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Hedidkiss you, comes the treacherous thought. And then my thoughts are full of that kiss. How desperately he seemed to devour me. How soft his lips were, how he seemed both frenzied and careful, like an amorous worshiper.
My thoughts are still lustful as we enter the tent. Verrick is there, as well as Quill and Bronwyn. Why am I always the last one to arrive? I’m annoyed and so I almost don’t notice that Owen is missing, but Bronwyn asks, “Why have you called us here? And where is Owen?”
Verrick acknowledges I am here with a glance from fathomless and unreadable eyes before nodding to one of hisorcs.
“Bring the human.”
In moments, Owen is dragged in, swearing and struggling, his hands tied in front of him. He sports a black eye. Bronwyn gasps and turns to Verrick, fire in her eyes. “What is the meaning of this? Untie him, now!”
Verrick ignores her commands and instead says, “Tell her, human. Tell her about your treachery.”
The human man looks terrified. His eyes dart back and forth between me and Verrick, then desperately at Bronwyn. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” Owen says, his voice shaking.
“Don’t bother with the prevarications,” Verrick scoffs, his dark eyes narrowing. “Orcs can smell lies.”
This is true. It is why I drink that dreadful tea Adalind gave me every morning, to mute the scent of my feelings from the orcs I am surrounded by.
But the fact is not well known, and Owen grows even more pale at the words.
“Leave him be!” exclaims Quill. “He’s not involved. He’s been trying to help.”
“He is involved and just how involved we will soon see.”
“Truly, Regent,” Owen says, his voice sounding even more panicked, “I am not lying. I—”
“You are lying now and you were lying two nights ago when you spoke about the perpetrators coming from the refugee caravans. But what clinches your guilt is this.”
Verrick pulls out a bottle that looks like a bottle of wine, but as it comes into view, Owen’s eyes bug out.
“I’ve never seen that before. Regent—”
“Stop lying!” shouts the orc Warchief. “We found this among your things. The contents of this bottle reeks of magic and matches the smell of burning fields. Now, we know you weren’t the one that lit the fire last night, but I would be willing to bet that all the fires in Aquilar were your doing.”
Bronwyn looks shocked, almost like she’s going to be ill. ”Owen . . . is this true?”
Desperate, Owen lunges away, only to be caught and pulled back to his seat by Korovi.
“May I?” I say, holding out my hand for the bottle. Verrick passes it over and I undo the stopper. Instantly a strong smell reeks through the air and I put the stopper back.
“Ifrit oil,” I declare, looking at Owen with shock.
Murmurs break out in the tent and then Bronwyn’s voice breaks through the din. “What is ifrit oil?”
“An alchemical potion, crafted by witches,” I explain. “Even a drop can turn the smallest fires into an out-of-control blaze in seconds. It’s rare and dangerous to make.”
“And how do you know that’s what it is?” Quill demands.
“Do not speak to me that way.Iam not the enemy,” I retort, tired of the man’s belligerent and constantly disrespectful tone. It’s surprising he isn’t the traitor. “I know what it is because I have smelled it before. In my mother’s homeland it’s used to light fires in the desert where there is no kindling. Used correctly, a small amount in a controlled area will burn all night. But if the area is not controlled, like say, a field . . .”
“Then the fire will grow huge and out of control faster than it can be stopped,” Verrick finishes grimly, his eyes never leaving Owen, who is glancing around wildly, as if he can still make his escape.
“Where on earth did he get such a thing?” I ask. “It is not as common outside of the deserts of Sheaotha.”
“Either he is an agent of Sheaotha,” Verrick says, though we both know this is not the case, “or he has contacts that are rich enough to ship something this destructive from across the sea.” Ah, much more likely. Sheaotha has trading contracts with many of the nobles of Adrik. The reason my father married my mother in the first place was to procure the first of such contracts from my grandfather, the sultan. It makes sense that one of the Cabal must have such ties as well.
The Warchief steps forward, looming over the human like the death goddess Karnia herself. “Who are you working for?What is the purpose of these fires?”
Owen’s mouth opens and clothes several times, like he is at a loss as to what to do, when Verrick’s second in command enters the tent.
