Just to be sure, she quickly stripped and examined herself for any other signs of inflammation. None. Thank the goddesses.
The next step was discovering what had transferred the poison to her arm, so she could avoid coming into contact with it again. The pink area hadn’t been there before dinner last night, so the most likely culprits were the gown she’d worn or the nightgown she’d worn to bed. But why would someone treat only the left sleeve with poison?
Had something else touched her forearm? The knife! She’d slipped the dagger from Lord Romak up her sleeve.
She ran into her bedchamber and opened the drawer of her bedside table. Using a handkerchief, she picked up the dagger and returned to the dressing room. After emptying the bowl and rinsing it out, she filled it partway with fresh water, then slipped the dagger into the water. While she waited, she put on a clean shift.
After a few tense minutes, she dunked the silver handle of her hairbrush into the water.
It turned black.
She dropped the hairbrush on the table as a startling thought occurred to her. The toxic effect of darca poison was slow when absorbed through the skin, but if the knife had pierced her flesh, the poison would have instantly entered her bloodstream. It could have killed her.
Don’t panic.
She inhaled slowly. So Lord Romak wanted her dead? No, wait. He had wanted her to use the dagger on Silas. He wanted Silas dead. And he wanted her to take the blame for it. Even the smallest of nicks could have killed Silas.
Her heart clenched at the thought of accidentally killing him, and she leaned over, pressing a hand to her chest. Calm yourself. Romak’s plan would have never worked, for she could never attack Silas.
Not when she was falling for him.
With a groan, she covered her mouth. It was true. Her initial attraction to him had grown to the point that she was falling for him. And it was impossible. No one would accept her here. She was considered an enemy from Woodwyn, a malicious elf who could stab her lover to death. And if anything happened to Silas, they would hold her responsible. She would end up in a dungeon. Or executed.
Romak could be rid of both her and Silas in one fell swoop. And with Silas gone, there was no heir to the throne. Was Romak planning to steal the crown?
She had to tell Silas about this immediately.
* * *
Even though the Cave of the Sacred Well was considered a holy place, Silas had never considered it a pleasant place to visit. As he approached, the smell of rotten eggs forced him to breathe through his mouth. He also had to watch his step or he could get seriously burned.
The stream that emerged from the cave was so hot that nothing could live in it or around it. The banks were white ash, and hot enough to sting through the soles of his boots. Any rocks that had fallen from the mountainside into the stream were blanched white like hard-boiled eggs.
Farther down the valley, where the stream was cooled off by snowmelt, the water gathered in a series of pools. It was believed that bathing in those pools could heal certain diseases, but as far as Silas knew, they hadn’t helped the queen. They certainly hadn’t helped his mother.
The entrance to the cave was narrow and dark. His vision adjusted quickly as he maneuvered down the tunnel, avoiding the white ash close to the stream. If he slipped here and fell into the water, he would be cooked.
After a few yards, the entrance opened into a huge cavern, big enough for more than a dozen dragons. The source of the stream, the Sacred Well, was situated in the center of the room. Wisps of steam rose from its clear blue depths, the water in it fed by an underground spring. Too hot for humans, but not for dragons.
Giant pillar candles were set onto boulders, held in place by pools of melted wax. Rivulets of wax had run off the edges of the boulders, only to cool and harden into stalactites that reached for the stone floor of the underground room.
Once a week, a caretaker ventured inside the cave to light the candles, but only a few remained lit now. The other flames had probably been extinguished by the breeze that wafted in from the large gap in the ceiling overhead. It was through that opening that the Ancient Ones had flown down into the cavern.
The old dragons had felt safe congregating here. Any human that tried to enter through the gap in the ceiling would fall into the Sacred Well and be boiled to death. The other entrance, the one Silas had just used, was easily guarded, since it was narrow enough that humans were forced to enter in single file. That made it easy for the dragons to roast an unwanted intruder with a breath of fire.
But the Ancient Ones had been killed off five hundred years ago in the Great War of the Dragons. The new dragons had quickly declared themselves the new guardians of the Sacred Well, and the place had been opened to all the Norveshki. Now the site was considered a holy place to pray, for any human who was brave enough to risk the danger of coming here would supposedly be rewarded by having his request granted.
Had Petras come here often to pray? And in his desperation, he must have considered Fafnir the answer to his prayers. Silas lit a torch and wandered about the cavern, examining all the nooks and crannies. No sign of a dragon.
But there were seven tunnels that branched off from the main cavern. The dragon could be hiding down one of those tunnels and only showing himself to Petras.
Silas ventured down the first tunnel. Dead end. Same with the second and third.
The fourth tunnel led to a
