10
Sarim immediately played his part. For this impersonation to be successful, Valine would need to speak as little as possible, because she may have resembled Crown Princess Larysa Olympias, and she might be wearing her stolen jewelry, but she did not sound like her. It wasn’t just the accent that was wrong, but Valine’s voice was noticeably refined against the princess’s light consonants and rounded, rolling vowels. Which was why the “bodyguard” was so essential.
The woman bowed deeply, and Valine waved her hand carelessly, allowing her to stand. Sarim donned an impetuous air, while Valine rediscovered the regal arrogance, she’d buried years ago. It was an effective ruse if one did not look too hard.
Valine’s ink-stained locks tumbled from beneath the wrap, and the ostentatious orange earrings hung like chandeliers from her lobes. The makeup added an extra effect, enhancing the night-dark eyes both the assassin and princess possessed.
“My name is Delphinia. How might I service you, My Princess?”
She was looking at Valine, but with a sanctimonious tilt of her head in Sarim’s direction, he stepped forward with a domineering presence that sent thrills of intimidation throughout the room.
“I will speak on behalf of the princess during this venture.” He had deepened his voice to a sinister rumble, the normally gravelly tones were now mountains brushing mountains.
Delphinia’s gaze whipped to him, and she took in his tall frame, the navy blue of his garb that was one of the official colors of Luneth, the silver moon cycle pin that was Luneth’s crest, the scimitar at his hip displaying Luneth’s weapon of choice, the entire ensemble that marked him as a palace guard. They’d left nothing to chance.
“Of course. How might I be of service?” she repeated.
Sarim glanced around the shop, tucking his arms behind his back as he crossed in front of Valine. His gaze snagged on a shelf of jars, multi-colored hues of green or blue or brown powders and herbs. Valine recognized many of the fragrances, many of them illegal in Runell, but looser restrictions in many of the other kingdoms. She watched him with a reproachful stare. He hovered in front of labelled jars, and though they were written in the Stygian language, she could decipher it—Stygian was one of the four languages she’d mastered, even if it was nearly a dead tongue.
All over Enneive, Ennveian was spoken—or the Common Tongue—but each kingdom did have its own language, among others. Most people could speak two languages. Valine knew five fluently—Ennevian, Adraalian, Runish, Xatho, Stygian, and enough Thyccan to get her by.
Monkshood, used for aches in the joints. Belladonna, used for ails of the stomach. Hemlock, used for agues of the lungs. In insignificant doses such poisons had healing properties. But their true doses? A seed of hemlock, the berries of belladonna, the touch of monkshood; all spelled death.
“The crown requires a very specific poison.”
Delphinia sobered instantly, eyes nervously flickering to Valine while she turned the lamps down low, casting deepening shadows into the oppressive aura of the room. “You are in the presence of a great many poisons. Which do you desire?”
“We do not want the godsbreath you are brewing,” Sarim declared, silencing the anxiety on Delphinia’s face. She deflated in relief. “We come to you for fleur de mort.”
The relief Delphinia expelled immediately evaporated, and a burst of horror gleamed in her eyes. It was unthinkable when she thought they wanted godsbreath, it was unforgivable when they asked for fleur de mort.
Fleur de mort, or daemon’s blood, could only be found in Luneth. It bloomed when the first necromancer, Mrithun, was slain and his life blood nourished the roots of the rose garden he’d fallen in. He then became a patron, and in a patron’s near deity, undying death he was named a daemon. Ever since, the garden in which he’d slipped from this mortal coil was cursed to bear the continent’s deadliest poison. None had been able to replicate it, or its untraceable effects and none had ever survived the daemon’s post-mortem curse. As a result, every rose in that garden bloomed ebony and its stem bled scarlet. The daemon cursed fleur de mort in every fiber of its composition.
“Realistically, we are not asking, madame,” Sarim told her evenly. “I think it unwise to deny the discretion of the crown.”
“It may take me a while to procure the ingredient,” Delphinia delayed, wringing her wrists.
Valine gave her a piercing glare, one so powerful, it could be seen despite the majority facial covering. She decided to risk speaking. She could don a passable imitation, but only for so long.
“Do not insult us by pretending you do not possess it already.”
Delphinia jerked, and fear skittered across her frame. Valine hedged a guess that the apothecary had never had dealings with the royal family; someone who regularly dealt with illegal merchandise and expensed poisons was not as skittish as this.
“Now,” Valine commanded with all the authority of Crown Princess Larysa Olympias of Luneth.
“How many doses?”
This time Sarim interjected. “One, with room for error.”
Nodding once, sharply, Delphinia darted beyond the glass-beaded curtain. Sarim and Valine did not move, they shared a loaded glance and simply waited. A moment passed, then two, and then Delphinia returned, and in her newly violet gloved hand was a glass vial with murky black and red flora. It was no longer than her littlest finger with crushed petals and stem fluttering at the bottom. One dose was a pinch.
Valine, with gloves in hand plucked the vial while Sarim exchanged a pouch of gold. Feeling a miniscule twinge of shame, Valine pocketed the vial because with that purchase of poison, Delphinia had spelled more than one death. It was up to fate’s hands if she would be included in that web.
“Sankta vu,” Valine thanked Delphinia in Stygian.
“Vusa Ishkae,” she responded in kind.
And without a second glance, Sarim escorted Valine out of the apothecary and into the blinding Luneth sunshine.