“Zamara is a merciful goddess. I will not hold the sin of the father against the son.”
Ryon swallowed hard. Now was probably not the best time to argue the ethics of his father’s decision to sneak Emberhawk troop movements to the Katrosi during the Sacrificial War a decade ago. The intelligence had ended the war in the Katrosi tribe’s favor. While many Emberhawk saw their ritual blood sacrifices as sacred traditions, Ryon’s father had found them abhorrent enough to betray his own brother, the late king—even though, in the end, it had cost Ryon’s father his home, inheritance, and eventually his life.
Ryon spotted a blood-smeared scalpel just out of Waelyn’s reach. Ryon wondered about the old man’s skill with the Phoera element as he remembered he no longer had any himself. Another reason he would strangle Felix if he ever saw that rodent again.
“Do it, then,” Ryon growled. “I will be avenged by forces you can’t fathom.”
Waelyn’s laugh grated against Ryon’s ears. “I’m not going to kill you, buck. You’re blood, and we’re scarce enough as it is.” His strange eyes shifted. “Especially you royals.”
Ryon cringed. “I’m not a royal.”
“Just because you ain’t in line for the throne don’t make you not part of that messed up family, buck.” Waelyn poured the clunky mixture from his pestle into a mug with little splashes. “From one exile to another, you gotta tell me why you don’t go to your aunt and ask to come back. I’m sure she’d accept you—she’s a merciful queen. All those nasty things they say ’bout her can’t be true.” He picked up a spoon and stirred the mug. “If I had a chance to go back and get away from jackwagons like Sylendrin, I would.”
I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. “My aunt is a power-hungry sociopath, and I hope I never see her again.”
“Whoa, there!” Waelyn’s eyes widened. “Maybe you are your father’s son after all.” Waelyn tapped the spoon on the edge of the mug, then handed his creation to Ryon. “Drink this.”
Ryon eyed it warily. “You just said you should kill me, and you couldn’t promise you wouldn’t drug me again.”
“Who do you trust more: me or your disgusting infection?” Waelyn tilted his head. “I’m ’bout to have to feel around in there and see what I can cut out or cauterize. Would you like to be awake for that?”
Ryon sighed and took the mug. He pushed himself up and grimaced as his body revolted against the movement. He stared at the questionable, dark liquid. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be worse than that awful potion the chieftess had given him during training.
Liquefied rot sludged down his throat. Ryon braced against a gag and forced himself to swallow. He balked at the remainder in the mug, then fixed Waelyn in a pointed glare.
“What? Are you givin’ me attitude?” Waelyn shrugged. “I know it’s not joyberry cobbler, but it’s the best I can do ’til Lysander gets back.”
The jar of honey called to Ryon. “At least give me some honey.”
“No, we need that to fight your infection topically.” Waelyn grew a sheepish grin. “Sorry, buck. Be thankful you’re alive.”
Ryon took a deep breath and regretted it—the smells didn’t help. He thought of Kira to distract himself. What kind of trouble was she getting into on his behalf? Or had she finally decided to try and run back home by herself?
He squeezed his eyes shut and downed the rest of his custom brew from Zoth. His unfinished meal threatened to reappear, but the room began to dim. Creator help me, he prayed. Or if I die, please send someone else to provide for the orphans . . .
25
VYLIA
Vylia held onto the walls of the carriage to steady herself. Wood moaned, and something groaned outside like a horror from the void.
“What is that?” Vylia asked her translator, who sat across from her in the small space.
The middle-aged woman shook her head, her expression a mirror of Vylia’s own unease. “I do not know.”
Vylia knocked on the door. “Sousuke! Hiro—”
The door opened to Aoko’s smiling face. “Yes, Your Highness?”
The carriage’s opposite door opened to Sousuke, who wore an opposite expression. He opened his mouth, spotted Aoko, and paused for a moment. Then he shut his mouth and his door.
Vylia tried not to frown at Aoko. He could answer her question just the same. “What’s happening outside?” Over his shoulder, she could only see giant leaves and ropes. It looked like they were going . . . up?
“The