Inside, I looked around as I had not earlier. Dim winter sunlight reached in a single pointing finger where the draperies were not quite closed across the window. It fell in a sword-slash of light across my splintered desk. I walked past the drunken scroll racks that leaned against one another. Verity’s blade that had hung so long above the mantel was gone. Of course. Even the most rudimentary man-at-arms would have recognized the quality of that weapon. I fell into a gulch of pain, but quickly I sealed my heart against that loss. Verity’s sword was not my child. It was only a thing. I retained the memory of the man and the day he had given it to me. The triptych of Nighteyes, the Fool, and me remained in place on the center of the mantel, apparently untouched. The Fool’s gift to me before he left for Clerres, the one that had led to him “betraying” me. I could not bear the Fool’s knowing half-smile.
I did not look to see what else was broken or stolen. I went to my desk, pulled the drawer all the way out, and then reached in to take out the box that fit snugly behind it. I opened it. The second compartment held the corked pot of elfbark. I took it out and started to restore the box to its hiding place in the broken desk. Instead, I tucked it under my arm and dropped the drawer to the floor. I found myself not thinking about anything as I walked back to the estate study. Forget, forget, forget thrummed the song. I summoned the will to set a Skill-block against it. The moment I had it in place, I felt a wave of panic hit me. Bee had been taken, and I had not a clue where to seek her. The drive to do something, do anything, lashed me like a whip. But this drug in my hand was the most I could do right now, and that shamed me. Almost I fled back to the whispering of forget, forget. Like seizing a sharpened blade, I gripped my anger and fear and clutched it hard. Feel the pain and feed the fury. What could my fear be to whatever she was enduring?
In the study, a kettle had been hung over the hearth: I heard the seething of boiling water. Perseverance sat dejectedly beside the fire. The tops of his cheeks were red, but his mouth was pinched white with pain. A teapot and cups were set out on a tray. Someone in the kitchen had sent along little cakes with it. A pleasant touch, I thought savagely. Remember a night of terror, and then, oh, do have a sweet cake to go with it. Chade took the box of herbs from my hands, opened it, and scowled at the contents. I offered no apologies for sometimes indulging myself. He opened the pot of elfbark and shook some into his hand. “It looks old.” He glanced up at me, the displeased teacher.
“It’s not exactly fresh,” I admitted. “But it will have to do.”