Short of Amarande’s death, there was literally nothing more Renard could get out of the conclave, and in his mind—which wasmuchclearer than before—spending the night would only serve to provide an opportunity for something less than ideal.
Moreover, the king had a very important meeting for which to prepare.
And so, though supper was barely out of the cook fires, Renard ordered the Pyrenee party to pack up to leave immediately. They drove north several hours before halting for the night in a forest of bent and spindly trees, that, in the pewter relief of the moon at midnight, appeared like the bone-thin hands of death themselves, reaching for the spirits of the stars.
The stiff peaks of home were still so distant they couldn’t be seen with the naked eye, even as dawn came. Renard had once been one for sleeping late, but now it seemed he could barely rest at all, his body like a million bees in a driving hum. Accordingly, he ordered the caravan to continue toward Pyrenee by the rise of dawn, his only concession that his tent stay up long enough for Dunixi to complete his secret treatments. The royal tent was the last item to be packed away.
This pace put them on track to arrive at the Bellringe at midnight.
The morning after their arrival, Renard called for the medikua to resume his treatments with breakfast—Dunixi had been a passable healer on the road but his attention to detail was sorely lacking. Morethan once Renard’s hands had balled into fists so he wouldn’t ring the boy’s throat and be done with it.
The medikua arrived alongside the breakfast cart with a smile upon her wizened old face.
“My king, I bear good news.”
Renard paused in unbuttoning his nightshirt and stared at the massive leather-bound ledger pressed to the woman’s chest. “Prince Taillefer kept a precise record of the tinctures and potions in his workshop.”
The ledger’s considerable weight rattled the king’s crown and other jewelry as the medikua thudded the book upon Renard’s vanity and opened it to a specific page toward the back. There, in neat lines, was a list of potions, the dates they’d been made, and copious notes upon each—all in Taillefer’s embellished hand.
The medikua stabbed a gnarled finger at an entry halfway down.
“Astral ember. That is the name of the tincture that saved your spark of life. According to the prince’s records, he distilled two bottles of the serum two years ago.”
Renard’s heart fluttered from a near-halt into a steady, thumping beat under the open collar of his tunic as he read Taillefer’s handwriting.
Astral ember: A rare tincture but useful if you can get it. Not useful for multiple wounds or poison, but with a single point of kill, very effective in reviving someone for a limited length of time given the correct conditions.
The king straightened. “DUNIXI!”
The boy plowed into the bedroom immediately—he’d sleep outside Renard’s door like a dog if so ordered. Pathetic yet useful. “Yes, my king?”
“Gather the councilors. Mid-bite on their morning tart, it matters not—I want them in my chambers within the next five minutes.”
“Yes, my king.”
When the three members of the Royal Council appeared in various states of dress and alertness, Renard didn’t even attempt to muster a veneer of pretense. He greeted them in the parlor of the king’s chambers, breakfast cart idle and its contents wilting, as he sat in a large, tufted leather chair, as high and mighty as if he were holding court in the Bellringe’s glittering throne room. Fury crackled beneath his skin, muddled with the promise of a path to survival.
He was upon them the moment they sank to the guest divan.
“Where are the contents of my brother’s workshop?” Renard pointedly looked each of the councilors in the eye. Behind them, Dunixi faded to block the exit. “I assume you know. If you don’t, that’s a serious concern.”
“Part of the dowry, my king,” Menon answered with a surprised swoop to his considerable eyebrows. “Your mother had it all packed away and took it with her to Basilica.”
Renard stood, and all three councilors shot up, too. Perhaps out of obedience or fear, but it didn’t matter whether they sat or stood—he loomed over them. Moreover, he’d already banked copious amounts of their fear to leverage along with his height. “Yes, but then my mother murdered the groom, as you may remember. Surely she recalled the dowry?”
Menon exchanged an ill-advised glance with Collette. Laurent’s eyes were miles away from the fury that Renard knew was already coloring his face. The king’s next question was cutting—he was already so tired of these three and their obvious unspoken communication. “What?”
The lead councilor reset, choosing his words carefully and waiting until the full thought was lined upon his tongue. “It was on the royal ship, in the queen’s quarters, when we left Basilica, my king, but as we departed from Ardenia, we found the crates containing Taillefer’shandicraftwere not aboard.”
Renard raised a sharp brow. “Not aboard?”
Menon nodded in confirmation but said no more.
The king took a deep breath, but it didn’t calm the anger lacing tight around his bones. In one swift, satisfying blow, he knocked over the crystal pitcher that held water on his untouched breakfast cart. It fell to the marble floor with a tinkling crash.
Collette hopped back, into the divan, an involuntary gasp upon her lips, as the two old men froze.
“You areawareof what is in those vials, are you not?” Renard asked Menon before pointing his glare at the other two. All three councilors nodded, stricken enough to be reflexively honest. “And yet you’ve lost them? Who else was aboard the ship? Surely the great army of Pyrenee was not idiotic enough to leave such a trove unguarded?”
