“Including Overlord Barnabac Craxon?”
I search Vall’s face for any sign of a flinch at mentioning his name. I don’t feel good goading my mate, yet I’m still thinkingabout how he reacted last time Barnabac—his blood master—was mentioned.
This time, Vallan is ready. His stoic mask remains unbroken when his eyes fall on me. He still looks bored, unimpressed. “Of course. Why do you ask about him specifically?”
I hurry for an answer, spilling, “Because he’s the leader of the Military Ward, of course. The most likely to attack Nuhav. He already has, building his wall of head-pikes.”
Vallan’s grunt this time is somewhere between acceptance and suspicion.
He doesn’t believe me. He knows I’m questioning him for another reason. I don’t like Vallan not trusting me, and I’m the same—I have to trust my mates fully or I can’t trust them at all.
I keep going, trying to ignore the strange moment of understanding—or lack thereof—passing between us. “Maybe it’s time we start planning our infiltration of the Intelligence Ward, with all the attention on Nuhav.” I add with a smirk, “Since one ‘does not simply waltz into the Intelligence Ward without careful planning.’”
The grunt is happier this time. “Perhaps you’re right, silverblood.”
“Will you two stopblathering?” Skartovius snarls from the end of the table where he stands over Garroway. “He’s locked onto something. A mouse, I believe. I can just vaguely read his mind. The thoughts are dim, the sight weak because of the great distance.”
“The mouse is in the Firehold?” I ask.
Skar nods. He’s concentrating hard, eyes screwed shut, while Garroway looks placid and peaceful in his trance.
I can’t forget we almost lost Garroway to the esoteric place we’re calling limbo, when he nearly fractured his connection and took the distance too far to hold.
I worry we’re risking the same thing again, and it makes my skin itch. “Be careful with him, Skar,” I beg. “Don’t make him break.”
“This was his idea.”
“Still.”
A few minutes pass. The anxiety inside me builds and I bounce my knee incessantly. I hate when it’s completely quiet like this. I’m just waiting for something to go wrong.
Then Skar says, “He’s in the old alchemist’s cave. Jinneth notices him and is leaning down to feed him.”
I smile. “A good start.”
“I’ll translate what the old man is saying,” Skar adds, and then starts nodding. “He says he can’t believe he’s talking to a mouse.”
I chuckle. Vallan doesn’t.
“He . . . is speaking about the Loreblood. They’ve made great strides, Jinneth says.”
I sit up in my seat, hopeful, shoulders rising as I tense. Even Vallan looks over, his boredom changed with a degree of interest.
Skartovius dictates more. “After a week’s worth of trial and error, they’ve concocted something worthy, your mother is saying. Endolf is trying to explain it in technical terms but failing.”
I say, “Tell them to talk about the vampire blood as a cancer, like how my mother—”
“This isn’t a conversation, temptress. They’re talking to a fucking mouse.”
I wince. “Oh. Right. Forgot about that.” I sink in my seat, embarrassed.
“Silver destroys a vampire, they’re saying. As we all know. Your Loreblood heals and reshapes bloodlines and loyalties. They’re contradictions, at first blush. Endolf believes the silvercomponent in this elixir will help destroy the ‘monster’ inside the person—the thrall, the vampire, whatever the bond is. It burns out the vampire to restore a person’s . . . humanity, while your Lorebloodhealsthem simultaneously so they don’t die from the physical burning from the inside out. The tincture will work to sever the connection between thrall and master, while bonding them to the Loreblood.”
Skartovius stops his explanation, breathing heavily. He’s beginning to sweat, and so is Garroway. In fact, Garro’s chin and lips are starting to twitch. It scares me.
I grind my teeth, trying to understand the gravity of what Old Endolf is telling us.
“Endolf still can’t believe he’s explaining all this to a mouse,” Skar murmurs.
