“I’m sure.” Ushahin squatted next to the packet, bowing his head. The ends of his pale hair trailed on the ground; he glanced upward with his mismatched eyes. “We had our chance and took it. The time has passed. Do you want to risk Tanaros finding it? He is asking questions, cousin, and in time he may think of your outermost larder, or learn it from my madlings. Do you want his Lordship to know your involvement? Would you risk that?”

“No.” Vorax shook his head and shuddered. “No, I would not.”

“So.” With his newly deft right hand, Ushahin unfolded the parcel. A scant pile of herbs lay in the center of the creased parchment. There had been more, once. He inhaled, his nostrils flaring. “All-Bane,” he murmured. “Sprung from the death-mound of a Were corpse. I have not smelled it since I dwelled in the forests of Pelmar.”

“Aye,” Vorax said. “Or so the Rukhari swore. I demanded it in compensation for our aborted bargain. They were loath to part with it.” He shrugged. “Do you think it would have killed her?”

“Yes,” the half-breed said. “Oh, yes, cousin. All-Bane, Oronin’s Foil. To taste of it is to hear the Glad Hunter’s horn call your name. Death rides in his train, and not even the Ellylon are exempt from its touch.” He regarded the herbs with his twisted smile. “Would that Oronin Last-Born had protected his Children as well in life as he does in death. The Lady would have died had she sampled the broth.”

“Pity,” Vorax said, reaching for a torch. “It was a noble effort.”

“Yes.” Ushahin straightened and rose. “It was.”

Vorax touched the torch to the parcel. The waxed parchment ignited with a flare. Fire consumed it, and soon the dried herbs were ablaze. Tendrils of smoke arose, dense and grey, with a faint violet tint, more smoke than one would have thought possible from such a scant handful. It coiled along the floor, rising where it encountered living flesh.

“It smells … almost sweet,” Vorax said in wonder. “No wonder the Fjel did not recognize it as a poison.” A pleasant lassitude weighted his limbs and his eyelids felt heavy. He inhaled deeply. “What is the aroma? Like vulnus-blossom, only … only the memory it evokes is pleasant. It reminds me of … of what, Dreamspinner?” He smiled, closing his eyes and remembering. “Childhood in Staccia, and goldenrod blooming in the meadows.”

“Out. Out, cousin!”

The words came to him filtered through a haze; a gilded haze of swimming light, violet-tinged, the air filled with pollen. Vorax opened his eyes and frowned, seeing Ushahin Dreamspinner’s face before him, skin stretched taut over the misshapen cheekbones. “What troubles you, cousin?” he asked in a thick voice.