Stormcaster (Shattered Realms #3)(107)

“Bring the cup,” he snapped. Ash slid his arms under the queen, lifting her from the rug and carrying her into her bedchamber, where he laid her on the bed.

Moments later, Talbot set the cup on the bedside table. It was a jeweled cordial cup, one of the few heirlooms his mother used on a regular basis. It had belonged to her mother, his grandmother, whom he’d never met.

Ash was afraid to lift his hands, afraid his mother would slip away in the interval. “Have a look, and tell me what’s in there,” he said, tipping his head toward it.

“There’s no more wine,” Talbot said, tilting the cup to catch the light.

“Can you see anything in the bottom, on the sides, any residue?”

She held it up to the lamp on the mantel. “No, nothing I can see.”

“Let me sniff it.”

She held the cup under his nose and he took a cautious breath. The scent struck a chord of memory in him. When had he smelled that before?

Something his mother had said came back to him. Scent is the seat of memory. It is how wolves recognize family, friends, and enemies.

“Where did the wine come from?”

Byrne thrust a carafe in front of his face. “There’s still some left. We were all drinking from it, and nobody else seems to be affected.” He peered into the carafe. “There’s something sludgy, here, in the bottom.”

He started to shake it out onto his palm, but Ash said, “No! Don’t touch it. It may be toxic through skin.” Even as he said it, he thought, that doesn’t make sense. They all drank from the carafe. My mother is the only one down.

Still, Byrne dumped the residue onto a plate and held it out for Ash’s inspection. It appeared to be plant material, leaves, maybe. Ash sniffed at it cautiously. Also familiar, but different from what he’d scented in the cup.

“Talbot,” he said. “Go to Strangward’s quarters and bring back some of those leaves they use to brew tea.”

She took off at a run.

“We’ve called for Lord Vega,” Captain Byrne said. “But—is there anything I can get for you, anything you need?” He swallowed hard. “Anything at all?” he whispered, as if hoping the gods were listening.

Ash shook his head, wishing there was something he could ask for, an antidote he knew would help.

Unbidden, Taliesin’s words came back to him, like a curse she’d laid on him long ago. The time will come when you will wish that you were a better healer.

He turned back to his mother, pressed his hands into her shoulders, sent up a prayer that he could last long enough to do some good, and called the poison to him.

It was like a body blow that brought tears to his eyes and formed a bitter film on his tongue. His head swam, and his skin prickled and crawled.

Again. Oddly familiar.

Taking a deep breath, he called the poison again. Black spots swam before his eyes, and it took everything he had to keep from fainting.

Scent is the seat of memory. He was drowning in memories—of that morning in the market, of his father saying, No. Wait for help. You’re not strong enough. Of the scent of death. His amulet buzzed against his chest, as if trying to get his attention.

He was startled when somebody touched his arm. Talbot was back with a cloth bag filled with the herb the pirates called tay. “Put a bit on the plate, next to the other, and wet it down,” Ash said.

Talbot complied. They looked virtually identical. Ash sniffed at them again. They both had the same fragrant, toasty scent.

“We’re still searching the quarters the Carthians occupied,” Byrne said. “We’ll bring you anything else we find.” He leaned closer. “Is it the same?”

Ash hesitated, then nodded. “It’s the same,” he said. “But it’s not what poisoned the queen.”

Byrne gazed at him, understanding kindling in his eyes. “Somebody’s trying to blame them, then. To distract us from the real poison.”

Ash nodded. Despair bubbled up inside him. Who knew there were so many poisons in the world—poisons that he’d never seen, never studied, didn’t know how to treat?

“Call Speaker Jemson,” he said, hoping the speaker could call on a higher power.

And then, like a miracle, his childhood friend, the healer Titus Gryphon, was there, looking across the bed at him. “How can I help?” he said simply.

After that, it was the two of them, trading off, supporting the queen’s breathing, her heartbeat, keeping her blood flowing, sharing the burden of the poison but not making much headway otherwise. Magret Gray helped, too, fetching and carrying, cooling her mistress’s brow, nursing the Gray Wolf queen as she had since Raisa was little.

Adrian couldn’t help worrying that he was just pushing the poison into every part of her body. Sweat rolled down his face and dripped onto the coverlet. He blotted at his forehead with his sleeve. His amulet grew warmer and warmer as the battle for his mother’s life continued.

Captain Byrne stood by, his hand on his Lady sword, his face pale and haggard. Standing guard as always. Micah Bayar lurked in the corner of the room, like a mourner waiting for a funeral to begin.

Others packed the doorway—Aunt Mellony, chewing her lower lip, fingering her pearls. Julianna beside her, face pinched with worry.

Then the human blockade parted and Harriman Vega swept in, with Finn a pale shadow on his heels. “Make way,” he said. “We are here to attend the queen.” He dropped his kit bag on the floor at the foot of the bed with a thump.