Stormcaster (Shattered Realms #3)(106)

“I have another ship that might serve,” Evan said. “It was my first ship, in fact, a small ketch. I’ve sailed it in coastal waters with a crew of two, though five would be a better number for blue-water sailing. It is not well known on either coast. I used it early in my . . . career, before I acquired larger, faster ships. I don’t believe Celestine would recognize it, especially if we modified the rigging.”

“I’m guessing that ship is in Tarvos,” DeVilliers said.

Strangward nodded. “Again, I suggest we sail Sea Wolf from here to Tarvos with a mixed crew—yours and mine. Then a small number of us will take the ketch to Celesgarde. We’ll need to come up with a story.”

“It still ends with us in Tarvos,” Ash said. “Your stronghold. With all due respect, that doesn’t sit well with me.”

“The crossing will give us a chance to get to know each other better,” Evan said. “Possibly you’ll change your mind when—” He stopped, listening. “Someone’s coming.”

Now Ash heard the thud of boots on cobblestones, and the door to the temple was flung open. It was the queen’s guard Ruby Greenholt, all out of breath, cheeks flushed. “Prince Adrian! It’s the queen. She’s fallen ill. Please hurry.”





43


TWO-STEP LILY


They’d laid her out next to the hearth in her sitting room. Amon Byrne knelt beside the queen, his face taut and pale, Magret Gray on her other side.

A ring of bluejackets kept the area around them clear. Behind the blue line stood Aunt Mellony, Micah Bayar, and an array of other faces.

Ash didn’t remember how he made his way to his mother’s side. All at once, he was there, pressing his fingers into her cold skin, feeling her life draining away under his hands.

His mother’s eyelids were blue, and her lips were tinged with it as well.

“Tell me what happened,” he said to Byrne, as he continued his physical examination. “Tell me everything.”

“We came here after dinner,” Byrne said. “That’s not unusual. We were all drinking wine, talking, when she collapsed.”

Ash flinched. He’d found the poison; he could trace its icy passage through her body. The sensation was oddly familiar.

“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.