Page 134
I wipe the wound from wrist toward elbow, lifting every trace I can. The cloth leaves a greasy film on the water. I discard it, soak another, and clean again. The poison has entered through open flesh. Washing cannot call it back from his blood, but leaving any on his skin will worsen the dose.
His breaths shorten.
I roll him partly onto his side to keep his airway clear. His body gives me no help. A man built to command halls and battlefields lies motionless beneath my hands, his power trapped behind open eyes.
“Blink once if you understand me.”
He blinks.
“Again if you can breathe without pain.”
One blink, slower.
“Good. Do not fight with magic. Save your strength.”
Anger strikes across our connection, faint but unmistakable. He dislikes the order. That, more than obedience would, tells me he is still fully present.
I scrape contaminated salve from the cut with the back of the wooden spoon, clean it once more, and press dry linen over the wound. My fingers shake now. I force them steady.
Numiscu arrests movement. Heat hastens many flower poisons, so I shove the brazier screen closed with my heel and pull the chaise away from the hearth. I need cool water, clean fylvek, and time to judge the dose. I need Briar. I need Joran to seal the room and seize every jar that came from my new supply.
I test the pulse at Rhysandir’s throat. It is slower than it should be, but steady. His skin has not blued, and air still passes between his parted lips. That gives me a narrow margin, not safety. Numiscu does not kill by corrupting the blood. It makes the body surrender one function after another while the mind remains awake. If the dose reached him through a shallow cut, the spread may halt before his lungs fail. If the salve was concentrated, the next few moments will decide whether he survives long enough for me to support him.
“I know what this is,” I tell him. “I will not abandon you to it.”
Then armored footsteps sound in the passage.
Not one guard. Many.
Their measured tread strikes the stone in unison. The weight is wrong for household patrols, whose routes I have learned. These boots advance without pause, iron answering iron outside Rhysandir’s private chambers.
I turn toward the doors.
No alarm bell has rung. No servant has shouted. Whoever approaches expects entry.
The timing reveals what the poisoned herbs alone could not.
The false rirzed was placed where Nessa would direct me. Rhysandir was wounded the following morning. I opened a fresh jar before him, spread the poison into his blood, and now armored witnesses arrive while the salve, the jar, and my hands bear numiscu residue.
This was never meant only to kill him.
It was built to name me as his killer.
I set the poisoned jar on the table instead of hiding it. Concealment would strengthen the lie. I place myself between the doors and the chaise, though my body cannot stop armed dark elves.
Rhysandir watches me. His chest barely rises.
The footsteps halt outside.
Metal scrapes against the latch.
I plant my feet on the black stone, blood and bitter water cooling across my hands, and prepare to defend the man I have been fashioned to condemn.
24
RHYSANDIR
My body has become territory held by an enemy I cannot see.
