He wasn’t getting better.
At first, he’d assumed that the chills were a side effect of his nervousness. He’d had a hard evening, sending assassins after Zane, then somehow escaping death at the insane Mistborn’s hands. Yet, during the night, Straff’s shakes hadn’t gotten better. They’d grown worse. They weren’t just from nervousness; he must have a disease of some sort.
“Your Majesty!” a voice called from outside.
Straff straightened himself, trying to look as presentable as possible. Even so, the messenger paused as he entered the tent, apparently noting Straff’s wan skin and tired eyes.
“My … lord,” the messenger said.
“Speak, man,” Straff said curtly, trying to project a regality he didn’t feel. “Out with it.”
“Riders, my lord,” the man said. “They left the city!”
“What!” Straff said, throwing off his blanket and standing. He managed to stand upright despite a bout of dizziness. “Why wasn’t I informed?”
“They passed quickly, my lord,” the messenger said. “We barely had time to send the interception crew.”
“You caught them, I assume,” Straff said, steadying himself on his chair.
“Actually, they escaped, my lord,” the messenger said slowly.
“What?” Straff said, spinning in rage. The motion was too much. The dizziness returned, blackness creeping across his field of vision. He stumbled, catching himself on the chair, managing to collapse into it rather than onto the floor.
“Send for the healer!” he heard the messenger shout. “The king is sick!”
No, Straff thought groggily. No, this came too quickly. It can’t be a disease.
Zane’s last words. What had they been? A man shouldn’t kill his father. …
Liar.
“Amaranta,” Straff croaked.
“My lord?” a voice asked. Good. Someone was with him.
“Amaranta,” he said again. “Send for her.”
“Your mistress, my lord?”
Straff forced himself to remain conscious. As he sat, his vision and balance returned somewhat. One of his door guards was at his side. What was the man’s name? Grent.
“Grent,” Straff said, trying to sound commanding. “You must bring Amaranta to me. Now!”
The soldier hesitated, then rushed from the room. Straff focused on his breathing. In and out. In and out. Zane was a snake. In and out. In and out. Zane hadn’t wanted to use the knife—no, that was expected. In and out. But when had the poison come? Straff had been feeling ill the entire day before.
“My lord?”
Amaranta stood at the doorway. She had been beautiful once, before age had gotten to her—as it got to all of them. Childbirth destroyed a woman. So succulent she had been, with her firm breasts and smooth, unblemished skin. …
Your mind is wandering, Straff told himself. Focus.
“I need … antidote,” Straff forced out, focusing on the Amaranta of the now: the woman in her late twenties, the old—yet still useful—thing that kept him alive in the face of Zane’s poisons.
“Of course, my lord,” Amaranta said, walking over to his poison cabinet, getting out the necessary ingredients.
Straff settled back, focusing on his breathing. Amaranta must have sensed his urgency, for she hadn’t even tried to get him to bed her. He watched her work, getting out her burner and ingredients. He needed … to find … Zane. …
She wasn’t doing it the right way.
Straff burned tin. The sudden flash of sensitivity nearly blinded him, even in the shade of his tent, and his aches and shivers became sharp and excruciating. But his mind cleared, as if he’d suddenly bathed in frigid water.
Amaranta was preparing the wrong ingredients. Straff didn’t know a great deal about the making of antidotes. He’d been forced to delegate this duty, instead focusing his efforts on learning to recognize the details—the scents, the tastes, the discolorations—of poisons. Yet, he had watched Amaranta prepare her catch-all antidote on numerous occasions. And she was doing it differently this time.
He forced himself out of his chair, keeping tin flared, though it caused his eyes to water. “What are you doing?” he said, walking on unsteady feet toward her.
Amaranta looked up, shocked. The guilt that flashed in her eyes was enough confirmation.
“What are you doing!” Straff bellowed, fear giving him strength as he grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her. He was weakened, but he was still much stronger than she.
The woman looked down. “Your antidote, my lord …”
“You’re making it the wrong way!” Straff said.
“I thought, you looked fatigued, so I might add something to help you stay awake.”
Straff paused. The words seemed logical, though he was having trouble thinking. Then, looking down at the chagrined woman, he noticed something. His eyes enhanced beyond natural detail, he caught a slight glimpse of a bit of uncovered flesh beneath her bodice.
He reached down and ripped off the side of her dress, exposing her skin. Her left breast—disgusting to him, for it sagged a slight bit—was scarred and cut, as if by a knife. None of the scars were fresh, but even in his addled state, Straff recognized Zane’s handiwork.
“You’re his lover?” Straff said.
“It’s your fault,” Amaranta hissed. “You abandoned me, once I aged and bore you a few children. Everyone told me you would, but yet, I hoped …”
Straff felt himself growing weak. Dizzy, he rested a hand on the wooden poisons cabinet.
“Yet,” Amaranta said, tears on her cheeks. “Why did you have to take Zane from me, too? What did you do, to draw him off? To make him stop coming to me?”
“You let him poison me,” Straff said, falling to one knee.
“Fool,” Amaranta spat. “He never poisoned you—not a single time. Though, at my request, he often made you think that he had. And then, each time, you ran to me. You suspected everything Zane did—and yet, you never once paused to think what was in the ‘antidote’ I gave you.”
“It made me better,” Straff mumbled.
“That’s what happens when you’re addicted to a drug, Straff,” Amaranta whispered. “When you get it, you feel better. When you don’t get it … you die.”
Straff closed his eyes.
“You’re mine now, Straff,” she said. “I can make you—”
Straff bellowed, gathering what strength he had and throwing himself at the woman. She cried in surprise as he tackled her, pushing her to the ground.
Then she said nothing, for Straff’s hands choked her windpipe. She struggled for a bit, but Straff weighed far more than she did. He’d intended to demand the antidote, to force her to save him, but he wasn’t thinking clearly. His vision began to fuzz, his mind dim.
By the time he regained his wits, Amaranta was blue and dead on the ground before him. He wasn’t certain how long he’d been strangling her corpse. He rolled off her, toward the open cabinet. On his knees, he reached up for the burner, but his shaking hands toppled it to the side, spilling hot liquid across the floor.
Cursing to himself, he grabbed a flagon of unheated water and began to throw handfuls of herbs into it. He stayed away from the drawers that held the poisons, sticking to those that held antidotes. Yet, there were many crossovers. Some things were poisonous in large doses, but could cure in smaller amounts. Most were addictive. He didn’t have time to worry about that; he could feel the weakness in his limbs, and he could barely grab the handfuls of herbs. Bits of brown and red shook from his fingers as he dumped handful after handful into the mixture.