“Of course.” Balat snapped his fingers. A servant hurried forward and, with a deep bow, held out an ornate golden serving tray bearing a pitcher of water, two glasses, and a small box. Balat set the pitcher and both glasses on the table and lifted the lid of the box to reveal a tiny crystal flacon filled with a deep purple liquid.
“You’ll find it much more powerful than the batch I brewed up for you before.” Balat unstoppered the flacon and poured a single, scant drop of the purple liquid into the pitcher of water, stirring it with a glass rod the servant produced from an apron pocket. “Even this is a much higher concentration than is advisable. To avoid detection, I recommend diluting a single drop in two gallons of water every two or three months and dispensing it no more than a quarter cup at a time. Would you like to sample it yourself?” At his friend’s nod, Balat poured two glasses from the pitcher, offering one to his friend and keeping the other for himself. Balat tossed back the contents of his own glass first, knowing his friend would not drink until after he did. He didn’t take offense. His friend’s suspicious nature was, in part, exactly why Balat liked him so well.
After waiting a few seconds to observe the effect of the drink on Balat, Mur’s guest sipped at his own glass experimentally, and his eyes widened.
“That’s far more potent than before. This is like drinking youth itself.”
“Yes, I’ve learned the trick of separating out the toxins so I can distill the potion to a much higher concentration, which greatly amplifies its effect and eliminates the side-effects you worried about before. The potion won’t bring the dead back to life, mind, but it does an excellent job of revitalizing whatever absorbs it. Short of drinking from the Fount of Æternis itself, nothing could do more to hold death at bay. This small flacon should supply you for twenty years at least.”
Balat corked the flacon, molded soft gold wax over the stopper to seal it tight, and tucked it back into its box. “As we agreed, I am including the recipe for making more.” He displayed a folded card, the inside of which was scrawled with alchemical notes. After laying the card atop the flacon, he closed and latched the box with a flick of his thumb, then handed it to his friend.
Balat’s guest immediately went to open the box, but the instant he touched the latch, bright yellow sparks shot out. Snatching back his smarting hand and shaking it against the shock he’d just received, he favored Balat with a scowl. “A protection spell?”
Balat smiled. His friend wasn’t the only one with a suspicious nature. “Simply a bit of insurance. I am giving you the extract as a show of good faith. When I have what you promised, I’ll send you the key to remove the spell. In the meantime, my servant here will bottle up the contents of the pitcher. That should be enough to last the summer.”
His friend regarded him with open bitterness. “After all this time, I’m hardly likely to betray you, now am I?”
Mystral’s most infamous slaver shrugged and gave another small charming smile. “Caution has always served me well. So, do we have a deal, my friend?”
Calivan Merimydion reached across the table to shake his hand. “We do. Before summer’s end, the Seasons of Summerlea will be yours.”
An hour after the sails of Calivan Merimydion’s ship disappeared over the horizon, a new set of sails appeared, these from a ship approaching from the north. Balat dined on a succulent feast of lobster, saffron rice, grilled vegetables, and glistening fruit as he waited for the ship to draw near.
When it did, an enormous, scary brute leapt aboard and headed straight for the dining table, ignoring Balat’s icy disapproval as he plopped down at the table and reached over to snatch a handful of grapes from the serving platter.
“You there.” The man known as the Shark, Mystral’s most feared pirate, snapped his fingers at one of Balat’s servants and pointed to the empty tabletop before him. After a hesitant look to Balat—who nodded—the servant bustled off and returned a few seconds later with a fresh table setting for the pirate. “I received your message. I take it your friend decided to come through for you?”
“He did.”
“We could do this without him, you know.” As the Shark spoke, a parade of servants came by, offering a wide selection of fine delicacies from the sea and local farms. He helped himself to three large reef lobsters, a salad, spiced cucumbers, roasted taca root, and a bowl of warm, crusty rolls swimming in melted garlic butter. “That spell you taught me has been working well. We can take the Seasons without additional help.”
“Perhaps, but I’ve done the calculations and consulted with my seers. Taking the Seasons without his help adds unnecessary risk. This is too important an opportunity for me to leave anything to chance. I want the Seasons spirited away without the slightest trail leading back to either of us or to any of my clients.”
“The Winter King will suspect at least one of your clients. The Maak hasn’t exactly been subtle in his pursuit of Autumn Coruscate.”
“Suspicion is a far cry from certainty. Without proof, they won’t dare start a war with the greatest military power on Mystral. And taking all three Seasons instead of just the one will help allay suspicions that would otherwise go naturally in the Maak’s direction.”
“And who would be the second person they’d suspect? I’m thinking Mystral’s most infamous and influential slaver.” The Shark gave Balat a pointed glance.
“True. But that’s why I have you—to give them other, more inviting trails to follow.”
“Hmm.” The Shark pulled off the tail of largest of his lobsters and cracked the shell with a flex of his massive hand. Pulling out the succulent meat, he drowned it in the bowl of butter and consumed it in three large bites. “And once you have the Seasons, I get what I want?”
“As soon as my transactions for them are safely completed, I’ll give you everything you need to destroy your enemies.”
“Then we have a deal.” The Shark shook back the long coils of his green-black hair and cracked one of the lobster claws with his teeth. “Shame those witches of yours can’t whip up a scry spell for me. I’d give anything to see thatkrilloMerimydion’s face when he discovers all three of his preciousoulaniprincesses are gone.”
Konumarr, Wintercraig
“Holy Halla, home of all good gods!” Summer muttered the mild curse beneath her breath and tried not to gape at seemingly endless mass of perfect male humanity striding boldly down the crowd-lined streets of Konumarr.
Yesterday, Gabriella had been telling the truth when she assured her sisters she wasn’t the least bit nervous about the Calbernans coming to Konumarr, but today that same statement would have been a flat-out lie.
Beside her, Spring gave a stunned, wordless noise, while Autumn grabbed Summer’s hand and whispered, “I know what you mean. I think I’ve died and gone to Halla.”
The Calbernans had arrived. Fifteen ships full of men: a literal invasion force. Only this time, instead of being greeted with swords and arrows as they had this past winter, the invading Calbernans marched down the streets of Konumarr beneath a celebratory shower of flower petals.
Summer found herself shrinking back as the Calbernans, tall, dark, barbarically handsome, drew closer to Ragnar Square and the royal party that had assembled to greet them. She’d always found the Winterfolk intimidating, with their broad shoulders and towering forms, but the Calbernans were even more so.
