“Captain Farrald, sir?” In the semidarkness, First Officer Narron looked immaculate in his Navy uniform, rapier strapped to his hips. He pressed a hand to his chest. “I’ve pulled out our squad from the mess hall, per your orders, sir.”
Ramson jerked his head toward the healer’s wing. “Follow,” he said briskly, and strode forward, pulling the doors open.
The medic’s ward weighed heavy with memories for him, his footsteps sounding loudly on the stone floors. He still remembered the last time he’d been here, after the battle against Kerlan’s forces. Ana had been with him. She’d looked exhausted, bloodied, and bruised—but she had been here, by his side. Everything hadfelt surreal, even hopeful, like the shocking blue of an open sky after a rainstorm.
Torches flickered along the rough-hewn stone walls; there was a distinctly antiseptic smell to the air, the scent of chemicals and alms. Narron’s footsteps echoed dutifully behind him; if the young officer had questions, he asked none. This was one of the reasons Ramson had appointed him as First Officer, and why herelied on Narron for his plan to work.
Two Royal Guards were posted in front of the healing chamber doors. They straightened slightly as they took in the flash of his badges, his Navy captain’s uniform. “Captain Farrald, sir,” they chorused, pressing their fists to their chests.
Of course they recognized him; word must have spread around Bregon that Captain Ramson Farrald was the one who had brought back a highly important prisoner and ward, earning the King’s favor.
Power was currency.
Ramson threw them icy looks. “Did the King’s message not reach you?” He could sense Narron stiffening behind him.
The guards glanced at each other. “No, sir,” one replied. “Apologies, sir.”
Ramson let the ensuing pause drag on for several moments. Then he snapped, “Well? Must I ask you to open the doors?”
The guards practically jumped for the brass door handles.
As soon as they were inside and the doors were shut behind them, Narron asked, “Captain Farrald, sir—”
Ramson held a finger to his lips. “Stay there,” he said, lowering his voice, “and make sure nobody comes in.”
Narron hesitated. Ramson’s muscles stretched taut, his handgrazing against the hilt of his misericord. This was his one chance. He wouldn’t let anyone jeopardize it.
It was a testament to how much Narron trusted him, then, that the First Officer only pressed his lips together before turning and taking a position by the door.
Ramson’s heartbeat steadied as he turned to face the sickbed. Beneath the latticed window, Ardonn’s face was all sharp edges and pale skin, carved in monochrome by the moon. A shadow of a cross fell over his white patient’s gown as he slept.
Ramson leaned close to Ardonn’s ear. “Wake up,” he whispered, then clamped a hand over the man’s mouth to smother his cry.
Ardonn thrashed for a few moments, then tensed as Ramson brought his other hand to his lips, motioning for silence. The scholar’s eyes flitted wildly between Ramson and the door, pupils dilated.
“If you make a sound, I’ll kill you,” Ramson said. Slowly, he removed his hand.
Ardonn licked his lips, his breaths coming shallow. “You mean you haven’t come to murder me?”
“If I’d really wanted you dead, you would never have made it this far.” Ramson folded his arms, and at last, he unspooled the words that would begin to weave together his plan. “I’m here to make you a deal, Ardonn.”
The scholar rasped a chuckle. “What deal can you still make with a dying man, boy?”
Ramson finally allowed the edges of his lips to curl. “What if I told you I could save your life?”
All traces of mirth vanished from Ardonn’s face. “You should know better than to bluff with that,” he said quietly.
“I never bluff. I can get you the antidote.”
Ramson knew the look of a man hooked. Scholar Ardonn’s gaze lingered on him for several moments, as though attempting to decipher truth or lie from the lines on his face.
“How?” he said at last.
“You remember Bogdan,” Ramson said. “The reason I came to Bregon to hunt down Kerlan was because his now-widow tipped me off.” He paused, deliberately taking his time. “Olyusha’s a beautiful woman. Her laughter can light up the room, and her insults sting as much as her poison.”
Ardonn’s chest stilled for a beat. Then he exhaled, staring as Ramson continued.
“She’s a poison Affinite. Had a gift with plants and metals that made up the worst poisons. But…she always had an antidote.” Ramson leaned forward. “Let’s make a Trade, Ardonn. Surely, you’ve heard of this term before, under Kerlan’s tutelage—a Trade is a sworn bargain between two members of the Order of the Lily. I get you the antidote, and you tell me—in extensive detail—everything about your research on siphons and these…theorieson how they can be destroyed.”
