“There’s more than just the ressuroot paste in there. The greenish paste is for if you get a fungus between your toes. There’s also mandrake in there, which is supposed to be an aphrodisiac. I haven’t been able to find what that means in my books, but—”
“And ressuroot paste if I need to fake my death. Got it,” I say, eager to end this conversation with haste. As important as it is to me to be honest with children, that doesn’t necessarily mean I want to explain what an aphrodisiac is if I can get away with it. And there is no way in Alondria I’ll be shoving a knife into my chest coated with resurrection paste mixed by a child—no matter how highly it comes recommended.
CHAPTER 23
PIPER
The familiar scents of winter pine and rose leaf waft over me as Abra and I ascend into the Kobii mountains. The carriage rocks against the jagged terrain of the very path I traveled with Marcus and Amity not so long ago.
Marcus.
I close my eyes, trying to breathe in his scent, trying to comfort myself with his memory.
Marcus is going to die, and I’ll never get to feel the warmth of his arms holding me against his sturdy chest.
He’s going to die, because I won’t do what Abra asked.
I can only hope I can keep her away from them long enough for Amity to find a cure for him. That’s Abra’s mistake, after all. She doesn’t know about Amity. About the child’s gift. It isn’t at all like the ones that the queen and I both possess.
Amity’s gift is innate. Not the magical sort. It lies in the way her brilliant mind whirrs, making connections others can’t see.
Or maybe it simply lies within her interest in the topic.
I’ve always wondered about that. Whether people make great strides in research because they possess superior intellect, or because they derive so much joy from the topic of study, spend so much time delving into it, they simply can’t help but make discoveries.
Whatever the reason is for Amity’s prodigy-level skills with potions and medicines, I can only hope they’ll serve her well enough to save Marcus.
My legs itch to stretch, to run, to climb through these mountains and feel the weighty resistance of the incline against my thighs and bones.
Instead, we rattle up the spine of the mountain range like a roach on a log.
Black velvet lines the seats of the coach, making the queen’s paleness even more stark, giving her a sickly look.
“Are you going to tell me what you want from me?” I ask, rubbing at the chafing my restraints cause at my wrists. They remind me of the time I spent a prisoner in Kev’s cabin before I knew Marcus was coming to free me.
I don’t particularly enjoy things that remind me of that time.
The queen raises her brow. “You’ll find out when we arrive.”
I wrack my brain, but I can hardly think what the queen could want from me. At least, not since we took the road toward Mystral rather than where I’d expected—Charshon.
The Rip is in Charshon, according to Lydia. It’s where she expected Az to bring me if he ever got ahold of me. And he certainly tried, sending not only Marcus to hunt me, but a merchant to bid on me at Kev’s auction.
Apparently my Gift doesn’t simply offer me the ability to create music infused with magic. It also gives me the capacity to open and close the Rip between worlds. The ones through which my fae ancestors entered Alondria all those centuries ago.
When the queen threatened Marcus’s life, I assumed she was taking me directly there, but we took the road to the Kobiis instead, headed toward Dwellen. My guess is that our final destination is Mystral.
Unless there’s another Rip in Mystral, I have no idea what the queen wants with me.
“How do you know I can do it?” I ask, trying and failing to look her in the eye, since she often refuses to look at me.
“I’m well-informed of your skill set.”
“So you want me to use my music then?” I ask. “That’s going to be difficult to do given you didn’t allow me to bring my flute along.”
The queen waves her hand dismissively. “We both know there’s nothing intrinsically magical about the flute you prefer. There are rumors you enchanted a man into freezing himself to death with an icicle when you were a child.”
My back goes rigid. I was only three when the incident occurred, but it resulted in the townspeople of our Mystrian village kicking me out. My mother had left me on the outskirts of civilization, a child curled up in the snow and ready to die, when Bronger found me.
“I was three,” I say, rubbing again at the restraints.
The queen hmphs. “All the better. I assume that means your skills have matured since then.”
“I won’t murder anyone for you.”
The queen flashes me a grin, but her eyes don’t participate. “Only your husband, then,” she says, “should you refuse to do as I ask.”
“I think I’ll let you keep the title of husband killer for yourself.” I lean against the wall of the coach, even as I watch for the faintest twitch at the edge of the queen’s mouth.
There it is.
It’s just a rumor, one that’s circulated about the Queen of Mystral for years, but Bronger taught me how to read the slightest changes in facial expression, and the way she’s trying to hide her reaction tells me I’ve hit a nerve.
“Well,” I say, pushing my skull into the velvety fabric, “just because you had a less than desirable husband doesn’t mean you’re doing the rest of us a favor by getting rid of ours.”
The queen’s mouth purses. “The King of Mystral was not a cruel male. He was kind to me when no one else was. When no one else had been in a long time. I won’t tolerate you speaking evil of him.”
The dimple at the cleft of her chin warbles. I leaned forward. “So you didn’t kill your husband then?”
