In the stalemate between her and the Redcloak commander, Liliya broke through. The girl swooped forward, looping Ana’s arm over her shoulders. “Run now, talk later,” she snapped, glaring at her brother.
Yuri let out a sharp breath. His eyes darted from Ana to Liliya, and then to Konstantyn and the fire that raged behind them.
And then he exhaled and jerked his chin at Konstantyn. “Help her. Keep close.”
Ramson heard very little of the remainder of the questioning. His mind sifted through the words, the scholars diving into alchemy and theories of magek, yet one single sentence echoed through his thoughts like a cruel refrain.
They die.
A numbness had descended upon him—his body’s defense mechanisms kicking in, perhaps. He anchored himself somewhere between the present and the past, focusing on steadying his breathing.
In the midst of it, his mind lurched forward.
He needed to—hewantedto—no, Ramson didn’t even know what he wanted. In the white fog of his thoughts, a single face surfaced.
Fierce brown eyes beneath a sweep of dark lashes, a boldness to the curve of her jaw, and courage to the pout of her lips. She sometimes came to him standing beneath a curtain of softly falling snow; sometimes in the midst of a tempest, her hair wild and wet and tangled, rain running down her face like rivers.
The rational part of him had thought he might never meether again. But somewhere deep in his heart, he’d held on to something Ramson Farrald tended to avoid.
Hope.
And as he stood there, watching the scholars finish their interrogation and the Royal Guard escort Ardonn to the dungeons of the Blue Fort, two other words began to circle in his mind.
In theory.
In theory, the siphons’ damage could be reversed. And once a siphon was destroyed, the Affinities held within would return to their original owners.
Ramson was one of the last people to go off theories and wild-goose hunts; he had never believed in chasing uncertainty, a deal that wasn’t sealed.
But today, right now, in this moment…in theorywould have to do.
The side doors to Godhallem swung shut, Ardonn disappearing through them, small and thin between the bulky livery of Bregonian Royal Guards. He was a dying man, and he’d looked it: defeated, shrunken, the light to his eyes dulled.
What makes you think I have anything left to sing for?
And just like that, a spark flared in his mind. The first rule to negotiating: You had to have something to give. Find the other party’s weaknesses or desires and use them. He’d made many a Trade this way in his days as Deputy of the Order of the Lily and Portmaster at Goldwater Port.
Ramson stared at the newly built stone doors where Ardonn had vanished, the wheels in his mind turning fast. Ricyn—a poison found only in the roots of a flower in Cyrilia. He racked his brains, drawing a blank. Olyusha would know, he thought irritably.
Then, he froze.
Olyusha would know.
And just like that, an idea—a plan—bloomed in his head. A risky, dangerous one that might destroy everything he had begun to build up for himself here in Bregon and betray the trust he’d brokered with his king.
“Ramson.”
The voice tore him from the midst of his reveries. King Darias was motioning to him from the throne.
Ramson approached. “Your Majesty.”
The King’s eyes were heavy, the lines on his young face much deeper than his fourteen years of age. “Ardonn gave us much to consider—and for that, I must thank you.”
Ramson inclined his head. The motion felt stiff.
“My scholars are discussing; we will continue the interrogation over the course of the next weeks.”
Ramson blinked. “Your Majesty?” he said cautiously. “With all due respect, Ardonn himself revealed that he has been poisoned by ricyn. He has a little over a fortnight to live.”
