Page 63

“There!” Fern exclaimed.

A light flickered in the Arboretum, disappearing and reappearing underneath the decaying canopy of trees. The voice came again, a keening, desperate scream, rising then snatched away by the wind.

“There’s someone down there,” Fern said, aghast.

Her mind flung up a handful of memories at her like a volley of daggers to the heart. The children of St Jerome; Vittoria’s blood-drenched gown; the quiet whine of Inkwell when she first found him in a corner of the collapsed French monastery; her parents, calling her name from the end of a long black corridor; Josefa’s small, frightened voice in the darkness of her bedroom.

“We have to go down,” Fern said, voice hoarse with panic, “we have to help.”

Lautric nodded solemnly. “Let’s go. I know a quick way down. Follow me.”

He set off on a run, and Fern followed as best she could, reeling from the shock of his reaction. She had expected him to refuse, to hesitate at least, but—

She crashed into him for the second time that night. He had stopped, bending in half against a tapestried wall.

Fern righted herself and reached for his arm. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he murmured. “We have to hurry.”

He set off again, and Fern realised what was wrong. He was running with a limp. It was barely perceptible, and he was obviously taking great pains to hide it.

Fern’s heart hammered. Lautric was hurt, that was clear, but someone was out there, someone who needed help. Her mind screamed at her that it could be Josefa, that she was still here in Carthane, that Fern must save her, but her gut told her that something was wrong with Lautric—that he, too, might need saving.

And they were still so far from the Arboretum, and there was so little time. She wished she wasn’t so tired, so dizzy. She would know what to do then, she would fix everything.

They reached a narrow spiral staircase tucked into a corner turret and descended. Lautric was almost halfway down the stairs when his legs buckled beneath him. Fern cried out, reaching out to grab his flailing arm and succeeding only in tripping into him.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

Fern righted her balance and hurried past him. She knelt at his feet and glared up to him.

“Stop,” she commanded. “Stay still.”

Even in the faint light of the single lamp set high above the staircase door, she could see that his face was deathly pale beneath its bruises, a sheen of sweat gleaming over his forehead.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

Lautric brushed a hand over his brow, pushing away the hair that fell there in sodden strands. “My leg.”

“Show me.”

She reached for his leg, but he took her wrist in one hand. “We don’t have time, there’s someone out there and they need help, we should—”

Fern gritted her teeth and bit out, “Show me.”

He swallowed audibly; he was nervous. He stuck his leg out. Above his black boots, his trousers were torn and streaked with mud. Fern pushed back the dirty fabric.

Angry red scratches marred his pale skin, the flesh around the cuts swollen, glossy and tinged purple and blue. The wounds were fresh, but the bruising was deep; the surrounding veins had darkened.

Fern’s heart dropped. “You’re poisoned.”

How? Her first thought was the peace garden, where poisonous plants grew. Her second thought was of the Santa Velia twins.

Lautric nodded, looking far calmer than he ought to. “I know.”

Most poisons in small doses wouldn’t kill their victim. Fern knew this; she always tipped her dagger with distilled elmslock, which could paralyse without causing death or permanent damage. But whatever poison this was, deadly or not, it had penetrated the skin from so many scratches that Fern doubted the dose couldhave been small.

“You need to draw out the poison,” she said. “Now.”