I swiped the bottle, jammed it into my pocket beside the acorn, readjusted the casement, and returned the crown to its original place. Then I hightailed out of there, detouring to the armory tent next. It took half an hour of squatting in a thorny hedge before a group of soldiers vacated the interior.
By the time I slipped inside, Rhys had stomped into his pavilion with the grace of a rhinoceros. According to whispers between the officers, he had accepted their plan.
While disguises for Reaper’s Fest might require makeshift weapons, the imbalance of wielding commoner defenses against advanced ones still eluded me. That was assuming other loyal troops were indeed the targets. But with the revels approaching, I couldn’t waste time speculating.
After inspecting the assembly of every cleaver and scythe, I went to work. Yanking an ancient root-shaped awl from the smith belt at my waist, I clamped it between my teeth. A basic version wouldn’t have disassembled a thing. Not to the necessary degree, not within minutes, and not on its own.
This one had been graced by nature. It succeeded in creating fractures in the handles, then loosened the grips from each blade. Next, a file whittled down the honed edges.
Last, I went after the sickles, pitchforks, and other random instruments. Subtle adjustments, so no one would detect vandalism. Keeping it to a moderate number, Iconcentrated on a fraction of the weapons instead of the whole assortment. To these knights, the damages would appear faulty and lacking quality.
Moving swiftly, I winced through the motions. These tools had been crafted by someone who valued them. And here I was, botching up a fellow smith’s labor.
Picturing the clan and every born soul in this kingdom, I labored onward. I should have been out of here by now, but in case Lyrik’s concoction failed to wipe out every weapon, backup precautions like this were essential.
After returning the awl to my belt, I reached for a bundle of reeds tethered around my ankle. The straw-like batch Lyrik provided resembled a dead bouquet, except for the glowing nubs sprouting from each stalk, the bulbs injected with the type of stuff I normally wouldn’t inflict on a serial killer. But for murderous knights and a tyrannical king, exceptions could be made.
The rogue promised this wouldn’t injure the oak or any other tree. But it would fuck up everything else, all while seeming like an elemental act.
I gripped the reeds on both ends, snapped them in half, and pitched the clump at the stock of compromised weapons. Oxygen did the rest, activating the stalks. Embers flew, the bundle sizzled, and black tendrils coiled from the split.
Smoke leaked from the pavilion. Hollers erupted, shrill and overlapping.
“Fire!”
“The armory tent!”
Footfalls charged my way while someone bellowed, “Water!”
“Thirty seconds. Then kiss your ass goodbye.”
Replaying Lyrik’s warning, I dropped to the grass and scrambled under the tent. Three yards later, I launched to my feet and bolted.
And the camp exploded.
34
Aire
Quakes ricocheted across the ground. My eyes blasted open, the ruptures coming from a distant source. Torn from slumber, I leaped upright off the mattress.
Bracketing my palms on the quilt, I panted into the cabin. Sweat laminated my naked chest, and eventide poured an ominous sheen through the windows. Once more, the floorboards shook, rattling like loose teeth.
Not enough to disturb the enclave. But enough to pull me from a dream of hazel eyes and a pair of open lips moaning my name. That accounted for the heat assaulting my hardened cock.
This predicament deflated as a breeze agitated the bed linens, the current’s texture harsh. Alert, I ran my fingers over the gale, which sliced through my fingers in alarm.
My head snapped to the glass panes. The vague echoes of men and women hollering scraped through my ears.
Scalp prickling, I continued tracing the breeze, listening to the signs it delivered. Crackling flames. Chemicals detonating. Along with the cacophony, the horrific scent of scorched flesh, melted iron and myrrh.
No!
I tore out of bed. Dismissing a shirt, I strapped on the broadswords, jammed my feet into the leather boots positioned beside the front door, and blasted out of the cabin. Pumping mylimbs across several bridges leading to her cabin, I blew through the door.
The unmade bed stood empty. As did the peg rail that usually held her axe.
Hissing, I raced outside. After passing Nicu’s cabin to find it undisturbed—he slept soundly—I ripped a path to Lyrik’s alchemy chamber. He did not bunk here, but the toxins floating through my senses were hardly a coincidence.
