He could not look away from the bottle’s dusty silhouette against her wrinkled palm. “And can you make more? Of that?”
“Given the right ingredients, I can.”
He discarded the fabric of his tunic. “I have the perfect workshop for you to do so. I will have the ingredients as soon as you tell me what they are. My men will find them immediately. We will ensure your comfort and safety and provide you with whatever you desire, including gold for payment, for you to stay at the Bellringe. I apologize for forcing your hand, but you must understand that I will not keep you like a prisoner. You may have everything King Sendoa offered you and more.”
The medikua did not blink. Nor nod. Nor otherwise show pleasure in all he lobbed at her in exchange for his precarious life. Instead, the old woman met him with the most serious stare she had shared in this whole damned conversation. A pang of uneasiness mingled with all the other debris floating around Renard’s conscience.
“All of that is fine and good, Your Highness. I can make additional serum in a day, but…” Renard did not like that pause. “I must tell you there is a necessary aging process for the serum to reach full potency. A year.”
Renard swallowed. He didn’t know how much potion she’d needto apply each day to stop the necrosis, but surely, even a drop daily would end that bottle before the turn of autumn came to King’s Crest.
He drew in a deep breath. “Do it. Use only the necessary amount and no more. You will provide a list of ingredients to my designated guard and stay here to prepare the serum while we are at the conclave.” The king raised his voice and directed it toward the hall where his servants waited. “Dunixi!”
He immediately appeared, eyes gleaming with the chance to again prove his worth.
“You will take copious notes on what the medikua is about to do. If you cannot manage to doexactlyas she does while we travel, your head will be set to rot on the thumb of the Hand and your body left for the vultures.”
CHAPTER 15
THEHand was teeming with people when Luca, Amarande, the black wolf Beltza, and their Ardenian retinue arrived.
The camp was nearly as large as the one the Warlord had commanded when Luca had been disguised as Miguel and witness to a surprising fight pitting Amarande and Taillefer against a giant of a man and two of the Warlord’s guards.
“It’s much better entering this camp knowing these people won’t kill us on sight,” Amarande whispered to Luca as they approached.
Though it had been several days and they’d had plenty of opportunity, they still had not discussed much about Amarande’s jaunt with Taillefer through the Warlord’s camp, or even much of what they had done on the part of their journey Luca hadn’t seen. Something prickly emerged in Amarande whenever he’d broached the subject, and thus Luca just simply stopped doing so.
Luca wasn’t sure if this was because the prince had died after all that—at her order and his hand, no less—or that Taillefer had become an ally, or if it was something else altogether. Luca simply knew it was best to let Amarande keep those feelings stewing under lock and key until she was ready to bring them into the light. In the larger scheme of things, it did not matter. Taillefer was dead, and his poisons were locked away as securely as Amarande’s feelings about the second son of Pyrenee.
And so, Luca simply whispered back, “I appreciate that my name won’t be a death sentence. Well, from them. Geneva is another story.”
Amarande’s jaw worked as she casually scanned the crowd. Searching for threats as covertly as possible. “I’m sure there are watchers among these people.”
“What kind of dictator would she be if she couldn’t pull that off?”
This earned him a hint of the queen’s beautiful grin. In truth, they’d talked much about Geneva as a threat, but hadn’t seen a sign of her yet. Their journey to the Hand with their guard had been souneventful that it made Luca nervous—and a little humor went a long way in quieting those feelings. “Well then, I suppose let’s make sure the watchers have something good to tell her, eh?”
“Indeed.”
That was when the calls of “My Otsakumea” began. It was broad daylight, mid-afternoon, and there was no missing Luca upon his horse. Or Amarande—though she’d previously wanted to dress in the same manner as her soldiers while representing Ardenia, this was not the time nor place. Thus she wore a garnet ball gown not too different from the one she was wearing during Luca’s rescue. There was no denying she was the queen of Ardenia.
They rode side by side, two guards in front and two behind. The camp was set upon the eastern side of the Hand, and the main path through the tents and coaches was a straight shot to the massive structure’s heel and heart line.
Below the Hand’s palm, a space had been cleared, black flags marking it off and fluttering in the breeze. It was there they greeted Tala, Ula, and Urtzi, a crowd of people following, craning their necks for a better look at Luca. It was all very overwhelming.
“My Otsakumea, welcome back to the Hand,” Tala said with the kind of swagger he used with his resistance crew, the sun-worn lines drawing tight across his face in a clear and undeniable smile as Beltza nuzzled his leg in greeting.
He was proud of this massive camp. Proud of what the resistance had built already. Proud to show Luca. And of course, Luca rewarded him with all the praise he deserved. “Thank you, Tala. Fine job bringing the people to hear me.”
The old man nearly blushed. “It was no trouble—they all want to see their king.”
Luca dismounted, his own cheeks warm, knowing at least a hundred people trailed behind as thousands more stirred at news of his arrival. He put a hand up to Amarande, to help her dismount. She didn’t need the help, but it was the polite thing to do. “Well, they shall in perhaps two hours’ time? Will that be enough to sort through the concerns you’ve gathered?”
“Yes, indeed,” Tala answered. “I will get out the word on timing, my Otsakumea. Urtzi, Ula, will you show the Otsakumea and the queen to their tents, please?”
Something passed between the former pirates as they stepped forward. It was just on the tip of Luca’s tongue to inquire when a voice, loud and pointed, shot out of the crowd like a thunder strike.
“My Otsakumea!” The tone was as rough and tumble as the sparse plants that gritted out a living this far into the sandy bowl. Every head snapped in its direction—including Luca’s. “They tell me you are my king, and if you are any kind of person worth listening to, you will face us now.”
