Page 42 of The War of Four Winters

"And waste my best cure? I'm wounded by your lack of trust." He pressed the cup into my reluctant hand. "Drink. Unless you'd prefer to spend the next three days as you are now."

Desperation won out over suspicion. I took the cup, studied its contents with disgust, then drained it in one long swallow. The taste was somehow worse than I'd anticipated, bitter and pungent with an underlying sweetness that made my stomach clench. But I kept it down through sheer force of will.

"Good man," Tariq said, patting my shoulder. "Now the memories of last night should start filtering back. An entertaining evening, I must say. I particularly enjoyed your detailed description of how your elvish king likes to—"

"Stop," I cut him off, heat rushing to my face despite my misery. The events of the previous night crashed back into my memory: the endless parade of exotic spirits, the increasingly personal revelations, the discussion of Ostovan's future that had ended with... what, exactly? I struggled to piece together the final moments before I unceremoniously blacked out.

"What happened at the end?" I asked, my voice hardly recognizable even to my own ears. "The last thing I remember is..."

Tariq laughed, the sound making me wince. "The tears of the desert moon happened, brother mine. Not many can handle more than a thimbleful. You managed three before collapsing mid-sentence while explaining your detailed plans for Michail's personal guard."

I straightened slightly, noticing with surprise that the remedy was already taking effect. The pounding in my head receded from unbearable to merely agonizing, and my stomach began to settle. Morning light still seemed too bright, but no longer threatened to blind me with each ray.

"Bash helped," Tariq added, gesturing to where his miniature dragon curled on a pillow near my head. "She insisted on staying with you. Apparently, she likes how you smell when you're drunk. A dubious compliment at best."

The copper-scaled creature regarded me with what seemed like smug satisfaction.

"We talked about Michail," I said slowly, fragments of our conversation returning. "And Ostovan's future."

"Among other things," Tariq agreed, leaning against the rail with catlike grace. Even after matching me drink for drink, he looked frustratingly unaffected. "You have quite the colorful vocabulary when drunk. I particularly enjoyed your detailed description of how my dear half-brother Michail likes to arrange his personal quarters. The revelation about his collection of preserved insects was... unsettling."

I grimaced, not just from the lingering taste of the remedy. "I said too much."

"On the contrary," Tariq countered, his expression growing more serious. "You said exactly enough. I meant what I said last night, even if the tears of the desert moon loosened my tongue. If Michail falls, someone must step into the vacuum. Why not someone with Savarran pragmatism and Ostovan blood?"

The hangover remedy was working with impressive speed, clarity returning to my thoughts despite the lingering headache. "You really would consider it? Taking the throne?"

Tariq shrugged, the gesture elegant despite its casualness. "I've spent my life avoiding responsibility while pursuing pleasure. Perhaps it's time to try the reverse. Besides," he grinned, the expression transforming his face, "imagine the outrage among the stuffy nobles when a half-Savarran pirate with questionable morals claims the crown."

A knock at the door interrupted before I could respond. One of Tariq's crew approached with a respectful bow.

"Captain, Captain Yisra requests the Lord Consort's presence aboard her vessel. The storm appears to be breaking."

I glanced toward the horizon, noticing for the first time that the perpetual mist of Saltmire seemed thinner, sunlight breaking through in scattered beams.

"Tell her I'll return shortly," I said, pushing myself fully upright and taking stock of my condition. The remedy was working with impressive speed, though my body still ached in protest at the previous night's excesses.

"A shame to cut our family reunion short," Tariq sighed dramatically. "Just when we were getting to the interesting part."

"The part where we overthrow our insane brother and you become king?" I asked dryly.

"Precisely that." He flashed another grin. "What could be more entertaining?"

"Almost anything," I muttered, but found myself smiling despite my lingering discomfort. There was something irresistibly charming about Tariq's cavalier approach to even the most serious matters.

"You should dress properly," he observed, gesturing toward my disheveled appearance. "Your elven commander already came by earlier. The woman with the delightful scowl. She seemed quite concerned about your extended absence."

"Caris was here?" I felt a stab of guilt at causing worry.

"Indeed. Looked ready to gut me on the spot." Tariq chuckled. "I assured her you were merely sleeping off our cultural exchange. She didn't seem entirely convinced."

I smoothed my rumpled clothing as best I could, grateful that the Starfall blue jacket had survived my night of excess relatively unscathed.

"What will you do now?" I asked, making a futile attempt to tame my hair. "Return to Savarra?"

Tariq shook his head, stroking Bash's scales as the creature climbed to his shoulder. "I think I'll linger in these waters a while longer. The political currents are shifting, and I've always had a nose for profitable changes in the wind."

"You mean you'll wait to see if Michail falls before committing."

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