“Blast my insides,” he growled, wheezing suddenly. He muttered more under his breath, complaining that he had swallowed pins. Hettie stared at the shadow on the floor, watching him bowed over. He would realize it soon enough. But she had also heard enough to realize something herself. Comprehension dawned on her.
“Every moment it gets worse,” he gasped. He sat back against the table, jarring the contents. He stiffened suddenly, bending double and wheezing loudly. “No,” he gasped. “No…it can’t be.” Lurching forward, he staggered over to the other side of the room, over to the cabinet fixed onto the wall, near the bed, near the fallen blankets, near Hettie. He withdrew a key and unlocked it, pulling open the cupboard door violently. His fingers jittered as he fumbled through the vials of poison, searching.
“Gone,” he whispered breathlessly. In shock and despair, he sat down on the bed, his weight pressing on the mattress, pressing on her.
Hettie plunged her dagger into the side of his knee and jerked the blade hard. He howled in pain and fell off the bed, his scream muffled by the blankets he collided with. Hettie struggled to free herself, clawing her way out as he thrashed in the blankets. Her heart pounded in her ribs, knowing she would not have long to bring her victim down.
As she swung herself free, she found him rising, holding up the scabbard, and saw the pommel begin to glow. She swept her cloak over the pommel and using a Bhikhu maneuver, she grabbed his wrist and then rammed her elbow against his extended forearm, dropping with her weight. It broke his arm and another scream ripped from his mouth. Hettie kicked him hard in the stomach, choking off his breath, and then jerked the scabbard away from him and tossed it to the far side of the room.
He was on one knee, his other bleeding profusely, his arm hanging loose at his side. His face was contorted in anguish. She slid another dagger free and kneed him in the chest, knocking him back against the cabinet, and then put the dagger to his throat.
“You are not Kiranrao,” she said with disdain at the imposter. She knew what the real Kiranrao was capable of. “You are a drunk and a wretch, and you’ve been poisoned by monkshood, as you already know. I’ve stolen the cure and even if you managed to kill me, you will not find where I’ve hidden it. You will die, very soon, crumpled in pain and agony. If you wish to live, you will start answering my questions.”
His eyes glittered with hatred, his mouth a snarl of enmity. “I’m bleeding to death.”
“Hardly. The poison will probably kill you before that happens. You just won’t be able to walk very well. Sit down on the bed.” She grabbed him by the tunic front and shoved him on the bed. He gasped with pain as he collapsed.
She waved the dagger at him. “How can you wear Kiranrao’s face? What magic gives the illusion?”
He licked his lips. “I wear a Druidecht talisman,” he gasped. His face contorted and tears squeezed from his eyes. “The pain! Lass, it’ll kill me soon!”
“Give me the talisman,” she ordered, holding out her hand.
One of his arms was useless, but with the other, he reached up to his collar and she saw the cord she hadn’t noticed before. He fished it from his shirt and she recognized the design from the one her brother wore.
“Take it off slowly.” Her voice was full of menace. She hefted the dagger, ready to throw it.
His face contorted again and he began gasping.
“I swear, I will kill you right now and take it from you,” she promised.
“Have you ever tasted monkshood?” he said savagely. “Oh by the gods, it hurts! The cramping. I swear it, lass, you will die. I will kill you. I will—”
“A postponement till morning is a postponement forever,” she interrupted. “Give it over!”
He was reluctant. She could tell. But he could not see any other way and slid the talisman over his head. His entire body seemed to collapse upon itself, a grape shriveling into a raisin in moments. The illusion was gone. Sitting on the edge of the bed was a wiry Preachán. The only part of him that had not changed was the expression of absolute hate. She blinked in surprise at the complete metamorphosis. There was something familiar about him.
“It’s you,” she whispered, realizing the deep truth finally. He was from Havenrook. He was one of Kiranrao’s closest men. He whipped the talisman around by the cord and it struck her on the side of the face. The metal bit hard, causing a rip of pain as her skin tore. The blow was so sudden and hard that she dropped her dagger. Suddenly he lunged at her, grabbing her shirtfront and pulling himself forward, his teeth widening to dig into her.