For pain, after all, was just another poison.
Garron’s hands looked especially rough against the smooth pale of her skin as he lifted her arm and turned it to the side — careful not to touch her blisters. “It occurs to me, madam, that a pretty young woman with such a great skill for alchemy and such noble protectors could be far more than a political tool. Tristan’s forced you into serving him, hasn’t he?”
Even if she’d been able to nod, she never would’ve admitted it. Garron was trying to dig up all the little painful things he could hold against her — probably so he’d have something to whisper in her ear while he tortured her.
But Olivia didn’t blink. She met his eyes and hoped he could read the warning carved into them: that he’d better kill her while he had the chance.
“You’re braver than I expected you to be,” Garron murmured, laying her arm down beside her. “I’m very much looking forward to our lessons.”
Then he turned and marched through the door in such a swift, cutting motion that Olivia hardly a chance to be surprised. She was still in shock when two maids bustled into her chambers.
She recognized the first maid as the talkative one who’d led her down to dinner. She stopped in the doorway and clutched a hand to her chest, gasping at the blisters. “Oh, Miss Olivia! Garron said you’d gotten into the ivy — that’s some nasty stuff, that is.”
The second maid hefted a large earthen jar onto the table beside the bed. Then both women turned to Olivia. They rolled her this way and that, stripping her down to the skin. Once they had her completely bare, they went to work on the blisters.
The jar was filled with a clear, gooey salve, which the maids dabbed in thick portions across her wounds. It dulled the sting and soothed the itch. Even after it’d dried, the salve stayed cool — making relieved little bumps rise across Olivia’s skin. But she was still wary.
Was this part of Garron’s torture? Would he let her think she’d escaped punishment, only to bring it down upon her at the last?
Once the maids had slathered nearly every inch of her in salve, they left her laying naked atop the bed. “I’ve had an ivy rash before, miss — it’ll heal a great deal faster if you let it breathe,” the talkative maid said as she slipped out the door.
Olivia lay awake for half the night, convinced that Garron had something horrible planned for her. Perhaps he intended to hold her prisoner until Tristan agreed to more reasonable terms. Had she been able to move her lips, she would’ve laughed at the thought.
Tristan wouldn’t trade so much as a copper for her freedom … in fact, he’d probably send along a detailed list of ways Garron could make sure he got the most out of her torture.
Chapter VI
A Cowl and Mask
“GENTLY NOW, MISS. I KNOW it’s the last thing you want, but Mr. Garron’s asked to see you — and he insists you be decent.”
Olivia groaned as the maid draped a thin sheet across her body. Half of her was thrilled that she could groan, because it meant the numbness was wearing off. But the other half bared its teeth as the blanket fell heavily over her body and trapped the heat rising off her skin.
The warmth stirred the itch and the sting from the blisters. She would’ve rather been naked before Garron than have to endure the maddening pain. Had she been able to move, she would’ve ripped the covers off.
The maid left — promising she would return to add a fresh layer of salve to her rash — and Garron marched in behind her.
His breeches were severely rumpled, his shirt un-tucked and opened a full three buttons past his collar. Upon closer inspection, Olivia realized they were the same clothes he’d been wearing the night before.
Garron had his eyes fixed upon the parchment in his hands as he approached her bed. “I’m sorry, I tried — but there’s just no way around …” He paused mid-sentence to glare at the page.
Olivia’s throat strained against the crust that’d formed across its walls. She coughed, and finally managed to croak: “What?”
Garron raised his brows. “I’ve been at it all night, madam. I’ve been trying to figure out a way to release you from your contract with Tristan. But as you are — however unwillingly — in his employ, I’m afraid that any attempt to steal you away would be seen by the council as a breach of contract, and Tristan would be well within his rights to send his army to Pinewatch to retrieve you.
“My men aren’t warriors. They can protect our village from wolves and the occasional bear, but I’m afraid they wouldn’t be able to stand for long against the council’s soldiers.” Garron perched on the edge of her bed, mumbling. “No, I’m afraid you’re going to have to continue serving him in your venomous way — but you should be more careful.”
For once, Olivia was interested. “How?”
“Well, from the top of my head I’d suggest you quit riding around the Kingdom in a horse and carriage. Nothing announces the coming of somebody important like the rattle of carriage wheels. Learn to ride a horse. Learn to blend. In fact, I think you ought to consider …”
He bolted to his feet and strode out the door — leaving Olivia more confused than ever.
It took her several days to recover from the numbing and the blisters. At dawn on the second day, she was able to sit up on her own and even managed to eat a whole portion of broth.
“There you are, miss. The more you’re able to get down, the faster you’ll heal.”
“Thank you, Alice,” Olivia said. It turned out that was the talkative maid’s name — Alice. She thought it was a fitting name for a servant. Now that she was doing better, Olivia was able to take care of most of her blisters by herself. She dipped her hands into the earthen jar, coating the tips of her fingers with the clear, gooey liquid. “Where does this ointment come from?”
“We call them cloak vines, miss — on account of how wide their leaves get,” Alice said as she spread a cooling line of salve down the middle of Olivia’s back. “They’re pests, mostly. They grow up high in trees and strangle the life out of the branches if they’re not dealt with quickly. But the sap in their leaves makes for a useful salve.”
Olivia pressed her fingers together and pulled them apart, watching carefully as the ointment trailed little hairline strings between them. “I’d like to see where they grow.”
“Well, I’m not much for climbing trees, miss. But when you’ve got your feet under you again, I’m sure I can get one of the lads to show you.”
The cloak vines weren’t the only interesting plants around Pinewatch. Garron brought her a large cluster of wildflowers each morning — insisting that their various perfumes would aid in her healing — and Olivia was always taken aback by the variety of their colors.
There was one in particular that she liked the look of: it had spiraling, blood-red petals and a starburst of black at its middle. Its stem was black, as well — but the tips of its thorns were red.
“You really ought to be more careful,” Garron muttered as he pressed his kerchief against the little dots of blood that welled upon the tips of Olivia’s fingers.
The prick marks stung a bit, and some of the stem’s dark juices stained her palm. But though the flower had bitten her, she couldn’t take her eyes off of it. “Is it poisonous?”
“No, fortunately. Though it does have a rather ghastly name — corpseweed, because of how the petals bear the resemblance of a mortal wound,” he said before she could ask. “It’s nothing more than a garden pest. But my blasted cook’s been attempting to turn corpseweed into some sort of tea. He swears it has the ability to soothe worries and I must admit, it is rather relaxing … if one can manage to get it down.” He pursed his lips as his sharp eyes roved over a memory. “Dreadfully bitter stuff — honestly the most ghastly cup of tea I’ve ever tasted.”
Tea? Olivia was slightly disappointed to learn that corpseweed wasn’t as deadly as it looked. But she liked the name. And she loved its frightful colors. “Can I try some of the tea?”
Garron frowne
d and his eyes went to the ceiling. He’d made it a point to be very careful about which flowers he gave her, and he’d even put her box of poisons away. Though he’d been surprisingly kind to her thus far, it was clear he didn’t trust her.
And that was probably for the best.
“Very well. I don’t see why not. I’ll have Alice bring you a cup this evening,” he said as he marched out the door.
After a while, Olivia began to get used to Garron striding in at all hours of the day and night — usually squarely in the middle of one of his thoughts. Perhaps it was because being bedridden left her with little else to do, but he actually began to sound rather clever. In any case, he seemed eager to help her improve upon her negotiations. And he did have a few decent ideas about how to avoid getting caught.
Once, he asked her how she would feel about wearing a mask. Before she had a chance to answer, he’d spun around and left. He returned several minutes later, positively spitting about how a mask would do her no good because her eyes would give her dead away.
Another moment and he’d marched back in, claiming he’d solved her problem. “Here.”
Olivia held still as Garron bound a strip of material around the lower half of her face. When his rough fingers brushed the back of her neck, a strange feeling arced down her spine. It made her head light, made her face burn — made the flesh just beneath her skin tighten across her bones.
This was a brand of poison she hadn’t tasted in a long while … but one she remembered well.
She watched the sharpness in the bed of Garron’s eyes as he tied the cloth into place, reveling in the wonder of this poison. It always revealed itself in the most … exciting, of places. It always took her by surprise.
Garron pulled away. There was a patch of skin just visible at the mouth of his collar. Little hairs curled in a thin mat beneath the bone. She’d reached out to touch them when Garron crammed something rather forcefully over the top of her head.
“This is called a cowl, madam. My men often use it on their hunts — it keeps the rain out of their eyes, but doesn’t restrict their arms.” He nodded to himself as he tugged the cowl’s hood over her forehead. “Yes, that’ll do rather nicely.”
She tilted her chin up to him and said, in her sweetest voice: “Oh? And what do you plan to do with the rest of me?”
“I shouldn’t have to do anything — just so long as you’re careful to keep those eyes covered,” he said, tugging the lip of the cowl past her nose.
By the time she’d fought her way out from under the hood, Garron had already marched from the room.
After that, The Poison seemed to swell each time Garron entered her chambers — Olivia could do nothing to stop it. A burning thrill traveled the route of her veins until she had to bare her teeth to keep it from bursting free. But no matter how she tried to get his attention, Garron seemed oblivious to her advances.
He made no notice of the tone of her voice, nor the movements of her eyes. When he asked if she knew anything about combat positions, she replied with something no man could’ve possibly misunderstood — unless that man’s name happened to be Garron the Shrewd. Then he would frown and say that he’d never heard of that style of combat before, accuse her of inventing it, and lecture her for several long minutes about how every lady should at least have some knowledge of how to defend herself.
So Olivia decided to try something a little less subtle.
Each time he approached her room, Garron would knock loudly and ask if she was decent. One night, she wasn’t. And when she called him in and he saw her severe state of undress, he scowled and slammed the door.
He didn’t come to see her again, after that.
“He says you weren’t behaving very well, Miss Olivia,” Alice informed her when she asked. “He says you can come to him when you’ve got your legs back. But he won’t be coming up here again.”
Olivia should’ve found that to be rather frustrating. But instead, The Poison burned hot. She’d never had to work so hard before to get a man’s attention, and she was determined to get it. Garron could huff and roll his eyes as much as he wanted, but he would be hers.
The Poison wouldn’t stop its biting until she had him.
“Good. You’ve finally recovered,” Garron mumbled as Olivia entered the study. He was hunched over his desk, scribbling away. He’d never even glanced up.
For some reason, the maids had hidden all of her dresses while she was ill. The only things Olivia had been able to find to put on were a pair of breeches and a man’s tunic.
The tunic was rather comfortable: she liked the way the soft material draped loosely over her skin. But the breeches were an entirely different matter. “I want my skirts back. I can’t breathe in these foolish things.”
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question, madam. If you’re going to learn how to fight, then you’ll need to wear a garment that allows for freedom of movement — and that isn’t likely to be snagged.”
Olivia wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. “Fight?”
“Of course. As I’ve said on numerous occasions, I can’t allow you trot off to do the chancellor’s bidding without at least some notion of how to defend —”
“I didn’t know you wore spectacles.”
Garron scowled over the top of the small, half spectacles perched at the end of his nose. “I don’t. I only need them for numbers.”
“Oh? And why’s that?”
“Because numbers require a great deal more scrutiny than other written things,” he said testily. He folded the top page and set it aside. Then drew an unsealed letter from one of the compartments in his desk. “I’ve taken the liberty of drafting an explanation to Tristan on your behalf — he’ll be anxious to know why you’ve been absent for so long.”
No, he’ll be anxious to know whether or not I’ve killed you, Olivia thought.
Her eyes fixed involuntarily on Garron’s throat as he went on: “In this letter, you’ve explained that you were able to convince me to accept the council’s terms — it’s not as large a profit as I would’ve liked, but it’ll be more than enough to feed my village,” he explained when he saw her surprise. “You’ve also said that you realized I could be a very valuable ally, as I’m so well-connected to other Grandforest merchants. But though you certainly believe in my ability to bring the two regions closer together, you don’t entirely trust me. So you’ve requested to stay in the forest for the time being — to offer your services as both scout and spy.” He dipped his quill in a bit of ink and held it out to her. “All I need is your mark, madam, and I’ll pass this along to the next courier.”
Olivia smiled as she took the quill. Somehow, Garron had managed to weave a strand of nonsense so gilded that she was certain Tristan would fall straight into the middle of it. She didn’t care about the forest or the seas, or anybody’s profits: she would’ve signed her right arm away for a chance to stay in the forest for a while longer — clear of Lord Basset’s smothering gaze and out from beneath Tristan’s thumb.
“There,” she said, scrawling the last letter with a flourish. “Now what?”
Garron traveled to the hearth, where he sealed the parchment tightly. “Now I’m going to teach you about mercy, madam. You’re going to learn how to carry out your duties without leaving a trail of blood in your wake. I’m going to turn you over to the village healers, where you will learn to make antidotes for your poisons. And you are to always offer your victims an antidote — understood?”
For some reason, the way he scowled drew her smile out. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. And you’re not to lace your poisons with boils or fevers any longer. As I’m sure you’ve come to understand, the inability to defend oneself is punishment enough.”
“Yes … sir.”
He frowned when his eyes flicked from the walls and he saw she’d crept in closer. He took a step back. “Lastly, I’m … that is, I intend to teach you to fight. If anything ever goes badly, you’re going to need som
e understanding of how t — would you kindly stop smiling at me like that, madam?”
She couldn’t stop — the rush and swells of The Poison snaked mercilessly through her blood. She watched as the color spread down Garron’s throat and murmured through her grin:
“I’m very much looking forward to our lessons.”
Chapter VII
The Fishmonger’s Son
OLIVIA GASPED — AN INVOLUNTARY GROAN slid out from between her teeth as the floor bit her middle. Pain stabbed the side of her head. She felt the sharp edges of its teeth, but didn’t dare pause to sooth them.
Instead, she rolled just in time to spare herself from the fall of Mason’s boot.
“Try to stab me, will you? I’ll kill you, you little scab!”
Olivia dove for where her dagger lay upon the floor, but Mason’s hand clamped around her wrist, jerking her back. She remembered what Garron had said about keeping her enemies at a distance. He’d wrestled her easily to the ground each time he managed to grab her. She knew she could do nothing against a man’s superior weight.
So she lashed out. She drove her heel forward with all the spirit of Garron’s stallion and laughed when she struck true.
Mason lost his grip immediately. His face went the color of snow as he stumbled backwards, hands clenched around his important bits. He collapsed upon his chamber floors and lay, curled up and moaning, as Olivia advanced.
Her hand trembled when she retrieved her dagger. The Poison rose as she drew the blade across his arm — relishing in the slight resistance of his flesh, the slow crimson that welled inside the rift. It rose to the banks and spilled over, weeping a single, tiny drop down Mason’s wrist.
“There. That wasn’t so horrible, now was it?” Olivia said as she paced back to the window, cleaning the dagger on the top of her trousers as she went. She was careful to speak in a deeper voice — the one Garron had made her practice for hours. “This is a very gentle poison. You could simply close your eyes and let it take you, if you wish … let Death carry you softly into the under-realm.”
FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy Page 258
