A frown wrinkles her mouth. “Why do you ask?”
“Someone mentioned it recently. And I think a sailor friend of mine has some,” I say, not lying. When Da ran from Malam with little more than the clothes on his back and a baby tucked under his arm, Astoria gave him refuge. We trust her implicitly. Which is why I hate withholding any details. But with the summit in progress, and visiting Malamians reminding her of her sister’s death, Astoria is on edge. I don’t want to draw her into this mess any more than I have to, especially if Da didn’t even want me involved.
“Are you talking about that ruffian who has been attempting to court you?” She finishes knotting up one set of herbs and moves to grab another.
“The very one.”
“Figures,” she mutters. “He’s the type to go after Sanguine.”
“Because it’s a healing aid?” Sitting down in the chair across from her, I pick up some herbs and copy her process.
“Yes, and it’s a valuable, sacred oil. Sanguine is known to be the only Channeler remedy that can actually heal someone. Because it’s made by Channelers in Akaria, it’s harder to come by.”
Her answer still doesn’t explain why someone would want to silence Da’s questions. Aodren said people in Malam wrote letters recently claiming the oil was harmful. He thinks it’s only rumors sparked by people who fear Channelers. But what if there is some truth there? I know I’m reaching for answers, but I cannot seem to see an obvious danger facing Da. And if I cannot see the danger, then I’ll never be able to figure out how to help him or the Channelers who are being blamed for the oil.
“Does the oil have any side effects?”
Astoria tilts her head, studying me. “True Sanguine is a gift that the Channelers of the southern kingdom create as an aid for the kingdom’s elite warriors, should they ever fall in battle. It is something that rarely is sold in other kingdoms because Akaria is unwilling to let their stores of Sanguine go. It does not have any side effects other than complete healing.”
“I’ve never heard of anything so powerful.”
“Aye, it’s extremely rare, and can take years to make.”
“You said true Sanguine.”
“Aye.” Her hands get busy again sorting them. She pauses, brings it to her nose, and sniffs.
“Astoria,” I say, and when she doesn’t explain, a groan tears out of me. “You’re torturing me. What do you mean by that? Is there another Sanguine oil?” She still doesn’t respond. “Fine. You just said Sanguine is sacred to Akaria and valuable and rare. It cannot be that sacred or rare if it’s being produced to sell in Malam.”
She gives me an approving nod, a gesture that also means I should continue.
“Right, so I’ve heard some conflicting rumors that it gives Channeler powers to the giftless. But then I also heard it causes illness. Is it possible that there is an imposter oil out there, being sold as Sanguine, that doesn’t have healing power?” I ask, throwing in a wildcard idea.
“Aye.”
I stop bundling herbs and stare at her. “What do you know of the imposter oil?”
“I know nothing good comes from that oil.”
She knows much more than she’s letting on. “What else?”
Her mouth pinches, and it transports me to years past when I was a young girl in the Elementiary. Astoria made me work for everything I learned.
“I saw Baz and a friend arguing over it,” I tell her, leaving out my short stint in the chamber of damnation under the summer castle. “They were acting different. Angrier than normal.” Angry enough to nearly kill a man.
“Fools,” she says with a huff, before reaching for the twine to bind the herbs.
“Did their behavior have something to do with the oil?”
She rolls some herbs between her fingers, breaking them into a dozen tiny pieces that flutter onto the table. “I’ll only tell you this, so you’ll know to be cautious,” she says. “I’d never want any harm to come to you.”
I squeeze her hand. “I know.”
“There is a Sanguine being sold, but it doesn’t heal. It gives a burst of strength to the user that can take hours and sometimes days to fade.”
This must be what the Shaerdanian competitors were talking about outside the tent last night. “There is an oil that gives people increased strength? I didn’t think it was possible.”
“In addition to the surge of strength, this new Sanguine quickens reflexes and dulls sensitivity to pain. That’s a heady effect that people seem quite taken with.”
“Does the oil also bring on bouts of rage?” I ask, certain now that Baz and his friend ingested the newer oil.
She glances up and flicks a finger in my direction, a silent command to keep working. I pinch some herbs from each pile and grab the spool of twine.
“Imagine giving a spoiled child a bite of the most delicious dessert,” Astoria says, the teaching tone in her voice transporting me back to when I was her Elementiary pupil. “What happens when you take it away?”
Her silly analogy almost makes me snort. “They want more?”
“Yes, to the point of having a conniption. Then imagine what would happen if you allowed the child to have their fill.”
I’m sure it’d be like the time Loren and Kiefer snuck out of bed, found the iced cakes Eugenia made for the Merryluna Festival, and devoured all but two. In the wee hours of the morning, a horrendous moan woke the house. What came after was a cacophony of heaving, retching, and Eugenia’s hollering.
I suck in an ahhh, understanding Astoria’s comparison. “I see what you’re saying, take away the oil, and there will be withdrawals. Too much oil, and the buildup can make them sick. What kind of sick?”
She stares back at me like I already know the answer.
“Rage?”
She nods and gathers the completed herb bundles to place them in a basket. “That is the first sign of over-consumption.”
Baz must have had too much of the oil. That’s why he started the fight at the fountain. Seeing the Malamians threatening a Channeler would have pushed him over the edge.
“And the signs? What will happen if Baz keeps taking the oil?”
“In everything, there needs to be order,” she says. I’ve heard these words a hundred times. They are the code Channelers live by. “The giftless weren’t born with Channeler energy. So it isn’t natural for their bodies.”
“But what of Beannach water?” Giftless can consume that Channeler remedy with no negative side effects.
“Like most Channeler remedies, Beannach water contains minimal amounts of our energy,” Astoria says. “When it’s ingested, the water flushes through the body and exits, causing no harm. The new Sanguine oil does not work the same. When consumed repeatedly, it stores up in a person’s body. For the giftless, that much Channeler energy twists a person’s mind. Rage, confusion, illusions—are all side effects.”
“Are there more?”
Her expression tightens and she nods. “I suppose, if someone kept taking the oil, their body would become over-burdened by the Channeler magic, and they would die.”
I hold a hand to my neck. The herbs, having fallen from my fingers, lie scattered across my lap. “That makes no sense. The original Sanguine saves lives. And yet you’re telling me the new Sanguine, if taken in excess, will kill a person?”
“That is the balance of our world.”
I shake my head, wishing Astoria would leave the riddles and parallel thoughts out of our conversation. “Does balance apply to Spiriters? If they heal someone who is giftless, will that person eventually die from the Channeler energy in them that has saved their life?”
“There are other factors involved when a Spiriter heals someone. The transferred energy links to the Spiriter. This link is why the giftless person doesn’t go mad and doesn’t lose their life eventually.”
The comment settles in my stomach like sour milk. I think of all the tomes I’ve read in the Elementiary, and I know she’s right. “People cannot
keep taking this imposter Sanguine. They have to be warned.”
Astoria lets out a bitter sigh. “You say that as if the effects are not known. Assuming your friend hasn’t lost his mind yet, he’s aware of what’s happening. He simply does not care. Like other giftless people, he wants power that he should not have, regardless of the cost.”
Sometimes Astoria can be too callous when it comes to the giftless. I don’t have a stomach for her harsh outlook right now. I push away from the table, arms shaking as I snatch my fan.
“I’ve answered your questions. Now you’ll let this topic rest?” she asks.
The hazards of Sanguine affect more than the user. Da, Leif, and even Aodren are proof. In all the years I’ve known Astoria, deception has never tainted our relationship. A thread of guilt whispers through me because I know this is not a conversation she would want me to share with Aodren, the king she loathes. And yet, if people can truly get hurt and die from the new Sanguine, I need to warn him. Things in Malam are already bad for Channelers, and if the giftless start dying from a Channeler remedy, tensions will only worsen and even more people will die. If I deliver this information, maybe the king will return the favor. I don’t know how much danger Da faces, but now I’m certain he could use my help to finish this job.
“I will,” I say, and when her pleased, relaxed smile shines back at me, I duck behind my fan and leave her behind.
Chapter
18
Aodren
IN THE AFTERNOON, THE SUMMIT MEETING adjourns so we all may travel to the port of Celize, the hub of Shaerdan’s sea trade. A road runs southward from the summer castle over a few low hills and past the flat grassy stretch where the camps, merchants’ tents, and the tournament field are located. Patches of forest break up farmlands. And beyond, Celize’s white-painted buildings ascend the ocean-side cliff like tight rows of soldiers. Shoulder to shoulder, and at varying heights, they stand proudly beneath orange roofs.
The carriages roll through town to where the cliffs level into a wide bay. Seagulls squawk at our arrival.
Once we all disembark from the carriages, Judge Soma guides the group onto Shaerdan’s newest ship. His tour takes us through the berth, where he points out passages from the sleeping quarters to the cargo storage below.
“After her maiden voyage, she’ll be the largest vessel on the open waters,” Soma states proudly when we return to the main deck. Salty winds temper the day’s heat.
Gorenza squints out at the calm blue. “And an easier target for pirates.”
“A fair wind abaft her beams, and no one will catch her.” Soma sweeps his arm upward to the rigging and the masts. “Not even your pirates.”
I’ve heard Judge Soma’s roots are in cargo ships and trading. Based on the sailing and sea trade knowledge he uses to counteract Gorenza’s barbs, it’s likely true. While their conversation carries on, leaders and dignitaries wander off the boat, some in favor of shade, others drawn to the shops lining the port. The guards who traveled with us from the summer castle split up, two men to each leader. Soon townspeople notice us and gather around, slowing our ability to separate.
“There goes the bloody king o’ Malam,” I hear someone say.
The guard at my right side draws his sword and searches for the guilty party, but it’s impossible in the amassing crowd that’s gathered. “Back up,” he calls to them. “Or we’ll have you arrested.”
The surrounding crowd obeys, though the barbs keep coming. “A right bludger he is,” someone shouts.
“Channeler user!” a woman shouts.
I cringe and consider returning to the boat, but wherever I go, disfavor tends to follow.
The man protecting my left lunges for her, his sword drawn. I shout for him to stop, and the crowd goes silent. The guard’s baffled expression at my insistence spreads to the others. The men cannot understand why I would allow disrespectful comments to be uttered in my presence. In truth, a small voice inside me wonders the same.
Punishing this woman won’t earn the respect I desire for Malam. Nor will it inspire my people to change. The royal decree to end the Purge Proclamation starts with A kingdom ruled by fear is destined to fall. I believed those words when I wrote them, and I believe them now.
“What are you doing?” Segrande presses through the crowd and comes to my side.
“The only thing the blade can force is fear,” I tell him. “Respect must be earned. And I suppose I have not done enough to earn it yet.”
He pulls his lips in tight, and I wonder if he’s reserving judgment until we’re alone.
“Let us cheer the champions who did well last night,” I shout out to the crowd, hoping to redirect conversations. Then I continue up the hill away from the crowds. The guards are silent, stoic sidepieces to me and Segrande, who has fallen back a step, disapproval creating a barrier between us.
I used to think the custom of respect for royalty erected walls of solitude around me. Now I see how fear, disapproval, and animosity have the same power.
The farther we walk, the more the crowd thins until we’re almost alone. My back aches from yesterday. After the long hours in meetings, the tightness has increased. Ahead, a shopkeeper sweeps the cobblestones. Two sailors emerge from a doorway, only to change direction when they notice me and the guards at my rear.
“Seclusion prefers a nobleman’s company best,” Segrande says.
“You mean a nobleman prefers seclusion?”
“Do I? I hadn’t thought so.” He looks pointedly at the retreating men who scurried away. He is right. Few people dare approach me, let alone meet my eye. The seclusion is sometimes like a prison sentence for high nobility.
“What of the nobleman’s preference?” I ask.
He shrugs. “For some, it would be wealth and power, but I think that you and I would rather smile at faces that will smile back, instead of those etched into coins.”
“You are right. If only there were more willing to smile.” Though Segrande often seems like a watchdog more than an ally, people are important to him. Malam is important to him. And I think, perhaps, I am too. The thought is comforting.
Ahead, a door swings open. A bawdy song filters out, and a man stumbles forward before the door slams closed behind him.
Segrande stiffens. The man ahead is Baltroit, and he’s fallen too far into his cups to walk straight. He crashes into two women stepping out of a bakery, and Segrande curses.
“The day of rest between fights was wise,” I say, to ease his distress. “It gives champions time to celebrate their victories.”
“Or drown their sorrows,” he grouses.
I wave toward Baltroit. “See to him. He has tonight to catch up on rest.”
Now that the crowd is gone, one of the guards follows after Segrande. The other remains behind me.
The bakery door flies open as we pass, and a woman rushes out, tripping into me. Her arms flail, and I’m forced to grasp her so we both don’t fall. She smells of sea breeze and honeysuckle and warm bread. When I move away, the guard lunges toward her, as if he might detain her for accidentally crashing into me, but I put out my hand.
“It was an accident,” I say, and he retreats, giving me space to help the woman.
The familiar blue eyes that stare back at me above a pink lace fan are a pleasant surprise. Her hair, partially drawn away from her face, falls around her shoulders in shiny curls that have always looked black to me, though I see now strands of deep brown woven into her raven hair. Against her yellow dress, the contrast is striking. Beautiful.
“Lir—”
“Your Highness,” she says with reverence. Did she intentionally cut me off?
The fan flutters in front of her face, and her lashes sweep down, as if she’s chagrined. The Lirra I’ve come to know is near impossible to ruffle, let alone embarrass. Her free hand flattens to the skin above her sweeping neckline. I force my gaze to the top of her head as she dips in a wobbly bow to the cobblestones.
“I b-b-beg yo
ur forgiveness. I didn’t see you there.” Her eyes flit everywhere but at me and sink behind the fluttering pink lace.
Is she nervous? How is that possible?
“Accidents happen. No apology necessary,” I say uncertainly.
She squeaks or giggles, I cannot tell. This version of Lirra, painfully shy and simpering, throws me. I cannot make sense of her behavior in contrast to the girl who slept in my room last night.
She apologizes profusely again, and then adopts a frightened-rabbit expression when the guard tells her to move along.
It’s a ruse. It must be. And yet, even when she’s playacting, this girl manages to render me speechless. I watch her go, questions building, but the moment she’s out of sight, I shut them down, remembering Segrande’s comment about solitude. Curiosity over Lirra is unimportant in comparison to the summit and the tournament. Whether I like it or not, my business with her is done.
* * *
Back at the pier, the other leaders are still busily exploring the wide array of shops. I climb into an empty carriage, thankful for a moment to finally rest. I collapse forward to loosen the bunched muscles in my back. That is when a crunch sounds.
I straighten and pat my chest, feeling a crinkle under my palm.
A folded piece of parchment has been stuffed into my jacket. I smile to myself. I should’ve expected there was more to the run-in with Lirra.
AC,
Meet me just before sunrise. Cathedral on the cliff. Remember to take two rights, two lefts, a right, left, right, and right. Come alone.
LB
Chapter
19
Aodren
I STEP OUT OF THE TUNNEL INTO THE cathedral’s catacombs, amazed that I made it through the darkness without getting lost, and come eye to eye with a filthy speck of a boy. A startled yell bursts out of me. He lurches forward, hands grabbing at my face. Shock shifts into instinct, and I seize his wrist, yanking him toward my chest. We scuffle over the dusty stone floor. I tighten my hold and twist his arm behind his back.
Once a King Page 14
