Shadowscent

by P. M. Freestone

  “I don’t even know the way to Ekasya!” She’s running out of excuses.

  “You’ll use the map. Just like I have been.”

  She presses the heels of her hands against her temples. “I don’t want to lose you!”

  The pain in her voice is a blade-sharp shock. How long has she felt this way?

  No. I can’t think about that. I will my muscles to relax and try to keep my thoughts in the moment, listening to the wavelets lapping against the great stone pylons, the birds squawking over the remnants of the day’s trading. “Please, Rakel. Let me do this.”

  Her shoulders slump with a defeated sigh. “We should probably find a guesthouse.”

  “Stay a while longer? I’d like to see the sunset.”

  It could be my last.

  Her expressions softens. “We’ll stay as long as you want.”

  We sit side by side in silence as the horizon changes from blue to gold, through red, pink, purple, and indigo. Each time either of us stretches or shifts, the gap between us grows smaller, so that the deep velvet night finds us pressed together from shoulder to knee.

  “Ash?” Rakel asks, her face turned up to the stars.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you love Nisai?”

  “Of course.”

  “No, I mean, do you love him?”

  Ah. So that’s what this is about.

  “In another life, perhaps Nisai and I would have had another relationship. In this life, Nisai serves the Empire. I serve to keep him safe. Nothing must ever get in the way of that, even each other. My loyalty to him is borne of love, and it always will be. But anything beyond the fraternal was set aside turns ago.”

  She’s quiet for a moment, then swallows audibly. “Have you ever cared for anyone other than him? I mean … really cared?”

  My heartbeat is suddenly loud in my ears. There are so many things I should say, that I’m duty-bound to say. But there’s something else, something I’ve known for days, even a moon now, but kept confined behind the fortifications I’d long built around yearning or desire.

  If I don’t say it right this moment, I may never have another chance.

  “Truthfully? Not until now.”

  When my hand finds hers, she wraps her fingers in mine.

  We’re quiet on the walk to find a guesthouse. But with my hand in Ash’s warm, callused palm, I feel like my churning emotions are being shouted to the world.

  Yet nobody in the crowded streets pays us any heed, as if we’re just another pair of lovers strolling on an evening grown cool from the ocean breeze. We blend in—from the anywhere accents to the myriad dress styles to the openly displayed affection between the people around us. And when we arrive at a guesthouse not too far from Apothecary Lane—I tell Ash it’s to save him lugging the chest too far, but it’s more in case I need any further supplies at emergency notice—nobody bats an eye.

  Lautus seems as much for freedom as it is for free trade.

  Our silver is running low after today’s shopping, so we ask for the most modestly appointed room at the back of the building. The fewest number of people passing by, the better.

  When we’ve closed the door behind us, I draw the drapes and set to work, boiling water in several pots over the hearth, setting up the most basic of distillation apparatuses, checking and double-checking the solutions from Atrolos’s store.

  Ash hangs his cloak at the door and strips off his boots to sit cross-legged on the bed, watching me work.

  Though I’m itching to check his expression, I avoid meeting his gaze. The last thing I need is a nervous fumble.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask.

  He rises with his usual fluid grace and comes to stand before me. Resting his hands on my shoulders, he leans down to look me in the eye. “Yes. There’s no other way.”

  “There might be. We could figure something out. It’d be an ugly thing to do, but we could try testing it on an animal first. Maybe two. Or maybe we could even pay someone to—”

  He shakes his head. “Neither of us would be able to live with ourselves. And even if we could find some willing subject, it would risk exposing us, or take time that we don’t have.”

  My shoulders slump under the weight of his words. He’s right. We’ve not caught any new gossip from the capital since Edurshai. And this city cares naught for the imperial family, so I’d question the reliability of the word on these streets.

  All I can do is try to make this as safe as possible for him. “You should probably leave the room, then,” I tell him. “Save you breathing any of these things until they’re ready.”

  He folds his arms. “And leave you with nobody around to help if something goes wrong? Not going to happen.”

  “Then open the window and stay by it. If you begin to feel anything strange, however mild, you have to tell me. This isn’t the time for bravery. Agreed?”

  He pulls a bench over to the window and sits. “Agreed.”

  I wrap the perfumer’s scarf I’d picked up at the apothecary’s over my nose and mouth and set to work, relying on turns of experience and experimentation, and a large dollop of instinct.

  Producing steam is more complex than simple smoke. First, I’ll need to transform half of the solid ingredients—amber, butterfly parts, living bones—grinding and separately dissolving each in processing solution, then distilling it into concentrated liquid. It’s painstaking waiting for each ingredient to condense, balancing hot water and cold to keep the correct temperature in the different flasks and tubes.

  Ash observes calmly, taking all this in like it’s just something normal, mechanical. But this is going to be more alchemy than chemistry. Despite the simple-seeming instructions, I feel as equipped to formulate this ancient recipe as I would turning my boots to gold.

  Admitting the truth of it sends a shudder through me. Ash could die. And it would be my fault. But if I don’t try, more will be forfeit. Our lives. Father’s. Nisai’s. I swipe the back of my hand across the sweat beading on my forehead and focus on the task before me.

  The last ingredient to be distilled is the cave bone-plant, still alive in the water from the pool we collected it from. Glowing specs swirl into the receiving flask, suspended like stars. Then they wink out, leaching all color from the liquid as they go.

  The recipe calls for a sequence for both poison and cure, but curiosity drives me to mix a small portion of antidote distillate together. The solution swirls as if it’s somehow alive, the combination smelling in turns familiar and foreign, each ingredient accenting the one before.

  Hesitant, I remove my scarf and give the final result a sniff. The air that greets my nose makes me reel back in surprise.

  “Rakel? What is it?”

  I stare, incredulous. “Nothing.”

  “Clearly something has your attention.”

  I hold up the flask of formula. “Nothing. I mean, it looks like nothing. It smells like nothing. It’s as if I had a bowl of rain, and even then, it would smell of sky and …”

  “You think that’s a sign we’ve got it right?”

  “I can only hope so.” I gulp. “Right, then. I guess this is it.”

  I douse the flames in the fireplace. The plain steam and woodsmoke seems such an innocent introduction for what’s to come. I yank the mattress from the bed. On the floor, it’s revealed to be more straw than feathers, golden tufts poking through as I drag it before the hearth.

  Ash gives me a questioning look.

  “The chimney will draw the smoke so it doesn’t fill the room. But I don’t know how you’re going to react to the poison, or even to the antidote. If you begin to have a fit, I don’t want to be preoccupied with making sure you don’t fall off a piece of furniture and crack your head open.” I position a bucket next to the mattress. “Nor do I want you choking on your own sick. The rest is in the hands of whoever came up with this Rot-be-damned formula in the first place.”

  He settles cross-legged on the mattress. “This reall
y isn’t going to be pretty, is it?”

  “Probably not.”

  I set up a small brazier on the hearth and lay out measuring bowls in succession. A few drops of Edurshai antivenom. A sliver of Hagmiri butterfly. A section of glowing bone, still in just enough water to keep it alive. Losian amber ground to a powder. And Esarik’s ancient dahkai flower, pried from its glass pommel, the petals now too dry to start decomposing.

  Five provinces.

  Five ingredients.

  Five times I’ll be going against everything I believe in and helping someone harm themselves. But this harm is the only way to help others. Nisai. Father.

  And it’s the only way Ash and I will ever find freedom.

  “Sit over the brazier and tent your cloak over your head. In sequence blown, the formula stipulates. Light each ingredient with the candle and breathe the smoke. It might burn your sinuses. You’ll probably be queasy. Light-headed. If you feel faint, just say.” I point to the window. “I’ll be right over here.”

  He nods, though his breath comes a little quicker. Seems that calm exterior is taking effort to maintain.

  “Are you ready?”

  He reaches out and takes my hand, his fingers enclosing mine. “Whatever happens, remember why we’re doing this. Why I’m asking you to do this.” He rubs his thumb over the back of my hand.

  I don’t meet his eyes.

  “Rakel?” He brings his other hand to my chin, tipping my face up toward his. “I mean it. If this goes bad, it’s not on you. I asked you to do this.”

  “But if I got the formula wrong, then—”

  “What do your instincts tell you? Do you think you’re wrong?”

  “No.” And yet every fiber of my being tells me to study the components further, to understand them better.

  “I doubted you back at the Library,” Ash whispers, “with the Scent Keeper’s elixir. I promised I wouldn’t doubt you again.”

  He nudges me gently toward the window.

  Then his cloak is over his head and shoulders, he’s tipping the antivenom into the brazier and taking up the candle. His bulk blocks my view, but I hear the hiss and bubble as it catches light. Soon all the liquid will evaporate and what remains will char and smoke.

  I press my scarf over my mouth and nose. We’re trusting in a legend, in ancient scribes, and a translation on top of that. All of a sudden it seems more than folly. It seems downright stupid.

  But it’s too late for that kind of thinking—I catch the barest whiff of scorched blood before it’s gone.

  Ash has already inhaled the possibility of death.

  He sits back, and I rush over, searching for early signs of poisoning. His pupils might be a little dilated, but no more so than the dim, candlelit room warrants.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I wish I could get this stench out of my nose, but otherwise I’m fine. Next?”

  I grimace.

  He takes that as agreement. I return to the window and he lights the next ingredient. And the next.

  He coughs, then shrugs off his cloak.

  “Anything yet?”

  “A little thirsty.”

  I pass him a cup of water. He gulps it down. “Easy now, you don’t want to—”

  He grabs the bucket and throws the water back up. When he’s finished retching and spitting, he sits back, a little shakily this time.

  “Do you want to take a break?”

  But he’s already measuring amber powder into the brazier.

  When he next sits back and throws off his cloak, he’s shaking. Dampness sheens his brow. “Ash … Tell me how you’re feeling. Any other symptoms? Cold?”

  “No … Hot. Too hot.”

  He loosens the laces of his leather vest and lifts it over his head. He’s wan and sweat runs in rivulets down the contours of his chest, the ink of his tattoo shining like obsidian.

  My heart skips. I knew this was a possibility, but knowing and witnessing are very different things. I glance to the antidote ingredients. All I want to do is give them to him, to make this be over.

  “Keep talking to me,” I say, fighting to keep the unease from my voice. “Can you tell me the sensations?”

  “Like … River Fever, just after it breaks. Going to lie down for a little while.”

  “I can’t let you sleep. It’s too dangerous when we don’t know what’s going on with your body. Here, stand up, walk with me.”

  He’s shaky on his feet so I duck under one arm. “Lean on me. This is no time for pride.”

  He smiles wanly. “No time for pride? I remember saying the same to you once.” But he still lets me take some of his weight.

  “One foot in front of the other. Go on. Now, focus your mind. Think of somewhere you wish you were.”

  “A place I’d rather be?”

  I nod. “Tell me what it’s like living in the capital, in the palace.”

  “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “Smells? Do they have gardens like at the Aphorain Eraz’s estate?”

  We slowly circle the room. Ash insists his sense of smell is blunt, but then he speaks of the flowers in the palace gardens, how the bouquets change from moon to moon. He describes the terrifyingly exquisite perfumes of the Council of Five, and the everyday hint of toasting barley and overripe fruit from Ekasya’s brewery when the wind blows just so. The scent of the palace library, of the cinnamon used to ward off parchment-eating insects, and how in springtime, Ami, one of the curators, brings posies of lilacs to work with her so that the early imperial history section smells like new beginnings.

  “Lilacs soon became Esarik’s favorite scent.” Ash chuckles, then winces. “Now I bet they make him feel sad. Ami, too.”

  “And your favorite scent?” I prompt.

  “Ekasyan bread. Ever since I arrived at the palace, Nisai and I would steal away down to the kitchens before dawn, before our lessons started, before duty got in the way. At that hour, it would be all rising dough and flour-dusted aprons and warmth. The cooks would make a fuss over us, and we’d always get a slice of the first hot loaf to come out of the ovens, piled high with fig preserve or soft cheese. Before the palace, I’d never imagined any place could be safe. But nothing bad could ever happen in those kitchens.”

  “That’s a nice memory.”

  He sighs. “Perhaps that’s all it will ever be now.”

  We shuffle around like that, sharing and talking for what seems like hours. Finally, he moves back to the hearth. “Four down, one to go?”

  “We should wait a little. Make sure you’ve got the strength for the last ingredient. And that I’ve got everything in place to administer the cure.”

  “But we don’t have time to—”

  “If we don’t make time to get this right,” I say, picking up the bucket, doing everything I can to not gag on the acid reek of bile, “we could be condemning Nisai to death. We’ve spent this long, we’ve got to hold our nerve. If there’s one thing even I have patience with, it’s an experiment.”

  He grimaces at the bucket. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’ve seen sick before, don’t get in a lather over it.”

  “Bit late for that,” he says, dabbing at his damp forehead with a cloth. He gives me a wan smile as I close the door behind me.

  Though I’m not the one who has been taking lethal formula, dread sits cold and heavy in my stomach, like I’ve swallowed a rock. There’s no going back once Ash breathes smoke from one of the dahkai flower petals. And even if the cure works, he’s going to suffer a lot more between now and then.

  When I return, Ash sits on the mattress, his demeanor calm, except for the slight wobble as he places the dried dahkai flower in the brazier. “Ready?”

  With heavy steps I cross to the window and cover my nose.

  Just like with the others, he’s businesslike. And then it’s done.

  We stare at each other, waiting. In the hall, a couple giggles their way back to their room. Outside, the guesthouse’s rel
atively quiet neighborhood has settled for the night.

  Soon, Ash’s eyelids begin to droop.

  “No sleeping,” I remind him. I’m about to prop myself under his arm, when he slumps over.

  “Ash?” I give his shoulder a shake.

  He doesn’t stir.

  Fear quickens as I gently roll him onto his side. He’s still breathing, though it’s shallow. I check his pulse. Slower than it should be.

  I’ve got to hold my nerve. If I try the antidote too soon, before all the symptoms appear, we’ll never know if the poison was the same as what felled Nisai. We’ll be back at square one. It’s the last thing Ash would want, especially after all he’s suffered.

  Yet every moment seems to stretch longer than the last. My fingers on his wrist begin to tremble as his pulse weakens. And still no sign of the key symptom—darkness spreading across the skin.

  I check his eyes. Nothing.

  I snatch up the first of the cure liquids. We’ll have to find another way to test it.

  My hands shake as I try to work the stopper free on the antivenom distillation. I’ve got to get him breathing the antidote sequence. Now.

  But the stopper is sealed so tightly my fingers can barely get purchase. Why in the sixth hell didn’t I loosen it earlier?

  Sweat slicks my palms. I wipe them on my robe and try again.

  It’s not working.

  I glance to Ash. His chest is barely rising and falling.

  I pull my knife from its sheath and wedge the blade into the hairline gap between the vial and the lid. Gritting my teeth, I try to put the same pressure on bracing and lifting. The knife slips, catching the end of my thumb where it holds the vial, slicing through the nail and into the flesh.

  A hiss of pain escapes my lips, and I only manage to hold on to the vial through sheer will. I stick my bleeding thumb in my mouth, tears of frustration pricking my eyes.

  Then I notice it.

  At the center of Ash’s chest. Darkness. Growing and twisting like a vine’s first tentative tendrils.

  I set my jaw and add the first liquid in the oil burner. The scent is horrid as it heats—simmering blood and something worse. I double over my scarf and tie it around my face, then struggle to lift Ash back into a sitting position, mimicking the tent he made with his cloak, this time so he’s engulfed in steam.