His nostrils flared as he stared at the bottle.
The wax seal.
Renard scratched a thumbnail over it, right against where the wax met the glass, and a second layer of wax beaded off. Older, faded.
Discarding the fire swamp upon the table, he reached for the vials of astral ember. Same double wax. Same faded crumble.
Renard had to swallow the vitriol down three times to get out his next set of orders.
“Youwill write letters to every medikua and healer you know in this continent and beyond and tell them they will earn three troy ounces of gold for every vial of aged astral ember they can supply by the end of the week—unused, used, a drop left, I don’t care. If they have any, I want it and I will pay for it.”
The old woman nodded, grabbed her kit of tinctures, and immediately made for the door on shaking, wobbling legs. His fingers curled around her shoulder and whirled her around. She hugged the tincture basket close to her chest, arms trembling, as he bared his teeth. “I’m not done.”
“I’m sorry, Your Highness.”
He wagged a finger at her. “Oh no, you’re not sorry yet. Youwill beif you do not report back to me every name and location as soon as those letters are written, do you understand?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
Renard barely acknowledged her terrified agreement as he released her.
As she scurried away, he buttoned his shirt. Tucked it in. And once he looked kingly and whole yet again, not a hint at the necrosis and rot, he snatched up as many bottles of the fire swamp as he could hold and headed for the dungeons.
CHAPTER 45
UPONtheir entry to King’s Crest, Ferdinand and Geneva were marched to the depths of the Bellringe and placed in the same cell. Since the moment that occurred, they’d said very little to each other. Ferdinand crowded one side of the enclosure, Geneva claimed the rest.
Several times Ferdinand watched the woman who had raised him gather herself to speak. He could see it in the cut of her shoulders, the sudden agitation of her movements, the sharpening of her gaze, which had been often askew in the middle distance as she worked out the problem before them.
Still, she stayed silent.
And Ferdinand had no designs about starting the conversation for her.
He could play this game forever. Geneva knew it. She also knew that if she opened her mouth, she would have to win the argument, or she’d never hear his voice again.
Yet despite everything, he knew she wanted to hear it.
No matter what he said.
Ferdinand wasn’t sure how to feel about that.
So instead, he thought about Amarande. About what she would do when she found out he was here. How she would react—and he made plans for whathewould do when she did.
In the fallow moments, Osana would peek into his thoughts, too. But he tried to shut her out—Zavier and Geneva still had a chance to use her, and it felt almost as if thinking Osana’s very name would make it so.
If Ferdinand had learned anything about the Sand and Sky since leaving the caravan, it was that men used women in all the ways they shouldn’t. If he had any sympathy for Geneva, it was that. Though how she handled her situation as a pawn wasn’t as easily forgivable.
He was trying very hard to think of something besides Osanawhen the exterior door to their dungeon lair flew open with a raucous clang and slam.
Ferdinand became even more still, eyes on the bars that strung across their extended cell like the jaws of a great sea creature. Geneva bolted upright from where she’d been lying on the floor, as tense as a bow nocked and ready.
Renard appeared, no guards at his side, no councilors. Nothing but pure rage in his stalking gait, the roll of his shoulders, the clean lines of his handsome face—raw fury under neatly combed blond hair.
The king came to a furious halt, kicking the cell bars immediately in front of Ferdinand. The metal clanged and creaked as he shot an accusation disguised as a question at the prince.
“What did you do to the vials?”
“I did nothing to the vials,” Ferdinand answered, his face placid, even as his heart pounded out a drumbeat in his chest like the one used before the lighting of the firepits—ever increasing with each new strike.
