry, whatever is left behind here is yours. I might leave some stuff that I don’t need but you might find useful. Although, act fast. I can bet you that once the people find out I’m gone, they will do what they have always craved. To burn this place down. So that there is no trace of me left anymore. There will be no coming back." The herbalist sighed and looked over his house, hut, garden, and the wonky fence. It was one of his last chances to do so.
"Damn, I wasn’t expecting that. But I am glad you are in good hands, Barnaby. And I believe Kuttenberg will treat you better in every aspect." Henry patted the herbalist’s shoulder in encouragement.
"Thank you, lad. If you ever get to the city, seek us out. Both Voyta and I will be happy to see you again."
"That might be arranged. It’s not too far from Rattay, and my father, meaning Martin, spent his youth there and always spoke fondly of the city. Now I have one more reason to visit." They both fell silent for a moment. "So, what now? Can I still get some supplies from you, or do I have to start dealing with that Emmerich?"
"Now’s your last chance, it isn’t all buried among other things in the chest yet. And I might use some extra coin for the journey. Come on in," the herbalist nodded toward the door.
When Henry was leaving, he briefly hugged Barnaby farewell, wishing him safe travels and everything that would ensue afterwards. As dust rose behind Henry’s horse, the heaviness of the decision weighed upon the herbalist once more and would remain with him until he would get a taste of the city for himself. Luckily that period of uncertainty didn’t last long, with Voyta managing to arrange for the coachman to arrive for them in just two days. That time in between appeared as a blur in Barnaby’s memory, only with old Ignatius’ face bidding farewell mixed in. The next thing he knew were the wheels of a horse-pulled wagon carrying him toward his new life, and Voyta secretly holding his hand through it all while his dog slept at their feet. And before the two men even reached the walls of Kuttenberg, somewhere below Trosky, a column of dark smoke soared into the sky.