Five Poisoned Apples

by Skye Hoffert et al.

  At last he said, “I do not help you in hope of a reward, and I would not have the rest of Tiborne think so. You are my queen. I serve because it is the right thing to do.” He caught himself before he admitted what was truly on his mind—thoughts better left unspoken. He would never want her to feel used, to feel manipulated into giving him lands . . . or something more. He would rather be forced into obscurity than use his former relationship with Kara as a bargaining chip.

  Her lips parted then snapped shut. She took a step backward. “No one could fault you on duty, Damien. No one.”

  With those words she turned away, and he was left to watch her retreating back, the sway of her short hair across her neck. He had offended her, the last thing he wanted to do. He opened his mouth to call out after her, but her name died on his lips, unspoken.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The bedroll was uncomfortable. It had never stopped being uncomfortable, and night after night saw Kara spending more time studying the stars above than sleeping. When she rolled over, every rock and twig prodded her. Damien’s blanket lay draped over her, and she caught the faint scents of forest, leather, horse, and him every time she moved.

  She shut her eyes tight, ignoring the pink streaks of dawn signaling a new day. Something felt wilted inside her, a sense of rejection formed during years of her father’s indifference after he married Ava. Now, this coolness on Damien’s part . . . What a mess she had made of things, trying to stir up a remembrance of a long-past life.

  His words echoed like a drumbeat within her mind: “You are my queen.”

  True. She was. Her time would be better spent deciding how to convince King Victor to lend troops to strengthen her claim to the throne than wondering what the son of a fallen margrave thought of her.

  A twig crackled behind her. She sat up, throwing off the blanket. To her surprise, the campsite was mostly empty. James and Scarborough both were gone. Lewis lay sleeping, his white beard blowing out with each snore, with one arm behind his head. Constantine had disappeared. Damien too. She struggled to rise to her feet, scanning the lake as alarm rippled through her.

  Then the sounds of masculine laughter and splashing floated across the lake’s glassy surface.

  Her body went limp with relief, and she breathed a quiet sigh. The men were refreshing themselves. Some of the horses were missing as well, no doubt getting watered before the next leg of the journey. Kara strapped her knife sheath around her waist then grabbed a waterskin—the same one Lewis had given her back in the cave.

  The lake was shaped like clover leaf, with an outcropping of rock blocking her view of the men. She had no desire to seek them out if they were washing, nor did she wish to wake Lewis, who continued to snore and sputter.

  She walked along the shore, heading left to where a copse of trees reflected against the mirror-like water. She’d fill her waterskin there, wash her face, and hopefully regain her composure before returning to camp. Several days on the trail had left their mark. She had grime beneath her fingernails, and her hair had never been greasier or more heavily scented with smoke.

  Kneeling on the pebbled strip of beach, she uncorked the waterskin and slid it into the cold water, watching the bag balloon out. She was about to raise it to her lips and take a long draught when an arm of iron wrapped around her throat, closing off all air, while another snaked around her ribs and one arm, pinning her against a hard form. She dropped the waterskin with a splash.

  “Tell me where the princess is,” a familiar voice snarled in her ear. “And I’ll let you live.”

  Marius Dupuis had found her. Just as he’d promised.

  Gasping, Kara tried to speak, clawing at his arm with her free hand. He dragged her several steps backward, his arm tightening around her throat. When she hit his arm with her fist several times to signal she would talk, he released his hold just enough for her to take a deep, wheezing breath.

  She searched for the rock hiding Damien and the other men. Could she warn them in time? If Marius was here, Ava’s soldiers may well be close behind. A cry ripped through Kara’s aching throat, hoarse and breathy, but enough to alert Marius as to who he held. He froze, then again jerked his arm tight around her throat. The world nearly went black.

  “Lost and found,” he growled in her ear. Surprise mingled with triumph laced his voice as he pressed tighter and tighter, strangling her until she thought her lungs might burst.

  His surprise, however, had given her a brief reprieve. One hand clawed at his arm while the other, the trapped one, fumbled for the dagger hanging from her belt. As lights sparked in her vision, Kara grasped the hilt, drew it, and, with all her strength, plunged the blade deep into his right thigh. A scream erupted from him, sounding in her ear as loud as a trumpet. His arms loosened enough this time for her to slip from his grasp and stagger forward, only to fall to her knees. Though she gasped as much air as she could, her chest and throat still burned.

  Shaking her head, she tried to clear the black haze. Away—she must get farther away. On hands and knees she crept over sharp, sliding pebbles until fear made her look back.

  Marius Dupuis was swaying, his face livid, but he remained on his feet. As Kara watched, he grasped the hilt and jerked her knife from his leg. Blood spilled over his boot, and his leather pantleg was soaked a dark red. The rocks at his feet were dark and glistening. Her blade had hit something vital. But when the marshal’s eyes bored into hers, she knew he was still strong enough to kill her. Through clenched teeth he snarled foul names, ending with “I’ll carve your heart out for this!” as he raised her dagger.

  He took one lurching step before a quarrel slammed into his chest, followed almost immediately by another. His face went slack, and he stared down at the wooden shafts as if in surprise. By the time Kara registered what had happened, Marius’s large frame was toppling forward, the knife still clutched in his massive fist. He hit the ground with a sickening thud. His out-flung arm landed across her lower legs, and the knife skittered across the pebbles. Flailing madly, Kara escaped that heavy arm, lurched to her feet, took three steps, then collapsed to hug her knees and hide her face, struggling to breathe.

  Boots crunched on the pebbles and appeared before her. Damien’s boots. He dropped to one knee, his longbow still in hand. “Your Majesty—” His voice broke off. Then his hand appeared before her. Kara grabbed it, and he pulled her to her feet. But when he released her hand, she slid both arms around him, and hid her face against his shoulder, shuddering.

  Slowly he wrapped his arm around her and held her close.

  It might have been a minute; it might have been a lifetime. Once her shudders eased into mere trembling, Kara drew one more deep, shaky breath, then straightened. Did she imagine his reluctance to release her before his hand moved to grasp her forearm?

  “Are you . . .?” He hesitated. “Are you well, Your Majesty?”

  “I’m fine,” she said. A lie. She was anything but. She kept her gaze on his boots, on the trees, on the lake, anywhere but on the marshal’s body.

  Anywhere but Damien’s keen eyes.

  “Truly?” he asked with some misgiving, though he released his hold on her.

  Suddenly too overwhelmed to speak, she nodded. She looked up just as a water droplet trickled down his forehead. His hair was partially slicked back, partially sticking out as if he’d been interrupted while combing, and his breath came hard and fast.

  Turning suddenly, Damien pointed to the outcropping of layered rock on the far side of the little cove. “I had placed my bow and quiver there before washing, and when I went to retrieve them, I saw you stab him.” His voice sounded deep and rough, and his gaze locked with hers. “I saw you just in time.”

  Miraculous. Or perhaps simply blind luck.

  Kara rubbed her sweating palms against her worn jerkin. “I think we should move on before night, don’t you?”

  A frown wrinkled his brow. Perhaps he shared her thought: The marshal’s men could appear at any time. Still he did no
t look away. She and Damien seemed to stand in a world of their own. She was dimly aware that his men had arrived. They were shouting and rushing about. One of them rolled the marshal’s body over. Others scoured the area for additional attackers.

  From the corner of her eye, Kara could see the sprawled form of Marius, his eyes wide open and unseeing. Then a shiver took hold of her, and she squeezed her eyes shut. Her teeth began to chatter, and her stomach rolled like a ship on heavy seas, so that she thought she might be sick at any moment. She turned on heel and ran halfway back to the campsite before coming to a sudden halt. Bile rose in the back of her throat. A sensation of drowning swept over her.

  “Put your head down.” Damien’s voice filtered to her, calm and quiet. “Breathe deep.”

  Kara obediently bent over, gasping for air that never seemed quite enough to fill her lungs.

  “Breathe,” he urged, standing beside her.

  “I’m trying! Give me a moment and I’ll be fine,” she bit out, exasperated to have her hands on her thighs and her head lowered while the other men filtered past, leaving the two of them alone again near the edge of the lake.

  “Your Majesty, we’ve known each other far too long to be untruthful with each other. You are not fine.”

  For some reason, his use of her title along with that gently admonishing tone while reminding her of their past stung like vinegar on an open wound. She would have none of it.

  “Kara is my name,” she snapped, straightening to look him in the eye. “You used it often enough when we were children. For heaven’s sake, Damien, we were betrothed once!”

  Damien’s lips pressed together. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Aye,” he finally admitted, shifting his stance, his expression bleak. “That was a long time ago, Your Majesty. I am not that boy any longer. I have no title, no right to claim—”

  “I don’t care about any of that. Can you not just once call me Kara?”

  “Kara.” He spoke gingerly, as if testing the word. “Please do not carry any sense of misplaced obligation toward me. As queen, you’ll have a host of worthy suitors from far corners of the continent. Kings and princes who can give you what you need, not a penniless man deemed a traitor to Tiborne.”

  “I’m not asking you to marry me. I just want you to use my name,” she said through clenched teeth. “When I say I don’t care about title or money, I mean it. I do not need a prince or a king to strengthen my kingdom. I need a loyal friend. My father tried to strengthen his throne by marrying nobility. Look where that got him. There are qualities of far greater value than title and wealth, and if you cannot see that, then I am sorry for you.”

  Something flickered within his eyes. He dipped his head closer as if he wanted to respond to her challenge. She hardly dared to breathe.

  Then James strode out of the brush. “Your Majesty, I found no further sign of the regent’s men. But just in case, we’re all ready to leave. The horses are saddled and waiting.” He shot questioning glances at them both.

  The two men escorted Kara back to the horses, leaving her to wonder what Damien might have said.

  When they finally stopped for the night at a small meadow, the horses were almost too tired to graze. Kara collapsed onto her lumpy bedroll, exhausted and shaken and unable to eat despite the men’s kind offers.

  Sleep refused to come.

  Over and over her mind replayed the attack: Dupuis’s wolf-like snarl in her ear, the feel of her dagger plunging into his leg, and then his features frozen in death . . . Her stomach churned. She had helped kill a man, something she had never done before. And though she would do it again to protect herself and those she cared about, she could not shake the terror of the marshal’s iron-hard arm around her throat, squeezing the life from her.

  She felt as though he still followed her, haunting her even at this late hour.

  The campsite was so dark, she could barely make out the surrounding trees. Most of the men had fallen asleep; she heard a few straggling snores. Shivering, she drew Damien’s blanket under her chin, longing for the warmth of a fire and hating the oppressive darkness around her. She understood why Damien had decided against a fire, but every sound in the forest made her jump.

  A twig crackled several feet away. A startled gasp escaped her.

  A vague outline moved past, feet padding softly across the forest floor. It followed the perimeter of the camp then settled on a large rock nearby.

  “Go to sleep, Kara.”

  She glimpsed a solid back as the man turned to face the forest and the river.

  She closed her eyes and pulled her woolen blanket higher—the faint scent of pine, leather, and Damien surrounding her. Warmth spread through her, and she slept.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Three days after Marius left their party, Ava, her knights, and the three remaining men-at-arms arrived at the pre-arranged meeting place. There was no sign of Marius or the two men-at-arms he’d sent out to search, but Ava told herself he must surely have killed Kara by now. The spirits never lied to her.

  But what if he had not? What would she do if her marshal did not return? The spirits had shown her the monastery she must destroy, but how could she find the right trail without her experienced guide?

  One of her men-at-arms, a young fellow, almost a boy and eager to please, helped Ava down from her horse. She removed her leather satchel from behind the saddle and set the bag on the ground, careless in her exhaustion. The bag sagged open, and a glass vial rolled out onto the ground, unharmed. Its silvery liquid contents immediately arrested the lad’s attention, and he bent down to pick it up for her.

  “Don’t touch that,” she warned him.

  He snatched back his hovering hand. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I only wanted to help.”

  Ava allowed a smirk. “One droplet is enough to take down the strongest man and send him into eternal sleep. An entire bottle can destroy a village.” The lad’s eyes widened further when she carefully placed the vial back into her satchel to nestle within a padded pocket. Right beside another pocket housing a pair of sharp daggers coated with the same poison.

  She had come prepared. One way or another, Ava would take the throne of Tiborne.

  Early the next morning, she woke from a restless sleep and rubbed her crusted eyes. Clouds covered the moon, and the knights and men-at-arms slept, other than a few guards at the edge of the camp set near Widow’s Rock, a formation of stone resembling the bowed head of a woman.

  Something seemed to call to her, an urge she must obey. She slipped from her bedroll and wrapped her cloak tight against the morning’s chill. Following that inaudible call, she picked her way over and between dry stones until she came upon a still pool that did not reflect the sky. Eagerly she knelt and extended her jeweled hand over the water.

  “Show me Marius,” she murmured.

  This time an outline appeared almost instantly, and she recognized her marshal’s face, its features blurred but slowly becoming distinct. Then, with a gasp, Ava recoiled. Marius’s eyes were dull, their gaze fixed in death.

  “What? How did he die?” she cried, uncaring whether she roused her men from slumber.

  By your stepdaughter’s hand and that of another.

  Kara? No, that was impossible. Yet even as the thought crossed her mind, Ava remembered when her stepdaughter first found her in the grotto. The girl, though trembling, had been resolute. Like a reed bending in the wind and yet unbreakable.

  “One girl will not stop me,” she snarled.

  Not just one girl. Seven men travel with her. One of whom you know.

  “Seven men? I have eight, and more when . . . if, the other two return. More than enough to deal with my stepdaughter. Wait . . . What do you mean, one whom I know?”

  He is a traitor.

  There had been many traitors over the years, and she had disposed of most of them. “Who?” she demanded.

  The son of Atwood.

  The young boy? The dark-haired squire had survived? Her men had tol
d her he died in the fire along with the entire household. “Why am I just now learning of this?” She would track him down herself if she had to. And Kara.

  The air crystallized around her as she sensed the spirits’ agitation. He has been protected. You promised us the monastery.

  Once more its image appeared on the water.

  Was that all they cared about? One small outpost on the edge of nowhere? She, Ava Challoner, controlled the mighty cathedrals of Tiborne, the village churches, the bishops, and most of the priests. Why was one place so remarkable? Why did these spirits not care more about securing her throne?

  “What about my stepdaughter? You cannot let her get away!” Ava demanded, her patience stretching thin. “What of your promise to me, to be the rightful queen?”

  The monastery must be destroyed for you to be queen, the strongest voice hissed. Your stepdaughter is headed there.

  “But where is it? How are we to find it?”

  The water shivered, and a path appeared, a narrow path leading up one mountainside. To its left she saw a bald crag with two peaks.

  “I saw that mountain when we arrived here last night,” a voice spoke from behind her. Ava turned to see the young man-at-arms. His eyes widened at her expression, and he snapped to attention. “Your Majesty. I was standing guard. When you didn’t return for so long, I came to make certain you were safe.”

  “Can you take us to this place?” Ava pointed to the picture in the pool.

  He swallowed hard. “I think so. I mean, yes, Your Majesty.”

  The path was little more than a deer trail as it snaked up the low mountain, disappearing into a tree line now flooded with fog as thick as a blanket. The young guard had led them to the double-peaked mountain, but it had cost Ava and her remaining men another full day’s search to locate the path. Neither Marius nor the other two trackers had returned.