She gripped the stolen parchment in shaking hands while eager fireflies buffeted in her wake. But her mind was on one thing only. Rowan—the image of his fall, his arms spread wide as if to catch the sky. Sobbing, she reached the dark stone streets. She raced, following the Flower Code directions Breaux had prepared, knowing the tide of Outriders was not far behind. Lavender and rosebud—taking a left, then right. Another lavender. All she had now, she found herself thinking, was movement—escape. Everything else was gone. If she kept moving, somehow she would get to Pimcaux. Somehow she would cure the King. Suddenly fiery eyes blinked amid the shifting shadows, and she suppressed a startled scream. She had stumbled upon the vultures’ fountain, now transformed by the scourge bracken within her into a crumbling, horrid thing. Black slime bubbled from the broken pipeworks, and tattered, dead vines encircled the statues. The great birds reared tall and awful, flapping their wings and letting loose flying embers that sizzled in the fountain’s well.
