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“You’ve asked the right mages.” Mikros gestures to Makarios. “He’s proficient at breaking blood down into its smallest units—his inner scales are the most fine-tuned you’ll ever see, I swear.”

“And Mikros,” Makarios says, “can take those minuscule units of blood and decode all their mysteries. From sickness a patient has had in the past, to what they ate last week.”

Mikros nods. “It all leaves a trace.”

I blink at the two mages and rush out in an amazed whisper, “So you could determine an illness before a patient showed physical signs?”

Grandfather would be astonished. He’d want to know everything. “I want to know everything.”

“It’s perilously close to some forbidden methods,” Makarios warns.

“Not right now, because this case is rather pressing, but we’ve got to talk more about this.” Over Mikros’s shoulder I spy a set of white robes ascending the stairs and sweeping down the balcony. I grin. “Makarios, bring everything on blood poisons from the library? Mikros, gather all the herbs related to cleansing the blood.”

They nod and scurry past a suspicious-eyed Florentius.

Florentius turns that tight look on me. “Asking for help is cheating.”

“You all have ideas that can contribute.”

“The solution should come from your own labour.”

I cock my head and study the earnestness of his expression. “Don’t forget the tale of the old man and his mansion.”

At his blank stare, I elaborate. “When his first son is born, the father decides to build a family mansion for his wife and child. It is to be special, perfect, lovingly hand-crafted. But this required him to give up his job. That was fine, he decided. He’d have enough for the perfect house if, meanwhile, his family could live cheaply. So they moved into a damp shack. Locals came to offer their building skills in return for a small fee, but the father refused. So first, he had to learn how to cut timber from trees, then how to forge nails, then how to use a hammer, then how to build a foundation—you see. He refused all help, determined the mansion be crafted by his own hand.”

“I suppose his family dies before he finishes?”

“From living in the damp shack too long. Then he dies from grief. The mansion never gets done.”

“What are you saying?”

“You call it cheating. I call it saving lives.”

He purses his lips. “Why do I feel your words are full of traps?”

“Do you suddenly feel like helping me?”

He lifts his chin haughtily.

“Asking for your help isn’t trickery, Florentius. It’s the professional thing to do. Let’s not have our kingdom dying of damp while we build our own mansions.”

Makarios and Mikros return with books and a tray of herbs, then drag up stools to sit outside the barrier. Florentius stands awkwardly at their side, listening as we brainstorm. I flip through books, noting Florentius’s frown deepening each time I take a book unlikely to help. Taking his expressions as cues, I rifle through the books until I land on one that has him nodding to himself.

I crack it open to the middle and pause. Then I snap it shut with a sigh. “That one’s no help.”

Florentius makes a strangled sound. “Fool. There’s a template in there for stubborn blood ailments.”

“Different from the others we’ve been discussing?”

“Far superior. It was used during the last plague.”

I hide a smile and flip to the spell. It’s a challenging one, with a warning to stack the herbal compounds carefully. Challenging enough with the sixty ingredients it requires, but one factor is still missing. “The core compound requires the spiritual source of the infection, so it can be reversed.” I grimace. “The source is still not clear.”

Mikros rubs his cold hands together, and Makarios encases them in his larger ones to help. They’re cold and tired and likely hungry.

“I’ll keep working on it,” I tell them. “Get some rest.”

Makarios and Mikros exchange a grin. “After we eat, we’ll guide you through creating the spell. You’ll be out of here within a week!” They slap hands in triumph.