CHAPTER 26 Wren
CHAPTER 26
Wren
‘For a mild purgative, root of rhubarb may prove most effective when combined with a pinch of powdered senna’
– The Green Apothecary: A Guide to Medicinal Plants
‘H OW DO YOU kill a man before he dies?’
The clear, commanding voice rang out across the dimly lit dungeon, penetrating the chatter. As a middle-aged man entered the room, the torches flickered in the wall sconces, casting shadows that danced across the rows of dusty shelves overflowing with exotic ingredients and mysterious vials.
Tall and lean, the Master of Warfare took centre stage, demanding respect with his regal posture alone. His roughened skin hinted at a lifetime of alchemical experiments, his face a web of scarred tissue. He wore pristine, crisp clothing of a fine make, and as he gestured, several rings gleamed on his long fingers.
‘Welcome, novices,’ he said. ‘I am Master Landis Crawford. In this crucible of shadows, you will learn the alchemy of demise: the delicate dance of toxins and the fine art of turning nature’s bounty into kisses of death. What you master within these walls may just shape the destiny of the realms around you.’
Silence fell over the cohort, and Wren looked around, unsure what to make of the master’s grand words.
He gave them all a flat stare. ‘Warfare isn’t a mystical art. It is a cold, calculated discipline, not to be trifled with. All paths lead to the underworld, novices. You’d do well to remember that.’ He motioned to the shelves either side of their desks, laden with ingredients and utensils. ‘Today you are required to concoct a toxin that will kill a man precisely three days before he dies.’
Wren sat up straighter. This was what she had lived and breathed for the last five years.
‘It can take any form, but it must be undetectable to the victim,’ Master Crawford continued. ‘Powder, liquid, I don’t care, so long as it is effective. By the end of our two hours together, you will administer your toxin to a rat assigned to you.’
‘Rats, sir?’ someone called out.
‘Would you prefer I ask you to test it on yourself?’ Master Crawford said, deadpan. ‘We will get to that, I assure you.’
No one answered.
Wren herself didn’t care for rats; she had seen too many of the filthy rodents scurrying through the camps during the shadow war to feel much sympathy for them. Just the thought made her skin crawl.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Master Crawford called impatiently.
Wren didn’t rush to the shelves like everyone else, and to her surprise, nor did Zavier. The pair of them made their own notes and consulted their books, and when the rush was over, both warily approached the ingredients and tools.
Wren had planned on adapting the poison she’d used on one of her first marks after the war, only to realize it had taken her two days to distil safely, and here, she only had two hours. She wracked her brain for poisons she’d previously worked with, ingredients she could predict based on a variety of environmental factors.
Surveying the vials and jars before her, she made quick work of her decisions. She would have preferred to work with fresh ingredients, but she didn’t want to waste time crossing the grounds to the greenhouses. It was the foxglove she reached for first, its bell-shaped purple flowers in stark contrast to the yellowed parchment it had been dried on, and then the delicate white petals of hemlock. In the crook of her elbow, she hung a small basket wherein she placed the blooms, along with oil and a bushel of fool’s parsley. She glanced at the array of mushrooms – the death cap, the dead man’s fingers, and the false morel, dismissing each in turn as too fast-acting.
Returning to her workspace, she unloaded her ingredients. There was no time for maceration, and a poultice would not work given the test subject. Whatever she created would have to be ingested, and the effect would have to unfold slowly...
The rest of the world fell away, and for a brief period, she could almost pretend she was back in her cottage in Delmira, grinding her ingredients and passing them through a cheesecloth. She wrung out each liquid separately, and heated them one by one above a small burner, her mind sifting through the experiments she had performed both under the tutelage of Farissa at Thezmarr and in the years after.
You’ve more than earned the title of the Poisoner...What’s your ledger at now? Seven? Eight?
She scowled as the Bear Slayer’s words came back to her. The Warsword had always had an infuriating understanding of the monster that prowled beneath her skin, of her dark potential. With two warrior sisters, she had often been overlooked as the intellectual one, the quiet one with her potions and books. Torj Elderbrock had seen beyond that, throughout the war and in the years after. He had seen the very best and the very worst of her, and she hated him for it—
‘Shit!’ she hissed, seeing too late that she’d overheated the hemlock extract. She’d have to start again.
Glancing across at Zavier, who was brewing something in a small vessel over a thick candle, she vowed to push Torj from her mind. She had to focus. If she was lucky, Master Crawford might just let her test her poison on her teammate.
She had no such luck. At the end of the two hours, the Master of Warfare watched her administer three drops of her clear tonic to the rat’s water supply. She only hoped she’d got the balance of foxglove and fool’s parsley right.
Master Crawford addressed them all again, collecting what was left of their experiments. ‘Before our next lesson, I expect you all to concoct a cure for the toxin you just created.’
There was a unified intake of breath. Wren gathered she had spotted the same problem as her peers. Not only did the master now hold her leftover supply, but had she known the flip side to the challenge, she might have chosen differently – something that might have been simpler to remedy.
Master Crawford offered a knowing, satisfied smile. ‘Did you think it was going to be easy in my class? I didn’t think you’d need reminding that the discipline of warfare is the most apt embodiment of our academy’s motto.’
Knowledge is the victor over fate. The mind is a blade.
No, Wren decided. She would never need to be reminded of that again.
As they packed up their workstations and shouldered their satchels, the Master of Warfare looked around, smug this time. ‘All paths lead to the underworld, novices,’ he said. ‘But let’s see what road you take.’