Chapter 33 #2
Bertha clicked her tongue and leaned forward just slightly, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret. “Now, I’m already behind, an’ if that man has to wait another minute to complain, he’ll start shoutin’ about treason again. So if ye don’t mind, I’ll be passin’.”
She took a step, then paused like she’d just remembered something important.
“Oh,” she added, too casual. Too sweet. “I made the two of ye a pot o’ tea, too. Cold settles in the bones at night, an’ I’d hate for ye to start shiverin’ and clankin’ about like rusty swords.”
She handed them cups with a smile so gentle it didn’t belong on Bertha’s face.
My stomach tightened.
What was her plan here?
The two men took them eagerly, grateful and unsuspecting, the steam curling up into their faces as if it were comfort instead of a threat.
My dragon purred with vicious approval.
I stared at Isolde.
Isolde stared back, expression hard.
Therynne whispered, barely contained, “Her improvisational skill is unexpected given her dialect and age demographic.”
I almost snarled at Therynne, but I didn’t have time.
The guards outside shifted, one of them rubbing his face like he couldn’t quite wake up. His spear dipped, then steadied.
Isolde’s gaze flicked toward me.
Now, her eyes said.
We moved like smoke.
Isolde slipped to the side of the tent and pressed her ear to the fabric, listening. I followed, careful, my breath shallow, my pulse pounding in my throat.
Therynne hovered behind us, whispering something that sounded like a prayer but was probably a list of possible failure outcomes.
Inside the tent, the Warden Lord’s voice rose.
Bertha didn’t wait for permission.
“Put it there,” the Warden Lord barked, voice already sour like the air itself owed him an apology. “And don’t stand around gawking.”
Bertha’s voice came back bright and empty. “Aye, sir.”
She slid the tray onto the table with a soft clink that sounded almost respectful.
Almost.
There was a scrape of wood, most likely Bertha nudging the cup into place. A chair shifted. The Warden Lord probably adjusted his weight, like the world was meant to move around him.
Then Bertha spoke again, softer now, like she’d forgotten herself.
“If ye don’t mind me sayin’, sir,” she murmured, conversational as a midwife, “ye look tired.”
My pulse snapped hard against my ribs.
I pressed closer to the tent wall, peering through a small tear in the fabric.
The Warden Lord sat at the table, armored even indoors. Not surprising. Some men slept in steel the way others slept in silk. His hair was pulled back tight, his face severe, his mouth permanently set in the shape of disappointment.
A lantern burned low, its flame fighting the cold creeping in under the tent seams.
And there, on the table beside his plate, sat a small carved object that shimmered faintly.
Ice, etched like law.
Cold light pulsed within it, subtle and alive, as if it were breathing.
The Rime Sigil.
My blood didn’t warm. It went volcanic.
Bertha stood behind him, tray still in her hands, shoulders relaxed, posture loose like she was waiting for laundry to dry.
The Warden Lord didn’t bother looking at her. He lifted his spoon, tasted the soup, and chewed like he hated the fact his body required sustenance.
Then he paused.
Just one small hitch.
Suspicion flickered across his face like a shadow.
Bertha leaned a little closer, voice sweet as sugar over rot. “Too hot?” she asked, all innocence.
The Warden Lord grunted, shifting in his chair. “It’s fine.”
He reached for his cup, and I watched his fingers close around it as he lifted it to his mouth.
Bertha smiled, but not kindly, not warmly, more like a woman watching someone step into a trap they’d earned the right to fear.
The Warden Lord took a swallow, and his eyelids lowered, just a fraction, just enough.
Isolde’s body tensed beside me, ready to move, ready to strike, ready to become a knife in the dark.
Therynne whispered behind me, barely audible. “Sedative onset confirmed.”
I shot her a look without turning my head.
This was not the time for commentary.
Bertha shifted her weight, tray still in hand, like she was idly deciding what to do next with her evening.
The Warden Lord blinked once.
Twice.
His brow furrowed, the confusion arriving late to his own body. He stared down at the cup, then back at the soup like it had personally betrayed him.
“What did you—” he started.
Bertha gasped dramatically. “What? Me?”
His hand twitched toward his sword.
Too slow.
His shoulders dipped like the armor suddenly weighed double.
Bertha’s voice softened, almost sympathetic. “Och,” she murmured. “That’s the trouble with men like you, isn’t it?”
He glared at her through the haze crawling over him. “Guard?—”
Bertha interrupted him with a cheerful little nod, like she was agreeing with a complaint about the weather.
“Aye. You’ll want to do that.” Then she moved, fast, not graceful or elegant, just efficient.
She grabbed the soup pot with both hands, stepped forward, and dumped the entire steaming contents straight into the Warden Lord’s lap.
He roared and half stood as steel clanged and his chair screeched back, the soup burning through layers of cloth and armor, finding every gap, every weakness, every place a man thought he was untouchable.
The sound he made wasn’t dignified.
It was pure animal fury.
Bertha stepped back quickly, eyebrows lifting like she’d just witnessed an interesting scientific result.
“Oh no,” she said, flat as stone. “Too hot.”
The Warden Lord surged up, swaying. His hand found the table, fingers curling, knocking the plate sideways. Bread skidded. The Rime Sigil slid an inch.
My heart tried to rip free of my chest.
“No,” he snarled, voice thick. “You stupid old?—”
He reached for Bertha.
And Bertha swung.
She brought the tray down hard, not with panic, not with hesitation, but with the ruthless confidence of a woman who’d survived more winters than he’d survived battles.
The wood cracked against the side of his head like she was splitting firewood.
His body jerked.
His eyes went wide.
And then he collapsed, heavy and wrong, crashing forward onto the table. The lantern rattled. The tea cup toppled and rolled. A splash hit the floor.
Bertha sighed.
Not relieved.
Annoyed.
Like he’d made a mess in her kitchen.
“Honestly,” she muttered, leaning over him. “Ye’d think a Warden Lord’d have more balance.”
His hand twitched.
A low groan crawled out of him.
Bertha didn’t flinch. She just lifted the tray again, considered it, and then gave him a second hit, gentler this time, almost merciful.
“Night-night,” she whispered.
Isolde exhaled behind me, the sound tight. “Gods.”
Therynne breathed, reverent and horrified all at once. “That was… extremely effective.”
Bertha looked up, breathing hard, eyes bright with fury and triumph.
“I know ye is out there listening. What are ye waiting for?” she snapped. “Move!”
We slipped into the tent. “What was that?” I hissed, voice low.
“I was knockin’ him out,” she shot back, like I was the idiot in the room. “To buy ye time before he wakes up an’ realizes his precious little sigil’s gone missin’.”
Isolde swept in behind me, silent, already checking the fallen man’s pulse.
Therynne followed last, stepping delicately over the Warden Lord’s body like it might be a rare artifact.
Her gaze landed on the sigil.
She went still.
Her breath caught.
Then she moved.
Fast.
Therynne reached for it with both hands, fingers trembling as she lifted it from the table.
The ice shimmered.
For a second I thought it would slush. I thought it would reject her, melt against her palms like it had with Ashenveil hands.
But it didn’t.
It remained solid.
It pulsed faintly, cold law recognizing cold law.
Therynne exhaled so loudly it was almost a sob.
“It accepted me,” she whispered, voice raw with disbelief.
My chest tightened.
Bertha watched her like she couldn’t decide if she was impressed or irritated.
“Course it did,” Bertha muttered. “Ye finally did somethin’ useful.”
Therynne blinked, offended. “I mapped escape routes.”
“Aye,” Bertha said, “and ye made sure we all heard it, you did.”
Therynne’s mouth opened, ready to defend herself with facts and historical references, but I cut in.
“Enough.”
Both of them moved their heads toward me.
My voice came out low, hard, threaded with desperation I didn’t allow myself to name.
“We do not have time.”
Isolde’s eyes flicked toward the tent entrance. “The guards.”
Bertha waved a hand dismissively. “They won’t be botherin’ us.”
“How,” I demanded, already moving, already bracing.
Bertha’s smile turned mean.
“He finished his sleepy tea,” she said, dusting her hands. “An’ the guards out front drank it too. Ye’re welcome.”
Isolde stared at her.
“You drugged them.”
Bertha scoffed like I’d just accused her of sorcery. “Don’t ye go makin’ it sound fancy. It’s tea. Folk drink tea. I just… encouraged it to do what tea’s always wanted to do.”
I blinked. “You encouraged it.”
“Aye,” she said. “With a bit o’ spice. Any good governess knows how to make someone sleep. Only way ye get any peace in a castle full o’ men who think shoutin’ counts as leadership.”
Therynne clutched the sigil tighter, as if terrified it might vanish from her hands if she loosened her grip. Her eyes were wide behind her glasses, face flushed from adrenaline.
“My marriage status remains critical to this working,” she whispered to herself.
“If the king has denounced the union, then the sigil may register me as diplomatically void and therefore reject me mid-crossing, which would be catastrophic and also humiliating. And… we aren’t sure how long Bertha’s tea will work, so let’s go. ”
“It lasted fifteen hours on my first husband,” Bertha said, utterly unbothered. “Best rest I ever had in me life. He woke up a kinder man. Confused, but kinder.”
I ground my teeth.
“Stay on subject,” I gritted.
Therynne’s gaze jumped to mine. “The subject is the structural integrity of our entire plan.”
“Move,” I ordered.
We slipped out of the tent.