The Poison Throne

by Celine Kiernan

  The two of them noticed Wynter passing by, and ducked their heads in silence as she went on her way. Razi would want to be careful, she thought, people will say he’s grown tyrannical. It was so unlike her friend to make unreasonable demands on the staff that she paused at the corner of the hall uncertainly, wondering if she should go check on him, but then she thought better of it and proceeded down the gallery towards the main stairs.

  The kitchens were buzzing and Marni growled at Wynter, muttering about “folk too good to dine in the hall”. But she made up a generous tray of breakfast for herself and Lorcan, and mixed a real heft of cream into the coffee jug.

  “Off with you,” Marni snapped and turned her attention to the barely contained pandemonium behind her.

  The tray was heavy and Wynter walked slowly, carefully balancing it as she went. The palace was waking up, the corridors beginning to hum gently with the early morning traffic of pages and maids and fire-tenders and slops-carriers. Wynter made her way smoothly through the lot of them.

  She was coming up from the back stairs and had just turned right into the lesser hall, when two maids ahead of her, their arms piled high with clean linen, paled and stopped in their tracks. As she passed them by, Wynter saw that they were gaping past her to the junction at the end of the hall. Whatever they saw horrified them, and as she watched, they backed slowly away and tried to disappear into the shadows of a deep alcove. Both of them were obviously distressed and one of them in particular welled up into tears which rolled fatly down her cheeks and spattered the neatly folded linens in her arms.

  A vile and horribly familiar smell assailed Wynter’s nostrils, and with it, all of yesterday’s terrible events washed over her in a cold tidal wave of memory. She recalled, in a sudden trembling rush, the one thing that had slipped her mind this morning and her eyes filled with guilty tears. How? How could she have forgotten? She bit her lip and fought hard to keep her composure.

  Down the hall, two of Jonathon’s personal guard were walking slowly towards her. They were matching their pace to that of their prisoner, and it was clearly much too slow for them. Christopher Garron was stumbling along between them, and despite her best efforts, Wynter couldn’t help but gasp at his wretched condition.

  His hands were bound before him and secured to his waist with a shackle belt. His feet were restrained with a leather hobble and he was shuffling along with all the care of an extremely ancient man, as if every movement might cause pain. Both of his eyelids were grossly swollen and bruised, and he kept his head tilted back, stiff necked, his eyes slits against the light. He was breathing carefully through his partially opened mouth, his nose being completely clogged with dried blood. The entire lower half of his face was coated in rusty smears and his long hair was a tangled, ratty mess of blood from his scalp wound, debris and sweat. His clothes were filthy and spattered in dark stains.

  As Christopher got closer, the smell became almost unbearable. Stale piss and damp, mouldering straw: the unmistakable reek of a dungeon cell. All prisoners smelled the same no matter where you went, but by any standards the stench off Christopher was appalling. They must have thrown him into the filthiest pit they’d had available. The two maids lifted their bundles of linens and buried their noses in the fabric.

  He didn’t see her as he shuffled past. Wynter thought that maybe he couldn’t see much through those partially closed eyes. Even this dim light was obviously bothering him.

  They turned him roughly at the bottom of the stairs to the middle gallery and he stumbled against the hobble as he tried to take the first step. The guards paid no heed to Christopher’s stifled moan of pain at the jarring misstep. They just grabbed an elbow each and one of them said gruffly, “Step up.” They waited till his groping foot found the step and then pulled him onto it with a rough jerk. He gasped, found his balance and groped forward with his foot for the next rise. “Step up,” the guard instructed again and they repeated the movement all the way up the stairs.

  By the time they disappeared round the bend at the top of the steps, Wynter was shaking so badly that she had to lower the tray to the floor and kneel there for a moment, her hands clenched together in an effort to get herself under control. The two little maids remained in the alcove, staring at nothing, saying not a word. They were still there a good four or five minutes later when Wynter picked up the tray and continued on up to her suite.

  She took the winding back stairs. She couldn’t stand the thought of having to pass Christopher on the main stairs, or in the halls. She didn’t want to see the way people would look at him, the mixture of triumph and pity that she knew would paint the many faces he’d have to endure on his way to Razi’s room.

  Why had they left the shackles on him? And why hadn’t they brought him around in private? She groaned. Why was she even bothering to ask herself these questions? When she knew the one and only answer to them all. They had done this on Jonathon’s orders, to humiliate Christopher, to send a message to others and to put Razi firmly in his place.

  By the time she got to her suite there wasn’t an iota of expression on her face or the slightest trembling in her hands. Razi’s suite was silent, Christopher’s clothes lying in a foetid pile in the corridor outside the firmly closed door. Jonathon’s soldiers were gone and the hall guards watched her blandly as she let herself into her rooms.

  She went straight to her father’s bedroom. He was asleep again and she set the tray down on his bedside table and went to leave.

  “Where are you going, darling?”

  She knelt down by his bed, bringing her face level with his. “I thought you had gone back to sleep.”

  He frowned and his eyelids fluttered and she saw him struggle to open them again. “Damn Razi and his bloody potions.”

  She chuckled. “He’ll be very peeved. That was meant to keep you under until at least noon!”

  Lorcan cleared his throat and went to sit up. She laid her hand on his shoulder. “Dad, they brought Christopher back. I want to go to see him, then I’ll come have breakfast with you, all right?”

  His eyes were suddenly clear and alert. “Did you see him? The Hadrish?”

  Wynter’s reaction shocked even herself. Her eyes filled with tears and overflowed, her lips began a stupid, girlish trembling, and she had to clench her hands together to disguise another bout of hectic shaking. She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek and nodded.

  “Darling,” murmured Lorcan. “You should stay away from that boy.”

  “I just want…”

  “I know, but he’s a dangerous boy to hang your hat on, baby-girl.”

  She straightened, shocked. “Dad! I’m not…!” She swiped furiously at her eyes and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “I don’t have any feelings for him! It’s just… he’s Razi’s friend. And he’s a good man! I only…”

  “It’s all right to have feelings, darling. But you might want to pick someone less… that lad has no future here, you know that.”

  And do we? thought Wynter suddenly. Do we have a future here? Instead she said, “I’m only going to see if they need anything. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  Lorcan grabbed her hand as she stood to go, “Wyn,” he said, hunting for words. “He… the Hadrish. He’s been through a bit, by the sounds of it. Sometimes, when a man has been through something bad, he… when he gets somewhere private and safe, he might react in a way that he may not want a woman to see.”

  He looked up at her, frustrated at his inability to explain to this suddenly adult version of his little girl how unmanned Christopher would feel at a display of weakness in front of her. And she looked down at him, shocked at his uncertainty, and thrown by the fact that he had just called her a woman.

  “All right, Dad,” she patted his hand awkwardly. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “Wynter…”

  She turned at the door, wary. “Yes?”

  “You shouldn’t let the guards see you. You should take the secret passage.”

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nbsp; Her shocked surprise made him chuckle and he curled around himself a little in delight.

  “Who told you?” she asked.

  He chuckled again, a rusty version of his usual rolling laugh, and waved her on with a breathless gesture. “Who told me?” he wheezed. “Who told me! Hah… what a tonic! Who do you think built them, girl… oh… who told me, indeed!”

  He was still chuckling away to himself when she turned the cherub sconce in the retiring room and slipped into the darkness of the secret passage.

  “Razi?” she knocked at their wall and gave the panel a little push. To her surprise, it slid open and she hesitated, wary of walking in on top of them. She could hear low murmuring from the far bedroom, Christopher’s bedroom. The air was sharp with a high, medicinal odour, which did nothing to mask the residual stench of the dungeon. The shutters were obviously drawn, and dim candlelight softened the gloom.

  “Razi!” she called, a little louder this time, and moved cautiously over the threshold.

  He stepped from Christopher’s room, still dressed in last night’s clothes, though he’d cast the long-coat aside. He had a bloody cloth in his hand and he glanced back into the room before stalking towards her, his expression obscured as he passed from the candlelight into the shadows.

  “You can’t be here yet,” he said firmly and took her by the elbow, manoeuvring her back into the passage. “He needs some time.”

  “Wait, Razi, wait.” She pulled her arm from his grip and put her hand on his chest, resisting his attempt to back her from the room. “How is he? I just want to know.”

  Razi continued to try and walk her from the room, and she punched him hard in the chest. “Stop crowding me, Razi! STOP!”

  He made a strange little oh sound, and stepped back immediately, his hands up. She took a chance and stepped back into the room.

  “How is he?” she peered up at him.

  “He needs a bath,” managed Razi, “he… has a terrible headache. You can’t see him, Wynter. He needs some time…”

  Then Christopher called softly from his room, “Razi.” It was barely audible but Razi turned on his heel and disappeared into the room as quick as Wynter had ever seen him move. She stood listening to their quiet conversation, feeling very uncomfortable and off balance.

  “Let me see her.” Christopher’s voice was soft, but what he said was not a request.

  “Chris. Give yourself a chance…”

  “I need to see her.”

  “I already told you she’s fine.”

  And now Christopher was pleading, still in the same soft whisper, and there was no way that Razi could withstand the desperation in his voice.

  Razi came back to the door, angled in such a way that he was nothing but a long narrow shape against the light. “Come on,” he said quietly.

  Christopher was sitting at a little table, various vials and bottles and cloths and a bowl of steaming water at his elbow. He was wrapped in a loose Bedouin-type striped robe of many colours, and his filthy hair was tied back off his face. He was still stiff-necked and shaking, and he peered at her from barely opened eyes. “Wynter?” he said, hardly moving his lips.

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t see you.”

  She stepped closer, into the circle of light. He seemed to be looking her up and down, trying to make her out through the awful swelling of his face and the poor light.

  “Did they hurt you?”

  That surprised her so much that she didn’t answer right away. He leaned forward, his breath quickening, scowling against his impaired vision, grunting with the pain that his frown brought him. She could hardly understand it when he said, “Answer me. You need to tell me. Did they hurt you?”

  She stepped closer again, swallowing her revulsion at the terrible smell. “No, Christopher. Nobody hurt me.”

  The doubt in his face was obvious. She forced strength into her voice when she repeated, “Nobody hurt me, Christopher. I spent a peaceful night in my own bed.”

  He believed her then, his lips cracking as he grinned in relief. “Ahhhh,” he said softly, the slivers of his eyes sparkling brokenly in the candle light. “That’s grand so. That’s fine…”

  “I’ll let you have your bath.”

  He nodded stiffly and closed his eyes against the light, taking delicate little breaths through his abused mouth, pain overtaking him for a moment.

  “I’ll come see you later?”

  He made no acknowledgement, and she thought he might have drifted away.

  She turned to go and he said suddenly, urgently, “You promise? You’d tell us… if they hurt you?” Why did he keep asking? Wynter wondered if he was delirious. He continued, “It… if you don’t talk about those things…” his hands began to shake rapidly under the cover of the robe’s wide sleeves and he drew them to his chest. Suddenly his lips were trembling and his breath was coming fast and ragged as he tried to finish his sentence. “It gets to be like… m-maggots in your head. If you don’t tell. It’ll eat you up.”

  “I swear,” she said. “I swear, Christopher. Nobody laid a hand on me.”

  Razi grabbed her shoulder and pulled her from the room. She let him manhandle her to the secret door, before she came to herself enough to lift her arm in protest and push him back.

  “What was all that about?” she hissed.

  “Nothing, nothing. I’ll explain later.”

  “Jesu! Razi!” He was really starting to infuriate her. But she lost all her rage when he stifled a sob into his hand and leant down to rest his head against her shoulder, muffling a brief, violent storm of silent crying into her neck. “Oh, Razi,” she whispered, reaching up to wrap her arms around him. It’s all right. It’s all right, Razi. It’s all over. He’s safe.”

  He coughed suddenly and pushed away from her, scrubbing his face with his sleeve. “He’s still a touch confused,” he ground out. “They kept him awake all night, threatening to take him to the chair. Once they even… strapped. Him. In.” He took a sharp breath, released it, went on. “Left him… waiting for the inquisitors that never came.

  The two of them looked away from each other, both blinded momentarily by their own seething cloud of rage, then Razi continued quietly. “There was a woman, and a man. But the woman… he could hear her. They told him it was you. He thought, all night, that the poor creature was you.”

  Wynter felt the blood ebbing from her cheeks. What he must have been through! Then she thought of the woman. “Marcos’s widow?”

  She felt Razi nodding in the shadows beside her.

  “They… Razi. They didn’t hurt him anymore than…”

  “Any more than what, Wynter?” Razi’s rage bubbled over finally and he raised his voice to her, his shoulders hunching defensively. “Any more than my father trying to murder him? Any more than confining him in that hideous place? Any more than tormenting him all night until he’s unmanned with worry and fear?”

  “Razi Kingsson…” Christopher’s soft voice admonished from the next room. “I’ll thank you to kindly refrain from using the word ‘unmanned’ when discussing me with such a delightful woman.”

  That sounded so like the old Christopher that they both laughed despite themselves. Razi covered his mouth with his hand, his eyes brittle and hectic as he looked to the door of his friend’s room. Wynter broke away suddenly and ran back in to Christopher.

  She didn’t even think about what she was doing, she just ran straight up to him and squeezed him fiercely around the shoulders, making him moan and gasp in discomfort. Then she kissed his bruised lips, soft and quick. She pulled away just as fast and backed to the door.

  He put his hand to his mouth, his eyes unreadable under all the bruising, but a definite smile on his lips.

  “You better get Razi to de-louse you, lass. I’m a mite pestilent at the moment.”

  “I’ll see you later, Christopher,” she said softly and slipped out to the secret passage, returning to her father’s room.

  Public Perceptio
n

  “I don’t think I can do this, Dad.”

  “Why not? You’re used to dealing with other teams. You often negotiate for me.”

  “You’ve always been there before! I don’t think I can face them alone.”

  Lorcan tilted his head on the pillow and looked at her with equal measures of sympathy and exasperation. “Wynter! You have to do it sometime! Or do you plan to quit the business when I’m gone?”

  Wynter scowled. “Stop that!”

  “Seriously!” he spread his hands, half-joking, but she could tell by the tightness in his voice that he was starting to work himself up. “What do you plan to do when I’m dead – hang up your guild badge, and make yourself into some lad’s kitchen slave and breed sow?”

  Her cheeks blazed. “Dad!” she gasped, mortified.

  “That lusty fellow next door, there. He’d fill your belly every year for you, no problem. Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

  “Dad!” she cried, stamping her foot in embarrassment and fury. “That’s enough!”

  “Well then, stop acting like a bloody girl!” shouted her father suddenly, his colour high, his anger genuine. “Do you want to bloody kill me with worry?” he cried. “What have we been doing all these years, if I haven’t taught you to cope without me? Good Christ! Wynter!” There was fear in his eyes. “Tell me you can do this! Tell me you’re fit! Or else…” he trailed off, lifting his hands in wordless panic. “What… what will become of you?”

  “All right, Dad, all right.” She stepped closer. “The master will be all right, I suppose. But how do I cope with the apprentices?”

  “The master will be fine,” said Lorcan, soothingly now, his tone gentle. “It’s Pascal Huette, he’s a good man. My father and I worked with him many times. He’s talented, competent, progressive. He’s courtly. I promise you that once you’ve proved yourself in command, he’ll make the apprentices toe the line.”

  Wynter clenched her hands together and took a deep breath. “Goddamned apprentices!”