The Poison Throne

by Celine Kiernan

  “Rest well,” she murmured, but Lorcan didn’t reply.

  When she went into the receiving room she found Christopher leaning against the frame of the opened hall door, his arms folded. He was openly gazing at the bustling activity in the corridor and, for once, Wynter didn’t feel like berating him for his lack of tact. Instead she crossed and stood beside him, watching as Razi’s things were taken away.

  They were silent for a while, then Christopher murmured softly, “This cannot be good for him.”

  They all understood the reasons for Razi’s sudden and distressing remoteness, but this was a step too far. It served no purpose that Wynter could fathom. Whatever Razi’s behaviour must be in public, and no matter how aloof he remained in private, wouldn’t he want to sleep at night protected, and surrounded by the people who loved him?

  It seemed to her that Razi was needlessly casting himself adrift in the cold, black waters of state. Leaving Christopher, Lorcan and herself warm and cosy in the little nest that he had engineered for them, while he spun further and further away into the dark. Surely that kind of isolation would be agony for a man of Razi’s innate warmth?

  “I’m sure he must have his reasons,” she said doubtfully.

  “He’s a stubborn bollix,” Christopher said. “Just like your dad.”

  Wynter laughed. Impulsively, she slipped her hand into the crook of Christopher’s arm and briefly pressed her forehead to his shoulder in a gesture of amused solidarity. “What will we do with them?” she asked, and smiled into his face. Then she too, turned to resume her undisguised monitoring of activity in the hall and, without thinking, leant comfortably against him.

  To her surprise, Christopher tensed and straightened, almost pulling away. He put his hand on hers as if to lift it from his arm. Wynter kept her eyes fixed on the hall. It was a gesture that she hadn’t even thought about, this taking of his arm, this leaning in. Now she regretted it, and not because it was so dangerously open and unguarded, but because it had been so obviously unwelcome. She found herself embarrassed and also horribly disappointed.

  “Wynter,” Christopher said unhappily. “You know. I won’t be…” he hesitated, scrabbling for words, and tried again. “Razi, he… he wants…” He looked awkwardly down at her and paused. She flicked a glance at him, began to pull away, then saw the warring emotions in his marred face and felt the tension in his body as he tried to work something out in his head. Christopher seemed to come to a decision then, and squeezed Wynter’s hand tighter into the crook of his elbow. “To hell with that,” he said bitterly, and turned his eyes back to the hall, gripping her hand tightly where it lay on his arm.

  Christopher began to unconsciously stroke his thumb across her knuckles as his eyes roamed the crowded hall. “Curse me,” he muttered. “But that man has a powerful mountain of possessions.”

  The man in question chose that moment to round the corner, his face like thunder. He saw the two of them at once, and Wynter felt Christopher tense as Razi’s hooded brown eyes dropped to their linked arms. But Razi swept into his suite with barely a pause, and they heard him immediately start shouting at the staff.

  “Hurry the hell up, you laggards! This was meant to have been completed an hour ago!” There was muttering and apologies, then Razi’s angry voice again, railing in an utterly uncharacteristic way against his underlings. “At least get my God-cursed dressing-trunk and washstand to the new rooms so that I can change for court! NO! Don’t maul my medical bag, you drooling idiot! I left specific instructions that it wasn’t to be touched!”

  Wynter winced at Razi’s tone, and Christopher straightened and gently took her hand from his arm. “That ain’t our lad,” he murmured. “That ain’t our lad at all.”

  Razi stormed from his room, a small portfolio in one hand, his medical bag in the other. Without a glance in their direction, he turned and began dodging away through the now frantically hastened staff.

  “Your Highness!” called Wynter, but Razi either didn’t hear, or chose to ignore her.

  “The Protector Lord has need of you, your Highness!” Christopher’s raised voice stilled Razi at the corner.

  Razi glanced back at him, his face still black with anger. For a moment, Wynter thought he would leave, but he took one look at her face and turned back immediately, striding through the crowd and passing her without a word, to enter the suite. Christopher shrugged wearily at her, and followed their friend inside. Wynter followed suit and shut the door behind her.

  Razi hesitated at the threshold to Lorcan’s bedroom, frowning at the manner in which the big man was curled in his bed. He looked at Lorcan’s boots and the heap of his clothes discarded untidily on the floor, and Wynter cursed herself for having forgotten them. Razi looked darkly at herself and Christopher, and they came to a shuffling halt beside him, their eyes averted.

  He went to shut the door on them, but Christopher reached his hand out, and held it open. Razi met his eyes, and Christopher held his ground, frowning in confusion at his friend’s animosity. Razi dropped his gaze and turned away, leaving the door open so that Wynter and Christopher could follow on his heels.

  Razi’s face grew even darker as he got a good look at the Lorcan. “What have you been up to?” he growled, glowering down at the shivering man.

  Lorcan rolled an eye to him and looked away, shifty as a thieving hound. “Oh,” he rasped, “You know. This… and that.”

  “Good God,” said Razi quietly, looking him up and down. And then he yelled and threw his bag onto the bedside table, upsetting the cups and vials already there, sending things crashing to the ground. “Can’t… can’t you people just… Can’t you just DO WHAT YOU’RE BLOODY TOLD?” He kicked the table, hard, and the remaining things bounced and jiggled and fell over.

  Everyone froze for a moment, stunned by his sudden outburst of violence.

  “All right!” Razi said, turning on Lorcan, his face suffused with sarcastic bitterness, “all right, Lorcan!” He grabbed his bag and snapped the catch. “You want to act like a bloody child? Fine! Fine! I’ll just knock you the hell out! I’ll…” he rooted viciously in his bag for a moment, and drew out the bottle of tincture of opium. “I’ll knock you bloody out and you’ll have to… you’ll…”

  “That is enough, Razi,” said Wynter, coming to stand on the other side of the bed, staring at Razi, her hand protectively on Lorcan’s shoulder.

  Razi glowered at her, breathing hard.

  “What has happened, Razi?” Christopher’s quiet voice drifted from where he leaned wearily at the bedroom door.

  Razi paused, his eyes closing briefly. And then he unstoppered the tincture of opium and poured a few drops into the bottom of a beaker.

  “What has happened?” repeated Christopher, a little impatiently. “Why have you removed yourself from our rooms?”

  “It is unnecessary,” added Wynter, “and not healthy to sever yourself so utterly from those who love you.”

  Razi paused at her words, then added water to the tincture. “I will not stay,” he said finally. “I cannot.”

  “Razi…” groaned Christopher impatiently.

  “It matters not, Christopher!” Razi slapped the cup down on the table, and reached to help Lorcan sit up against his pillows. “I simply cannot. Let that be an end to it!”

  Wynter leant across and tried to assist her father from the other side. Lorcan shrugged the two of them off and struggled to sit unaided. Razi let the big man flounder for a moment, before reaching under his armpits and heaving him forcefully into position. He went to hand him the beaker of draught, but Lorcan caught Razi by the wrist and pulled down until the younger man had to either spill the drink or stoop to his eye level.

  “What the hell has happened?” said Lorcan, not unkindly. “That you need to withdraw so thoroughly?”

  Razi’s anger wavered and his mouth became unsteady. “There have been… insinuations. Rumours that I cannot bear to tolerate.”

  Lorcan stared into his eyes.
“What?” he said, trying to read Razi’s face, still gripping his wrist. “What have they said?”

  “Certain of the councilmen, those who…” Razi laughed, a dry bitter sound. “Those who support my brother… have… in an effort to discredit me…” he glanced desperately at Christopher, shook his head and ground his teeth.

  Lorcan slowly released Razi’s arm, his face taut. He took the beaker. “Then you are right to draw away,” he said softly.

  Wynter did not understand. She looked from her father to Razi, hoping for a clue. “What?” she asked finally. “What have they said?”

  “Oh!” Razi threw his hands up in frustration, his cheeks burning. “It doesn’t matter! Suffice it to say I cannot tolerate it!”

  “What have they said?” insisted Christopher.

  “That you are my catamite, Chris!” shouted Razi at last, spinning and holding his hands out, his eyes wide. “My catamite! I will not tolerate it!”

  Lorcan winced and Wynter gasped, and the two of them turned involuntarily to look at Christopher. They expected rage, but the young man just squinted at them, obviously not understanding. “What does that mean?” he asked uncertainly. “What is a catamite?”To Wynter’s amazement he turned to her, “Wyn,” he asked, “what does it mean?”

  She felt her face grow hot. “It means, Christopher… um… that Razi. That he has… that you are… his toy. That he has fashioned you as… his plaything…” she ducked her head, too mortified to expound, and almost immediately Lorcan surprised them all by murmuring something in Hadrish.

  Christopher knew that word, all right. They watched as his jaw dropped and Wynter waited for the outrage, the hurt. To their immense surprise the young man just threw up his hands in relief and laughed.

  “Oh Razi!” he said, “Is that all! Oh, friend! You don’t know a bit of me, if you think that matters! And as for yourself, what does it say about you? Except that, were you so inclined, you’d have excellent taste in men!” He grinned at his friends, expecting them to share the joke.

  Lorcan dragged his hand over his mouth, shocked, and looked sideways at Razi. The tall young man glared at Christopher, his body bowing forward with the strength of his emotion. “It may not matter to you, Christopher, but it matters to me.” The light drained from Christopher’s face at his friend’s cold rage. “You are not in one of your bloody Merron camps now! The rest of the world doesn’t share your people’s dubious tolerances for such men, and I for one, will not be associated with their practices.”

  Christopher blinked, and Wynter saw him stiffen with anger and hurt, his scarred hands knotting at his sides, his bruised mouth compressed to a thin line. They all stood in awkward silence for a moment, then Christopher turned and walked stiffly from the room.

  Razi looked at the empty door, then turned and began to put things back into his bag. “That draught…” he began, but his voice failed him on the first try. “That draught,” he said again, much stronger, “is very powerful, Lorcan. You won’t be fit for anything but sleep for the next good long while. So you will have no opportunity to gad about and orphan your daughter.” Lorcan just silently watched Razi’s face as he finished tidying. “If you need me,” Razi continued, snapping his bag shut and not meeting Lorcan’s eye or looking at Wynter. “Send a page to fetch me, any time of the day or night.” He turned to leave.

  “You are right to move out,” repeated Lorcan slowly. “But you are a fool if you let this come between you and a true, loyal friend.”

  Razi listened to this with his back turned, his head tilted, and left without replying.

  Christopher must have been standing or sitting in the receiving room, because they heard Razi say before he left, “I have business to discuss with you, Christopher. First I must wash and dress for court, but I shall return within this quarter, and I will speak to you here.”

  “Oh aye,” said Christopher. “We should be sure and have Wynter attend as chaperone, in case this dubious Merron compromises your Highness’s virtue.”

  There was a moment of stillness, and Wynter’s heart dropped when Razi coolly replied, “You will be fit to travel within a week, Freeman Garron. I want you to be ready to leave as soon as I tell you.”

  All the sarcasm had gone from Christopher’s voice when he said, “Oh, Razi. So soon? What of Wynter?”

  Wynter strained to hear a reply, but there was none. Only the abrupt click of the hall door shutting, and then silence.

  Papers

  Christopher was still in the receiving room when Wynter finished with her father. He had taken her favourite seat by the window and was gazing down into the orange garden, his arm on the sill, his face grim. Wynter dragged a chair from the other side of the room, pulled it close enough that Christopher’s knees brushed the arm of it, and sat down.

  “My father is asleep,” she said.

  He didn’t turn to look at her, uncharacteristically morose. She nodded in understanding, closed her eyes in companionable silence and leaned her head against the wall.

  “How can you bear this place?” he said quietly. “It’s poison. It’s like breathing poison, day after day ’til your spirit sickens and dies.”

  Wynter opened her eyes. The sun was reflecting off something in the garden, the glossy leaves of the trees perhaps, and the ceiling shimmered with dancing light. The room smelled of fragrant orange blossom and the uniquely stirring spice that she’d come to associate with Christopher.

  “Why don’t you leave here?” he said. “Put Lorcan in a cart, pile all your belongings around him and just go.” She smiled at that. He made things sound so easy!

  “Why do you grin?” he asked. “You said it yourself: you’re not dependent on the throne for your bread. Use your talents, Wynter, set up a shop somewhere safe and free. Move away from all these vipers and parasites.”

  She sighed and dosed her eyes. “It’s not that simple, Christopher. People can’t just set up shop where they like. You need papers, licences, and we don’t have them… Not until the King releases them.” She tilted her head to look at him. He was gazing at her, still as a statue, his hands on the arms of his chair.

  “There must be somewhere you can go!” He insisted quietly, and she was surprised to hear desperation in his voice. “Your father is a lord! Surely he has lands…?”

  “You don’t understand,” she said. “My father is a Protector Lord. It’s just a title, that’s all. It means he who will protect the King. It’s very powerful and it has many privileges, but there is no land attached to it, Christopher, and only a small annuity. Once outside of these palace walls, we must truly fend for ourselves, and we cannot do that until Jonathon releases our papers. So, you see why we can’t just go? You understand?”

  “I don’t want to just abandon you here, girly. How will you manage?” Christopher shook his head, and though she found his concern for her touching, she had to laugh at his solemn protectiveness.

  He looked so hurt that Wynter reached forward, smiling, and laid her hand affectionately on his face. “Christopher, I don’t need you to…” she said, then paused, looking into his eyes. He turned his cheek into her palm and held her gaze sadly.

  The atmosphere between them thickened, and Wynter’s smile faded. Just for that moment, she let herself acknowledge the fact that Christopher was leaving. Razi truly was sending him away. She ran her callused thumb over his bruised and lacerated eyebrow. She might never see him again. “Christopher,” she whispered, no humour at all in her voice as she took in the damage the King had wrought on him. “Look at you. This place will kill you if you stay.”

  “And what of you?” he asked softly, his eyes searching hers, his cheek still resting in her palm. “We’ll be leaving you all alone.”

  She knew he was right. Razi was becoming more and more a distant moon, and Lorcan… poor Lorcan, how long did he have left? Truth be told, thoughts of the future filled Wynter with dread. But as she looked at Christopher’s worried, battered face, she thought, there’s nothing you
can do about it, Christopher Garron, except get yourself killed. She gave him a confident smile. “I’m fine here,” she said. “It’s what I’m bred for. There is nothing you can do for me here, Christopher, that I cannot do for myself.”

  The dimples showed slyly at that and he gave her a wicked smile. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that!” he smirked, and she bared her teeth at him and swatted his cheek lightly so that he play-acted agony and they broke apart without awkwardness.

  They sat for a few moments, leaning back in their chairs, a pensive silence settling between them. Christopher’s eyes drifted shut. “Lord. I am just about worn to a thread.”

  Wynter patted his knee in sympathy. “Go lie down.”

  But he just sighed instead. “Our Razi is in a bad way, ain’t he?” he murmured. “That remark… about my people.” He snorted in disgust. “I swear… I ain’t ever been so close to punching him.”

  “Those things they’ve said, though, Christopher… they’d upset any man.”

  He opened his eyes to look at her again.

  “Up North,” she said, “They’d hang a man for those sort of… activities.”

  “I know all about the North,” he said with quiet disdain.

  Wynter regarded him closely and realised there was so much she didn’t know about him, so much she didn’t know about Razi. Her eyes narrowed in thought and she sat up straight, her head tilted.

  “No,” he said with an amused smile, “I’m not.”

  “Not what?” she said, startled.

  “I’m not what they say I am. It just ain’t the way I’m made.”