Ambrose the wizard. Had he been in my dream? “The wizards are wrong.”
“About what?”
Oh, that’s right. The wizards weren’t real. I’d dreamed them, so Con didn’t know. But Con did love me. He’d said so. Hadn’t he? The memory got dark and swampy. “It’s so dark. Why did you put out the lamps again?”
“I didn’t.” He patted my cheeks. “Lia? Stay with me. Ambrose will bring the elixir.”
“It’s so dark,” I whispered.
“Where the fuck is Ambrose?” Con snarled. He was no longer there, and I groped for the loss of his anchoring touch. He was shouting in the distance, his harsh voice suited to the burr of command. Other voices answered, some rising stridently. A shattering crash echoed, and I imagined Con bashing something with his rock hammer. A dog barked in excitement. Vesno. I smiled vaguely. Even my ferocious wolf couldn’t fight death. He should know that it always won in the end.
“Here now, Euthalia. Conrí is only a man—a stalwart hero to be sure, and Sawehl’s chosen son, but only a man—so we can’t expect him to battle the Goddess of Death.” Ambrose smiled at me when I opened my eyes, the being hidden behind his wizard’s illusions more apparent than usual.
“What are you?” I asked, the curiosity getting the better of me in my weak condition. Normally I was too cagey to ask the wizard directly, but this might be my last chance.
“Ah ah ah.” Ambrose waggled a finger at me. “You know the rules. A question for a question, and You’re in no condition to fulfill Your end of the bargain. You’ll have to live to find out.”
“I don’t know if I can,” I confessed. “My roots—they shriveled away while I was gone.”
“I see that. Hmm. Quite the riddle and not one we have the luxury of pondering for long.”
Just remember … you have to ask him for it. “Would you help Me?” I asked.
He gazed at me soberly. “Are You certain You want my help?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Searching my face, he grimaced and sighed. “I had to make sure. If You hated me, You would instinctively reject my magic.”
“I could never hate you, Ambrose. You’re My wizard.”
“I’m my own wizard,” he replied with a sad smile, “which I haven’t been very good at.”
Con barreled back into the room. “Where in Sawehl’s balls have you been! How did you get in here?”
“The windows,” Ambrose replied brightly. “Easiest way, of course.”
I glanced at the windows, but the wooden coverings to keep out the storm were still in place.
Con snarled in frustration. “Lia is dying.”
“Yes, I see that. We have to do something.”
If I’d had the strength, I would’ve laughed at the incandescent rage on Con’s face as he reached for the smaller man. Sondra appeared, inserting herself between them. “Don’t. Kill. The. Wizard,” she said, clearly and distinctly.
“Give her the elixir,” Con demanded as if Sondra weren’t there.
Ambrose shook his head with regret. “It’s done what it could. More can’t do what the first one didn’t.”
“My roots,” I whispered, trying to explain, and Ambrose nodded, patting my hand.
Con looked wild, the whites of his eyes showing. “I don’t care what it takes. I’ll pay any price, promise anything. Just … do something. Please.”
“Con, no.” I summoned some strength for that. “Never promise a wizard any price.”
“I do promise it. I don’t care. Anything, Ambrose. Just … help her.” He sagged, then dropped to his knees, burying his face against my legs under the blanket. “Please. I can’t survive her death again.”
I lifted a hand, reaching to touch his hair, but he was too far away. “My roots,” I said again.
“Why does She keep saying that?” Sondra asked. She’d come to the head of the bed, stroking my forehead.
“She’s starving,” Ambrose replied.
“Because she won’t eat,” Con said, voice muffled in the blankets.
“Can’t,” I corrected. I was hollow inside. So hungry, so emptied.
“Without roots, She cannot absorb nutrients,” Ambrose explained.
Con had lifted his head. “No riddles, wizard. Just give me a plain answer for once.”
“Some things don’t translate,” Ambrose replied with unusual heat. “Her Highness is an elemental, not exactly human.”
“I am human,” I protested. “I have a heart.”
“Of course You do,” Sondra said soothingly.
“You are part human,” Ambrose corrected. “Like the magical artifacts You showed me in the garden at Cradysica, You are a creation of human flesh, the floral body of Calanthe, and an extension of the goddess. Does that sound about right?”
I considered that. I’d never quite thought of myself that way, but considering how I’d been born, that did make sense, so I nodded.
“Flower made flesh,” Con said, testing out the words. His molten gold gaze met mine. “Orchids can’t live on their own.”
I’d forgotten I’d told him that once, in a summer-blossoming garden, forever ago. “True,” I said, on a sigh of regret. “Ambrose, please help Me.”
“With all my heart, Your Highness.” He laid hands on my forehead, his forest-deep magic infusing me, banishing the stagnant waters of death. It felt so much better to be finally cleansed of that clinging dank filth.
“What did you do?” Con demanded, and I realized Ambrose had stood and stepped back.
“I made it so Her body can absorb nutrients again.”
Con frowned blackly. “She doesn’t look any better.”
I wanted to say something snide to that, but wit eluded me.
“She can absorb nutrients,” Ambrose explained patiently, “but She must have them first.”
“Feed her then!” Con snarled.
“Alas. I cannot.” Ambrose looked at Con expectantly.
“I’ll feed Her,” Sondra declared. She smiled at me. “Tick tick tick.”
I smiled back, feebly. “Not food. I … can’t.”
“No,” Con said slowly. “Not food. I understand now. I know what you’ve been asking for. Everyone out.” He got to his feet, unstrapping his rock hammer from his back and shrugging off his fine jacket. Black trimmed in silver. Court garb. Had he been conducting court without me?
“Con.” Sondra sounded suspicious, not budging from her station. “What are you going to do?”
“Feed Lia. Get out.”
Ambrose patted my hand, smiling beatifically, and rose. “Lady Ibolya, I wonder if I might trouble you for some cookies and tea? They’re really quite excellent.”
“But Her Highness—”
“Will be fine, dear. Let’s leave Her to Conrí’s tender ministrations, eh?”
Con had rolled up his cuffs, revealing his corded, scarred forearms, and held a dagger in his hand. Sondra stared at the blade. “Conrí. I can’t let you—”