“To Tristan, Son of Clan Killian, uncontested Prince of Glas Ddir. Here’s to you, Cousin, for letting a man warm his bones before the cold final slumber.”
Surely this was some kind of ruse. If it were genuinely a last hurrah, the whole production struck Mia as downright bizarre, drinking chummily with the men about to take your life. That was just like a man, she thought, to embrace a senseless archaic ritual.
The duke raised his demon’s dwayle. Quin clinked flasks and glugged his dwayle, and Tristan and the other men followed suit. They grunted, nodding in approval, wiping their mouths on their sleeves.
The wiry, ginger-haired guard quaffed another swig. “It’s better ’an the dross Spence cooks up for us.” He glowered at the third guard, a graying man whose hairy hand rested on his paunch.
“You try cooking for four in the woods, Talbyt, you ol’ crab.”
Mia had never tasted dwayle before, and she didn’t understand how anyone could like it. She took another sip. Like sucking down goose fat.
Was Quin concocting some kind of plan? She kept trying to catch his eye, but he steadfastly refused to look at her.
Mia’s head was a block of ice sweating into her brain. The thought of her sister walking down the aisle of the Royal Chapel, forced into marriage, trapped forever in that stone prison . . .
She had to save her. The ropes chafed at Mia’s wrists as she tried to break free. She eyed the hounds, threads of drool dangling from their jowls, gums red and wet against their razor teeth. Even if by some miracle she could work magic on all four men at once, she couldn’t subdue two dogs.
“How do you like it, Mia?” Quin was staring at her. “The dwayle?”
“I hate it,” she said.
“Good.” He nodded. “Because yours was different from the rest.”
The wiry guard brought a hand to his throat.
It happened fast: Tristan sprang to his feet, then pitched forward, nearly staggering into the fire. He shouted, but the words came out as spittle and yellow froth. He was trying to give a command to the dogs. They couldn’t understand it, but they were picking up on his distress, growling and pawing at the snow.
Spence was on all fours, retching mustard-colored bile onto the ground. Talbyt clutched his stomach, his face bone white, while the fire-building guard frantically shoveled snow into his mouth. They were clawing at their chests, heaving the contents of their stomach into the earth.
Quin was on his feet. Mia watched in bewilderment as he pulled a white slice of tree bark from his mouth and spat it out onto the ground.
“Swyn,” he said. “Very absorbent. A natural antidote to poison.”
Quin spun through the camp, grabbing their piles of clothes and shoving everything into the cook’s satchel. He sawed through the ropes around Mia’s wrists and took her by the hand.
They turned, ready to run—and there were the dogs.
Tristan’s hounds were ready to tear them apart. Their eyes rolled back into their skulls, leaving two white moons; their tails were taut, their teeth bared.
“Mia,” Quin said, “can you enchant the dogs?”
“I—don’t think—”
“Can you try?”
They had no other choice. She sank to her knees.
She willed herself to think gentle, calming thoughts. A dog in and of itself was not a threat. They were loyal creatures, submissive to their masters, eager for a kind word or a greasy treat. She conjured Quin’s dogs, those gentle golden beasts, with their firelit fur and soft snouts, the way they always looked like they were smiling. A half-forgotten memory tapped at the corner of her mind.
She had no idea what she was doing. How was she supposed to turn two attack dogs into docile puppies? Mia shut her eyes, her fingers quivering. She extended her hands.
Something happened.
She felt clean and buoyant, as if her insides had been scooped out and replaced with goose down. Her head was light, and her fingers, which had been trembling only a moment before, were now bloodless, ten lily pads floating on a cloud of hot steam.
She felt something warm and wet. She was sure the dogs had sunk their teeth into her hands, blood spurting from the wounds.
But when she opened her eyes, she saw the liquid was saliva, the something warm a tongue. The bigger dog was licking her palm. The smaller one wagged his tail.
Mia watched, astonished, as the hounds plopped down on the snow. They whimpered and rolled onto their backs, offering up pink bellies to be rubbed.
Five cold fingers wrapped around Mia’s ankle. Tristan lay prostrate on the ground, face contorted, a smeared mess of vomit and saliva, but somehow his grip was ironclad.
Her bones jittered in their sockets. She heard a sharp, dry crack, and Tristan shrieked in pain. He let go of her ankle. She looked down and saw the impossible: his fingers bent backward, the bones fractured at the middle joints. His pale face had gone sallow.
Mia kicked his broken hand away, locked her fingers into Quin’s, and ran.
Chapter 29
Imperfect Cleavage
THE MOON WAS A white scar in the sky, gray clouds oozing from the puncture. A light snow dusted the swyn as Mia and Quin raced up the mountain. They were breathless, running without looking, worrying the same unspoken question: How soon would the magic wear off the hounds?
Mia Morwynna Rose, Knower of All Things, Mistress of Theories, was a blank slate. She didn’t know what she’d done to the dogs or how she’d done it. What she did know was that Quin had most certainly saved their lives. He was a culinary genius—and a better assassin than she was.
She could still hear Tristan’s fingers breaking. She’d felt the telltale twitch of magic in her fingers, the mirrored reflection of his body in her own. She had splintered his bones without meaning to. Had Quin seen her do it? She eyed him in her periphery. This probably wouldn’t allay his concerns about her ability to control her magic.
Thin air whistled through her nostrils and into her aching lungs. She was grateful Quin had thought to grab their smocks and trousers—the snow was falling faster by the minute. But the clothes weren’t enough. She banged her hands together to keep warm.
“How did you know Tristan would say yes to a last drink?”
“I didn’t. I just hoped. He’s always been fond of dwayle.”
“‘Because a king can.’ Brilliant.”
He looked thoughtful. “My cousin has always been vain. I knew if I could play on his vanity, we might survive.”
“And you said you were never any good at war games.”
“No. I told you my sister was better. I’ve always had a knack for the pretending arts.” His smile was sad. “Vanity looks like strength, but is almost always weakness.”
“And you exploited it beautifully. You’re a tremendous actor. Pure genius.”
“Passably genius.”
“What did you put in the brew?”
“Remember our chokecherry tea?”
She nodded.
“The berries aren’t poisonous. But the pits are.” He shook the snow out of his curls. “Chokecherry brew, with a dash of extra choke.”
Mia was impressed. “You saved the pits?”
“You can’t take enough precautions. Not in this fugitive life we’re living.”
There was no sound but the snow crisping underfoot, the muted hush as it fell around them. Their pace had slackened. They were beginning to feel safe—more dangerous, Mia thought, than when they felt hunted.
“Is it odd that I believe him?” Quin said. “I don’t think Tristan was behind the assassination—at least not the mastermind. He’s just taking advantage of it. My cousin can be violent, but he doesn’t have the acuity to execute a complex plan. He’s the sort of person who waits for destiny to arrange itself pleasingly on his plate before reaching for the knife.”
“He must have been working with someone.” She didn’t have to say, Probably your father or my father. They were both thinking it.
“Is it a horrible way to die? The chokecherry?”