We hurry after Kip through the halls.

Well, everyone else hurries. I manage to keep pace with a limping shamble.

The useless pair of Aphorain palace guards are still stationed either side of our chamber entrance, terror creeping across their faces at the sight of the unconscious Prince.

“Open that salt-sown door already,” Kip demands, accent twanging even more Losian than usual. The guards scurry to respond.

Inside, Esarik rolls up the nearest rug and wedges it in the gap between the floor and the now-closed door. There’s a grating screech as he drags one of the divans across the marble to the center of the room. “Set him down on his side. We want to give him the best chance of clearing his lungs.”

Kip wordlessly follows his request.

“And someone cover that window.”

A servant girl rushes to draw the heavy drapes. Something about her brushes against my memory.

I want to stay hovering, but now that we’ve made it here, the last stores of my strength drain away. I’m grateful when Kip pulls a chair over and motions for me to sit—close by Nisai, but not in Esarik’s way.

The soon-to-be physician sets to work, peering in Nisai’s mouth, smelling his breath, taking his pulse. Rolling the Prince onto his back, he prods his fingers experimentally into his abdomen. I clench and unclench my fists, controlling my urge to needle him with questions.

Esarik pushes his hair out of his eyes to reveal a creased brow. “I’m not entirely convinced this is smoke inhalation. He doesn’t have a burn on him. There’s no sign of soot in his airways. Not that I can see. I wish I’d gone in there with you. If I’d seen what happened, I might have been able to …” Esarik trails off, a pained expression on his face.

“What happened? It wasn’t the fire?” I find myself mirroring the Trelian’s gesture, running a hand over my recently shaved scalp.

“It could be in his lungs and I’m just not able to tell. Though usually there would be other signs if it was severe enough to keep him out cold like this.”

“The Scent Keeper said there wasn’t much time. She said something was ‘too much’ or ‘too strong.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

“Smoke-strewn skies, Ash: You think the Scent Keeper did this?”

“I’ve no idea what to think. But could this be poison?”

Esarik crosses his arms and props a thumb beneath his chin. “It’s possible. Though most poisons that would put him in this state would have killed him already. To illustrate: Hagmiri formulas are derived from fruit seeds—readily available in the province’s mountain orchards. Breathe in enough of the powdered form and a coma will result, but the heart will quickly shut down as well, the individual likely to experience seizures in the short interim. They call it Stonemason’s Joy because it keeps the tomb carvers in business.”

“Surely the Hagmiri aren’t the only ones in the Empire who make poisons?”

Esarik begins to pace. “Of course not. The Trelians tend to use mineral by-products from precious-metal mines. But those are highly unlikely to deliver a life-threatening dose without sweating, jaundice, vomiting.”

He taps one finger against his temple as if trying to dislodge the answer. “On the other hand, if it were Losian, I would hypothesize a derivation of a particularly potent snake venom. The name eludes me. Oh, but this is so difficult without my books!”

Kip has been leaning against the opposite wall, watching Esarik pace. Now she scowls. “Ralshig’s Lament,” she provides. “Makes you cry blood tears.”

“The very one! My thanks.”

Kip shrugs. “Makes you piss blood, too.”

“Indeed! Enough venom can thin the blood so rapidly it starts to seep from the pores, and out of every—”

“I get the picture,” I say, holding up my hand with a cringe.

“Sorry. I forget this sort of thing can be disturbing to a layperson.” The scholar keeps pacing, muttering to himself, counting off thoughts on his fingers. “Oh!” He stops abruptly, paling more than I thought even Esarik could.

“What? What is it?”

His eyes lose focus. Then he straightens, shifts a chair, and steps up onto it, reaching for one of the candles from the lightwheel. His prize in hand, he returns to Nisai, gently peeling back each eyelid as he shines the flame close.

“Esarik!”

If I wasn’t seeing it for myself, I wouldn’t believe it possible the Trelian could blanche further.

“Stars, Ash. I’ve never so dearly wished not to have made a diagnosis.” He gropes for the divan behind him and sits heavily.

With no small effort, I heave myself to my feet and cross to where Nisai lies. My hand betrays me, trembling slightly as I thumb back Nisai’s eyelid. In the low light, it looks as if the normally crimson capillaries in the whites have turned into a fine web of black.

I squint and lean closer. Somehow, faintly wavering dark lines have appeared beneath the skin surrounding Nisai’s eyes, between them, across the bridge of his nose. Scrunching my own eyes shut, I send a silent prayer to Kaismap for clear vision. But when I look again, the shadowy threads are still there, radiating out like tiny streams meandering across a map.

Gnawing apprehension sinks into the deep bite of fear.

“She was right,” Esarik marvels.

“The Scent Keeper?”

He looks up at me, confusion momentarily flickering across his features. “The Scent Keeper? Stars, no. I meant Ami. There are mentions in surviving pre-Accord texts of a poison used by the small kings, astronomically expensive because it was so hard to trace. Ami and I debated whether it was merely myth. She argued that most myths are borne of a smaller truth. And in my aurochs-headed stubbornness I had refused to give her theory credence.”

I sink back into my chair. “You think we’re dealing with an expensive, ancient, possibly mythical poison?”

He pinches his nose between thumb and forefinger. “The evidence suggests that’s possible.”

“Then we should focus on finding an expensive, ancient antidote.”

“That, I’m afraid, will be impossible.”

“Because?”

He takes a shuddering breath. “There never was an antidote. Not in any of the texts I’ve seen. Though we only have fragments to go on.”

I look to Esarik, then to Kip standing stone-faced against the wall, then to Nisai’s unmoving form.

None of us utters a word until the sounds of a commotion echo from outside the chambers, Iddo’s voice carrying over the others. He strides into the room, Issinon trailing him. The elder Prince crosses to where Nisai lies, taking in the sight of his younger brother with a look of sheer incredulity.

“Clear the room,” he grates.

Light on her feet, the servant girl flits out the door.

Iddo clenches his hands into fists, corded tendons standing out along his forearms. “I take an hour—one hour—to try to smooth things out with the Aphorain Commander and everything descends into chaos.”

Then he’s back in control, pinning me in his hawk’s gaze.

“How did this happen?”

Even if he didn’t love his brother—and it’s always been clear he does—Iddo has nothing to gain from Nisai’s downfall. His Trelian heritage means he’s the only imperial son who cannot inherit the throne. But he does have something to lose—what kind of Commander of the Imperial Rangers lets the heir be harmed on his watch?

What kind of Shield lets this happen on his watch?

I shake my head. “We’re just trying to piece that together. Esarik may have a theory.”

“Try me.”

The scholar jumps to his feet. “We were considering the possibility of poison. But it’s merely one possibility. I’m afraid I’m out of my depth, Commander. I’m a student, not a full-fledged physician.” He wrings his hands. “With respect, it’s no coincidence that after your father declined to appoint a new Scent Keeper in the capital, the Aphorain Eraz has declined to make any local appointments from the Guild of Physicians. We need to get the Prince back to Ekasya, where he can receive proper care from the Empire’s best medical minds.”

“Not yet.”

Esarik takes a step back. “Forgive me, Commander, but when a patient is in an unconscious state, time is of the—”

“Understood. But not yet. First rule of survival in enemy territory—secure the surrounds before seeing to the wounded.”

Enemy territory? Last time I checked, Aphorai was still a province on the imperial map. Then again, last time I checked, Nisai was in perfect health. And there’s only one person in this room who rose through the ranks to become the youngest Commander of the Imperial Rangers.

House cat, I think bitterly. I’m just a house cat.

“Esarik,” Iddo orders. “Begin a list of the best healers, religious or secular, Aphorai can offer—then do your own due diligence on their worth.”

“There’s an option close by,” I suggest. “The girl who stitched me up knew exactly what she was doing. She was one of the first to the gardens with me. Maybe she saw something I missed.”

“She was with you?”

“We arrived around the same time.”

“Convenient.” Iddo’s eyes go flat, and I can’t tell if he was speaking about the girl or me or both. He turns to Issinon. “Reconvene my meeting. If we’re going to have a chance of identifying a culprit, we need to lock down the palace immediately. The Aphorains aren’t going to like me pulling imperial rank. But I didn’t come here to be polite.”

He gives Nisai’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“I came to protect my brother.”