Page 5 of Sharpest Court

He retrieved a thin square of rolling paper. Then his one gloved hand disappeared into the bag, and my body locked—both with instinctual terror and the vile muscle spasms of craving—as he withdrew a clump of dried herbal threads.

Dullroot.

Many aspects of this voyage had felt strange with newness: the free Wielding, the discussions about specters, my own panic whenever anyone, particularly Verenians, studied my face for too long. Yet nothing had felt as fundamentally wrong as the widespread demand for dullroot, the specter poison.

“I don’t like the word poison,” Zeke had told me five days ago, upon my first horrified reaction to his offering. “I say suppressant. It’s more palatable for the regulars.”

Because, as I’d learned, many of these Wielders had been self-administering dullroot for years to confine their specters and avoid accidental exposure. Some purified it and poured it into dispensers, others brewed it in hot water, and a few, like Zeke, smoked it.

“You all struggle with control?” I’d asked, curiosity mingling with my horror.

“A few do. Most just prefer the protection.” He’d smiled, biting his bottom lip. “You’ve never gotten too excited with a Wholeborn and started rolling out without meaning to?”

Rolling out was apparently when a specter began rolling across a Wielder’s skin, unbidden. A phenomenon I’d experienced during the end of Rose Season, when my self-restraint had unraveled amid the pain of my father’s death.

“It’s only uncomfortable for a while,” Zeke had continued, a salesman at work. “You ever get a pollen headache? It’s a little like that. But you get used to it.”

Indeed, many here had become so used to the dullroot that, like me, they’d experienced withdrawal pains soon after our departure. And Zeke had exploited the demand.

Though I’d been wary of him, I hadn’t truly loathed him until a few nights ago, when two young boys—whose mother had been dosing them with dullroot in Daradon for their protection—had wept for hours from withdrawal pains. Their mother begged Zeke for a pinch of dullroot to ease their suffering, but he said she hadn’t enough gold for a dose. So she waited for Ed to hand out the rations . . . and Zeke accepted her entire meal as payment instead.

“It’s just as well you don’t want any,” he said now, rolling up the dried dullroot, careful not to touch with his bare hand what he would willingly inhale. “I’ll need to save more for Imogen today.” He nodded toward an older woman, eating her almond loaf one anxious bite at a time.

I looked away before she noticed my attention. Imogen was a Verenian Wielder—one of the few here who might recognize Lady Alissa beneath my Dinah mask.

“The old girl’s been rolling out with it all morning. Always gets like this when she’s nervous, apparently.” Zeke brought the paper to his mouth and licked a seal across the edge. I shuddered. “Last year, for example,” he said, smoothing the seam, “Imogen baked a cake for a gallery opening in her square. The cake knife slipped out of her hand, and when she reached down for it, she hit her head on the serving table. Can you imagine?”

My own memory flashes punctuated Zeke’s narration: glasses rattling, wine sloshing, the baker’s mortified face.

I peeked toward Imogen again, my denial rising with my heart rate. For all these days, I hadn’t recognized her features. Yet now, as I recalled that same anxious expression . . . I knew where this story was going.

“A man crouched to help her,” Zeke continued, twisting the ends of his paper roll, “but Imogen was already rolling out with it. If he touched her, he would feel her specter and would expose her right there. But when his hand came down upon her arm, he only smiled, looking sad. And, knowing what she was, he stopped others from reaching out to her, too, telling them to give her space.”

I was breathing fast as Zeke leaned back on his palm, his glove creasing at the wrist.

“It wasn’t until afterward that Imogen realized who the man was. Any guesses?” At my glare, Zeke smirked. “It turns out that she was saved by the ruling lord of Vereen himself. Shocking, I know, but Imogen had a theory. She believed the lord couldn’t bear to sentence a Wielder to death right there. After all,” he said, brown eyes glinting with mischief, “his young daughter was standing right beside him.”

Tears burned my throat. I’d asked my father about the sympathetic smile he’d offered the baker. I’d asked why the woman had looked afraid.

Some nobles treat their people unkindly, my girl. Many citizens expect that treatment. It’s the kindness they remember.

And Imogen had remembered.

“Poor Imogen gets confused with faces,” Zeke murmured. “You’re lucky I overheard her and told her there was no way the lady of Vereen had been hiding a specter all that time. And she certainly wouldn’t have assumed a false identity and boarded a ship out of Daradon. A wealthy girl like that would have to be in a great deal of trouble to resort to something so drastic.” He grinned wide enough to show gums. “Wouldn’t you agree . . . Dinah?”

My head pounded. I’d issued enough threats during Rose Season to understand this game. And to know when I was on the losing side of the board.

“What do you want?” I gritted out, shaking from the fever, the anger, the unbidden memory of Father’s voice. My father had died trying to secure my safety. And Zeke could erase that sacrifice with one allegation.

Because if word spread that I’d been sighted in Ansora, it would only be a matter of time before Erik tracked me down.

Zeke withdrew a match from his pocket, struck it against a sandpaper patch on his boot, and lit the roll of dullroot. My specter recoiled, the bitter stench reminding me of Briar’s dullroot fog that had landed me in Erik’s cell.

“Did you know that dullroot is a controlled substance in Ansora?” Zeke brought the roll to his lips. Despite his nonsense about it being like a pollen headache, he screwed his eyes shut at the first drag, then expelled the smoke in a pained, clumsy puff.

“I can’t imagine why,” I said, sneering.

Zeke recovered quickly, a testament to how often he inhaled the poison. “Me neither. Wielders should have the right to self-suppression. Yet anyone carrying dullroot is relieved of their stash upon arrival.” This pulled me up short, and he gave a smoky laugh. “Oh, right. You were asleep when Ed laid out the schedule. Once ashore, we’ll be ushered through the checkpoints, where they’ll search our belongings. Families will be allowed to go through together so they won’t be separated. Very considerate of the Ansoran folks, isn’t it?”