Page 99 of Pippa of Lauramore
He sifts through his pouch, mixing this and that with his mortar and pestle. Ignoring my question, he motionsto the powder he’s mixed. “I need cider or wine—anything to mix this in.”
Percival and Marigold scramble around the tent, searching for a bottle of anything liquid.
“There’s nothing here!” Marigold exclaims. “Bran, we need something to drink!”
“Just a moment,” he calls back, and then his shadow disappears from the front of the tent.
“Creeping wortcane,” Yuven says, looking back at me. “I’m almost positive.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s a mushroom that grows in marshes.” He gives me a hard look. “It’s native to Vernow.”
I glance at Percival. His jaw is hard, and he drums a nervous finger against his crossed arms.
“Will he be all right?” I ask, my voice small. Marigold and Percival look over.
Yuven’s eyes meet mine, and they look pained. “I’ll do my best.”
Marigold lets out a sob but chokes it back and turns away from us. Percival looks as if he’s about to say something, but Bran bursts into the tent with Clarion right behind him. He hands Yuven the bottle of wine and then steps out of the way.
Clarion comes over, his white eyebrows knitted together in concern, and I pivot out of his way, careful to keep the foul-smelling rag pressed hard against the wound.
Yuven and Clarion begin to discuss the lesion in rapid, unfamiliar medical words. I do understand the gist of the conversation, though. The poison is killing theskin around the slice—that’s what the purple bruise is. His skin and muscles are dying. Clarion agrees with Yuven’s assessment of creeping wortcane. Apparently, it’s a poison that not only eats away at the skin, but it keeps the blood from clotting as well. The concoction I’m holding against the wound is supposed to counteract that.
Already, I notice the blood has slowed and is thicker than it was only minutes ago.
Outside, there is a loud cheer from the arena. I bite my lip, straining to hear more, but now there is only muffled applause. I wait, on edge, willing Archer to return to the tent quickly.
Bran competes after Archer, so he’s left again. Alexander has taken his place. Marigold sits in the corner, looking like she’s reliving every horrible memory from her already difficult life. Percival paces. Yuven mixes his concoction in the wine, and Clarion continues to examine Galinor.
A thought keeps nagging at me, and in the painful silence of the tent, I finally acknowledge it. If I had announced Lionel as my chosen last night instead of hiding in my rooms, he wouldn’t have done this. This is my warning.
This is my fault.
I glance up as Archer strides through the tent, his helmet still on to hide his identity. He pulls the helmet off as soon as the flaps swing shut. He runs a hand through his sweaty hair. “How is he?”
“Still unconscious,” Percival answers.
“The wound is clotting,” Clarion says.
I swing my head down, and sure enough, the bleeding seems to have finally stopped. We’re all quiet.
I wonder if it’s too late to feel relieved.
“Did you win?” Percival asks, almost as if it’s an afterthought.
“Yes.”
“The next round will decide who places,” Percival says.
Archer nods but says nothing more.
Yuven hands me a goblet filled with the herb-laced wine. “Help me, Pippa.”
I take the goblet, wondering how I’m going to get him to drink it. Yuven tips Galinor’s head up and opens his mouth.
“It will choke him,” I protest.
