Chapter 23 #3
Well, Hymn said distastefully, when a monster consumes another monster, if they’re strong enough, they have a chance of stealing their power.
The shadowsong is feared, even in the Quiet.
Most monsters will want to kill me to eradicate it.
The strongest monsters will want to kill me to gain it for themselves.
That’s why we can’t let any of them touch me.
That day, my family called me world-killer.
They were so scared of me that they tried to end me.
She turned, snuggling into the warmth of Ren’s bare chest. There was no tug low in her stomach, or tickling sense of excitement, only a deep need for comfort and familiarity.
So deep and overwhelming that she couldn’t seem to get close enough, but Ren could sense it, somehow, and he drew her flush against him again, his hands soothing along her spine.
He loved her, she realised.
She knew it as surely as she knew that … she didn’t love him in return.
What a mess, she said, turning her face to brush her tears away against the sheets before Ren could feel them on his skin.
Hymn drifted up to her neck, gently coiling around the tightness in her throat, his little head nudging her jaw.
You’re a good person, he insisted. He’s lucky to have you as a friend.
You aren’t scared of his monster finding you right now? she asked Hymn.
His monster is tightly leashed. It always is around you. Their monsters aren’t like Chasin’s or King Grigori’s; they aren’t powerful enough to sense where I am, to search your body for me. They will feel that something is nearby, but your friends always keep them contained.
She hugged Ren even tighter.
Of course they were putting in extra effort for her without ever once mentioning it.
She didn’t deserve any of them.
Eiko didn’t remember falling asleep, but she awoke to an empty bed, the sheets still warm from Ren’s body. She dragged herself to the wardrobe and collected a fresh uniform, stumbling into the hallway.
“Had a little visitor, did you, lass?” Ewan, she recognised that Stormridge brogue.
“Saw him sneaking out of your room earlier.” He slapped her on the back, propelling her forward in a stumbling step.
“Atta girl! Gotta test the waters before you settle down with one of those stuffy gold princes, ay?”
She received at least three more back slaps before she reached the arena that morning.
“Heard about your visitor” was the first thing Cairn said as he shoved a staff into her hand. “You need to be careful. Gossip spreads like wildfire around here, and the King of All has eyes and ears everywhere, even here.”
She nodded, all of her usual bluster missing. “Understood,” she muttered, adjusting her grip in preparation. She had far too much to worry about to care that the soldiers were gossiping about something that didn’t even happen.
World-killer.
It was so much worse than city-swallower.
She and Hymn were the same.
There was a power inside her that others would kill for, and it might very well kill her to use it. And if she wasn’t careful, then one day, she would lose what made her human. Or someone would figure out what she had done … and who knew what would happen, then.
She could feel Cairn’s quiet concern all morning and could feel his narrowed stare tracking her as she finished up her session and walked from the arena without a word.
She knew the greenhouse by its smells—leaf, soil, rust, parchment, herbs, and ink—so the new scent stopped her dead.
Coffee.
Delicious, life-giving, roasted sunlight. She followed her nose to her workstation, finding the objects that were out of place. A tray, a clay cup, and a pourer, still warm. Fresh.
If anyone ever wanted to truly poison her, all they had to do was slip it into a carafe of coffee, because she didn’t even hesitate. She filled the cup and drank. She squirmed and sighed and shook out her arms because the pleasure was just too much to bear, and then she filled a second cup.
Why is this here? Hymn sounded confused. Is this the commander … apologising?
Eiko spluttered, spraying coffee over the tray. She quickly fumbled around for a cloth, realising there was a linen napkin tucked into the edge of the tray. She cleaned up her mess, shaking her head.
There are a million things this could mean. An apology is not one of them.
She leaned against the bench as she considered Hymn’s question, and then she began to trace the tray and everything on it, searching for a clue.
There was a linen napkin. The cup was clay, but the pourer was porcelain, which was odd.
On the mornings she had been called to Chasin’s office, it had always been a matching set.
She sipped at her cup as she traced the enamel design on the pourer, frowning at the seemingly generic flower design.
What is that? she asked Hymn. I can’t tell.
Foxgloves, he answered.
Really? Her interest spiked, fast and hot.
The recipe called for the powder of dried foxglove leaves.
She rushed to the shelf of powders, her fingers tracing each little glass jar, counting until she reached the correct one.
She activated her second sight then, because she simply didn’t know what else to do.
Foxglove. The label was neat and precise.
The bottle on the left was labelled Feverfew.
The bottle on the right was labelled False Foxglove.
She crinkled her nose, looking back to the coffee tray. To the pourer decorated with foxgloves.
There’s obviously a message here somewhere, she said to Hymn. But why wouldn’t he just tell me?
Probably because just telling you wouldn’t fill you with excitement and adrenaline as this is, Hymn replied, amused.
That’s annoyance you’re feeling, she quickly corrected him, before—Oh!
She snatched up the jar of False Foxglove. The first time Chasin gave me coffee, it was a false poison.
Hymn stayed silent, well aware that she was far too excited to try the recipe again and didn’t actually want to talk through what Chasin’s message could possibly mean when she had a perfectly good explanation right in front of her.
She quickly moved the coffee tray to the other workstation, as she needed everything in its proper place, and then she began her recipe again.
She got further than before, but ultimately, the mixture refused to cooperate again.
It was almost good enough to tip into the vial—it wasn’t separated, solid, or hissing, at least—but it was entirely the wrong colour.
She rocked back on her heels, frowning at the failed poison before returning to the coffee tray. She sorted through the bare contents again, examining the cup, the pourer, and the napkin, her thumb rubbing against the linen.
Extraction! she yelled internally.
Dark below! Hymn yelled back. A little warning, next time?
She ignored him, pulling the napkin up to dangle from her fingers. Ground coffee is filtered through a cloth.
The recipe called for the liquid portion of the recipe to be filtered through a sieve to remove loose leaves, but perhaps a cloth would be better.
Perhaps she should have even thought of that herself, as the recipe was utterly finicky.
Perhaps she should have even thought of using the false foxglove, but she didn’t know enough about flowers to decipher the original ingredient line in the recipe.
Genus Scrophularia (figwort), digitalis or agalinis – 1 dram finely crushed powder from sun-dried leaves.
One of the commenters in the book had crossed out agalinis and circled digitalis. Another had agreed, commenting in the margins that foxglove was the answer, as it was considerably more lethal.
She quickly cleared her workstation and set out her ingredients again.
Her heart settled into the rhythm of the work, and when she combined the ingredients this time, they acted exactly as they were supposed to.
She activated her second sight just long enough to determine that the base loosened and softened as the recipe demanded, and when she added her extraction mixture and began to beat it with a small whisk, it turned glossy instead of slick, as the recipe declared it should.
No curdling or separation. No sudden, hard seizure of the mixture to crack or explode the bowl. No strange hue, colour, or sheen.
It was perfect.
She exhaled hard enough that it was more of a laugh before she decanted the poison into the vial with painstaking care. She wiped the rim, sealed and wrapped it, holding it in her palm for a long moment like she didn’t quite trust it to remain real.
Do we like Chasin now? Hymn asked, apparently confused by the mild elation ripping through her bloodstream.
Don’t be ridiculous. She quickly sobered. Silly monster.
Just checking, he appeased her quickly.
He’s clever, but we don’t really value intelligence around here, she insisted.
Yes, he readily agreed. What do we value, just so I know?
Gemstones, she replied. And, have you noticed, there weren’t any gemstones on that coffee tray?
Of course I noticed, Hymn huffed.
Then you know what that means.
Chasin is a miserable excuse for a commander, a poison-master, and a man, Hymn growled. And we hope one of his axes falls off his wall and decapitates him!
Exactly!