Page 73 of Among the Burning Flowers
‘I know,’ Marosa said softly. ‘I know what I ask, and how futile it seems. But I have nothing else, Your Grace. I have tried everything I can think to do within the city.’ She placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Leave this accursed place while you can. Save your body and your soul.’
Fynch had started to tremble, just barely.
‘If I were to agree,’ he said, ‘how must we proceed?’
‘We can use the water passages to reach my father. I will drug his wine to make him sleep, so Fýredel will not see you. All you need do is lay your hands upon his skin. You will contract the old form of the plague.’
He looked back once more at the Great Yscali Plain – as if he was giving one last thought to the possibility of crossing it. The land that stretched to the horizon without shade or shelter.
‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘can your father still speak with his own tongue?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I want his confession.’
‘Your Grace, if Fýredel sees you—’
‘If his eyes are lit, I will not risk it. But if they are only grey, I will hear the words that damn him to the Womb of Fire. This is my price, Donmata,’ Fynch said. ‘I hope you understand.’
And Marosa could not deny him, for she had wanted exactly the same.
****
When night fell, Fynch showed her a small ebony door concealed behind a tapestry, impossible to find by chance. He used a key to open it. Together, they slipped into the secret tunnels, past the scalding pipes that wormed like veins behind the walls.
At first, Marosa had wondered if Queen Rozaria had never considered the risk posed by these passages, which must run past the rooms of the most important people in Yscalin. But as soon as she was inside one, she knew. It felt like a spacenot meant to be entered. Anyone who found an entry point, even if they were inquisitive, would not risk going far into this darkness.
Fynch carried a Draconic lantern. Marosa thought she would never be free of the sweltering heat, the heavy damp. He led her up slick black steps, almost too narrow for her slippers. At the top, he unlocked another ebony door, and they both stooped to go through it.
The Flesh King was sound asleep.
They moved in silence towards the bed. As expected, the Royal Physician had left her provisions close to her charge, including a flask of dwale, which Marosa picked up. When she was young, she had seen Aryete taking dwale to promote sleep. A drop or two would be enough.
‘Your Majesty,’ she said, keeping her voice low. His guards would be close. ‘Sigoso Vetalda.’
King Sigoso slowly opened his eyes. There was no light in them.
‘Sahar?’
Marosa stiffened. He drew out thesin the name, like a snake.
‘No. Sahar is dead,’ she said coldly, ‘but I am here.’
‘I dreamed of a woman holding a shield,’ King Sigoso whispered. ‘I dreamed of a star that shackled my wings.’
Marosa looked at the fresh linen at his bedside, used to cool his brow. ‘You know the Dowager Prince of Inys has long sought an audience with Your Majesty,’ she said. ‘I have granted it.’
‘Lord Wilstan,’ came the soft reply. ‘Have you worked it out, as my clever daughter did?’
‘To my own dismay.’ Fynch wore a cloth over his mouth and nose, despite the nature of their plan, but his eyes heldmore than a decade of banked sorrow. ‘I will have it from your own forked tongue, Sigoso. Tell me how it was done.’
‘As you wish. I have nothing to hide.’
Fynch listened to the sordid tale. Little by little, Marosa could see his younger self emerging. The man who had loved the Queen of Inys. The spy who had ventured to Yscalin in search of justice. When the Flesh King had confessed all, Fynch gave her the smallest nod.
‘Here, Father,’ Marosa said. ‘You must be thirsty.’
The Flesh King finished the wine in three gulps. They both watched as he fell asleep.
