Adalbrecht, I discover, is a lot like Yannec.
(And not the way I’d prefer, which is dead in the Yssar.)
I’ve known since I met him that he believes the world owes him a tithe simply for being born a noble of Almandy; he likes to feel powerful and to remind others that they are not. And like Yannec, he knows nothing about sleight of hand.
So he gives me nothing else to look at but his chosen bottle while he pulls a crystal goblet from a nearby cupboard.
I have not spent the last twelve months curating a respectable poison collection to not know Augur’s Tears when I see it. The flickers are the giveaway: flakes of gold leaf dancing in the clear bottle in slow, perfect spirals, catching blazing sunset light. Those perfect spirals are a curious property of the tincture, and the gold draws out its potency.
It’s not necessarily a poison. It’s made from the tears of the Low God Truth, and when augurs prophesize, they take a thimbleful to strip away the veils of the world and see things as they are—at least, for an hour or so. Longer than that will drive one mad, and more than a sip will kill you.
Adalbrecht is currently pouring much more than a sip into the crystal goblet.
And that’s when I realize: I may not be able to manage this after all.
Whatever the Golden Wolf has sunk his teeth into . . . it does not require theprinzessinto be alive.
The last bit of security, the last bit of leverage I had against him, is dissolving like a pearl in vinegar.
Adalbrecht walks over to me and holds out the glass. Dying poppy-red sunlight drenches us both, leaving razor shadows beyond its reach.
It’s just me and the margrave. I’m on my own.
“I’ll just take that to my rooms, then,” I say, half turning to the open door. “I don’t suppose you have a lid—”
He twitches the glass just out of reach. “It’s part of a set that stays here. Drink it now.”
I— I don’t know what to do.
I could spill the glass, but he has plenty more left in the bottle.
I could run, but he commands the guards.
I could call for Poldi, but Adalbrecht is the master of this castle.
I could try to get to the boot knife in time, I could kick him, I could . . .
He’s a trained warrior, leader of the armies of Bóern, head and shoulders taller and heavier than I am. And he will eat me alive.
I’m alone, and nothing and no one will save me but myself.
Maybe—I can pretend to drink it and spit it out after I go. That’s the best I’ve got.
I take the glass.
And Godmother Death appears at my side, only to me.
Her hand is on the rim of the crystal goblet, and for once, her face isn’t shifting as it warps between people about to die.
Her face is mine. Myrealone, not the illusion of Gisele.
“Ask me for help, Vanja,” Death pleads. “Please.”
I don’t want—Iwon’tlive out the rest of my days as her servant.
I will do this myself. Even if it kills me.
I raise the goblet to my lips and drink.
