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“Then follow every person who leaves his rooms. Preserve the connection before you expose it.”
“Already underway.”
His preparation should reassure me. Instead, I think of how close we came to losing every answer along with Rhysandir.
“Keep the evidence lines separate,” I say. “The poisoned salve remains in Rhysandir’s room. The remaining herbs stay here. The market wrapping, merchant records, and surveillance reports each receive their own seals. Record every person who handles them.”
“It will be done.”
He looks at the dark liquid in my bowl. “Will that save him?”
“It may keep him alive long enough to save himself.”
Joran’s expression hardens against whatever answer he wanted. “Then I will buy you the time.”
He returns to the gates.
I test the second pressing between two fingers. It is colder, darker, and pungent enough to sting my eyes. Fylvek strength collects near the root’s center, but concentration alone is dangerous. I divide the liquid into two cups and dilute one with cold water.
“Why two?” Briar asks.
“The weaker dose first. If his breathing responds without his pulse racing, I can give the stronger preparation by drops. We support balance. We do not overwhelm it.”
I add a trace of solarium-grown rirzed to ease the injured muscles and cool the damaged skin. No numiscu touches this bowl. I inspect every fragment beneath the brightest neptherium lamp, scrape each stem, and crush a petal on white tile before it enters the mixture.
The liquid turns cloudy green-blue.
I taste one drop.
Bitterness coats my tongue and sends a brief warmth down my throat. The warmth fades quickly in the cold air. Strong, but not enough to burn.
I set a measured portion aside and wait through twenty breaths. My pulse remains steady. The root tingles along my tongue without producing sweat or heat beneath my skin. Rhysandir’s weakened body may answer differently, so I mark the cup for drops rather than swallows.
Briar ties green thread around the diluted cup and white thread around the concentrated one. “So you cannot mistake them in the dark.”
“Good.”
She marks the covered bowl as well. Her foresight steadies something in me. Healing is rarely a single brilliant act. It is preparation, clear labels, clean hands, and another person noticing the mistake exhaustion might create.
“What about his curse?” Briar asks.
My gaze moves toward the dark windows. “This cannot cure it.”
“But fylvek helped before.”
“It eased the pain and supported him through a flare. The scar is necromantic. Chaos magic cannot remove it, and this remedy cannot touch its source. Tonight I am treating numiscu paralysis. If I mistake one wound for the other, I could lose him to both.”
Briar absorbs that without argument. She gathers clean spoons, a narrow cup, and fresh linen while I seal the stronger preparation.
I wrap both bowls in cloth cooled beside the open vent. Then I fill a basin with cold water and add a handful of clean snow from the outer sill. A fresh cloth goes across my forearm. Another rests over the basin.
“Close one roof vent after we leave,” I tell Briar. “Keep the numiscu samples cold and guarded. Bring the remaining fresh herbs when Joran permits you through.”
“I will.”
I lift the basin. Briar takes the covered remedy bowls and follows me into the passage.
The keep feels altered under sealed-gate law. Guards stand at every crossing. Human servants gather in doorways, silent and afraid. Zagfer officers move at Joran’s command without questioning the human Lady who gave it.
