A Sharpened Axe

by Jill M Beene

  “How long has he been here?” Samiris said.

  “He came charging up to the gates early this morning with you passed out in front of him on his horse, screaming for someone to fetch a doctor. It’s all everyone in the servant’s quarter is talking about.”

  “But how long has he been here?”

  “Pretty much the whole time. He left for a couple hours at daybreak, and I thought he went to get cleaned up, but he showed up looking and smelling just as foul as when he first carried you in.” Aster wrinkled her delicate nose in Artem’s direction. “You’re going to need a new chair.”

  “How’s the horse?” Samiris said, trying once more to change her position and wincing.

  “What?” Aster said.

  “Behemoth. The horse. Is he ok?”

  “Oh, yes. Deems says he just got a couple scratches. He’ll be good as new in no time.”

  “Thank goodness,” Samiris said, relaxing more deeply into her pillows.

  “So it’s true, then?” Aster murmured, leaning closer. “You tried to run, then ended up fighting a Northern wolf in the forest?”

  Samiris sighed. “Is there anyone who doesn’t know?”

  “The Crown Prince, for one. He’s the last to know anything truly important. Plus, Captain Trego read everyone the riot act, said that none of the Chosen were to hear about this, that none of the Royal Family is to be made aware...though it wont work. The only thing this court loves more than gold is gossip,” Aster said. She nodded toward Artem. “Interesting man, that one.”

  “I think he’s a little disappointed the wolves didn’t get me, to be honest,” Samiris grumbled.

  “Good heavens, you really don’t know anything about men, do you?” Aster tsked. “Men don’t sleep by the sickbed of someone they detest.”

  Samiris rolled her eyes. “He feels guilty, is all. He yelled at me in the forest.”

  “You deserved it. I bet he went easier on you than I would have. Running out into the forest at night; what were you thinking? I’ve seen the wounds; you were attacked by a Northern wolf!”

  “I was attacked by several, actually,” Samiris said, feeling the bandage on her shoulder gingerly.

  “There was more than one?” Aster said, her hand at her throat. “You’re lucky Captain Trego was there to rescue you, then.”

  Samiris scoffed and rolled her eyes.

  “Yes, very lucky,” a deep voice rasped from the corner. “I single-handedly slew the beasts while Lady Samiris cowered behind a tree.”

  Samiris scowled at him, her eyes narrowed. Artem stretched his muscular legs out before him and his hands overhead, then laced his fingers together and propped them behind his head in a decidedly casual fashion.

  “Why are you here?” Samiris hissed.

  “Give us a minute, girl,” he said, jerking his head dismissively at Aster.

  “Her name is Aster, and she can stay if she wants to,” Samiris gritted.

  Aster smirked. “You obviously have something to discuss, so I’ll pretend to give you some space and listen on the other side of the door like a good servant.”

  Artem grinned at her, but Samiris was too angry to appreciate the humor. The door had barely shut behind Aster when Samiris repeated, “Why are you here?”

  “I think you mean: ‘thank you, Captain Trego, for saving my life. Let me shower you with affectionate kisses and pastries as a token of my gratitude’.”

  “You think I should be thanking you? I’d be halfway home by now if it weren’t for you.”

  Artem leaned forward, propping his forearms on his knees. His face was serious as he studied her face. “You would have keeled over if you kept going with those injuries, and you know it.”

  “I wouldn’t have.” Samiris sounded confident, but she really wasn’t so sure.

  “You’re right,” he snapped. “You would have bled out while riding, ‘cause you’re too damn stubborn to have stopped at all. They would have found you four days later, dead, your corpse riding poor Behemoth all over the countryside. That’s how stupidly obstinate you are.”

  “I would have been fine.” Samiris said.

  “Oh, really?” Artem said, his green eyes flashing with anger. “You mean that you felt fine the whole time you were riding away from the castle? No nausea? No stomach pain?”

  Samiris narrowed her eyes. “How did you know? Did you slip something into my food?”

  Artem threw his hands in the air. “Are you kidding me? Why would I do that?”

  Samiris crossed her arms over her chest, ignoring the pain the movement caused her. “I don’t know.”

  “It’s the curse. It creates a magical tether. You can’t leave here without leaving your insides behind. You think you’re the first of the Chosen who has ever tried to run?”

  Samiris pressed a hand to her stomach. “I can’t leave?”

  “Not with your intestines,” Artem said.

  Samiris glanced heavenward, studied the intricate stitching and beading of her canopy while she willed the sudden mist in her eyes to dissipate.

  “But my sister,” she said when she thought herself composed enough to speak. Her voice broke on the word, on the thought of her sister now fighting the Wasting all alone.

  “Yes, that,” Artem said, rubbing his neck. He looked as awkward at seeing her discomposure as she felt displaying it. “I feel like I should apologize for my words last night. I didn’t know the reason you had decided to run; I thought you were just sick of this place.”

  “I am,” Samiris said in a hoarse voice, tears escaping from her traitorous eyes. She swiped them away hastily. “I am so sick of this place. But it’s for Tamrah that I stayed, and it’s for Tamrah that I tried to leave.”

  “There are other ways of helping your sister.” Artem’s tone was gentle.

  “I have all the money I could want, but I can’t buy the things that really matter.” Samiris snapped, gesturing to the overflowing dish of gold coins that again sat on her dressing table. Aster must have unpacked her satchel. “Not freedom...not a cure for my family.”

  “It’s true there isn’t a cure that can be bought...” Artem trailed off, his eyes snagging on the gold coins. “You aren’t spending your allowance?”

  “They deliver it faster than I can spend it,” Samiris said, sullenly, as if the dish of coins was a personal affront to her. “Even the improvements in the Sands only cost me about a month’s worth.”

  Artem stood. “I should go. You need to rest.”

  “Wait, Artem,” she said, her tone desperate. “I don’t see what good my presence can do here any longer. I’m needed at home. They are both ill, now.”

  He nodded. “I’ll see what I can do. Get some rest; I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  Artem ducked out the door and shut it firmly behind him. Samiris let out her breath in a frustrated huff.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  The Crown Prince’s chambers were accessed by a stone courtyard with a burbling fountain at the center. The slight breeze set the large palms in planters waving, making them look like they all swayed to a song only they could hear. Two guards were stationed at the graceful archway that led to a set of stairs. The royal guards snapped into a rigid salute when Artem and Samiris approached, and Artem nodded his approval.

  Despite her pain and the unending whirlpool of anxiety for her father and sister in her gut, Samiris was curious. Artem refused to tell her anything more than that they were expected for an audience with the Crown Prince, that he had agreed to help, and that she was not going to be punished for her midnight escape attempt. That was a disappointment--Samiris had a vivid daydream of Fitzhumphrey sending her home.

  Their steps were silent on the wide, richly carpeted stairs. Samiris was aware that Artem had slowed his pace considerably for her benefit, and she gritted her teeth against the pain a
nd tried to walk faster. It was slow-going even though she leaned heavily on the sapphire-tipped cane that Artem had brought her.

  Portraits of former rulers of Leiria in gilt frames crowded the walls that were lit from overhead by glittering chandeliers. Some of the chiseled features in the paintings looked vaguely familiar to Samiris, and she shook her head.

  “Understated, that’s what this is,” Samiris said with a smirk.

  “He’s the Crown Prince of Leiria,” Artem said, raising his eyebrow. “How would you have him live?”

  “I just value function over frivolity, that’s all. And I’d rather have sweeping views of the ocean than a thousand gilded frames in my hallway.”

  “You think the Crown Prince should live in a house more like your home?”

  “He may have the option if I don’t marry.” Samiris wrinkled her nose.

  “Does Lord Kinsley know of your abhorrence toward marriage?”

  “I do not abhor the thought of marriage,” Samiris said. “I abhor the thought of being forced into marriage. They are two separate things, entirely.” Samiris gave Artem a sidelong look. “What about your views on the subject? Does poor Ladonna have any hope?”

  “Maybe she does. Maybe I’ll drop to my knees on Winter’s Eve and give her my late mother’s ring. Maybe I’ll learn to enjoy Ladonna’s unending stupidity and prissy hysterics. Maybe we’ll live happily ever after and pop out brats every other year,” he said, sarcastically. “Then again, maybe I’ll slit my own throat.”

  Samiris chuckled. They had arrived at a set of doors at least twelve feet tall. They were carved intricately with a detailed bird’s-eye view of Teymara that had been covered in silver.

  “Silver?” Samiris said, daring a brush of her fingers against a perfect replica of the castle they now stood in. She tsked. “I’m disappointed. I thought for sure it would be gold.”

  Artem gave her a roguish wink. “It’s platinum.”

  He pushed open the door, which slid open smooth as silk despite its size.

  “Fitzhumphrey?” Artem called. “We’re here.”

  The chamber was enormous. Spanning four stories and the entire breadth of the tower, the wood-beamed ceiling supported by four huge pillars, it reminded Samiris of standing in a forest clearing back in Faro. A massive, four-story window curved around the ocean-facing side of the tower.

  “The Crown Prince has ocean views and gilded frames,” Artem said, redundantly.

  Samiris stuck her tongue out at him, then retracted it as quickly as a frog snagging a fly when the Crown Prince emerged from a row of bookcases toward the back of the room. He was carrying a stack of thick tomes over to his huge, already over-crowded desk.

  “Oh, hullo,” he said, blowing lank strands of hair out of his eyes.

  Artem bowed low and Samiris curtseyed awkwardly, and Artem said, “Crown Prince, let me present Lady Samiris Orellana.”

  “Of course I remember. We’re good friends now, bonded over our mutual adoration of picnic tents,” Fitzhumphrey said, waddling over to his desk and unceremoniously dumping the stack of books on top of a stack of parchment.

  Samiris’ eyebrows rose. She had never heard the Crown Prince make a joke before.

  The corner of Artem’s mouth twitched. “Yes, exactly.”

  “Have you come to help me with the filing?” Fitzhumphrey blinked at them, looking very much like a guileless owl.

  “Er, no,” Artem said. “We’ve come because Lady Samiris received a disturbing report from her household.”

  “Was it about all the bats?” Fitzhumphrey said, heading back over to the bookshelves and disappearing behind the stacks of books. His voice became slightly muffled. “I’ve heard there’s a surprisingly large crop of them this year. Thelonia Potts surmises that the increased birth rate has something to do with the rainfall in the Southern Wastes.”

  “Not bats, Your Excellency,” Artem said smoothly. “Lady Samiris’ younger sister has fallen ill with the Wasting. Remember?”

  “Ah, terrible thing, that,” Fitzhumphrey said, reappearing with another pile of books in his arms. “But one bottle of tonic, and she’ll be right as rain. Rain without the increase of bats, I mean. Give me a minute, and I’ll assemble the ingredients.”

  Samiris jerked back and gasped as if Fitzhumphrey had thrown a book at her. Her heart pounded a relentless rhythm in her ears. Hope bloomed inside her, as warm and intoxicating as any liquor she’d tasted.

  “You mean you can help her?” Samiris blurted. “I thought the tonic no longer existed. You’re saying you can make it?”

  “Of course,” Fitzhumphrey said. “And the faster I get it done, the faster I can get back to this bat problem.”

  Artem smiled and raised his eyebrow at Samiris as if to say, See? But Samiris’ attention was fixed on the Crown Prince as he deposited the books on his desk and meandered over to a glass-front cabinet.

  “Clear me a spot on the workbench,” he said, his head and shoulders deep in the cabinet.

  Artem hastened to comply, stacking used dishes and setting them near the door, piling books, and throwing away crumpled parchment and broken quills. Samiris stood, numbly thinking of Tamrah and her father at home in Faro. She was calculating how many days it would take to get the tonic to Faro, how long it would be until the hope she felt spread to her father, to Tamrah.

  “Did you dismiss the maids again?” Artem asked, giving the wooden table a final swipe with a rag that looked suspiciously like a crumpled stocking.

  “They threw away one of my experiments,” Fitzhumphrey replied from the depths of the cabinet. “Said they thought it was a rat’s nest.”

  “Was it a rat’s nest, Fitz?” Artem asked patiently.

  “Yes, but it was a very special one,” Fitzhumphrey said, emerging from the cabinet with his arms full of glass bottles. “But sometimes I throw away a note and then want it back, but the trash cans are empty. And they’re always putting my books back on the shelves.”

  “That is the point of having trash cans and bookshelves,” Artem said.

  “Good point. You know, go ahead and have them come back. It is smelling a little foul in here. And I never did find that rat.”

  “The rat?” Artem said.

  “From the nest,” Fitzhumphrey explained, his expression stating very clearly that he thought Artem was daft for having to ask.

  “Ah, yes. Well. I will tell them to come back, but will instruct them not to disturb anything that looks like it might be an experiment.”

  Fitzhumphrey tilted his head to the side, considering. Samiris thought he looked like a hound who had heard a strange noise and was trying to figure it out.

  “Very well,” he finally said. “But tell them not to come more than once a week. Now, on to the tonic.”

  He sorted the ingredients quickly with pudgy hands. “Cullebore, Herexia, Mullion seeds and Tripen juice. I’ll add the Rojovaca once I know the base is correct.”

  “I’ve heard of all the other ingredients,” Samiris said. “But what is Rojovaca?”

  “It was the rarest plant in the kingdom,” Fitzhumphrey said. “Now it’s extinct. All the other ingredients are common. But the Rojovaca only grew in the northernmost mountain in Nexian, near the place where the fae kingdom once opened to ours.” He mixed and measured deftly. “When the passage closed, the Rojovaca withered and died. Scholars believe that the Rojovaca depended on proximity to the fae, that it was their very magical essence that nurtured the plant. I sent ten men to harvest all they could, but over the years, our stock has been depleted.”

  Fitzhumphrey held the concoction up to the light. It was a plain looking thing, the same color brown as a weakly brewed tea. “That looks perfect,” he said. “Now for the last ingredient.”

  He shuffled over to the glass cupboard and emerged with a tiny glass bottle that he held gingerly, as if he
were cradling a wounded bird.

  “This,” he said, holding the bottle out for Samiris to see, “is the Rojovaca plant.”

  Samiris leaned forward. The flowers were red and looked as tiny and delicate as blown glass. Before she finished looking, Fitzhumphrey retracted his hand, reminding Samiris of a mother who could not stand to have anyone else hold her child.

  “Stand back,” he said, unstopping the bottle with great care.

  With a long, slender pair of tweezers, Fitzhumphrey extracted one flower and laid it upon a piece of clean parchment. Samiris saw him hold his breath as he used two pairs of tweezers to pull three nearly invisible stalks from the center of the plant.

  “Seeds,” he explained, dropping them on the corner of the paper. “My father’s scholars tried every which way to grow them... hothouses, different seasons, water, sunlight, darkness, drought... nothing worked. They will not grow away from the fae. Now that the fae have sealed themselves off, they no longer grow anywhere.”

  Fitzhumphrey dropped the red, crystalline flower in the brown potion and swirled the bottle three times at eye level. His frowning concentration reminded Samiris of Peg when she checked her still back home in Faro. Almost instantly, the concoction turned a clear blood red. Samiris’ eyes went wide.

  “Yes.” Fitzhumphrey nodded. “We’re not even sure what the plants’ properties are. The recipe for this potion was a gift from the Fae of old, along with the sea wall and the window in this tower. The Rojovaca flower is too precious for us to study, unfortunately.”

  “How many do you have left?” Samiris asked.

  “About thirty. When the curse first descended, I brewed the potion day and night for anyone who asked for it. But people are liars and opportunists, and some people stockpiled it because they knew its worth. Never mind that it has a month-long shelf life. Never mind that people were dying.” Fitzhumphrey sounded angry. “Others took it as a preventative measure. Still others sold it on the black market for an ungodly sum. It still pains me to think how many hundreds of Rojovaca flowers were wasted during that time. Now, I only brew a potion if a trustworthy person comes to me and asks.”