Chapter 38: Boiled Turnip

Rowan gasped, his eyes going as wide as saucers. He scuttled into the room, kicking the door shut with his heel, and rushed over to the bedside with frantic, wobbling steps.

"LUCIEN! YOU LOOK LIKE A BOILED TURNIP!" Rowan wailed, setting the ceramic mug down on the nightstand with such trembling panic that half the liquid sloshed onto the mahogany surface. "Your forehead is red! Your lips are chapped! Are your mana pathways leaking heat?! Is this the late-stage necrosis from the Abyssal Crawler?! I KNEW IT! THE HEALERS WERE LYING! YOU’RE ROTTING FROM THE INSIDE OUT!"

"I have... a cold... you idiot," Lucien wheezed, swatting weakly at Rowan’s sleeve with fingers that had the structural integrity of boiled noodles. "A head cold. A rhinovirus. The seasonal sniffles."

"Nobles don’t get the sniffles!" Rowan panicked, pacing back and forth across the Persian rug like a caged ferret, tugging at his hair. "Nobles get ’Spiritual Dissonance’ or ’Mana Exhaustion’ or ’Divine Melancholia’! Only peasants get the sniffles! What if your core is dissolving into phlegm?! What if your body is rejecting your bloodline?! I should fetch your brother! CAELAN CAN CAUTERIZE YOUR SINUSES WITH LIGHTNING—"

"If you bring... that electric gorilla... into this room," Lucien whispered, his dark eyes flashing with a terrifying glint of genuine homicidal intent through his feverish haze, "I will use my remaining three points of Strength... to strangle you with your own necktie."

Rowan froze mid-stride, clamping his hands over his mouth, nodding frantically. "No lightning. Understood. No cauterization."

"What... what is in the mug?" Lucien asked, closing his eyes as another wave of feverish vertigo rolled over his brain.

"Ginger," Rowan sniffled, picking up the cup and holding it out with trembling hands. "Ginger, dried lemon peel, mountain honey, and a tiny pinch of powdered fire-lizard scale. The housemaids said it promotes sweating. They said if you sweat out the evil humors, you might survive until Thursday."

Lucien managed to haul himself up into a semi-seated position, resting his back against the mahogany headboard.

He took the mug with two hands, his fingers shaking as he brought the steaming liquid to his lips.

The broth was spicy, sour, and carried a stinging kick of elemental heat that made his sinuses instantly rebel.

Gulp.

The liquid hit his chest like a swallowed coal.

"HEEECK-SHOOOO!"

Lucien sneezed a second time, blowing a spray of ginger steam across the blanket, but for the first time in six hours, a tiny passage opened in his left nostril, allowing a single, sweet stream of oxygen to reach his starved lungs.

"Gods," Lucien groaned, wiping his nose with another silk handkerchief. "That tastes like boiled turpentine. But it works. My left lung has rejoined the living."

Rowan slumped down onto the velvet footstool beside the bed, hugging his knees to his chest, looking up at Lucien with an expression of misery.

"Lucien... what are we going to do about Friday?" Rowan whimpered, his chin resting on his kneecaps. "The Imperial Awakening Ceremony. It’s in three days. The entire student body has to assemble in the Grand Celestial Spire. What if you faint on the dais? What if the Grand Astral Orb senses your fever and thinks you’re an elemental mutant?!"

"The orb... measures mana... not core body temperature," Lucien muttered, taking another cautious sip of the spicy tea. "I will stand there. The orb will turn the color of wet cardboard. The proctors will stamp my papers. And then I will spend the next three months in the library reading about irrigation techniques while Cassian Valemont takes three arrows to the chest in the northern borders."

Rowan shuddered at the mention of the Hero’s name. "Speaking of Valemont... did you hear the rumors this morning?"

Lucien paused, the mug hovering near his chin. His fever-clouded brain instantly engaged its internal threat-detection subroutine. "What rumors?"

"The Astra Party," Rowan whispered, leaning in, his golden-brown eyes wide with conspiratorial terror. "They didn’t attend the morning vanguard lectures. My roommate’s cousin is an auxiliary squire in the High Spire, and he said Cassian Valemont spent the entire sunrise assembly standing in front of his map with a terrifying look on his face. Like he was preparing to purge an entire heretic kingdom."

A faint, smug, yet deeply satisfied smirk broke through Lucien’s chapped, feverish lips.

’Looks like it worked,’ Lucien thought, a warm glow of pride settling in his chest that had nothing to do with the ginger tea. ’The anonymous tip landed. Silas decoded it, ran to his commander, and the divine missile has been locked onto the target. Professor Graves is currently enjoying his final twelve hours of academic freedom before Cassian’s starlight sword dismantles his smuggling ring.’

"Fascinating," Lucien rasped innocently, taking a slow sip. "I’m sure it has nothing to do with us. Valemont is probably just planning his next glorious training expedition. A man of his stature has many dragons to mentally slay."

"No, Lucien, you don’t understand!" Rowan insisted, his voice rising into that familiar, panicked squeak. "Silas Nightingale was seen hanging around the Western Annex! The scout! The guy who can turn into a shadow! Someone said he was asking the administrative clerks about the supply requisitions for the Everhart villa! He was asking about you!"

PFFFFFT.

Lucien choked on his tea.

A violent, burning stream of ginger and lemon shot up into his nasal cavity, setting his already inflamed mucous membranes on fire.

He doubled over, coughing violently, hacking into his handkerchief while Rowan frantically patted his back with the delicate force of a terrified bird.

"What?!" Lucien wheezed, his eyes watering profusely as he fought for breath. "Asking... asking about me?! Why would he ask about me?!"

"I don’t know!" Rowan cried out, flailing his arms. "Maybe he wants to duel you too! Maybe Cassian sent him to steal your hair for a blood-curse! I told you! The Seven Ancient Families don’t forgive public embarrassment! We should flee, Lucien! The pig farm in the southern provinces has never looked more inviting!"