Page 30 of The Throne Seeker (Vallorian #1)
R ose, her mother, and Zareb were directed to their rooms, just as the rest of the court had been. They remained together in her room, waiting for the all-clear. Even as the night progressed without a word, they waited. It must have been near midnight when her mother began to crack.
“How did this happen?!” her mother exclaimed to no one in particular. “There were guards all over those woods.”
“The woods were secure. We made sure of it,” Zareb said with confidence.
Her mother was not reassured. “Well, thank our lucky stars that Roman was there, or else Tristan would have gotten that arrow for certain.” She snatched a fan off Rose’s vanity and fanned herself in quick flutters.
“It was lucky,” Zareb agreed, throwing a glance at Rose. “Incredibly lucky.”
She averted her gaze. She still hadn’t figured out how she’d managed to spot him.
Maybe it was a strange intuition—a sort of sixth sense.
All she knew was that if she hadn’t warned Roman, and he hadn’t acted as quickly as he did, the arrow would’ve struck Tristan.
A direct hit like that—she shivered to think of it.
“Perhaps we should leave? Go find shelter somewhere else?” Her mother threw the idea to Zareb.
“We wait,” he said.
Her mother let out an irritated sigh. “I hate waiting. We should’ve heard something by now. What if something bad has happened, and we’re just sitting here like ducks?”
In perfect timing, a familiar sequenced knock at the door.
Zareb’s eyes met hers.
“Open it. It’s Tristan,” she said.
Warily, Zareb opened the door with one hand on the hilt of his sword, though the precaution was unnecessary. Tristan’s exhausted, dirty figure stepped through the door.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” he apologized, his expression grim.
Her body came to attention at once. “What’s the matter? What’s happened?” she asked.
His grave eyes made her heart pound. “It’s Roman. I don’t have much time, but something’s wrong. He’s got a fever, and he keeps throwing up. He can scarcely breathe. The healers think the arrow must have been laced with some sort of poison.”
Her mouth parted in disbelief. Roman had been the epitome of health just a few hours ago—not even a scratch or a burn to indicate an infection, and even that wouldn’t have come on that fast.
“Can anything be done?” she asked.
“The healers are doing everything they can, but I’m afraid none of them are familiar with the poison. We need someone well-versed in herbology…” He swallowed, giving her a desperate look.
She knew what he was asking. “I don’t know if I’ll be better help than the healers, but I’ll see what I can do.”
“Please be careful,” her mother warned, surprising her by not forcing her to stay.
“She’ll return safe,” Tristan promised.
“Stay with my mother,” Rose said to Zareb. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Roman’s large room was crowded and cramped.
Three healers stood clustered by his canopy bed, alongside his parents and Harriet.
To her surprise, Beth was there, too, sitting beside Roman, holding his hand.
The queen looked beside herself, with tears flowing down her face.
Roman’s deep groans filled the room above the voices.
Rose went straight to Roman. His body was a sweaty mess.
“He’s gotten worse just in the time I went to get you,” Tristan whispered bitterly.
The others finally looked up, surprise plastered on their faces as Tristan and Rose edged up next to the bed.
“What are you doing here?” the queen asked sharply.
Rose pulled her gaze away from Roman to the queen, pained by the underlying hostility in her voice.
“I asked her to come,” Tristan retorted with a voice as strong as iron. “And you will let her help—that is, unless you want Roman’s death on your conscience.”
The queen’s piercing eyes didn’t falter but she said nothing in rebuttal, knowing she couldn’t refuse help.
Roman’s weakened gaze connected with hers.
She could have sworn his eyes softened the moment he saw her, almost making her believe he was relieved she was there.
That was before he gasped for air, rolling over onto his side to empty the contents of his stomach into a nearby bucket.
To her credit, Beth quickly positioned herself beside him, holding the bucket steady.
“Do you have the arrow?” she asked Tristan.
The healer with a snooty expression came forward, holding the arrow wrapped in white cloth. “It’s obviously a nightshade poison,” the healer snipped.
Rose took it, examining the arrowhead, careful not to touch it with her bare hands.
“I don’t know why she’s here, Your Majesty. We are more than capable?—”
Tristan cut the healer off. “You and the other healers can step outside for the time being. I’ll summon you back when you are needed.”
“Tristan, they’re trying to help,” the queen scolded.
The king agreed with Tristan, interrupting their spat. “Leave us,” he ordered.
The healer bowed, her wounded pride accompanying her as she strode out with the other two healers.
Rose’s attention went back to the arrowhead, filthy and covered in dark soot. At first glance, it did resemble nightshade. However, upon deeper inspection, there were traces of a blood-red color…
No.
Oh, please, gods, no.
She hurried to the candles beside Roman’s bed, holding the arrow toward the light. As she suspected, the red streaks shimmered in the flicker of the flames. This wasn’t nightshade.
“What is it?” Tristan asked, stepping beside her, his eyes on the arrow.
“Dragonshade,” she whispered, so low only Tristan could hear, not wanting to alarm the others.
Tristan’s mouth fell open. “What? How is that even possible? Are you sure?”
“I’m certain,” she said, and she was. His body’s inability to cool itself, the way he couldn’t keep any liquids down, his dilated pupils. “Don’t you see the traces of red?”
Tristan shook his head, inspecting it himself. “I don’t see anything.”
Her brows pinched, wondering why he couldn’t see what was so clearly right in front of him, but it didn’t matter.
“Please tell me there’s something that’ll save him,” Tristan whispered.
“There’s an antidote, but it grows far to the north—too far. Past the borders and into the lands of Ostlyn. I’m afraid he doesn’t have nearly that much time… He’ll be lucky if he lasts the night.”
Tristan’s expression hardened into determination. “There must be something else.”
She searched her memory. Dragonshade was a poison cultivated from finely crushed scales of dragons. And like all magical elements, they held unique attributes… She had an idea.
“When it comes to things with magical properties, often its opposite is what can bring balance,” she recounted, remembering a quote from a book she’d read.
“I don’t understand,” Tristan replied. “What’s the opposite of Dragonshade?”
“Not the poison itself—the opposite of the dragon’s power source.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we need something powerful enough to match the Dragonshade’s properties,” she explained simply.
“What could match one of the most powerful species of our realm?” Tristan asked, shifting his distressed gaze to Roman.
She didn’t know. The dragons of old had not been sighted for centuries. The only thing that could come close was another magical creat?—
“The phoenix.” Her head snapped up, wondering why she hadn’t thought of it sooner. “Its tears might be enough to match its properties with its healing powers. It’s the only thing that might be able to help him.”
Tristan turned to his parents, who were eagerly watching them. “We need the phoenix. Where is it?”
His mother took two timid steps closer, concern brimming in her wet eyes as she looked to her husband for an answer.
Understanding flooded the king’s gaze. “It’s being returned to its home as we speak. As soon as the ceremony ended, its caretaker took off with it.”
“We have to stop them,” Rose said. It was Roman’s only chance. “I’ll get a horse and see if I can catch them on the road.”
Tristan’s hand shot out, locking on her arm, looking at her like she was mental. “No. I’ll go. I don’t want you putting yourself in danger.”
“You’ll both go,” King Henrik said, ending the debate for them. “We’ll stay and look after Roman. Go… and hurry.”
The queen muffled a sob.
“We will,” Rose promised.
There was no time to lose.