I back away, shaking my head. “I’m not saying that.”
“But you are saying he’s not trustworthy. And implying that your information could help King Siles and his Scaler army and therefore hurt Count Malandre’s personal agenda.”
“I…I think you’re reading into things,” I stammer.
“Well, I suppose I’ll find out tomorrow night.” His smile returned, Rhydian says, “Meet me here at five o’clock. You can go to the king’s banquet as my guest. I’ll provide the clothes and wig, all you need to do is bring whatever evidence you’ve collected and those scales you want to sell me.”
~ * ~
There’s only one problem with Berrel’s plan. I don’t have any place to go before tomorrow night. When I return to my small, cozy room, the tears begin to prick my eyes again. I pack my bag slowly and then the emotions overwhelm me. I lay out on the mattress.
What if King Siles doesn’t believe me? What if none of it matters anyway, because Adom has gone off to Onyx where the dragons are waiting to pounce on him? Where will I go if everything unravels? Where will I go even if the king believes my story?
I sit up and hoist the bag over my shoulder. I can do this. I can sleep in the forest if I have to. I know how to make myself a bed of leaves, and I know what plants are edible at least on Onyx. I can’t use a fire, because it would draw too much attention.
I open the door, and move out into the hallway. Ryrick stands in the middle of the path, blocking my way. His eyes are soft and contemplative.
“Come with me,” he says, and turns.
I follow him outside, away from the courtyard, to the east tower.
“Patience already has a bed made up. There’s soup on the hearth.”
“Ryrick, no,” I protest weakly. “I don’t need help. I have a cousin—”
“Don’t lie to me, El,” Ryrick says. “I know you have no one. I’d be a heartless monster if I let you sleep in the forest with the boars, elk, and the murderous dragons.”
My blood runs cold. He and Patience both said there were dragons in the king’s forest. Were changelings really hiding out so close to the castle?
No, I decide. If there were changelings in the forest. Adom would have found them by now. It must just be an expression.
“I don’t want to be a burden,” I mumble.
“You aren’t one,” he assures me as he knocks on the door to the physician’s chambers.
“I thought you and Patience went hunting today?”
“We had to cancel. Patience was needed at Lady Celeste’s bedside.”
“Oh. Right.”
Patience opens the door and smiles widely when she sees us. “I hoped Ryrick would be able to convince you to join us.”
“I’ll only trouble you for supper, then I’ll be on my way.”
Patience gives her father a knowing look, and then places a gentle hand on my arm. “Stay as long as you feel comfortable.” She takes Ryrick’s elbow and drags him to the cooking cauldron and the two of them fuss about the color of the stew and how it doesn’t taste salty enough.
I set my pack down and close the door, gratefully breathing in the scent of rosemary, sage, and beef simmering in a delicious medley. When I straighten, I notice that Ryrick was telling the truth: Patience has a second bed made up in her laboratory.
Then food is served, and the three of us sit down and eat. I laugh more this entire evening than I can remember laughing the whole of my life.
When I wake up the next morning, Patience is in the next room, humming, her delicate hands working over what looks like a great mass of dragon scales. I shoot out of the pallet immediately and peek around the corner to get a better look at what she’s doing.
“You can just ask me,” says Patience, without turning around.
My cheeks heat up, but I slip smoothly around the corner and sit next to her. “What are you doing with all those dragon scales? Where did you find them?”
“Some of my visitors pay me in dragon scales.” She peers at me and then her eyes go quickly back to her work. “I’ve also found some in the forest. Not a lot. But enough to make me suspect there was once one living there.” She threads a needle and begins to sew. “I’m making a new kind of armor. Dragons are impervious to blades and arrows, yes? And they can withstand an intense amount of fire. It seems more sensible to use the dragon scales to make armor for when Ryrick and I go hunting than to string them into jewelry and sell them for things I don’t need, doesn’t it?”
I notice many of the scales are purple and speckled. It reminds me of the note Adom received at the Volcourt Inn. The note said Fire Breather found another changeling, a purple speckled dragon. Maybe this new dragon was living in the forest now. If that’s the case, Ryrick and Patience weren’t safe hunting. The dragon-scale armor could protect her from a blast, maybe, but it would be no match for the fierce chomp of dragon incisors.
Patience sets aside the project. “But this can wait. You’re here to learn about salves. Want to go to start in the forest? The best way to learn is to start with the healing plants.”
Soon, Patience and I are on our way, she dressed in deer hide and sturdy boots, a bow and arrows slung over her shoulder, while I’m dressed in what was a breezy yellow dress that Patience modified with rope to turn it into baggy yet practical harem pants.
“Do you like it?” she asks, while I skip over a rock.
“Can you turn all my dresses into pants?” I ask. “It makes movement much easier.”
She laughs. “It was a fast job because I didn’t want you tripping over your hem while we walked. If you want it to be a permanent change, I’ll get out my sewing basket tonight.”
I’m amazed. Patience is an apothecary, physician, hunter, and seamstress. I think about her stew from last night and smile. At least she’s not perfect at everything. I stare at her, grinning, and she blushes. For someone with such talent, she’s remarkably modest.
I glance at the sun, high in the sky. Not too far in. I have no inclinations to suffer Lady Celeste’s fate. With this resolve, we clamber into the woods, fighting high grass and sharp twigs. This battle with nature reminds me of the untamed woodlands of Onyx.
The king’s hunting forest isn’t in a constant changing state like the Forest of Four. Squirrels collect nuts at a leisurely pace, not in the frenzied, frantic pattern of Onyx squirrels. Once, we see a deer raise its majestic head and stare for a long moment.
Patches of sun marble the area, whirling in intricate designs the way the flecks had in Muuth’s little “kaleidoscope.” A black bird caws and swoops across my path—an ominous sign, or a benevolent omen? I can’t recall.
“Over there,” Patience says, approaching a yellow, flowering shrub. She sets down her bow, and pulls out a bag and a rudimentary knife. “The leaves and the bark are the valuable part.” She hands me the knife. Her cheeks turn pink. “Get to work, lazybones.”
Under Patience’s guidance, I gather what we need from the witch hazel, enjoying the soft cadence of her voice. She tells me an old folktale about two lovers who met under a full moon by a witch hazel tree and how, even long after the lovers passed away, the shrub’s flowers bloomed blood-red as a sign of the intensity of their forbidden passion.
After we take what we need from the shrub, Patience changes course and steers me to a different plant, a ginger flower. Some of the herbs she mentions are not ones I’m familiar with; they aren’t native to Onyx Island. There’s a plant, it seems, for any type of ailment.
I allow myself to relax, slowly, and simply enjoy the company. I’ve never had a real friend before, someone my age, someone I actually appreciate spending time with. It isn’t in my nature to waste words on pleasantries, but Patience fills the silence with meaningful words, small lessons, careful reflections. I breathe in the sweet aroma of wild flowers. A sweet-smelling bush weighed down with tiny cluste
rs of purple fruit, catches my attention. I put one of the fruits in my mouth, then grimace and spit it out, disliking the sour taste tingling along my tongue.
“That’s a barberry,” Patience explains. “It’s bitter, but it won’t kill you.” Then she smacks my arm. “Don’t go around putting unknown fruits in your mouth. Some are poisonous.”
Another, similar bush just ahead is more withered than the last. Drawing closer to it, I lift my leg high to avoid a dead log. The bottom of the bush appears to be burnt. Plenty of other dry objects lay nearby—thin twigs and dried leaves can easily have caught fire along with the bush. But the scar is contained within the parameters around the one area. A campfire? Remnants of the king’s hunting trip?
Patience’s fingers tighten around my arm. “That doesn’t look right to me.”
“No, it doesn’t.” I jerk back. My breath sticks in my throat. Heart hammering deafeningly in my ears, I retch. Patience puts a hand on my back to steady me. It takes several long moments before I can fully comprehend. It isn’t a log.
“It’s a burnt body.” I put a hand over my mouth.
She draws her bow and nocks an arrow. “It smells fresh. We should leave.”
The corpse’s features are indistinguishable and blackened to ash. The arms and legs are positioned as if he spent his last moments defending himself. What do I do? I can’t call for help. He or she is already dead. Evidence, I tell myself. You’ve found evidence. The thought doesn’t console me. What if it’s King Siles? What if I’m too late? If it is, Trana will fall into turmoil.
“We have to tell someone,” Patience says.
“Who?”
“Ryrick.” She studies the ground, chewing the corner of her lip. “He’ll want me to examine it. I have case files of clinic visitors in my office. I might be able to identify the victim.”
Of course. I’m grateful Patience is here to speak some common sense. If I’d been alone, I would have run. Deeper into the woods, deeper into danger. We need to identify the body. “Do you want us to carry it back to the castle? I think I could sling it over my shoulder...”
Patience tucks her arrow away and secures her bow. “I’ll help. But we should move quickly. If whatever did this to him is still out here, our lives are in danger.”
Together, we lift the flaking corpse and clumsily drag it back the way we came. Patience’s face blanches with the exertion, and a streak of soot paints her cheek. Her hair is disheveled, and her eyes are glassy and wild. I’m sure I look no better. The body reeks with the most unbearable charred meat smell. Burnt skin and clothing erodes between my fingertips.
By the time we reach the servants’ courtyard, I am gagging. Patience has somehow managed to keep a cool head, but I suppose that is her natural state in a crisis. She directs me to put the corpse down near an outdoor table. A flood of servants pour out of the castle.
“Go find Ryrick,” she instructs one in her characteristically soft voice. To another, she instructs, “Get me a plank. I need the body on one to carry it to the tower. And you,” she points. “Get a bucket of water, two fresh rags, and a couple of mugs of ale.” The servants scatter.
I eye her with incredulity. “What do we need the ale for?”
“You’re in shock,” she says. “The drink will calm you. And we need the water and rags to wash off. Ryrick will help me move the corpse to my clinic, and you should lie down. I don’t want you to pass out when it all finally hits you.”
“I’m fine,” I say even though my body is now shaking. “I’ve seen worse.”
Patience nods. “Ryrick told me you’re a survivor.”
The servant tasked with bringing the water and ale returns, but he is not alone. Cydra follows close at his tail, her bony shoulders jerking and jolting with every angry step. She sees the corpse and her gait slows. Then she sees me and her mouth falls open. Rage simmers.
“I told you to leave,” she says. “I’m calling the guards.”
Patience steps forward. “I asked her to stay.”
Cydra snaps a finger toward the corpse. “What is this?”
“We found a burned body in the forest,” I explain.
Cydra whips her head toward me. “How dare you bring this into the king’s home?” She turns as if she plans to storm off, probably to call the guards to arrest me.
“She was acting under my instruction,” Patience says calmly. “The corpse needs to be identified, and a full report must be made to the king. Bodies and wellness are my jurisdiction. I believe it is safer for everyone if a proper inquiry is made. Elanor is my assistant.”
“You can’t be serious,” Cydra says between a clenched jaw. “She doesn’t know anything about medicine. She lied about working for Count Malandre. She’s probably lying about—”
“Who I choose to hire is no business of yours, Cydra.” Patience has her arms folded, but she is unflustered, a block of ice against Cydra’s boulder-stare. “I need an assistant.”
“She doesn’t have papers!” the Housekeeper explodes.
Patience shrugs. “She doesn’t need them. I believe she’s capable of the job.”
“She can’t stay in the servants’ quarters.”
“She can stay with me.”
Cydra’s face turns beet red. “You’ll regret this.”
Ryrick slides between us. “That’s enough, Cydra. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
“But your daughter—”
“Is not your business. One more word and I’ll file a complaint. I’m saying this as your oldest friend: you are outside the bounds of your position. Go and take a few minutes to compose yourself. You don’t want the king to hear you made a scene in the courtyard.”
Cydra hangs her head. “I...apologize, Ryrick.”
“It isn’t me who deserves those words.”
She looks up, and the defiance is plain in her eyes. Then she sighs in exasperation and walks briskly away. After she’s gone, Ryrick turns to survey the corpse. He strokes his beard thoughtfully, but there is grief shining in his eyes. “It’s Lord Darton. What a tragedy.”
“How do you know?” I ask, aghast.
“His red beard. He’s burned, but you can see some strands on his tunic.” Ryrick points to the chest. “Do you see the gold buttons? They’re melted, but you can still see his insignia on that one. He mentioned to me yesterday afternoon that he was going hunting. I told him to take a footman at least to assist, but he declined the offer.”
“Will you help me carry him to my lab for study?” Patience asks Ryrick in a matter-of-fact tone, rolling up her sleeves.
I glance at her, surprised. She doesn’t even appear to be shaken by the older woman’s visceral words or the corpse at arm’s length. I thought I was strong and unmovable, but Patience is putting me to shame. Beyond the mild exterior, she is a warrior.
Ryrick nods and turns to me. “We’ll take care of this.”
I gulp down the remainder of ale and wipe my hands clean with one of the rags and the bucket of water. “I’ll take the dishes to the kitchen.”
I take the empty ale mugs and leave the remaining rag and bucket for Patience. I watch, sickened, as she and Ryrick lift the plank with the crispy body on it, and carry it toward the tower.
The cook is almost finished with the dinner preparations. Scullery maids frantically try to keep up with the dishes, while the assistant cook, Handen, pulls the spicy roasted meat off the spit. Longley wears a heavy woolen frock, a cream-colored hat, and two black gloves. She slices leafy green designs with metal cutters, and slivers red peppers. On an iron pan over the wood fire brick-and-tile stove top, one of her workers patiently grills mushrooms.
“Where can I put these two mugs?”
Longley arranges the freshly cut vegetables and spoons gravy onto each plate. The smell of the roasted meat causes my stomach to sour. She doesn’t bother to look up from h
er arrangements. “You can wash them in that basin of soapy water. They belong in those glass cabinets over yonder.” She dips the ladle into a gravy dish, refilling her supply.
“Are you making the meal for the banquet tonight? Can I help?”
“Didn’t Cydra fire you?”
“Yes, but then Patience hired me. I wouldn’t mind assisting, if you need extra hands.”
“No, thank you. I heard where those hands have been today.”
“You heard about the body in the forest? Already?”
Longley nods. “News travels quickly here. The king himself already knows, no doubt.” Her lips grow tight. “Curious minds always find trouble,” she lectures. “If you really want to help, go tell Donja the food will be ready to take to the king’s private feast hall at a quarter to five.”
Donja loiters outside the kitchen, wearing an impatient frown. In appearance and manner she reminds me of Raina, but where laugh lines crinkle the inn maid’s face, a deep-set scowl mars Donja’s. She sees me emerging from the kitchen and her expression darkens.
I breeze past her, quickly repeating Longley’s message before padding up the staircase in a hurry, my heart racing. Time to see about this disguise Lord Berrel has for me. Hopefully it’s a good one and the servants won’t recognize me. I need to fill Berrel in on the corpse we found in the forest. If it really is Lord Darton, as Ryrick suspects, this could be the evidence we need against Malandre. Footsteps echoing below me cause me to falter.
Cydra stomps rapidly up the stairs. “What are you doing?” she growls. “Shouldn’t you be off in the tower, assisting your mistress with that dead corpse?”
“She instructed me to take a break, ma’am.” I could use some of Patience’s cool right about now. Even though I hate to admit it, Cydra intimidates me almost as much as Silva used to. I wouldn’t even be shocked to learn she’s a changeling dragon. That would be a relief, actually.
“You shouldn’t be in the main hall, anyway. Anyone could see you, and you aren’t wearing a uniform.” She pauses a moment and wipes a speck of dust off the landing. “I saw you leave the kitchen. You’re no longer a between maid, so you have no cause to go there again.”
Slither Page 16
