The Darkest Bloom

by P. M. Freestone

  “The darkness will bloom again,” she murmurs, closing her eyes. Her chest falls with a sigh and her fingers open. A tiny vial rolls from her palm and on to the manicured lawn. It’s made of some sort of glass, its sides faceted like a cut jewel.

  I feel Sephine’s wrist for a pulse.

  Nothing.

  Check for breath.

  Nothing.

  No. This can’t be. Scent Keepers don’t die.

  But Sephine is gone.

  And her secrets have gone with her.

  CHAPTER 14

  Ash

  Nisai lies unmoving on his back in the grass. I drop to my knees beside him.

  On the name of every god, please, please let him be all right.

  “Nisai?” I shake his shoulder.

  No response.

  “Nisai!”

  There’s nothing to show he’s hurt. If anything, he appears asleep. Peaceful, even. Has he breathed too much smoke? What was the Scent Keeper saying about something being too fast?

  “What were you doing out here alone?” I admonish his still form.

  But he wasn’t alone, was he? I peer through the smoke to where the girl rocks back on her haunches. I’m not sure if she’s murmuring to herself, or to the Scent Keeper. “The darkness will bloom again,” she mutters. “The darkness will bloom.”

  What in Kaismap’s far-seeing name does that mean?

  Too many questions. And the answers will have to wait. Right now, all I care about is Nisai.

  I crouch down and lift him into my arms. He’s slight, but straining my muscles reopens several of my wounds. Warmth trickles beneath my bandages.

  Something drops to the ground and I almost trip. Nisai’s journal. He’ll be devastated if he loses that book.

  But if I put him down to retrieve it, I’m not sure I’ll be able to get back up.

  And it’s then, staring down at the journal, that I realize. He wasn’t excited about coming to Aphorai for the Flower Moon. It wasn’t just mobilizing to appease the superstitions of his future subjects, or sure-up a supply of the most precious commodity in the Empire.

  He wanted to come here for me. His book: he thought he was getting close to a better treatment, a cure, for my condition, rather than the daily dose of Linod’s Elixir that barely keeps it in check.

  He wanted to speak to a Scent Keeper. The oldest Scent Keeper across all Aramtesh. A woman whose scentlore transcends secular perfumery, who can use vapours to heal wounds, to force the truth from an unwilling mouth, to commune with the divine.

  Nisai came to Sephine for help.

  And look where that left him.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmur. “I really am. But you’re more important than a book.”

  The way back to the palace feels so much longer than the way there.

  One step, then the next, I chant inwardly, beneath the shrieking pain along my ribs. One step, then the next.

  Kip is the first Ranger I recognize in the knot of servants and courtiers gathered in the relative safety of the palace’s first terrace. She’s still wearing boots and travel cloak, as if she’s ready to hit the road at a moment’s notice. Esarik stands by her, wringing his hands, his expression a mix of horror and worry at the smoke and chaos.

  Kip’s ever-watchful eyes spy me and she breaks away from the group, rushing up the terraces in a few agile leaps. The Losian Ranger takes one glance at me staggering beneath Nisai’s weight and lifts him into her arms as effortlessly as carrying a sleeping child.

  She turns towards the palace, her usually stern expression unfaltering. “You’re bleeding. Get inside. If you faint, I won’t be able to carry both of you.”

  We cross over the courtyard where the courtiers gathered on the night of our arrival in this gods-forsaken place and pass through the same doors Nisai had so admired.

  Esarik follows at our heels. “Ash! Stars above, you look a fright. What happened?”

  I can already tell that question is going to be asked of me a lot in the coming hours and days. I’ll need an answer. But how I describe the events since I left my chambers will have heavy bearing on what could be a political disaster. If the capital thinks the Aphorains responsible for an attempt on the First Prince’s life, the cracks between provinces and Ekasya will fracture deeper than in a groundshake. If the Emperor holds the Scent Keepers responsible, it could undermine the Empire’s very foundations.

  That everyone will assume I’m in shock is a blessing. Because right now, politics can take its pick of the five hells.

  Esarik shakes himself. “What am I thinking? Here, let me help you.” He bends his slim frame and gets a supporting arm around me. “Now. Details. I need details. Did you see who struck down the Prince?”

  “No. He was out when I found him.”

  “Any bleeding?”

  “Not that I could see. It was dark in there though. And the smoke…”

  “Smoke inhalation. Yes. Likely.”

  “If it is just smoke, you can fix it, right?”

  He swallows.

  “Esarik?”

  CHAPTER 15

  Rakel

  I snatch up the vial Sephine dropped and give it a tentative sniff. Instantly, I wish I hadn’t. Noxious fumes sting my nose and eyes more than the smoke billowing around us.

  I rock back on to my heels. What is this stuff?

  Surely it’s not … poison?

  If it’s an inhalant, it’s probably too late. Still, I turn away and hold a finger to my nose, blowing from either nostril in case there’s any chance of getting it out.

  But why would the Scent Keeper poison the Prince? More to the point, why would she poison herself? I’ve heard of people killing themselves after committing terrible crimes, but Sephine? History shows she’s made of sterner stuff.

  No time to ponder. If the barked orders of the palace guard officers are anything to go by, they’ll be here in a whiff.

  I think about slipping the vial into my satchel. But something tells me this isn’t going to end well, not least of all the way the Shield staggered off with the unconscious Prince in his arms, so I’m sure as stink not letting them find me with this. I place the vial on the cloth I’d been using against the smoke and tie it tight against my upper thigh, then pull my shift back into place.

  Just in time, too. One moment I’m alone in the garden, crouched over the Scent Keeper’s lifeless body, the next I’m being surrounded by a group of guards.

  “On your feet, girl.” The stone-jawed officer’s tone warns against argument.

  Something tells me it’s not the time to put that to the test. I clamber upright and reach for my satchel.

  “I’ll be taking that.”

  Oh, that’s too far. “In the sixth hell you will. On what grounds?”

  “Evidence.” He retrieves the satchel then straightens, sizing me up like I’m simple, but possibly dangerous. Like he can’t decide if I’m a pet or a rabid stray. “Now walk.”

  I do as I’m told.

  The guards march me down the stairs towards the palace. Fires still glow in the hedges and dahkai plantation, though they seem to be under control. Buckets of water are being passed along a line of servants and soldiers alike, dousing the flames with greater efficiency than the earlier chaos.

  Half the Aphorain court seems to have assembled outside the palace. The Rangers who arrived with the imperial delegation are there too, as is the Commander and the Prince’s prickly little valet.

  There’s too much commotion to pick up any single conversation but the words being uttered over and over by the gathering crowd send a chill through me.

  Prince.

  Assassin.

  Treason.

  A familiar face emerges from the throng of guards. Barden’s jaw is tight, his usually smiling mouth set in a grim line. “Seems you’re making a habit of getting arrested lately.”

  “You think I had something to do with this?” Is that an officer’s sash? How much butt-sniffing did he do for such a swift pro
motion?

  He shakes his head. “How am I supposed to know, these days?”

  I’ve always thought spitting a filthy habit, so even I’m shocked when the glob of saliva splatters across Barden’s face.

  He draws close enough that I can see his cheek shine in the torchlight, see the warring anger and hurt in his eyes, smell the amber, the sweet orange oil, the tanner’s thyme that still permeates the leather of his uniform. He fondles the cuff of my shift. Stench of stenches, what is he going to do?

  He takes my wrist and raises it, using my sleeve to wipe his face. I struggle to break free, my fingers curled into a fist that wants nothing more than to punch the same cheek.

  Then the Commander’s towering presence is there, a sandstorm of fury in his eyes. “Get her out of here,” he orders his Rangers. “I’ll question her later.”

  One of his men takes Barden’s place with a nod. “We can manage from here.”

  Barden steps back like the good little guard boy he is. The Ranger begins to manhandle me away, pinning my arms behind me like a trussed sandgrouse ready for the ovens.

  I take a last glance over my shoulder before we begin the descent into the catacombs below the Eraz’s manse. Barden is conferring with several of the imperial Rangers. He doesn’t spare a look after me.

  He’s made his choice, distancing himself from the first whiff of suspicion.

  So much for loyalty.

  CHAPTER 16

  Ash

  We hurry after Kip through the halls.

  Well, everyone else hurries. I manage to keep pace with a limping shamble.

  The useless pair of Aphorain palace guards are still stationed either side of our chamber entrance, terror creeping across their faces at the sight of the unconscious Prince.

  “Open that salt-sown door already,” Kip demands, accent twanging even more Losian than usual. The guards scurry to respond.

  Inside, Esarik rolls up the nearest rug and wedges it in the gap between the floor and the now closed door. There’s a grating screech as he drags one of the divans across the marble to the centre of the room. “Set him down on his side. We want to give him the best chance of clearing his lungs.”

  Kip wordlessly follows his request.

  “And someone cover that window.”

  A servant girl rushes to draw the heavy drapes. Something about her brushes against my memory.

  I want to stay hovering, but now that we’ve made it here, the last stores of my strength drain away. I’m grateful when Kip pulls a chair over and motions for me to sit – close by Nisai, but not in Esarik’s way.

  The soon-to-be-physician sets to work, peering in Nisai’s mouth, smelling his breath, taking his pulse. Rolling the Prince on to his back, he prods his fingers experimentally into his abdomen. I clench and unclench my fists, controlling my urge to needle him with questions.

  Esarik pushes his hair out of his eyes to reveal a creased brow. “I’m not entirely convinced this is smoke inhalation. He doesn’t have a burn on him. There’s no sign of soot in his airways. Not that I can see. I wish I’d gone in there with you. If I’d seen what happened I might have been able to…” Esarik trails off, a pained expression on his face.

  “What happened? It wasn’t the fire?” I find myself mirroring the Trelian’s gesture, running a hand over my recently shaved scalp.

  “It could be in his lungs and I’m just not able to tell. Though usually there would be other signs if it was severe enough to keep him out cold like this.”

  “The Scent Keeper said there wasn’t much time. She said something was ‘too much’ or ‘too strong’. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Smoke-strewn skies, Ash: you think the Scent Keeper did this?”

  “I’ve no idea what to think. But could this be poison?”

  Esarik crosses his arms and props a thumb beneath his chin. “It’s possible. Though most poisons that would put him in this state would have killed him already. To illustrate: Hagmiri formulae are derived from fruit seeds – readily available in the province’s mountain orchards. Breathe in enough of the powdered form and a coma will result, but the heart will quickly shut down as well, the individual likely to experience seizures in the short interim. They call it ‘Stonemason’s Joy’ because it keeps the tomb carvers in business.”

  “Surely the Hagmiri aren’t the only ones in the Empire who make poisons?”

  Esarik begins to pace. “Of course not. The Trelians tend to use mineral by-products from precious-metal mines. But those are highly unlikely to deliver a life-threatening dose without sweating, jaundice, vomiting.”

  He taps one finger against his temple as if trying to dislodge the answer. “On the other hand, if it were Losian, I would hypothesize a derivation of a particularly potent snake venom. The name eludes me. Oh, but this is so difficult without my books!”

  Kip has been leaning against the opposite wall, watching Esarik pace. Now she scowls. “Ralshig’s Lament,” she provides. “Makes you cry blood tears.”

  “The very one! My thanks.”

  Kip shrugs. “Makes you piss blood, too.”

  “Indeed! Enough venom can thin the blood so rapidly it starts to seep from the pores, and out of every—”

  “I get the picture,” I say, holding up my hand with a cringe.

  “Sorry. I forget this sort of thing can be disturbing to a layperson.” The scholar keeps pacing, muttering to himself, counting off thoughts on his fingers. “Oh!” He stops abruptly, paling further than I thought even Esarik could.

  “What? What is it?”

  His eyes lose focus. Then he straightens, shifts a chair and steps up on to it, reaching for one of the candles from the lightwheel. His prize in hand, he returns to Nisai, gently peeling back each eyelid as he shines the flame close.

  “Esarik!”

  If I wasn’t seeing it for myself I wouldn’t believe it possible the Trelian could blanche further.

  “Stars, Ash. I’ve never so dearly wished not to have made a diagnosis.” He gropes for the divan behind him and sits heavily.

  With no small effort, I heave myself to my feet and cross to where Nisai lays. My hand betrays me, trembling slightly as I thumb back Nisai’s eyelid. In the low light, it looks as if the normally crimson capillaries in the whites have turned into a fine web of black.

  I squint and lean closer. Somehow, faintly wavering dark lines have appeared beneath the skin surrounding Nisai’s eyes, between them, across the bridge of his nose. Scrunching my own eyes shut, I send a silent prayer to Kaismap for clear vision. But when I look again, the shadowy threads are still there, radiating out like tiny streams meandering across a map.

  Gnawing apprehension sinks into the deep bite of fear.

  “She was right,” Esarik marvels.

  “The Scent Keeper?”

  He looks up at me, confusion momentarily flickering across his features. “The Scent Keeper? Stars, no. I meant Ami. There are mentions in surviving pre-Accord texts of a poison used by the small kings, astronomically expensive because it was so hard to trace. Ami and I debated whether it was merely myth. She argued that most myths are borne of a smaller truth. And in my aurochs-headed stubbornness I had refused to give her theory credence.”

  I sink back into my chair. “You think we’re dealing with an expensive, ancient, possibly mythical poison?”

  He pinches his nose between thumb and forefinger. “The evidence suggests that’s possible.”

  “Then we should focus on finding an expensive, ancient antidote.”

  “That, I’m afraid, will be impossible.”

  “Because?”

  He takes a shuddering breath. “There never was an antidote. Not in any of the texts I’ve seen. Though we only have fragments to go on.”

  I look to Esarik, then to Kip standing stone-faced against the wall, then to Nisai’s unmoving form.

  None of us utters a word until the sounds of a commotion echo from outside the chambers, Iddo’s voice carrying over the others
. He strides into the room, Issinon trailing him. The elder Prince crosses to where Nisai lays, taking in the sight of his younger brother with a look of sheer incredulity.

  “Clear the room,” he grates.

  Light on her feet, the servant girl flits out the door.

  Iddo clenches his hands into fists, corded tendons standing out along his forearms. “I take an hour – one hour – to try to smooth things out with the Aphorain Commander and everything descends into chaos.”

  Then he’s back in control, pinning me in his hawk’s gaze.

  “How did this happen?”

  Even if he didn’t love his brother – and it’s always been clear he does – Iddo has nothing to gain from Nisai’s downfall. His Trelian heritage means he’s the only imperial son who cannot inherit the throne. But he does have something to lose – what kind of Commander of the Imperial Rangers lets the heir be harmed on his watch?

  What kind of Shield lets this happen on his watch?

  I shake my head. “We’re just trying to piece that together. Esarik may have a theory.”

  “Try me.”

  The scholar jumps to his feet. “We were considering the possibility of poison. But it’s merely one possibility. I’m afraid I’m out of my depth, Commander. I’m a student, not a full-fledged physician.” He wrings his hands. “With respect, it’s no coincidence that after your father declined to appoint a new Scent Keeper in the capital, the Aphorain Eraz has declined to make any local appointments from the Guild of Physicians. We need to get the Prince back to Ekasya, where he can receive proper care from the Empire’s best medical minds.”

  “Not yet.”

  Esarik takes a step back. “Forgive me, Commander, but when a patient is in an unconscious state, time is of the–—”

  “Understood. But not yet. First rule of survival in enemy territory – secure the surrounds before seeing to the wounded.”