The Tasters Guild Read Online Free Page A

the terrible fire at the Library of Rocamadour. But the Prophecy was known—in full or part—by a select few and predicted that a child of noble birth would heal Caux’s ailing King. This child, as it turned out, was Poison Ivy, a young girl with a penchant for making exquisite and deadly poisons—a talent that, with her vast knowledge of herbs, also lent itself to healing. The King was none other than the Good King Verdigris, Ivy’s great-grandfather.
    The Child of the Prophecy was currently being greatly disobedient.
    It wasn’t that she was practicing an illegal brand of medicine, exactly. True, apotheopathy had once been forbiddenunder the Deadly Nightshades, punishable by death in the kingdom of Caux. And no one could claim she was a licensed apotheopath—this was a reward for only a select few, after years of arduous study such as her uncle had endured. (Study, it should be said, was not one of Ivy’s strong suits.) But she was, after all, an indisputable expert on herbs and plants, the potencies of which could be used to cure as well as harm.
    And now Ivy was practicing her own secret brand of medicine, working on intuition alone, and, indeed, to the great satisfaction of the citizens of Templar.
    By her side was her good friend Rowan Truax. The errant taster was on the run from the dreaded Tasters’ Guild, where he had learned his trade, only to practice it disastrously—killing twenty of King Nightshade’s men and the man he was specifically charged with protecting. The Tasters’ Guild meted out horrendous punishments to tasters who defied their Oath, and Rowan knew the day would come when his past would catch up to him. But thoughts of Guild retribution—and of its fearsome Director, Vidal Verjouce—were forgotten for today, in favor of remedy and vitality.
    Rowan held a thick clipboard and saw to the needs of the lengthy line. He prepared each patient, prepping them with a series of questions. He peered in between toes and under bandages. He inspected tonsils, carbuncles, and boils. And then he moved the citizens along swiftly to Ivy for their cures.
    Upon a little alcohol stove, Ivy was preparing a tincture. She crumbled various dried herbs and, with the tip of a pocketknife she produced from her apron, scraped the spots from a small toadstool and flicked them in, too. The brew exhaled a weak puff of smoke, and Ivy added more of the mushroom, frowning. With a sudden
snap
, the potion produced a sulfurous cloud, and when it finally cleared, Ivy was regarding her patient thoughtfully.
    “Tonight before bed, drink this. One thimbleful only.”
    The patient nodded earnestly and watched as Ivy drained the mixture through a thin funnel and into a small glass vial, one quivering drop at a time. Thinking for a moment, she pried open a small pillbox she pulled from an equally small pocket and, with a set of tweezers, added what appeared to be a grain of dust. The potion turned a steely blue, and then a brilliant sapphire.
    “Pollen of witch hazel,” she confided, satisfied.
    Producing a cork from her apron pocket, she sealed the ampoule.
    “Repeat nightly for one week, and—” She stopped. Something had caught the girl’s eye, and her outstretched arm froze midreach. She gripped the potion.
    “And?” The confused patient leaned in, trying to retrieve his tonic.
    The odd gathering on the Knox was growing. Some uninvited guests were arriving—from the sky. The dark speck Peps had noticed in the clouds had now descended, and it wasbringing friends. Landing about them were great dark birds—enormous vultures. Their ugly heads were naked of feathers and blood-red.
    Ivy blinked.
    She forced herself to turn her attention back to her patient even as the grim creatures continued to arrive from above.
    “Repeat nightly for one week, and—your carbuncles will be gone,” Ivy continued, writing the directions on the label in illegible script. “Guaranteed!” She smiled. “Or your money back.”
    Rowan