Ramson squinted. There…he saw it, a shadow darker than dark…something was watching them.
He drew his misericord and pressed forward.
One of his men made a strangled noise.
The light of their flame had fallen upon the figure, and Ramson immediately recognized it for what it was: a man whose face had bloated beyond the point of recognition, his cheeks purple, spittle trailing a pale line down his face. Someone had propped him up against a tree, tying his hand to a branch in a macabre greeting.
Ramson knew exactly whose work this was. He raised a hand to his men. “Nothing to worry about,” he called.
“I don’t know, sir,” Narron said, eyeing the corpse. “That looks exactly like something to worry about.”
“The killer’s on our side,” Ramson said breezily.
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” came a husky voice, and the next moment, a silhouette appeared behind the corpse.
The past moon had not been kind to Olyusha. Her curls, once golden and lustrous, had been cut to chin-length and tied up with a ribbon; the furs across her shoulders showed signs of wear and tear. Her face had thinned significantly, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Back when Bogdan had been alive, she’d been a woman with laughter that rang gold as the sun; now, her lips were pressed in a straight, narrow line.
Still, Ramson couldn’t help the relief that flooded him when he saw her. “Olyusha,” he said, stepping forward. “It’s good to see—”
The slap sent him reeling. Ramson stumbled back, hand against his cheek, blinking the stars from his eyes.
“One moon I don’t hear from you and you expect to waltz back to ask for my help?” Olyusha snarled. She lifted her hand and Ramson flinched, but he saw that she held a piece of parchment—the letter he had sent her prior to departing Bregon. “ ‘Meet me at the old hideout in Leydvolnya. I trust that you’ll take care of any less-than-friendly intruders should any still lurk there.’ ” She flung the letter into the snow. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t poison you right here, right now.”
Ramson thought fast. “I’m here to tell you about Bogdan,” he said. Not a lie—he hadn’t known how to write her to deliverthe news until now, and he’d been deliberately vague in his letter toher.
As he’d expected, the fire in Olyusha’s eyes fizzled out. She loosed a sharp breath. “Tell me,” she said.
Ramson massaged his face, his skin still stinging from her slap. He was suddenly painfully aware of his entire squad of soldiers watching, slack-jawed, their swords drawn, eyes darting between him and Olyusha as though awaiting his command. Olyusha ignored them, fixing her gaze on Ramson and crossing her arms as she waited.
Gods be damned, this was embarrassing.
“I’ll tell you,” he said, “after you administer the antidote to the scholar, as I requested.”
Olyusha’s expression darkened; her features twisted horrifyingly fast. Suddenly, she lashed out at him again. Ramson felt a sharp prick on his neck, then the heat of something spreading through his veins.
“What—?” he started, but then his throat began to close.
“Bastard,” the poison Affinite snarled, and Ramson caught the tip of her fingernail, sharpened to a knife’s point, reddened with blood and a second clear, glistening liquid. “We made a Trade, Quicktongue. I tell you everything I know about Kerlan’s scheme in exchange for you to bring Bogdan back to me. And now you’re asking for more, you cretin?” She spat at his feet. “Tell me now, or I’ll let the wolfsbane poison take you.”
Ramson’s chest was beginning to seize; he sank to his knees. Behind, he heard his men make to move for him. He held a hand up, and they fell still.
“Captain,” Narron began, but Ramson shook his head.
“Olyusha,” he rasped. His larynx was rapidly swelling, his voice disappearing as his vocal cords cramped. Soon, he wouldn’t be able to breathe. “Please. The scholar…knows…Bogdan…”
A flicker of uncertainty lit in her gaze. She hesitated. Ramson caught sight of the worn hemp sack she carried with her, saw the twitch of her fingers toward it.
So she did have the antidote to the poison coursing through Ardonn’s veins. It had to be in that bag.
His chest constricted, and he finally let himself slump over on the snow. His mind was muddying; he knew the effects of wolfsbane, knew that he would begin to convulse and that everything would be over within seconds.
Dimly, he heard Olyusha swear at him; sensed her shadow fall over him as she stepped past his body to where his squad was gathered. Black spots were beginning to crowd in his vision; air was a distant luxury, and his arms and legs had started to tremble uncontrollably.
Then came an uncomfortable sensation: something sharp pinching his chest, a slow draining of warmth from his body. The cold began to seep back in.
Ramson groaned. A pair of big blue eyes blinked at him and then drew back. “He’s alive,” he heard Olyusha declare flatly. She straightened, wiping her hands on a handkerchief and glaring down at him in utter fury.
Ramson shot her a weak attempt at a smile. “I’d forgotten how fast wolfsbane works,” he mumbled. “Thanks, Olyusha.”
