Blood Heir (Blood Heir Trilogy #1)(97)
Five days was barely enough time to make the journey but she had to get to Salskoff. She would return to the Palace, even without Tetsyev, and she would accuse Morganya of treason against the Empire.
She had proof already. The antidote was in the apothecary’s wing, along with the poison. And Luka—Luka would listen to her. He would believe her.
Suddenly, the night seemed a little less dark.
The girl was untying the horses from the carriage when Ana made her way over. “What’s your name?”
“Linnet,” the girl whispered, as though tasting a strange word on her tongue. “My name is Linnet.”
Ana drew a deep breath. Her next words were a gamble, but it was a gamble she had to take. She had nothing left to lose. “My name is Anastacya Kateryanna Mikhailov,” she said. “Crown Princess of Cyrilia. And…I need your help. Please.”
Linnet listed her face to the sky, closing her eyes briefly in the silver fluorescence of the moon. “My people believe in fate. That man freed me from my indenturement so that I could protect you; and you saved my life from that Affinite. The gods have joined our fates, and now I must complete the circle. I will be the blade in your hands and the wind at your back.” She paused, and resolve shaped her expression. “Call me Linn.”
There was a pale-eyed ghost in the darkness with him.
Ramson moaned. It was the only sound he could make.
The ghost peered at him, candlelight shifting on its face. Ramson had seen the face somewhere, but he could not remember where.
“Stop. I’ll tell you anything,” he slurred. And then a new thought occurred to him. “Am I dead?”
Slowly, feeling was coming back to his body. His limbs were on fire. His head felt as though it had been used as a battering ram. And his chest—Deities, his chest…
“Not yet, Ramson Quicktongue,” the ghost said. He was hooded, and he was prodding at Ramson in the most painful, irksome way.
“I suppose not,” Ramson mused. “Death would feel better, and I’d be in the company of some honey-eyed girl instead of an ugly old hagbag.”
The ghost gave him what resembled a sullen expression. He was starting to look extremely familiar, but Ramson could not think beyond the aching of his head as to who this was.
“Where am I?” he asked instead. It was too dim to see.
“The Kerlan Estate. In the dungeons.”
The Kerlan Estate. Ramson pushed at his muggy consciousness, wincing at the effort. The memories came back to him in a slow, painful trickle. He looked at the man-ghost, suddenly wary. “Who are you?”
The man looked up at him from beneath the hood. Bulbous eyes, thin nose, bald head.
And then the name clicked.
“Tetsyev,” Ramson croaked. “What do you want? What are you doing to me?”
“I am healing you,” Tetsyev said calmly. “Though if you insult me again, I might change my mind.”
Ramson then noticed the strange smell of herbs and chemicals, and the feeling of cold gel all over his body. He looked down at his chest and winced.
His skin resembled a bloody slab of meat, sliced in a dozen different directions. And on his chest, almost where his heart would be, was a shiny patch of flesh, seared over his old brand. The insignia of the Order of the Lily.
He remembered the iron, white-hot before his eyes. The insurmountable fear as it was pressed to his chest. The unspeakable pain, and the welcomed darkness that followed.
His resolve wavered, and the feeling of helplessness that washed over him was nearly enough to drown him. “Why are you healing me?” he asked, and despite all of his efforts, his voice trembled. “Preparing me for another torture session?”
Tetsyev stepped back and squinted at Ramson’s chest. A bowl of translucent salve glistened in his hand. “No,” was all he said.
Ramson was shivering, and he struggled to keep his voice steady. Memories of cold black water poured down his throat and filling his lungs were enough to break his resolve. He could still taste bile on his tongue, feel the searing pain of iron burning his flesh. “Please,” he said hoarsely. “Just kill me.”
Tetsyev raised an eyebrow. “No,” he repeated, and shuffled away to the nearest shelf. When he returned, he was holding a roll of bandages. Slowly, the bald man began to wrap the gauze around Ramson, pausing only to tuck corners or adjust a strip slightly. He remained silent.
At last, Tetsyev leaned away, casting another critical eye upon Ramson. He nodded, and began fishing around in his robes. Ramson caught a flash of metal.
No, he wanted to beg. Please.
But Tetsyev reached toward his shackles. There were a few clicks, and then Ramson fell forward, no longer held up by the chains on the wall. His limbs flailed behind him uselessly. When he hit the ground, it felt as though his bones would shatter. He gave a choked sob.
“Get up,” Tetsyev said. “The Kolst Pryntsessa is waiting.”
His brain felt like mush, and it was difficult to grasp what the alchemist was saying. Ramson waited for the involuntary tremors in his muscles to stop, for the blood to recirculate, for the feeling of cold to drain away. Slowly, in fits and starts, he pushed himself into a sitting position. The wounds on his chest protested with a dull, throbbing pain. He had an inkling that he was meant to feel much weaker than he actually did.