Shadowscent

by P. M. Freestone

  We’re escorted up a wide path by two more guards. I nudge Ash.

  “As far as they’re concerned,” he says in that husky attempt-at-a-whisper of his, “we’re friends of the Mur heir making the most of the last days of our Kilda break from University.”

  “I doubt I look much like a student.”

  Ash arches an eyebrow. “And what does a student look like, exactly?”

  I haven’t thought of an answer by the time we reach a bridge over a still river. The water surrounds a huge stone building—squat and square with towers at each corner and a red clay tile roof. I wrinkle my nose. I can think of better defenses than stagnant slop. On the other side of the bridge, a courtyard of white pebbles is dotted with stone urns and statues of an elegant woman wearing a flowing cloak and cowl—the goddess Azered.

  An equally beautiful youth sits reading on a bench against the side of the huge house, his long legs crossed at the ankles. The golden light of sunset gilds his hair. There’s something familiar about him.

  “My lord.” One of the guards bows. “These two friends of yours?”

  The young man sets his book aside and leaps to his feet, shielding his eyes against the slanting rays. “Ash? Stars above, is it really you?”

  Ash steps forward and the two embrace.

  Then the Trelian is looking at me. “Rakel!” He clears his throat and drops into a bow deeper and more graceful than the retreating guard’s. “Please. Forgive me for being so familiar. I’m Esarik Mur. I was part of the delegation to Aphorai.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t recognize you. It’s been … some time.” My words flirt with a lie. It’s barely been a moon since I first saw Esarik back in Aphorai, and yet he looks markedly different—sallow and haunted. It makes my throat tighten. If someone young and healthy could go downhill so quickly, what state is Father in by now? I hope Esarik’s mind isn’t as tired as he looks—Ash seems convinced he’s our best hope to decode the rest of the formula.

  He eyes the scholar critically. “You’ve lost weight. It’s not … Have you had word of Nisai?”

  Esarik turns solemn. “He’s alive. Iddo had him returned to the capital.” He shakes his head. “I wanted to go along, impart whatever I knew to the attending physicians. But Father ordered me home. It appears he cares more about distancing himself from controversy than he does about Nisai recovering. I couldn’t think of a worse time for him to announce my betrothal.”

  “Who’s the lucky girl?” Ash asks, a strangely sour note in his voice.

  “A river lord’s daughter. The family has been noble for half as many generations as House Mur, but they’re twice as wealthy. Astonishing revelation, no?” His last words are laced with bitterness. Guess there’s no affection spared between the soon-to-be bride and groom.

  “I’m sorry, Es. Truly.”

  “As am I.” He looks away, out over the vine-covered hills. “As am I.” Then he squares his shoulders. “What do you need, Ash? Money? Supplies? Father is due back from court soon, and if he finds you here upon his return, he’ll—”

  Ash holds up his hand. “By Azered’s grace we’ll be gone by the morrow. That’s if we get started now.”

  “Started?”

  Ash produces the formula manuscript. “What do you make of this?”

  Esarik takes the parchment gently, even reverently. He studies it, eyes widening. “This is … This is …”

  I shrug. “Old?”

  “Pre-Empire,” Esarik finishes. “For a start, there are no vowel diacritics. Then there’s the width of the script strokes. And this is tulda vellum, highly durable.” His eyes dart from side to side. How can anyone read that fast?

  “It seems a formula. But … here … curious. These lines, they’re in different hands. Each of the provinces use different classes of poisons. Perhaps many hands have come together to … oh. How terribly ironic.”

  “What is it, Es?” Ash prods.

  “You remember, on that ghastly night, I talked about the ancient poison Ami and I debated? It was purported to be used by the small kings in their plots and schemes. From the surviving evidence it seems they were at war over everything—borders, trade, religion. And yet here we have a scroll suggesting they cooperated on one thing—poison craft.” He looks up at each of us in turn. “Where did you find this?”

  “You might not believe it,” I begin.

  He runs his hand through his gold-streaked hair. “When you study the past you come to believe a lot of things. Or go mad in the process.”

  “The Library of the Lost.”

  “It exists? Truly?” Our host’s impossibly green eyes go wide and bright. “Please, join me inside.”

  Ash catches Esarik up on events to date, the pair speaking in low tones as we move through the Mur mansion. I hang back, awed by the riches we pass. Drapes infused with purrath blossom so that the scent gently releases in the sun. A contemplation niche laid out with jeweled boxes of solid perfume—someone having left the musk without its lid on as if it was of no consequence.

  The scholar’s study is no exception. Sunken lower than the hall, wine-red rugs stretch across marble floors as deep green as vine leaves. Candlewheels hang from the ceiling, their wax imbued with the sweetest of citrus oils. And everywhere—on shelves lining the room’s perimeter, piled high on tables, and even in a jumbled stack in the corner, are scrolls and books.

  I long to flop onto a bronze bench topped with silk cushions. But one glance at my travel-stained tunic decides me against it. I opt instead to perch on the cold marble steps. Ash leans against a wall. Above him, row upon row of paired swords, more ornate than his own, are mounted on the stone.

  Esarik perches on the edge of another bench, a candleholder next to it piled high with endless nights of dripped wax. “Tell me. Have you discovered any indication of how long our Prince may endure?”

  “Adirun, we think,” Ash says. “Rakel’s the one with the watertight memory.”

  “When the lion wears the lost crown, he’ll not live through the night, ” I recite. “That’s what the Scent Keeper said. Something about the Lost God and the old calendar. Tozran’s Coronation.”

  Our host furrows his brow, then crosses to a shelf of scrolls. He runs his fingers down their ends, stooping to pull one from the bottom of the stack. Not bothering to return to the table, he unrolls it on the floor. A myriad of lines crisscross the parchment, linking stars and different moon phases.

  A starwheel chart.

  “If my interpretation is accurate, and the Scent Keeper’s words hold truth, the implication is that Nisai will indeed endure until the month of Adirun.”

  Huh. Guess Luz does know her starwheel.

  “The night of the sixth, to be precise.”

  Ash and I exchange a look. Adirun sixth.

  So definite.

  So close.

  Esarik rolls up the chart, the rasping of parchment unnaturally loud in the silent study. Shelving the scroll, he leans over a table spread with maps. “Down to the essence of the problem then, given time is not our ally. I daresay you’re correct on your early assumptions. The darkest bloom is most certainly dahkai.” He smiles at me. “And the seeds of life were very much in use in the early Empire, from the Monumental Age until the Great Bloom—multiple texts suggest there were far more adherents to their health benefits then than today.”

  Ash gestures to the poison formula scroll. “And the other ingredients?”

  The scholar traces a finger across the Empire’s province borders. “Esiku’s children grew only to drown,” he muses, beginning to pace. “There used to be a sea in the Los province. Or, more accurately, Los was engulfed by the Midlosh Sea and then raised up again. It’s all recorded in Akair II’s Cataclysms—fables of when the younger gods first squabbled alongside the small kings. The Twins wanted to separate themselves from their older sister Esiku, but she didn’t want to let them go. So Zir and Tro caused the rivers and ocean to engulf her most treasured forest—giant cedars that used to cover the
land from the Cliffs of Lostras to northern Trel. By the time the waters receded centuries later, all that remained were remnants of tree resin as solid as stone. Or as solid as amber, to be precise. Your formula does indeed appear to stipulate amber from Esiku’s forest.”

  “How do we even know that thing ever happened?” I ask.

  “Cataclysm? We don’t. But we are sure the land shifts over time—you’ve seen it in your own province, and in the Wastes of Los, fish skeletons have been found embedded in the rock. There’s no debate there was once an inland sea there.”

  Ash raises an eyebrow at me. “Now will you admit that was silver well spent?”

  “Only the smoke-brained pay that much for amber oil,” I retort.

  “Amber oil?” Esarik asks. “I’m not entirely sure it will be fit for purpose.”

  Ash stalks over to the table where the scroll is laid out. “You just said it was Losian amber.”

  “Indeed. But the second part of the passage is key. See?” Esarik points to the scroll and Ash reads:

  All must be pure and in sequence blown,

  If they are to serve both the dark and light,

  Only clouds will end what clouds have begun—

  Esarik holds up a hand. “An understandable translation error. It’s a quirk of Old Imperial. The second last line reads: masaat asytaa amidak snalu masaat kiregtaa traalapaame. We still use ‘marsat’ for cloud, but the other terms have no modern equivalent. If we were to be literal, masaat asytaa and masaat kiregtaa translate to ‘wet cloud’ and ‘dry cloud,’ more or less. But to a speaker from the first cycle of the Empire?”

  “Steam?” I venture. “And …”

  Esarik grips the table and bows his head. “Smoke. Smoke from the dahkai plantation going up in flames. The final ingredient in the sequence. If I’d known, I would have—”

  “What could you have done, Es?” Ash asks gently. “What can even be done for plain old smoke inhalation? Wait? Hope?”

  The scholar looks stricken. I know the feeling of figuring out something too late, like you can no longer trust your own wits, your own judgment. But dwelling on that isn’t going to help Nisai.

  “Only steam will end what smoke has begun,” I muse. “So … a steam distillate will cure a poison delivered by smoke!”

  My excitement flees on the heels of another realization. Esarik’s right about the amber. “But distilling the original amber from the carrier oil? It’d be like trying to unscramble an egg. Maybe with the right equipment, but we’re talking serious setup. Master Perfumer level. Even if we could access that kind of apparatus, stench knows how many times it would need to be processed, and how many tries I’d need to get it right, the scent getting fainter and fainter each time. We could end up with nothing.”

  “How long would it take to find out?” Ash asks.

  “Days? Weeks? I don’t know. And amber isn’t really … my thing.” It was Barden’s favorite. Not something I care to think about right now. “It’d be a surer bet if we found some in pure form. Probably safer for Nisai, too.”

  And much safer for us. There are very few places that would even have that equipment, and none of them where we could pass unnoticed.

  Esarik glowers. “The Losians harvest every bit of the solid form. You might find some in Ekasya, for a small fortune. Be discerning—it’s an antiquity, so fakes have flooded the market. Oh, and you’ll need documents. The imperial regulators insist the system exists to protect purchasers from fraud, though one gets the impression it’s more to ensure taxes are paid.”

  Ash twists away from the table, throwing his hands up in frustration. “As if I needed any more ways to bring the city watch down on our heads.”

  “Off you trot to Lostras, then,” Esarik says, the bitterness of earlier back in his voice.

  No wonder. Los’s largest city is on the northern coast. The Empire’s edge. It will take weeks just to get there.

  I clench my fists in frustration.

  Sephine used the last of her power to keep Nisai alive until Tozran’s Coronation. We’ve already used up a moon. The last thing we can afford is a trip to Lostras.

  When Azered’s bones danced in the breath of blight

  The chagrin on Rakel’s face mirrors my thoughts. We’ll never get to Lostras in time, if indeed that’s where we can find some of this legendary Esikun amber without instant arrest. I turn to the window and stare out over the moons-lit vineyard.

  Something crashes behind me. Something heavy. Solid.

  I spin to find Esarik standing over one of the swords previously mounted in the wall collection. He’s lifting a heavy bronze bench and bringing one of its legs down on the hilt of the weapon.

  Rakel stands with a mix of confusion and curiosity playing across her features.

  The pommel stone—a clear golden-brown—shatters on impact. Esarik picks through the shards, holding one up to the light. “Shattered like glass. Anachronistic inclusions.” He gives it a sniff. “Lack of coniferous aroma. It’s a fake,” he mutters disgustedly, taking down another sword, this one from the Mur coat-of-arms.

  I take a step toward him. “What are you doing?”

  “I was intending on saving you a trip. Alas, history is populated with as many rogues as the present. I can’t provide the amber after all. However, perhaps there is a consolation prize.” He grunts as he lifts the furniture again, nudging the sword with his boot so that it’s positioned beneath the lounge leg.

  “Esarik?”

  Crash.

  He crouches down and examines the warped metal. “Once more …”

  This is a side to him I’ve never seen. Does a broken heart now command the usually mild scholar’s behavior? It’s always been bittersweet watching the affection between the scholar and Ami, the imperial library curator—not someone Lord Mur would ever let his son marry. Or has Nisai being poisoned cut him just as keenly as it has me?

  He heaves the lounge up again.

  Crash.

  “Esarik!” I bark. “What are you doing?”

  He pushes his hair from his eyes. “The Mur family has a long lineage. My ancestors were among the survivors of the Shadow Wars, and they exchanged gifts with their peers from the newly formed provinces at the Founding Accord’s inception—symbols of unity after troubled centuries. Several swords in the Mur family collection were among these gifts. Including our own arms.”

  Rakel jumps to her feet, gaping at the warped hilt and broken blade. “You just destroyed your family’s sword? Your father’s sword? But he’ll—”

  “Experience the loss of something he loved. A pale approximation of how I feel.”

  “What about legacy?” Rakel blurts. “My father would be devastated if someone took to his sword like that.”

  “The stars know the legacy of my ancestors has been tainted. A sword on the wall can’t change that.”

  In some ways we’re so very different; in some ways our lives have played out along similar lines—at the whims of others. Esarik didn’t choose to come to the palace, and then he didn’t choose to stay. He didn’t choose to study physiology. But he went along with all of that with characteristic affability. And now, even the life he had adjusted to, made the most of, has been taken away—banished back to his family’s estate as soon as his father suspects there’s more to gain from marrying him off to a rich local girl than keeping him in Nisai’s circles.

  When rain seeps into stone for turn upon turn, it can cause fractures where no eye can see, so that it’s a shock when it finally crumbles. Perhaps Esarik’s facade has been slipping longer than even I knew.

  With a triumphant twist, he holds a pommel stone aloft. It shines clear as a diamond beneath the candlewheels. A flower has been sealed inside, frozen just at the point it began to unfurl its velvet black petals.

  “I believe you can use this to save our friend.”

  Rakel’s eyes widen. “Is that a—”

  “Indeed. After the fire in Aphorai, this is possibly one of the only dahka
i flowers left in the Empire. Sealed in glass at the point of blooming. While the essence you have acquired seems fit for the cure, I hazard to guess you’ll need something solid to re-create the poison—your essence won’t give off much smoke, even with its oils. This is useless for perfume now, a husk. But it should catch light serviceably.”

  “Re-create the poison?” I glance at Rakel. She’s just as bemused as me.

  The bitterness in Esarik’s expression melts into wide-eyed earnestness. “Once you’ve made the cure, we must test it—we couldn’t just dose our Prince with something for which we have no evidence of efficacy. And that means we’ll first need to fabricate the poison. Once we’ve found the other ingredients, we’ll find somewhere to retreat, where you can extract the flower from its casing, burn it as the final ingredient to dose me, then trial the cure.”

  “Poison you?” Rakel shakes her head. “I’m not poisoning anyone.”

  “Hold on a heartbeat,” I say.

  Esarik? Come with us? He’s my friend, but he struggled with the pace of the trip to Aphorai, and that was with the luxury of an imperial delegation. And Rakel’s impetuousness is more than a handful—the last thing I need is an erratic scholar falling apart at the seams.

  “Es, the best way you can serve is if you get back to the capital as soon as you can. Nisai needs you. And if Rakel and I manage to somehow pull these ingredients together, we’re going to need a friendly face at court.”

  He opens his mouth as if to speak, shuts it, opens it again. “But … I …”

  “You know I’m right,” I say as gently as I can.

  Crestfallen, he hands Rakel the glass-encased flower. She stows it in her satchel.

  Footsteps heavy, Esarik returns to the table and the formula. “You both need rest. I’ll keep working on deciphering the final ingredients.”

  I cross my arms, about to protest. If we truly only have two moons to get an antidote to Nisai, I don’t want to waste a moment. But then I look to Rakel, to her disheveled hair, the dark circles beneath her eyes, and I think better of it.