A small fireplace contained a crackling fire and there were glowing orbs set in the wall inside, revealing the room with light. The dancing flames first caught her gaze, as they appeared to be the only movement in the room. She waited for several moments, watching the flames whip as the hot air joined the swirling winds outside. Hettie stepped around the edge of the door, peering inside curiously. It was a small tower, a single room. It was, however, very full.
Hettie’s boot tapped against an empty wine bottle as she took her first wary step inside, knife balanced for throwing. There were bottles throughout the chamber, cluttering the floors and tabletops. A bed sprawled to her right, the blankets and sheets rumpled, but not occupied. There was a huge chest at the foot of the bed, nailed with leather and bound with iron straps. She shut the door behind her firmly, knowing it would open with a strong kick. The room was deliciously warm and had the yeasty smell of ale and the pungent smell of spoiled grapes. A second door was directly across on the far wall, of the same design as the one she had entered through. Two doors and no windows. A small coffer sat on the table, its lid open, spilling an assortment of gems and ducats of various mint—Havenrook, Cruithne, Wayland, but mostly Kenatos. There was a shaggy rug in the center of the room. She went to it quickly and lifted one of the corners, trying not to let the empty bottles rattle too much. She expected a trapdoor beneath, but there was none. A book lay on the table near the coffer. It was open to a page with ink scrawls marking names, races, ages, and recording injuries sustained. She flipped several pages, seeing the ledgers full. Many names were crossed out. The swipe of the ink looked ominous. A half-empty goblet sat by the tome, a small circle of ale froth showing its remaining contents. There was a small chair by the desk.
By the bed, on the far side, was a huge bracket full of swords. She raced to it immediately, counting at least seven. A solitary brace showed one was missing. She studied the remaining blades and scabbards, seeing various fashions of blades. All had gems mounted to the pommels and she could feel the sense of power radiating from them. Seven blades. One was missing. She swore under her breath. However, if the empty brace was where the Sword of Winds was normally kept, it would be an asset to know that now. She studied all seven, noting the make and length of each. She memorized the order and the details.
Across the wall on the other side of the tower, Hettie noticed a hanging cabinet. There was a lock on it. It was too small for a sword, but the lock caught her attention immediately. She approached it, studying the curve of the wood and noticed it was sturdy and solid. The lock, however, was no match for her skills. With a wire and a prod, she tripped it open and unfastened the cabinet latch. She expected to find bottles of wine or ale, but instead, a cold creeping fear clutched her stomach. There were vials of poison inside. Each had a label, scrawled with a delicate hand. She stared at one of them, tucked away in the back.
Monkshood.
Just seeing the words made her stomach clench with dread. The heat of the room became suddenly oppressive. Bile rose in her throat.
Next to it, almost cradling it, lay a small leather pouch. She stared at the pouch, her mind quickening. She snatched it from the cabinet and untied the drawstrings. It was a tiny pouch. There was a single, decaying leaf inside. The leaf was so old, it seemed to be collapsing into dust. Her memories stirred. As a child, Hettie had watched the effects of one of her sisters poisoned with monkshood. Just before the girl had died, they had given her a cup of tea to drink and the symptoms finally vanished. A strange tea. Hettie had always wondered what the tea was made from. She never knew, because the Romani men guarded the cure steadfastly.
Hettie took the small pouch and delicately slid it into her pocket. A surging thrill went through her body. And an idea sprouted inside her mind. It came with sharpness and clarity. The room reminded her of Havenrook. Discarded bottles of ale and wine. Rumpled careworn sheets. Ledgers and coins. Even the lights in the room, except for the fire, had the markings of enchantment. She stared at one of the glowing spheres, reminded of the lights of Kenatos.
A muffled noise caught her attention, striking her with dread and alertness. It was a shout from far away. Or a scream. Hettie raced to the other door, the one facing the courtyard. She tugged it open a crack, and heard the sounds rising up from below. The mist had cleared slightly and she saw bodies sprawled down in the training yard. A Vaettir was floating up, thrashing, attacked on all sides. It was Paedrin. Her heart lurched with dread. He was attacking as a drunken man, trying to fight foes as if he could not see them. As if he were blind.