Monkshood.
Just seeing the words made her stomach clench with dread. The heat of the room became suddenly oppressive. Bile rose in her throat.
Next to it, almost cradling it, lay a small leather pouch. She stared at the pouch, her mind quickening. She snatched it from the cabinet and untied the drawstrings. It was a tiny pouch. There was a single, decaying leaf inside. The leaf was so old, it seemed to be collapsing into dust. Her memories stirred. As a child, Hettie had watched the effects of one of her sisters poisoned with monkshood. Just before the girl had died, they had given her a cup of tea to drink and the symptoms finally vanished. A strange tea. Hettie had always wondered what the tea was made from. She never knew, because the Romani men guarded the cure steadfastly.
Hettie took the small pouch and delicately slid it into her pocket. A surging thrill went through her body. And an idea sprouted inside her mind. It came with sharpness and clarity. The room reminded her of Havenrook. Discarded bottles of ale and wine. Rumpled careworn sheets. Ledgers and coins. Even the lights in the room, except for the fire, had the markings of enchantment. She stared at one of the glowing spheres, reminded of the lights of Kenatos.
A muffled noise caught her attention, striking her with dread and alertness. It was a shout from far away. Or a scream. Hettie raced to the other door, the one facing the courtyard. She tugged it open a crack, and heard the sounds rising up from below. The mist had cleared slightly and she saw bodies sprawled down in the training yard. A Vaettir was floating up, thrashing, attacked on all sides. It was Paedrin. Her heart lurched with dread. He was attacking as a drunken man, trying to fight foes as if he could not see them. As if he were blind.
There was no way down. No stairwell or ladder waited at the crest of the balcony. Only a Vaettir could enter or exit the balcony. Only a Vaettir. A Romani Vaettir with monkshood. Hettie’s eyes widened with shock and a spasm of dread went through her. No—it’s couldn’t be.
Hugging the edge of the door, Hettie watched helplessly as Paedrin was brought down. She shuddered, seeing the savagery with which they treated him after he had collapsed. His limp body was dragged over to a giant stone pillar at the edge of the training yard, his wrists bound behind him and around the pillar with shackles. He was unconscious, head lolling against the cold stone as the others left him there, a vanquished foe. Hettie groaned inside, furious that she had been too slow. But what could she have done? There was no way down unless—she saw the mane of black hair as another Vaettir below took flight, heading up like a gust of breeze toward the tower where she crouched.
She would have recognized Kiranrao anywhere.
“War is a grisly necessity betimes. The Waylander army has secured the borders of the ruined forests of Havenrook. The Cruithne march down from the mountains in force. Hammer meets anvil. The iron of the Preachán is about to be shaped into a new future. The Romani are scattering like leaves in the wind.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
The door squealed as it was thrust open. Hettie watched the boots as they entered. She cowered under the huge bed, hidden in the shadows and near the rumpled blankets. She willed herself to be small and silent, shrinking deep within herself, doing her best to calm her thoughts, afraid that even the smallest spark of imagination would alert him to her presence. His shadow spread across the floor as he stepped in front of the fire, chafing himself vigorously. Then turning, he marched over to the table and reached for the ale cup, downing it in a single swallow. Her guess had been correct and a surge of relief went through her.
“Who’s there?” he barked suddenly, his voice dark and menacing.
She went cold, unable to move. Cold sweat trickled across her body.
He took a few steps into the room, muttering something under his breath. The cup suddenly flew into the wall, banging with a loud sound. It nearly made her cry out, but she did not. She saw the scuff marks on his boots. Normally they were quite polished. That was strange.
“Where is it?” he muttered darkly, swinging back to the desk.
She heard the cork pop free of another bottle and this one he held by the neck, taking a loud slurping draw from it. He slammed the bottle on the table, shoving the cask and scattering coins. Hettie tried to get a better look at him but decided it was not worth the risk of making noise. She heard him sigh deeply. He stood still a moment, breathing deeply. Then a glow began to illuminate the room, coming from his presence.
“I must speak with the Arch-Rike,” Kiranrao said in a low voice. “I have a report.”
He waited in silence, pausing occasionally to sip from the bottle. There was no answer, but he stood still. He cursed under his breath.
Just seeing the words made her stomach clench with dread. The heat of the room became suddenly oppressive. Bile rose in her throat.
Next to it, almost cradling it, lay a small leather pouch. She stared at the pouch, her mind quickening. She snatched it from the cabinet and untied the drawstrings. It was a tiny pouch. There was a single, decaying leaf inside. The leaf was so old, it seemed to be collapsing into dust. Her memories stirred. As a child, Hettie had watched the effects of one of her sisters poisoned with monkshood. Just before the girl had died, they had given her a cup of tea to drink and the symptoms finally vanished. A strange tea. Hettie had always wondered what the tea was made from. She never knew, because the Romani men guarded the cure steadfastly.
Hettie took the small pouch and delicately slid it into her pocket. A surging thrill went through her body. And an idea sprouted inside her mind. It came with sharpness and clarity. The room reminded her of Havenrook. Discarded bottles of ale and wine. Rumpled careworn sheets. Ledgers and coins. Even the lights in the room, except for the fire, had the markings of enchantment. She stared at one of the glowing spheres, reminded of the lights of Kenatos.
A muffled noise caught her attention, striking her with dread and alertness. It was a shout from far away. Or a scream. Hettie raced to the other door, the one facing the courtyard. She tugged it open a crack, and heard the sounds rising up from below. The mist had cleared slightly and she saw bodies sprawled down in the training yard. A Vaettir was floating up, thrashing, attacked on all sides. It was Paedrin. Her heart lurched with dread. He was attacking as a drunken man, trying to fight foes as if he could not see them. As if he were blind.
There was no way down. No stairwell or ladder waited at the crest of the balcony. Only a Vaettir could enter or exit the balcony. Only a Vaettir. A Romani Vaettir with monkshood. Hettie’s eyes widened with shock and a spasm of dread went through her. No—it’s couldn’t be.
Hugging the edge of the door, Hettie watched helplessly as Paedrin was brought down. She shuddered, seeing the savagery with which they treated him after he had collapsed. His limp body was dragged over to a giant stone pillar at the edge of the training yard, his wrists bound behind him and around the pillar with shackles. He was unconscious, head lolling against the cold stone as the others left him there, a vanquished foe. Hettie groaned inside, furious that she had been too slow. But what could she have done? There was no way down unless—she saw the mane of black hair as another Vaettir below took flight, heading up like a gust of breeze toward the tower where she crouched.
She would have recognized Kiranrao anywhere.
“War is a grisly necessity betimes. The Waylander army has secured the borders of the ruined forests of Havenrook. The Cruithne march down from the mountains in force. Hammer meets anvil. The iron of the Preachán is about to be shaped into a new future. The Romani are scattering like leaves in the wind.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
The door squealed as it was thrust open. Hettie watched the boots as they entered. She cowered under the huge bed, hidden in the shadows and near the rumpled blankets. She willed herself to be small and silent, shrinking deep within herself, doing her best to calm her thoughts, afraid that even the smallest spark of imagination would alert him to her presence. His shadow spread across the floor as he stepped in front of the fire, chafing himself vigorously. Then turning, he marched over to the table and reached for the ale cup, downing it in a single swallow. Her guess had been correct and a surge of relief went through her.
“Who’s there?” he barked suddenly, his voice dark and menacing.
She went cold, unable to move. Cold sweat trickled across her body.
He took a few steps into the room, muttering something under his breath. The cup suddenly flew into the wall, banging with a loud sound. It nearly made her cry out, but she did not. She saw the scuff marks on his boots. Normally they were quite polished. That was strange.
“Where is it?” he muttered darkly, swinging back to the desk.
She heard the cork pop free of another bottle and this one he held by the neck, taking a loud slurping draw from it. He slammed the bottle on the table, shoving the cask and scattering coins. Hettie tried to get a better look at him but decided it was not worth the risk of making noise. She heard him sigh deeply. He stood still a moment, breathing deeply. Then a glow began to illuminate the room, coming from his presence.
“I must speak with the Arch-Rike,” Kiranrao said in a low voice. “I have a report.”
He waited in silence, pausing occasionally to sip from the bottle. There was no answer, but he stood still. He cursed under his breath.
