The Tasters Guild Read Online Free Page B

cleared his throat.
    He had great faith in Ivy’s knowledge of botanicals—he had seen her potions do miraculous things and had sampled them himself. But her blithe guarantee made him nervous.
    Earlier, he had taken her aside.
    “Ivy, must you make promises like that? We won’t even be
here
in a week!”
    Indeed, they were meant to depart quite soon for Rocamadour—a destination that left a cold feeling of dread in the taster’s stomach. The ailing King of Caux, the Good King Verdigris, was somewhere in Pimcaux. And if they were to help him, they needed to infiltrate the Tasters’ Guild—no easy task—and find the only remaining Doorway to Pimcaux. Only then could Ivy fulfill the Prophecy.
    “Rowan,” she had teased, “have you no faith in my abilities?”
    Rowan must have looked unsure, because a new, sulky pout appeared on Ivy’s face.
    “Besides, the guarantee makes the medicine work better.” She sniffed. “Everyone knows that.”
    He doubted her uncle made such rash promises but thought it an unwise time to remind her of such. In fact, the thought of the famed apotheopath and Steward of Caux was not a comforting one to Rowan currently. Ivy’s uncle was kindhearted and forgiving, but Rowan knew she was being greatly defiant by performing these renegade cures—Cecil expected his niece to follow in his own apotheopathic footsteps, which required patience and study. For the twelfth time that afternoon, Rowan regretted agreeing to assist Ivy.
    These were his thoughts as he finally noticed the shadowy visitors—and the ever-darkening sky.
    Vultures were landing everywhere now, it seemed; the sky was dark with them. Ungraceful when grounded, a few raised their wings in displeasure, shaking out an unpleasant amount of dust and releasing their particular smell—that of decay—throughout the plaza, and it became impossible for the townsfolk not to notice.
    “Where are they coming from?” Ivy shaded her eyes as she squinted at the sky.
    Rowan shook his head. Vultures. They were streaming in from the east. Could it be? He dropped his ordered clipboard, the pages tumbling about the cobblestones. Mad panic settled in, and the townsfolk scattered hastily.
    “There’s only one place I know of,” he shouted, his voice strained.
    “Rocamadour?” Ivy called. She had seen them there, from the safety of a train, hovering in the air around the piercing black tower. “What are they doing here?”
    Rowan felt his stomach sink to the very cobbles of the bridge.
    “I think I know that, too,” he said miserably.
    With surprising quickness, the bridge, and the plaza before them, were emptied—and vultures were perched upon Ivy’s makeshift workplace, tearing it apart. Glass vials, powdered herbs, and alcohol tinctures were scattered, their inadvertent combinations creating a sour smell. Corks and stoppers were lost, skittering beneath the barrels and bouncing along the cobbles. Ivy and Rowan huddled together in the midst of the chaos.
    There was a great cacophony; the vultures appeared to be greeting each other. Feathers flew and dust stung Ivy’s cheeks. Soon Ivy and Rowan became aware of a single cloaked figure amid the unsettled birds. It was hard to tell where he began and the birds ended, since the clouds had stolen most of the morning’s light. As he swung his heavy cloak about him, Ivy thought for a moment that he, too, possessed wings.
    The vultures hissed, drawing themselves up menacingly. The dark figure allowed his gaze to settle upon the cowering pair. He held aloft a twisted cane, and for a brief, horrible instant, Rowan thought his worst fear was before him: here stood the Guild’s appalling Director. He would be made to account for his misdeeds—here, in Templar. Rowan’s mind reeled at the vision of Verjouce’s sightless eyes—awful scarred pits, the result of his own hand.

    But it was not Vidal Verjouce.
    There was no wicked barbed cane but rather a weathered staff of twisted wood. Ivy’s