Now we’re on our way to Othian, the capital of Dwellen. There, we’re supposed to meet up with the others who’re concerned with the threat Azrael poses to Alondria. Which apparently has something to do with him wanting to open an ancient Rip between realms—a Rip he thinks my Gift is capable of opening for him.
But for now, Marcus, Amity, and I are sharing a tent, remaining rather dehydrated because of someone’s paranoia.
We’re all preparing for bed, readying to snuggle up in the far corner of the campsite, when Marcus, despite the chill of the Avelean climate, begins to sweat.
Beads of sweat pool on Marcus’s forehead, settling deep within the creases on his brow as he frowns and grasps at his stomach.
“Hey. You okay?” I ask.
He blinks rapidly. “Must’ve been something I ate,” he says, shaking it off, but I can’t help the tinge of worry that gnaws at my belly.
I laugh nervously. “Well, at least we can know it’s not poison.”
“Yeah, at least not the intentional kind. I don’t know if Lydia has found a way around food poisoning yet,” he jokes, though his voice turns breathy by the end of his statement.
“Maybe I should go and see if Lydia or Elias has any tonics with them. I had some with me, but I used them on Amity last time she was ill.”
I wait for Marcus to make some joke about how he’s surprised Amity, who has an affinity for healing, didn’t replenish our supply already, but he says nothing. He just squints and nods.
I frown, then leave the tent and cross the campsite, looking for Lydia and Elias. I find them in their tent, both already passed out on the floor, I suppose from the long day’s journey. But that doesn’t seem right, since Lydia insisted someone stay up at all hours to watch. We usually take shifts, and unless I miscounted, I’m almost positive it isn’t my or Marcus’s turn.
Unease nags at the back of my mind.
“Lydia. Elias.” I don’t bother whispering. Lydia wouldn’t bother if she was the one trying to wake me up.
Neither of them stirs.
I’m not sure why I do it, but instinct has me grabbing a stick from outside to poke Lydia with. I do, aiming for the soft spot of her neck. When she doesn’t stir, I jab her in the clavicle.
Nothing.
Fear begins to course through me, and I toss the stick to the side, leaning over Elias and pressing my finger to his neck.
A faint pulse beats there. When I check Lydia’s, I find she too is alive.
Something isn’t right. Poison would have been my first thought, but we’ve been so careful.
The image of Marcus wincing and grasping at his stomach overcomes me, and I bound from the tent, racing across the campground. I glance around for Amity, but don’t see her. Worry grasps at my chest as I fling open the tent door.
What I see wrenches my heart from my chest.
Marcus is still in the tent, sweating profusely now, his tunic and trousers drenched as his entire body trembles.
Ropes bind his torso. His hands are tied behind his back, and though he strains against them, the weakness from his illness inhibits him too much for his efforts to make any impact.
Next to him sits Amity, tied up in much the same way. A gag presses into her mouth, though her brown eyes burn with clarity.
Amity, at least, doesn’t appear sick.
I try to focus on that as a female garbed in a silky white robe steps out from the shadows.
She’s pale from head to toe, as if she’s scrubbed away at all her skin and hair and now there’s no pigment left.
“Piper, dear,” she says. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“What did you do to him?” I cut my eyes across the tent to my husband. My gut plummets as I watch Marcus’s eyes roll back in his head.
Don’t die, don’t die, please don’t die.
Amity stares at him, too, her entire body shaking, though in fear or anger I can’t tell.
The stranger clicks the overgrown nails of her forefinger and thumb together. “Poison.”
My stomach clenches, worry washing over me. I find myself scanning Amity from head to toe, searching for any sign that she too might be poisoned.
“I wouldn’t have hurt the child,” says the female, “though I’m sure you don’t understand the sentiment, given your occupation.”
I clench my teeth, but I don’t bother explaining myself to this female. Not when Marcus is poisoned and I need to act quickly if I want to draw information about the antidote out of this stranger.
“Who are you?” I ask.
She purses her lips, as if deciding whether revealing her identity will end up causing her trouble. “Queen Abra of Mystral,” she finally says. Which I suppose means she’s not concerned after all.
My mind whirs with a million questions, a multitude of facts I know about the queen coalescing in my mind, fighting for preeminence.
Queen. Cold. Widow. Suspected of poisoning her husband.
My stomach flips.
