Chapter Eighteen
I come to in a room of twilight darkness and melted candles that cast ghostly shadows along the ceiling.
The moonlight streams in through the balcony window, and for the first time in however long it’s been, I open my eyes and turn my head.
On the wooden bedside table, there’s half a stopper of poppy extract.
The physician must have forgotten to give me the full dose today. Whenever today is.
I’m feeble and shaky as I use a hand to peel back the blanket covering me and lift the long shirt I’ve been dressed in.
I hold in my shock, knowing it would hurt to gasp.
Across my stomach is a tight wrap of cotton bandages.
With a fingertip, I gingerly press the wounded area, and the sharp twinge forces a hiss out of me.
Even in the dull light, it’s easy to see that the layered bandages won’t stop the flood of red that’s oozing through.
Didn’t I overhear someone going for more yarrow to stop the bleeding?
When was that? Ruth has yarrow. I helped her with it the other day. Day. Week. Whenever.
Oh my gods, Ruth.
Will.
They’re going to kill him if I don’t survive.
I attempt to sit and feel weaker than I’ve ever felt in my life.
It’s like I’ve forgotten how to move, how to connect thoughts to my limbs, like my muscles are retired veterans, lost to the fight.
I just about manage to get my legs over the side of the bed and sit there for a while to collect my strength.
I refuse to believe I’ll die here. If the castle physicians have run out of supplies, then I’ll go somewhere else.
Somewhere safe with a healer I can trust. I’ve seen Ruth’s workshop and know she has the skill.
I recall Will fixing my ankle and saying Don’t come running to me if you need surgery.
I need Ruth for that. And I’d be protected from questions by the magical barriers.
Yes, the cottage is the right move. But how?
I certainly can’t walk. I have no way to contact Ruth, and I don’t know if Mum can get past the wards.
Or…Perhaps it’s the lingering medicine that gives me such an outlandish idea. Perhaps it’s my belief that he didn’t drive that sword into me on purpose. Without a doubt, I know that Will is the only one who can get me to Ruth in time.
In time.
Before.
Getting him out of the dungeons is the only way to save both our lives, and if I don’t try…well, I’m dead anyway.
I pull myself up using the bedpost, and my stomach screams in agony.
The wet pool under the bandages drenches through the shirt I’m wearing.
Oh gods, okay. Better tuck the poppy extract in the pocket of the shorts just in case.
My entire body thrums. I’m hot and sweaty and every thought, every labored breath, every inch shuffled forward is sluggish like I’m dragging myself through mud.
At the door, I rest my forehead against the wood, just like the night in my shop after Will and I collected the Lunarie.
Back when I was full of hope and longing.
My shop. Oh my gods. Wait. Can I…? I swallow and hold up my palm thinking of my home, my sanctuary.
My flowers. Which one can give me the boost I need?
My dry throat cracks as I summon all the magic I can. “Encho kaveh.”
In my palm appears a single yellow dandelion. Its gentle magic tingles down my spine. It’s okay. I can protect you. You can find a way forward. It whispers a lullaby of encouragement and healing before the cluster of petals shrivels inward. It leaves no life left for itself and wilts in my palm.
If I was feeling stronger, I’d burst into tears.
My flowers don’t usually wane so fast, but the dandelion knew I needed all the energy it had—its short life for a chance to save my own. And from such a common, overlooked species. Taking what it has offered feels like a betrayal. I’m so sorry.
I find myself in the east wing of the castle where the court physician works.
There are lanterns lining the carpeted hallway, but with the citadel asleep, there’s no one to be seen.
I pinch my mouth to stave off the strain and hobble past the court physician’s chamber door, past the mumbles of a mind that works late into the night.
I pray he doesn’t want to check on me anytime soon.
The way to the dungeons will be arduous.
It’s down a few corridors and three flights of stairs.
That’s if I don’t encounter any guards. Or bleed out.
I cling to every tapestry I pass, lean against the cool stone wall when my vision starts to flicker, and on the second set of stairs, when a stream of blood drips out of the bandages and down my thigh, I summon another dandelion.
Another sacrifice. Another burst of magic to keep me going.
My luck runs out at the door to the dungeons. I have only a second to throw myself behind an alcoved bust of an ancient queen before a pair of guards turns the corner, and I pay for it with a dizzying pang of pain.
“You reckon they’ll just let him rot in there?” a guard says. It’s not one I’m familiar with. “At least until after the wedding.”
It’s Tarin who replies, their usual stammer under control.
“I think he’s being charged with attempted murder,” they say.
“Attempted,” the other guard scoffs. “If that girl survives, I’ll make captaincy.”
“Borage, if you crack one more joke—”
“Come on, Tarin, you’ve seen the look on the prince’s face the past week. There’s no hope there,” Borage says bluntly. “And Lark said—”
“Lark doesn’t have a say in this. He’s suspended, and last I saw him, he was neck deep in whiskey.”
The guards pass my hiding place without suspicion. It’s interesting to hear how Lark is reacting to my brush with death. Perhaps that asphodel I gave him really got the message across.
“Well,” Borage says as they disappear from earshot, “either way, that sorcerer down there is screwed.”
Not if I can help it. The bandages chafe as I force my body to move again.
In the dungeons, there’s a set of torchlit spiral stairs down to a square entry room where two guards sit at a table with flagons of drink, dice, and the emergency horn.
From there, corridors stretch straight ahead and to the right, suggesting they loop around in a square.
One of those cells has Will in it, and I have one trick left.
I take out the poppy extract used to sedate me and summon what’s left of my magic.
The poppies in this liquid are not freshly cut or planted, like most flowers I work with.
They’ve been dried, boiled, and strained—but at their core, they’re the same.
Which means I can still pull out the emotions within.
I concentrate on drawing out the drowsiness of the poppies and pour the liquid over the guards.
One of them pats his head as he notices a splash, but I quickly fall back against the wall out of sight, a hand on my stomach.
The shirt is sticky now, like a smear of berries, and my adrenaline is losing grip, so it’s a thankful relief when two slumps hit the table and I can brave the stairs down.
A few drops of poppy are only enough to lull someone into a light sleep, so the snoozing guards won’t be out for long.
I peek around for any sign of the keys and realize I’ve screwed myself over.
The keys to the cells are hooked around one of the guards’ belts, and he’s bent right over his colleague, squishing their hips together.
There’s no way I can get them. That’s okay.
I won’t be discouraged. Will is a sorcerer.
He can get out. He always has a plan. He’ll know what to do.
I stumble right, using the rusted bars of empty cells for support, and pass one containing a sleeping man that reeks of alcohol. More empty blocks. Then more. He has to be here. I’m not going to die. The blood running down my leg means nothing. It’s fine.
I reach a fork in the corridor and catch my breath, hot beads of sweat sticking to my already soaked shirt.
Left would take me back to the guard room.
Right, the cells look different, feel different.
The bars on them are a striking silver, reflecting the torchlight and dampening something inside me.
Oh…gods. These are iron cells. Cells for magic users.
“Will,” I squeak, and limp forward.
He must be in the last one. Of course. Bastion wouldn’t take any chances.
I throw myself on my knees before it and clasp the bars with bloodstained hands.
The cell is a square prison of iron walls and a cobbled stone floor, with not even a window for fresh air.
Will sits against the far wall, his head tilted back and eyes closed.
He’s pale, disheveled, and from the discarded tray of uneaten food by the bars, he’s found no comfort here.
“Will,” I repeat desperately. I need him to save us. I need him to have hope.
His purple-ringed eyes shoot open.
“Fliss?”
I let out a short sob.
“Fliss, you’re alive!”
He crawls toward me and grips my hands on the bars. He’s alive. We’re still alive. Will’s lips shake as he bores his eyes into mine. Gods, I’ve missed those eyes.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were— I didn’t mean to—” He gasps, struggling for breath.
I shake my head, forcing the tears to stay inside. I can’t break down right now. Just hang on a little longer.
“Later,” I whisper. “Later. We need to go.”
Will scans my bloodstained shirt, the red on the iron bars, my fever-flushed skin. He flinches away from the bars like lightning struck.
“Fliss, I can’t—I can’t heal you. I can’t use magic here. I can’t do anything.”
“Shut up and listen. Your mum can heal me,” I say. He can wallow later. I need that arrogant confidence back or we’re both dead. “We need to get out of here or they’re going to kill you. I couldn’t steal the keys, so think of something. Fast.”
I pant for breath. Gods, talking hurts.