“You wouldn’t want to,” she said as she carefully organized the glasses. “It’s a two thousand year old whiskey. It’ll make your hair fall out.”
My eyes widened at her words, and although I wanted to say she was joking, one look at that bottle had me wondering. The bottle was brown and so dust covered that it looked like Wyn had dragged it out of some long forgotten attic, rather than a prized collection. Most of the label had long since disintegrated and what little was left was written in what I was sure was Czech.
“Lovely,” I said, suddenly glad I had a reason to casually decline. I wasn’t sure what was in there, and it kind of worried me that she would even trust it enough to try. At least my body would rebel against anything I put in it.
“Did you raid some ancient catacombs to get this?” I asked as I grabbed it from off the table, the bottle heavier than I had assumed. The glass was strangely gritty, not like dust, but more like dried fungus.
I was just turning the bottle to see the label when Wyn snatched it away, her eyes narrowed at me as she set it back down.
“No,” she practically snapped, her face hard and frightening.
My eyes widened in confusion at the expression on her face, at the way her eyes dimmed within seconds of the word escaping her lips. My muscles rippled at the darkness behind her eyes, part of me screaming to attack while the other pleaded with me to cry, to scream.
I begged my mind not to view Wyn as a threat, to stop seeing enemies where only friends remained, however, my agitation wasn’t sure it wanted to listen. I exhaled shakily as I tried to take control of the fear, hoping that Wyn wouldn’t notice any immediate change in me.
“This is the last of the abbey’s stock of Slivovica. For the last night.”
“The last night?” I asked, my voice trembling before the remainder of my foolish anxieties melted away.
“It’s what we call the toast before battle, Jos.” Her face was hooded and tensed, a million thoughts and memories weighing her down as she casually touched the ancient cork that had plugged the bottle for longer than I cared to think about.
The cork popped out easily at her touch, leaving the top of the bottle smoking slightly. A heavy smell of fermentation filled the room, rotten fruit and cat vomit mixing together as it hit my nose. The stuff smelled terrible, worse than any of the wine that my mother had served to Edmund for all those years—and I thought that stuff had been foul. I scrunched my face up in a foolish attempt to block the smell while trying to be polite and not run gasping out of the room.
Add another reason why I would never put that stuff in my mouth.
If only I had brought a mug with me, then at least I could drink of the Black Water and drown out the smell with my water’s strong aroma.
“We call it the last night because it is the last night for many of us. Not only for this battle, but for all of them. And this war has been going for quite a while,” Wyn said softly, the calm sadness of her voice pulling my mind off the smell and right into her words.
My heart pumped faster, the pain moving through me so fast that I was barely able to fight the sob that tried to seep out. She was right; it was the last night for many of us. Not only me.
It was my last night.
Strangely, seeing the sadness on her face—thinking of the thousands who had lost their lives before me—had numbed the fear. It’s not that it wasn’t there anymore—because it was—it just didn’t bother me as much as it had only minutes ago. The mind-numbing fear had disappeared, leaving me with a sadness for what I was going to lose; for the short time I had been given to experience it.
“Oh.” It was the only word I could manage. I didn’t know what to say after that. I wasn’t sure I could trust myself to say anything.
“Don’t worry,” Wyn said as she turned to face me again, her glass now full of a foggy red liquid. “I am sure Ilyan will be fine. I don’t think he is capable of dying.”
I gasped at her words, at the misplaced worry so startling my chest tightened under the pressure.
“Wyn?” I started, my pulse quickening as I fought the need to tell her, to tell her everything. I wanted to tell her of the sight, of what was coming for me, of what was expected. However, part of me said she already knew, and even if she didn’t, I wasn’t quite sure how I would begin to have that conversation. I wasn’t sure I was ready to say goodbye.
She had already lost so much.
“I—” I tried again, part of me grateful when she interrupted me.
“I didn’t mean it that way, Jos.” She said it with the obvious intention to put me out of my misery. I didn’t mean it that way, though; not in the way that she had taken it. Not in the way that her voice cried toward me.